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  There’s a whining noise as the ramp begins to close. I check my watch. Right on time. If I had been sixty seconds late, then this black aircraft would have taken off, leaving me and Jack behind.

  The engines roar louder and the aircraft starts moving. I sit across from Jack in my own red webbed seat, and he looks around and his eyes are round and fearful, and if I was in a forgiving mood—which I’m not—I’d feel sorry for him in his blue suit, polished shoes, and white turtleneck as he sits in this mean-looking military aircraft, looking like some frat pledge being taken on the hazing of his life.

  I cup my hands around my mouth and yell across at him: “It’s not first class with pretty flight attendants, Jack, but it’ll do!”

  He doesn’t say a word, just looks up and down the empty aircraft, as we rise into the New Jersey sky.

  Chapter 32

  When the C-130 reaches what I feel is its cruising altitude, I go forward and find the large zippered black duffel bag that Allison had promised would be waiting for me. I think of trying to text her but a quick glance at my cell phone shows that I have no service. I pull the duffel bag open and take a quick look at the gear.

  I take my time surveying the aircraft’s interior, and lots of memories come back about traveling in similar aircraft over the years, sometimes on risky missions, sometimes on boring transport lifts from Point A to Point B. Hell, based on the average age of the C-130 airframe in the American military and intelligence agency fleets, there was a good chance I had ridden on this particular plane before.

  Lots of those previous flights blur together in my memory, but two of them are crowded in the center of the hull with tied-down aluminum caskets, with American flags carefully tied into place.

  Those flights I won’t ever forget.

  I look to Jack, who is staring back at me in defiance, and I know that chances were very good that the Americans who died under Jack Zach’s watch ended up in an aircraft just like this, on their long journey home to the Air Force base in Dover, Delaware.

  I have to look down and focus on the book cover, because otherwise I’d go across to the other side of the C-130 and kill him.

  I sit still.

  Among other things, killing him now would upset my schedule.

  Hours later, there’s a change in the pitch of the four Rolls-Royce turboprop engines, and a couple of ominous sounding “thunks” from the flight cabin. Jack moves against his restraints and his face is pale, and he’s yelling something at me, but because of the engine noise, I can’t make out a damn word.

  I undo my seat belt and carefully walk across to Jack, and I say, “Hey, no worries, Jack. We’re doing some mid-air refueling. Up over the Atlantic there are no gas stations, you know?”

  I go back and sit down, and resume reading.

  Eventually, the constant whir of the engines puts me to sleep.

  I wake up at a bit of turbulence, and find Jack staring at me with both hate and defiance. Poor famous television journalist, far away from his network staff and all those sweet perks.

  I check my watch.

  Almost time.

  I undo my seat belt one more time and go over to Jack, book in hand. “Ask you a question?” I yell.

  He nods, his lips pursed in fury.

  I show him the book. “Is it true you banged two Hollywood actresses at once after the Golden Globes?”

  He turns away, face red.

  I go back and prepare for our landing.

  Chapter 33

  Up front, I open the duffel bag again and strip off my civilian clothes, shivering in the cold air of the aircraft. From the open bag I take out lots of gear and carefully get dressed in what’s known as “battle rattle”: camouflaged BDUs, heavy boots, knee and elbow pads, body armor, helmet, MOLLE vest with a knife, night vision goggles, night vision binoculars, a flashlight, a compass, a small water bottle, a battlepack, emergency rations, a sat phone, and some new electronic doo-dads that I check out and install on my body armor.

  Last and certainly not least is a modified Heckler & Koch HK416 rifle with a 10-inch barrel and two spare magazines. I take that out and I stuff my civvie clothes and shoes in the duffel bag and zip it up.

  Putting the outfit on stirs up lots of memories, the most recent being the last time I had worn this gear, months ago, on my last op in Serbia, the one Allison has asked me about.

