Nefarious Page 6

  Via the interpreter, Alton greeted her. After unshouldering his backpack, Alton withdrew an object from it and passed it to her. Her eyes lit up as she cradled the tablet computer.

  “I sit at my work computer twelve hours a day,” said Alton, “so I don’t use this very much. I had MI install some applications in Arabic.” Mastana periodically hugged the device to her chest as Alton explained how to use the Wi-Fi available to camp civilians.

  Alton could see she was anxious to use the small computer, so he stood up to depart.

  “Are you leaving already?” asked Mastana, a worried expression crossing her brow.

  “Not if you don’t want me to,” reassured Alton. “I thought you wanted to send your mother a message.”

  She began, “I do, but first…” She stopped, her eyes welling with tears. Alton turned to the interpreter, who shrugged.

  After a long sniff, Mastana continued. “The lady—your friend—comes to visit me again last night. She tells me how you save me in the bazaar. You are injured, but you carry me inside to the doctor. How can I say thank you for that?” She buried her face in her hands and cried outright.

  The gratitude touched a tender chord in Alton. He leaned over and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Just get better. Oh—here is my e-mail address,” he said, handing her a slip of paper. “Even if I can’t come by your room, you can always send me a message. Maybe the interpreters can help you with the message.” He looked up and saw Rahim nodding.

  “I will tell my mother about you—how you take care of me…again,” sobbed Mastana.

  He patted her back. “If you saw someone in need, you’d help them, right?”

  “I think so. I hope so.”

  “That’s all I did. Maybe one day, you’ll have a chance to help someone, too.”

  The two conversed for a few minutes more. Mastana regained her composure and was once again giddy with the tablet computer by the time Alton left.

  As he hobbled back to his barracks, Alton was unsure which of the two survivors had benefitted most from the meeting: Mastana or himself.

  CHAPTER 16

  Research Triangle Park, North Carolina

  Jeffrey Finch, director of Research and Development for Briggsfield Pharmaceuticals, stood before his company’s Board of Directors. He had just finished his drug-development proposal and awaited their response.

  “Mr. Finch,” said Doctor Chan, a Board member. “As much as I admire your passion for this project, I have some serious concerns. We have to have a reasonable chance of turning a profit on all new projects. How much of a problem is rabies anymore? I thought it had been virtually eliminated.”

  “That’s an excellent question,” replied Finch. “Rabies kills upwards of seventy thousand people per year worldwide, mostly in undeveloped countries. Those same countries are also experiencing the most rapid population growth, so without an improved rabies vaccine, the problem is expected to get worse, not better.”

  “Still,” pressed the doctor, “does that represent a sufficiently large patient population to break even? And what will we be able to charge for our product in third-world geographies?”

  Finch brought up a backup slide from his presentation. “I asked myself those same questions. Existing rabies vaccines are administered in a series of injections. For citizens of impoverished countries, the vaccines are prohibitively expensive for individuals to buy on their own. Consequently, rabies vaccines are almost always purchased by national or state governments and administered as part of rabies-eradication programs. The price point a government is willing to pay—even a third-world government—is quite satisfactory, particularly since that government would be otherwise be saddled with substantially higher health-care expenses associated with caring for terminal rabies patients. A rabies vaccine, even a relatively costly one, is still a less expensive solution.”

  The Board members began smiling and nodding, precisely the response Finch had expected. It was the right moment to close the deal.

  “Of course, I recommend that my bonus be based on the eventual profitability of the product. No profit, no bonus.”

  Sam Evans, Chairman of Briggsfield’s Board of Directors, spoke up. “Your timeline included successfully completing phase four trials within five years.”

  “Yes,” replied Finch, “Constraining the research period limits our financial exposure.”

  “If you agree to also tie your bonus to that five-year timeline, you have our approval to proceed on this project,” said Evans as the other Board members nodded in assent.

  “Of course,” said Finch, wondering what choice he had. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You won’t regret it.”

  Six Months Later

  CHAPTER 17

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  Over the next half year, Alton slowly acclimated to his new life in C2. The men under his command were competent but green, unschooled by the practical experiences of the field. Alton found some satisfaction in his new role, but it was a far cry from the field work he loved, the difference—he once told David—between watching a football game and playing in it.

  Obsessed with achieving the rank of Major, Captain Graham treated Alton to alternating bouts of hypocrisy and anger, yet Graham appeared too fearful of Alton’s early warning to resort to outright subterfuge. One could only hope to endure the man.

  Alton had visited Mastana almost daily while she remained in the camp hospital. She had healed well and been allowed to return home after three weeks. She had immediately sent Alton an e-mail message, telling him an interpreter lived nearby. Alton was relieved to no longer bear the burden of translating his messages between Pashto and English. With the ease of communication, he and Mastana exchanged e-mail messages every few days, a routine Alton found invariably cheered him up.

  Alton accompanied David to Gandamak’s Lodge with increasing frequency. Within six months of his C2 assignment, he joined the group two or three times per week. Alton felt a strange sense of anticipation for the gatherings. Like the rest of the patrons of “the Lodge,” he enjoyed the time he spend there: conversing, laughing, drinking, and eating the local snacks that were always laid out along the bar’s wooden countertop. To the troops, the Lodge represented an oasis of normalcy in the midst of the inherent insanity of a combat zone.

