A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [59]
“Excellent,” Roper said. “Although you’re going to be there a long time before Ferguson and his party, but, then, I think you’ll be able to make good use of it. You were Army Air Corps.”
“That’s right.”
“Retired in the rank of captain last year. Why did they give you an RAF decoration, the DFC?”
“I was a passenger on a Chinook medevac RAF flight. One pilot was killed, the other wounded, and there were passengers, so I brought her in.”
“Though wounded yourself.”
“I was hardly playing heroes. I was saving my neck. Anyway, what is it you want me to do?”
“Have you ever heard of a Raptor helicopter?”
“Of course I have. Medium-size, general-purpose load of Russian crap. Imagine a flying tractor, or, even worse, a tractor trying to fly.”
“I love your sense of humor,” Roper told him. “So laugh this off. We want you to make an illegal flight across the border to a village called Amira, approximately forty-five miles into Afghanistan. What do you say to that?”
“What I’d like to say is, you’ve got to be kidding, but I don’t think you are. Tell me the rest or the worst, whichever comes first.”
Which Roper did, covering the plan of campaign, the players, everything. “How is it now?” he asked. “Laughing or crying?”
“Well, I’ve often wondered who was running the lunatic asylum. Now I see it’s you. On the other hand, I’m a bit of a lunatic myself, so when do we start?”
“As soon as you get to Peshawar. There’s no sense in hanging around waiting for the others to arrive. You’ve got a room at this Rangoon place, so book in. Sign for anything you want, it’s taken care of. I’ve told you all you need to know about Colonel Hamza. He’ll be in touch and sort you out the moment you arrive. Enjoy the rest of the flight.”
Greg sat there, thinking about it, and then called his partner, Hakim, in Hazar, who answered quite quickly. “It’s me,” Greg said. “How are things with you?”
“That new well they’ve been drilling at Gila has come in big. They’re going to need me on a daily basis with a Scorpion. Things are looking good. What are you up to?”
“Advising an old friend in Peshawar who’s having problems with his Russian Raptors. I should be back maybe in three days.”
“The other Scorpion is standing idle. Do I find another pilot?”
Thinking of the situation he faced with the trip to Amira in the antiquated Raptor over the Afghan wilderness populated by very unfriendly people, it suddenly occurred to Greg Slay that he couldn’t answer Hakim’s question properly, as there was a distinct possibility he might not get back at all.
“I’ll let you know, Hakim,” he said, and switched off.
The jet landed at Peshawar International in the early evening and taxied to its designated unloading point, where a squad of soldiers waited to handle the jeeps. A lieutenant, wearing combat fatigues like the rest of his men, was talking to a full colonel in khaki summer uniform with medal ribbons above the pocket. He was clean-shaven, handsome enough, and looked young for the rank, although the scars on his face indicated combat experience. He touched the side of his forehead with his swagger stick as Greg went to meet him.
“Captain Slay? Hamza’s the name. I command the military police here, but Roper will have told you that. You’re an old Sandhurst hand, I hear.”
“That’s right, and so are you.”
“Something in common. I’ll take you to your hotel.” A jeep roared up, a bearded sergeant in a scarlet turban at the wheel. They drove away, and Hamza said, “It’s better to stay out of the downtown area. Lots of refugees from the tribal areas. Al Qaeda’s made us one of the most bombed cities in the world.”
“There seems to be no end in sight,” Greg said.
They turned in through an archway with a faded painted sign above it that said “Rangoon Hotel” and strongly hinted of better days, as did the cracks in the walls of the main building, but there was a fountain, which was actually working, and, inside, the