  I stare at a spot in the fuselage and think of my dead teammates on that betrayed mission—Sher, Garcia, Clayton, Borozan—especially Emily Borozan. She was supposed to survive that mission and come spend long weekends at my new home at a lake in New Hampshire.

  Old thoughts.

  I push them away, and sit down on the webbing, checking my watch. Not long now.

  Jack is really staring at me now, and he starts to yell something. I shake my head and put a finger to my lips in a “shush” motion. The C-130 makes a banking turn, there’s a change in engine pitch, and I know we’re on our approach.

  Not long now.

  There’s just the slightest thump and squeal of the brakes, and the engine pitch changes again as the pilot uses reverse thrust to slow us down. I wish I could go forward and congratulate the pilot and crew, for this is one hell of a smooth landing, especially since we aren’t on an airstrip.

  There’s a jostle as the C-130 slows even more. Then red lights brighten in the interior of the fuselage, as the ramp lowers, even as we’re moving. Cold, sharp air floods in and I get up. With my knife, I cut Jack Zach free from his zip ties. His legs are wobbly but I help him up, and then we go down the inclined ramp. He collapses on the ground as the two of us step off.

  Keeping my bearings, I lift him up as the C-130 continues moving away.

  The red lights inside go off, and the ramp starts going back up. Then there’s the roar of the engines as the black C-130 races across the desert floor and climbs into the sky. When I look carefully, I can make out a black shape, temporarily blocking out the very bright stars, but otherwise, you couldn’t tell it was up there.

  Jack is next to me, trembling.

  All around is flat desert, distant hills and mountains, and thousands of very bright stars overhead.

  We are so very alone.

  Chapter 34

  With the C-130 gone, I get to work. From my battlepack I take out a half-dozen plastic glow sticks, snap them to light them, and toss them around on the desert floor. We’re lit up in ghostly yellow-green light, and that’s when Jack tries to make a run for it. I catch up with him in about five steps, drop him to the ground, and then re-secure him with plastic zip ties about the ankles and wrists.

  “Pretty pathetic,” I say. “Lucky for you, none of your fans are around to see you embarrass yourself.”

  Jack manages to get himself in a sitting position and I’m impressed when he starts laughing. “All right, all right,” he says. “You’ve made your point.”

  I take some more gear out of the battlepack: a long metal piton with a hole at one end, a six-foot length of chain, and a hammer.

  “What point is that, Jack?” I ask, as I start hammering the piton into the ground. It’s hard going, but that’s all right. It means that Jack won’t be tugging this piton free anytime this week.

  “That I’m a bad guy, okay? I’ll admit that. But you…what do you think you’re doing?”

  I keep on pounding with the hammer. “Justice. What has to be done.”

  Another laugh. “Justice? In this world? Look…you’re in a world of trouble, friend. There were witnesses at Jean-Paul who saw you kidnap me, there’s the driver who helped you cross me over a state line…you and your military friends, you made your point. Let’s not let things get out of hand.”

  I finish with the hammer, tug at the piton. Yep, not moving.

  “Agreed,” I say. “Let’s not let things get out of hand.”

  He says, “Okay, then. Here’s what I suggest, friend. Let’s be best buds. Make a call, set up a flight to come pick us up, and I’ll forget what you did to me
. I’ll buy you the best meal on the planet when we get back to Manhattan and I’ll even hire you as a consultant for my network. You’ll be in line to make tons of money. Just…call your friends back.”

  I lock one end of the chain to the piton. “Those aren’t my friends up there, Jack, and you’re not my friend, either.”

  “Okay, okay, like I said, point made,” Jack says. “Good job on your part. I’m a bad guy. So what? There are lots of bad guys out there. What difference does one more make?”

  I run the length of chain out to Jack, who unsuccessfully tries to scramble away. “Sure,” I say. “There are lots of bad guys out there. But you’ve got a special place, all on your own. You set up American soldiers to get killed…for a story. You’re an American. How could you do that?

