KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Just fucking shoot me now.
Monica Cruz felt her head was about to explode as she watched the shitstorm created by the images displayed on the projection screen at one end of the conference table.
She sat next to Harwich on folding chairs against the back wall of the same room they had crashed the day before. However, this time their intelligence finding, plus the fact that Colonel Duggan was tied up briefing Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld in Washington, had gotten them seats at the table in his place.
Well, almost at the table, she thought, observing the two dozen men occupying the high-back leather chairs, discussing options, now that they had been given the undeniable evidence that the Taliban was in possession of an RN-40 tactical nuclear bomb.
And at the head of the group sat Major General Lévesque, hands behind his neck while listening to opinions on how to handle fanatics armed with a bomb two times more powerful than the one that leveled Hiroshima.
Off to the general’s right stood Corporal Darcy and his partner, who had tried to stop Monica yesterday. Their bulky figures guarded the entrance while Darcy worked hard to avoid her gaze.
But Monica couldn’t care less about those two clowns. She was growing steadily frustrated at the freckle-faced NATO commander for allowing the endless presentations on how to handle the situation, prepared by the heads of the British, the Canadian, the French, and even the damn Afghan forces. Most of the battle plans presented on the large projection screens on both side walls were of the vanilla variety, a combination of bombing raids and missile strikes in support of massive troop deployments to seal off the mountain while even more troops made an unheard-of wide-area sweep to track down the relevant threat.
“This is beyond FUBAR,” Monica mumbled under her breath, while an Afghan colonel stood by the screen on the wall opposite her. The comment earned her a sideways glance from Harwich, who slowly shook his head, pressing a finger against his lips.
“Fine, boss, but it’s still beyond FUBAR,” she hissed, shifting her weight on the plastic seat and crossing her arms while letting out a heavy sigh—loud enough to turn several heads, including Lévesque’s.
“Agent Cruz?” the NATO commander said, smoothing his thick orange mustache with an index finger while looking over the heads of the men sitting in front of her. “The FBI wishes to comment on our battle plans, eh?”
And just like that, the spotlight focused on her.
“Don’t do it,” Harwich whispered in her ear.
“I do, General,” she replied, standing, while Harwich pressed the thumb and index finger of his right hand against his closed eyes.
“Then by all means,” Lévesque said. “We’re all ears.”
“Very well. It is my opinion that all you’re going to accomplish is wasting money and lives.”
“And how’s that, Agent Cruz?” he asked, as heads turned toward him before shifting back to Monica.
She pointed at the screen next to the Afghan colonel, who had remained standing, holding a laser pointer. The screen depicted a terrain map of a section of the mountain with an overlay of thick red and blue arrows representing various troop movements.
“One word, General: tunnels,” she finally said. “The thinking in this room isn’t tridimensional, but the enemy’s is. The Taliban is just going to march right under your bombs and your thousands of soldiers.”
Lévesque stood slowly and placed his palms on the table as the group’s attention returned to him. He was a tall and stocky man, with broad shoulders and large hands that were also covered in those orange freckles. “I appreciate the candor, Agent Cruz, but rest assured that our plan, which represents the thinking of the finest multinational military minds, is designed to overwhelm the enemy and force it to yield the weapon.”
“General, the only thing that is likely to be overwhelmed is the Role Three MMU, from all of the wounded your plan will produce by sending so many troops to so many IED-uncharted grids.”
More silence, and Monica could see the man’s jaw muscles pulsating for a moment, before he took a deep breath and asked, “So … what would you suggest, Agent Cruz?”
“Simple,” she said. “Pull everyone out of that mountain … and nuke it.”
Lévesque blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The whole mountain, General,” she said, making two fists before extending her fingers. “Megaton range. Poof. Gone. Along with those tunnel rats.”
“You’re … serious, eh?”
She shrugged. “It’s the only way to be sure. You either vaporize a bunch of rocks, goats, and goat fuckers, or you risk those very same goat fuckers vaporizing one of our own cities if they manage to smuggle that nuke out of the country.”
Every head swung back to Lévesque, who simply nodded and sat back down while saying, “Thank you for your opinion, Agent Cruz. It has been most … enlightening. And noted. Rest assured I’ll include it in my report.” Then he motioned for the Afghan colonel to continue with his brief.
But before the man could say a word, Monica added, “General, you are aware that the Taliban has more tunnels in that mountain range than there are subway tracks on the island of Manhattan, right?”
“Agent Cruz, you’ve already made your point, and—”
“We had over nine hundred marines encircling Compound Fifty-Seven, General, and they still got away—through a fucking tunnel! Now you’re telling me that the lessons learned from that snafu is to repeat it again on a grander scale?”
Lévesque stood again, now visibly angry. Dropping the pitch of his voice, he said, “You are out of your depth, Agent Cruz. You are here out of courtesy to Colonel Duggan and the CIA.” He stretched a finger toward Harwich. “We are the experts when it comes to military strategy against local insurgents.”
“Yeah, General, and how’s that expertise been working out for you lately?”
“Please remove yourself from this room, Agent Cruz, or I will have you removed.” He looked toward Darcy and his partner, who glanced at one another and frowned, shifting their pleading stares to Monica, hoping that she’d just leave on her own.
Monica stood and opened the door, but before stepping out she turned around to face her stunned audience and said, “Based on the number of recent deaths by friendly fire, including the CIA men your airstrike killed and the intelligence lead you blew by storming Compound Fifty-Seven, I’d say you are the one who needs to remove himself from this room, since you’re obviously out of your depth.”
“Enough!” Lévesque shouted, slapping the table with one of his massive hands, making quite the racket. Most people sitting at the table jerked back. “I want you to get the fuck off my base, eh? And by nightfall!”
“Gladly,” Monica said. “I don’t want to be a part of your circus, which I will report as a gross military mishandling of a great multiagency intelligence lead.”
And she closed the door and walked away.
But she didn’t get far. Harwich caught up to her before she could leave the building, reaching for her forearm.
Monica paused, staring at him and then at the intruding hand. “Not a good time to put your hands on me, boss.”
Harwich blinked and let go of her, before saying, “You really had to do it?”
She shrugged. “Told you I would. The man’s all brawn and no brains.”
Harwich looked away, hands now on his waist. “That may be the case, but there are ways to go about this.” Pointing to the conference room, he added, “And that wasn’t one.”
“Well, not my fight anymore. So if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go pack my things.”
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll find you after we’re through in there.”
“That’s not what the Canuck said in there, eh?”
“Cruz,” Harwich said, almost breaking a smile, “you’re a piece of work, but just the same, I’m telling you to stay put. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yeah, boss,” she said, walking away. “Good luck with that.”