  As he formed more friendships within the group, Alton experienced a gradual lifting of an immeasurable weight from his shoulders. Only as the weight eased did he fully appreciate its former, crushing impact.

  He felt a deeper connection to some of the group’s members more than others. He enjoyed the company of David and Mallory most of all. While he had come to know David quite well from the time they spent together both on and off the clock, he never seemed to have as much time to visit with Mallory as he would have liked. She seemed to enjoy spending time with him too but was a true social butterfly, often pulled from table to table during their evenings at the Lodge. It seemed everyone liked spending time with her.

  As Alton and David leaned over the Lodge’s bar one windy evening, Alton broached a long-contemplated subject with his friend. As casually as he could, Alton observed, “Fahima looks nice tonight,” referring to the Lodge’s slender bartender. She was outfitted in western-style jeans and a black polo shirt.

  “Tell me about it,” replied David. “She looks good every night.”

  Alton had to agree—the girl was attractive. Her midnight-black hair was artistically braided down her back every day without fail, and her form possessed all the curves a serviceman would appreciate.

  “So…do you dig her?” asked Alton.

  For once, David seemed a little flustered. “Well…yeah, I do. She’s cute—more than cute. Plus she’s sweet and patient. She’d have to be to put up with this group.” He swept his hand across their gathering.

  “I thought you had a…special regard for her. I see your glances, but I don’t see you all talk much, so I wasn’t sure.”

  “We talk,” defended David
. “Not as much as I’d like, but we talk.”

  Alton understood precisely how David felt. He didn’t talk with Mallory as much as he’d like, either.

  David looked up at Alton sharply. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering what I talk to Fatima about. It’s strictly social. When it comes to my job, she doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I was a little concerned,” admitted Alton. “Local girlfriends have been unearthing confidential information from occupying soldiers for millennium. You wouldn’t have been the first.”

  “I know. Don’t worry,” said David, slapping Alton on the shoulder. “I don’t kiss and tell. Hell, I don’t even kiss.” He laughed uproariously. Fahima glanced curiously in the direction of the noise, revealing a small smile.

  Later, as the evening wound down, Alton and several other soldiers piled into David’s car to return to Camp Eggers. Lately, the group had taken to returning to the camp together for their mutual safely, traveling in a convoy of ragtag civilian cars bought with soldiers’ pay. If a car broke down, the others would be there to provide protection. Kabul at night was no place to linger, especially alone.

  Mallory normally drove her own car, but it had been in the shop for several days, so tonight she piled into David’s rusty, Soviet-era Moskvitch 2140. She sat between Alton and Lieutenant Carlyle in the dimly lit back seat.

  “Let’s roll!” David shouted to the other cars. At this signal, the motley caravan departed for Camp Eggers. As always, Alton was attentive to the environment around them as they sped along the dark roads leading back to their temporary home. Potential enemies could strike at any time, lending an air of danger to every drive, especially those at night.

  As they made their way down the road leading away from the Lodge, a voice in the back of Alton’s mind called out that something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was out of place—a mental itch he couldn’t scratch. Alton found that such thoughts generally crystalized best when he didn’t actively dwell upon them but instead let his unconscious mind put the pieces together, so he decided to set the matter aside for the time being. Besides, the bumpy ride represented a rare opportunity for him to speak to Mallory without the constant interruption of their other friends. He was happy to observe Carlyle doze off almost immediately.

  “I may be mistaken, Mallory,” said Alton, “but it seems to me that you actually like your work.”

  “Love it,” replied Mallory.

  “Army accounting? Really? No offense, but I can’t think of a more boring or tedious job in the world.” A sharp left turn sent Mallory jostling into Alton’s side. His heart quickened, followed by self-chastisement. What am I? A middle-schooler? Besides, we’re just friends.

  “Boring, huh? And that’s based on your vast experience in the Quartermaster Corps, is it?” countered Mallory sweetly. “I know it may sound crazy to you, but I really do enjoy the logistical challenges of military accounting. Its complexity—and potential for abuse—are what make it interesting. The labyrinth of Army paperwork is like a puzzle waiting to be solved.”

  Alton shook his head. “I suppose one of the keys to happiness is enjoying your work, whatever it may be.” He thought for a moment. “What did you mean, ‘potential for abuse’?”

  “The Army’s paperwork and accounting procedures are so complex that it’s easy for people to hide their true intentions. That’s where I come in.”

  Alton wondered why he kept hoping David would make another left turn. He nonetheless continued the rhythm of the conversation without missing a beat. “So your job is to catch paperwork abusers? Is it really that serious?”