  Jack laughs again, even though I’m binding the chain around his ankles. “Haven’t you gotten the news, friend? Nations are old fashioned. Boundaries are being erased, left and right. I’m a citizen of the world, and I’ve gone further than those stale constructs of the past, beyond the point of being a pawn or subject of some nation-state. I’m a multinational corporate employee, through and through. The story was there and I took it, for myself. Sorry.”

  I give the chain a good tug. Nothing’s moving. Good. “You don’t sound so sorry.”

  I think I’ve pushed him too far, because he starts swearing and calling me names and issuing threats and talking about legal action and how I’ll be a broken man when this is all finished.

  I let him yap without interrupting him, being the considerate fellow I am.

  He stops, takes a breath. “Enough of the fooling around, asshole. Get me out of here, let me go, or my network, my lawyers, and me, personally, will destroy you.”

  I put the hammer away in my battlepack, lift it up, put it over my shoulder.

  There.

  Lights on the horizon, right on time.

  Jack sees where I’m looking and his brash and demanding attitude is now gone.

  “What’s that?” Jack asks.

  “Looks like your fellow citizens of the world are coming over to say hi.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I adjust my gear one more time, stare straight at him so there’s no confusion.

  “We’re in the Taliban-controlled Helmand province in Afghanistan, site of your last journalistic triumph,” I say. “Have fun.”

  Chapter 35

  Jack starts to panic, his feet pulling at the chain. “What do you mean?”

  “Those trucks coming toward you belong to the Taliban,” I say. “They’ll be here in a few minutes, and I hear that they don’t like you.”

  He’s really tugging hard now, the chain clinking. “Oh, my God…”

  “Not sure if God’s here at this moment, but I guarantee the Taliban will be, before you know it.”

  The clinking noise is louder. “No…you can’t do this…”

  I step closer to him and his struggles. I say, “Hate to say this to an up-to-date newsman like yourself, but did you see that story from this very same province three months ago? Seems there was a gathering of some Taliban leaders and while they had their hot tea and flatbread, they got three Hellfire missiles dropped in their laps.”

  Jack’s moaning now, with his hands around the chain, pulling and pulling.

  “Word is,” I go on, “one of those leaders was with the Taliban unit that you were embedded with. Naturally, even though you had a hand in the slaughtering and wounding of some Americans, the Taliban think you’re a spy. Suspicious boys, the Taliban. Even though you helped them with the convoy ambush, they think that was part of your cover. Pretty harsh cover, but an effective one at that.”

  “That’s not true!” Jack yells.

  I look out at the bright lights approaching. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll listen to you, Jack, if they don’t take your head off first. But then again, the Taliban aren’t much in the way of beheading. They like to take their time before killing you.”

  Jack stops pulling at the chain, looks up to me. There are tears running down his cheeks and into his Papa Hemingway beard.

  I remove the sat phone from my belt and hold it up. “I suppose I could contact the nearest Army FOB, but do you think they’ll push themselves to rescue the one and only Jack Zach?”

  Chapter 36

  Jack goes from silent, terrified crying to bawling like a baby. Not surprising, but still, kind of disturbing considering the image he’s built for himself over the years.

  “Please…don’t leave me…please…”

  I say, “All right, I’m a reasonable guy.” I move so that I’m directly in front of him. “Go ahead, make your case, famous tough-guy journalist. You’ve got about six minutes to do it.”

  Jack makes a snorting sound with his nose. “I’m no goddamn tough-guy journalist. I’m a fake, I’m a fraud.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “You heard me!” he cries out. “I only go to places that are guaranteed safe…and when they’re not, one of my sound men, he’s ex-NYPD, really a bodyguard, is ready to kill anybody who threatens me. Shit, you know those adult diapers they sell? I always wear them in the field, for when I piss myself.”

  I say, “Speaking of guys who work for you, what did you do to Rachel Cooper, the wife of your cameraman, Walt?”

  “I…I…Please…”

  I make a public point of checking my watch. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

  “I…forced myself on her. I…”

  “You assaulted her, didn’t you?”

