The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

pieces together.  But it’s only a matter of time.  Bottom line: we need to move Tariq now before we have an international incident to deal with.”

“Time frame…?” Corbett asked.

Fleckner met Corbett’s even gaze, “Get him back here, ready to travel no later than the night after tomorrow.”

“No guarantees.”

“If he ever wants to see his father alive, tell him to be here.”

Corbett carefully weighed Reed’s words.  “So, I take it the Company has a plan?”

“The only things we have going for us are speed and surprise,” Fleckner said.  “Catch them off guard, then go balls to the wall.”

“And the plan is…?” Corbett repeated.  Ignoring Fleckner, he looked to Reed.

“We’ve arranged for a helicopter,” Fleckner said.  “But we’ll need you to identify a safe landing zone.”

“A chopper…? You’re serious?” Corbett started to react.  “In these mountains?”

“All we need is someplace flat enough to let us do a touch-and-go,” Fleckner said. His voice was totally devoid of emotion.

Corbett considered the possibilities. “A couple of hundred meters up the slope from here there’s a clearing adjacent to the mouth of the cave – a mesa maybe thirty meters across.  If your pilot’s good enough, he might be able to set it down there.”

“That will work,” Reed looked at Fleckner.  “And assuming you may be right about somebody tipping them off, we’ll need you to make the extraction look like there’s been an accident.”

“Something totally unexpected,” Fleckner added.

Taking a clear plastic envelope containing a small blue capsule from his jacket pocket, Fleckner handed it to Corbett.  “Give this to Tariq dissolved in a couple of ounces of water 30 minutes prior. It will shut down his nervous system.  Like a temporary coma.  As soon as the drug hits him, he’ll go down.  Keep him warm.  If anyone’s with you, tell them he’s become ill and that you’re calling in a Medivac.”

Opening the backpack resting on the desk, Fleckner held up a flare gun. “Send everyone back to camp then send up a flare.”  Slipping the flare gun back into the pack he took out four road flares. “The chopper should reach you within fifteen minutes of sighting the flare.  When you hear it coming, mark the landing area with the road flares and give him this.”  Holding up an Atropine Auto-injector, Fleckner handed it to Corbett as well.  “Atropine.  Inject it directly into the upper thigh just before you’re ready to travel.  If everything goes according to plan, we’ll have you out of here no later than 2100.”

“You mean Tariq,” Corbett glanced at Reed, who looked to Fleckner but said nothing.  Catching the look, Corbett reacted in protest.  “Hey… Once he’s aboard the chopper, my job’s done.”

“He’s going to need assurances.” Reed said at last.  “We want you to stay with him as far as the boat.”

“Jesus... Think you could make it any more complicated?  What boat?”

“A trawler,” Fleckner said. “Anchored off the coast just north of here.  There is a beach to the west of a village called Elantxobe.  The chopper will drop you there. You’ll need this.” Taking a Fenix TK47 dual-purpose flashlight from the backpack, he handed it to Corbett.  “State of the art.  1300 lumens with a range of 700 meters.  Waterproof, dustproof, lightweight.  Use it to signal the trawler – three flashes:  short-long-short.  The boat will take him to Britain.  From there he’ll be flown home.”

“Just like that.”

“Yeah,” Reed said flatly. “Just like that.”

Rising, the two men held out their hands. Ignoring them, Corbett said nothing.

“See you when it’s over,” Fleckner said. “As usual, the Company will require a full debriefing.”

“Good luck,” Reed added.

Corbett silently watched them exit the tent and cross to the Escalade.  As Fleckner held the rear door and Reed climbed inside, Corbett found himself recalling an old Italian proverb:  La madre de’gli imbecili e sempre incinta… “The mother of idiots is always pregnant.”  Sliding behind the wheel, Fleckner cranked the ignition, stepped on the gas and sent the Cadillac back the way it had come.

*****

Moving carefully over the steep rocky terrain, Jarral stayed low, aware that he might be spotted.  To be seen would compromise their chances for a surprise attack.  Slung across his back was an Uzi with a full clip.  Far from being troubled by his Israeli manufactured open-bolt semi-automatic submachine gun, Jarral saw it as poetic retribution. Slaying the unbelievers with a weapon of their own design.

Noting the three security men would offer no more than token resistance, he marveled at how relatively easy it had been to circle around the base camp unobserved before climbing to a position from which he could look down upon the cave’s entrance.  How trusting and vulnerable these Infidels were.  The arrogance they displayed.  The same ignorance that had allowed the martyrs of 9/11 to slip unnoticed past airline security and take down the World Trade Center.  Today, he would quietly lay the groundwork for the attack so that the next time Tariq showed himself, they would be ready.

His mind wandered.  How much his life had changed.  Born into a prominent Pakistani legal family – his father had been a judge, his brother a prominent barrister – it was not so long ago that he, himself, had a promising career in the law.  Just four years ago, he had been a second-year student at the National Law College in Lahore when his world, without warning, had come tumbling down.

It had been the new moon, the end of Ramadan, and his family had gathered to celebrate Eid al-Fitr at their home in Lahore.  He had been running late, cramming for his upcoming Constitutional Law exam when the phone rang.  An unmanned U.S. drone – the one he now knew to be a MQ9 Reaper – had strayed over the Pakistani border on a mission to target and terminate ISIS’s number two ground commander.  The compound where the