  “It can be. Sometimes it’s minor, people just trying to bill some other unit for their own unit’s expenses. At other times it’s serious—someone embezzling from the Army. For instance, let’s say Sergeant Smith submits a ‘bill’ from ‘Kabul Office Supplies,’ a fictitious supplier he made up. The Army cuts a check and sends it to the ‘supplier.’ Sergeant Smith deposits the check into a bank account under the name of ‘Kabul Office Supplies,’ an account he opened himself and from which he can withdraw the money anytime he chooses. That’ll earn you a trip to Ft. Leavenworth when you’re caught.”

  “’When you’re caught,’ not ‘if you’re caught’?” asked Alton.

  “Not when I’m around,” replied Mallory. “There’s always a paper trail, and I’m good at what I do.” She tipped up the bottle of Coors Light she had brought with her from the Lodge and swallowed the last dregs. “How about you, Alton? I have to say you don’t seem to be very enthused about your work.”

  Alton would have preferred to avoid the subject of his job, but he couldn’t sidestep the question. As if in confirmation of fate conspiring against him, their car took a sharp right turn, and Mallory fell over against the sleeping Carlyle. Alton silently rejoiced when the man did not awaken.

  “You’re right,” replied Alton when Mallory once again sat upright. “I love cryptography, always have. It was my major in college. What I like best, though, is applying it in the battlefield, where it matters the most.”

  The road gods seemed to cast a friendlier eye on Alton. David spun the wheel hard into a left turn, sending Mallory careening into him once again.

  “Sorry,” laughed Mallory self-consciously. “I can’t help it—”

  “No worries,” replied Alton, lowering his eyes to the floor, a little fearful to meet her penetrating gaze.

  “Al—,” began David, suddenly chiming in.

  “It’s ‘Alton,’ not ‘Al,’” replied his friend.

  “Don’t be modest, Al,” said David, grinning at the unilaterally-assigned nickname. “Everybody in C2 knows you were a rising star in the Telecom Security function. From what I hear, you were one of the few people in the field who really understood how to bridge the gap between the classroom and the battlefield. Everyone says you were damn good at your field job.”

  A wistful feeling swept through Alton. “I guess I’ll just have to be damn good at something else now.”

  “Why?” asked Mallory. “Aren’t you returning to duty once your physical therapy is complete?”

  Alton sighed almost imperceptibly as the Moskvitch bumped along. “The re-injury changed all that. I’ll always have a bum leg. More than likely, I won’t be able to perform all the physical tasks required for field work. The Army will either shuffle me off to a permanent desk job or send me on my way with an honorable discharge and a ‘thank you.’ Frankly, I don’t find either prospect appealing.”

  “I’m sorry, Alton,” said Mallory. “I didn’t realize it was that serious.”

  For a minute, the only sound in the car was road noise.

  Alton felt a twinge of doubt. How would Mallory feel about having befriended him now? Was she having second thoughts? If so, she wouldn’t be the first. Her cheerful face, though, provided no evidence to justify his concerns, and the trio passed the next few minutes in pleasant conversation.

  As the friends neared Camp Eggers, a pock-marked wall from the bombed-out bazaar jogged Alton’s memory, and the incongruity from the beginning of their drive came into focus.

  He leaned forward. “Did you all notice that the security wall on the street outside Gandamak’s Lodge seemed a little different tonight? A little more beat up than usual?”

  David and Mallory both shook their heads.

  “Maybe there’s nothing to it, but I’m pretty sure there are more holes in it now, the same kind of holes the insurgents drill in concrete to plant the directional explosive charges that wreak havoc with our convoys.”

  “Isn’t that kind of IED firepower normally used against military convoys?” asked Mallory.

  “Yes, but if Al-Qaeda knows a group of US soldiers is departing in a line of cars—even civilian cars—we are a military convoy for all practical purposes.”

  “I see,” replied Mallory, nodding.

  “I think we should have the wall checked ou
t by the EODs,” said Alton. The Army’s explosive ordnance disposal specialists were trained to examine potential bomb sites in order to identify and dispose of enemy explosives.

  “We should use more routes,” continued Alton, “We don’t want to give the insurgents a chance to anticipate our movements.” He looked at David in the rear-view mirror. “And we need to see if anyone inside the bar is passing along our route plans.”

  “Um…how are we gonna do that?” asked David.

  “I have an idea. I’ll call a meeting tomorrow to explain the plan.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan

  Alton approached General Mooreland first thing in the morning. “Sir, last night some friends and I were returning from Gandamak’s Lodge and observed possible IED drilling in a nearby wall.”

  The general raised an eyebrow, and Alton continued. “I know the site is well outside our normal security perimeter, but since Gandamak’s is frequented by our troops, I recommend we send EODs to check it out.”

  “I see, Captain. I’ll have it looked into.”

  Alton described the details of his observation to the general. “General, if I may make a suggestion, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d recommend investigating the wall site as discretely as possible and, if possible, replacing any ordinance we find with dummy rounds. We may have a window of opportunity to discover who is planting these explosives, and I’d hate to lose that opportunity because we tipped our hand too early.”

  General Mooreland scratched his chin, then nodded. “Good idea, Captain. Are you interested in knowing what we find?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Later that morning, General Mooreland stopped by Alton’s desk. “You were right. There were twenty charges in that wall. I’m not sure why they weren’t detonated last night.”