  His face goes dark and my stomach drops because suddenly I realize Rachel suffered something much, much worse.

  I lower my voice. “It was sexual assault, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes…I did…I…please, isn’t this enough?”

  “There’s still a bit of time left,” I say. “Do go on.”

  “Jesus, c’mon!” he says, desperately turning his head to look at the lights, now distinct as headlights as they get closer. “I’m a piece of shit, I admit it.”

  In the desert air, I can now hear the approaching engines. Jack says, “And the stories about myself! Not a single word of that book of mine is true. The tale about me screwing two actresses after the Golden Globes? Pure bullshit! Pure lies.”

  “Just to be clear, then,” I say. “Your whole life, your whole image, your whole career…is nothing but a lie from start to finish.”

  He nods his head so fast he looks like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “Yes, yes, yes…that’s exactly right.”

  I check my watch one more time. “You know Edgar Allan Poe?”

  He swears and says, “What the hell does that mean?”

  I say, “If you were to say, ‘For the love of God, Montresor,’ I just might let you go.”

  He swears at me again, and then it’s time to leave. “So long, Jack,” I say. “Have a nice morning tea with your fellow citizens of the world.”

  I check my compass and start walking, and soon Jack is yelling at me—perhaps saying that Edgar Allan Poe phrase from “The Cask of Amontillado,” perhaps not—and soon his voice is drowned out by the truck engines as I slip away into the desert darkness.

  Chapter 37

  I hike for about ten minutes, following my compass and GPS, and when the land rises, it gives me a good vantage point to see what’s going on behind me. I use my NVG binoculars to see Jack at the piton, desperately trying to pull it free. Three pickup trucks are arranged around him in a semicircle. Men are surrounding him, as if trying to figure out what to do with him.

  Jack starts screaming. I’m surprised at how high-pitched it is, and how far it carries.

  The men gather around Jack.

  His screaming increases.

  I shift the binoculars, examine one of the trucks. Because of the way it’s parked, I see it’s white and covered with desert dust, but the emblem and lettering on the side of the door is easy to see and read.

  It’s in the shape of an arrowhead, with a tree, mounta
in, lake, and white buffalo in the foreground. The lettering says NATIONAL PARK SERVICE.

  I lower my binoculars. “Jack, you certainly are one dumb son of a bitch. You don’t know your Edgar Allan Poe, and you certainly don’t know that a four-hour flight going around in a circle won’t take you to Afghanistan.”

  I put my binoculars away, take a nice swig of lukewarm water, wash out my mouth and spit on the ground.

  “Moron,” I say, and continue my march.

  It’s dark and rough going, but I make good time. Nobody’s chasing me, nobody’s gunning for me, and it’s nice to be out in this wild, open, and clear desert. A little voice in me whispers to keep going, to slip into the mountains and put everything away. It wants me to start over on a real retirement where no one can find me, and it does sound tempting, save for two things.

  The mission isn’t quite over.

  And then there’s Allison.

  I keep hiking.

  I’m about an hour away from daybreak when I check my watch, note the time, and I unhook my sat phone and make a quick call. When the brisk female voice answers, I say, “Koala Sting, ready.”

  The woman says, “Confirm that, Koala Sting,” and she hangs up.

  I stand there in the desert, a warrior facing no war, and I wonder what will happen days and weeks from now. I decide that the future will have to take care of itself.

  I turn my head to the sound of an engine, moving very fast.

  From all the gear and gadgetry hanging off my webbing, I remove a strobe light and set it off. This strobe works in infrared, which means that no one can see its incessant flash-flash save for the man or woman overhead with night vision gear.

  I turn my head to protect myself from the dust and rocks that are kicked up as an all-black MH-6 Little Bird helicopter swoops down, about fifty meters away. I lower my head and trot over. In a manner of seconds, my gear is in the back and I’m in the seat next to the pilot. I buckle in and put on a headset, the pilot works the collective and stick, checks out the red-lit instruments, and we swoop up and out over the desert.