King and Maxwell

CHAPTER 6

SAM WINGO STARED DOWN AT THE MAP.

First, he’d lost his cargo and nearly his life. Second, the pickup truck he’d taken had run out of fuel halfway across Afghanistan, not where one would want to come up empty on petrol.

His options from that point had been limited. To the north were three of the Stan countries, to the west was Iran, and to the east and south was Pakistan. Not a clear winner among them as an escape route. Being an American in one of the Stans was probably preferable to being an American in Iran or even Pakistan. But Wingo knew where he eventually wanted to get to: India. Yet going through one of the Stans and hooking around to India through China was not going to cut it for him. It was just too far.

After he’d run out of fuel he had waylaid a man with a spare camel. He’d paid him far more in local currency than he had probably ever seen. Then Wingo had ridden the beast over some of the roughest terrain in the country, with the sun beating down on him, turning any bit of exposed skin red and dry.

He arrived on the outskirts of Kabul in the morning hours. He finally had cell reception. He had turned off his phone on the trip to conserve his battery. The camel did not come equipped with a 110V outlet.

He phoned his superior, Colonel Leon South.

“What in the hell happened out there?” said South.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” said Wingo.

“Where are you?”

“I got ambushed out there. A dozen to one.”

“Where are you, Sam?”

It was bothering Wingo that the man had asked that same question twice.

Wingo said, “Where are you?”

“This is beyond a disaster,” snapped South.

“There was nothing I could do. Like I said, it was a dozen to one. And the leader had a cred pack that said CIA. It looked real enough, but I still didn’t buy their story.”

“Bullshit.”

“Tim Simons. He said he was from Nebraska. Check it out.”

“I’m not checking out anything until you come in.”

“There was nothing I could do, sir.”

“You had a fail-safe, Wingo. But since you’re talking to me I guess you didn’t deploy it when you were under strict orders to do just that if things went wrong. If you had doubts about who they were, why are you still alive?”

“The cred pack said CIA. Even if I was skeptical, I didn’t want to risk blowing up our own guys.”

“I don’t give a shit if the cred pack said Jesus Christ. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“Yeah, it had occurred to me.”

“Where is the truck?”

“I don’t know.”

“And the cargo?”

“With the truck, last time I checked.”

“This is not good, Wingo, not good at all.”

“Yeah, that had occurred to me too.”

“If you did something with the cargo–” began South.

Wingo cut him off. “If I had stolen it, do you think I’d be wasting time calling you?”

“If you wanted to cover your ass, you would.”

“With that cargo, why would I need to do that?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I don’t think like a criminal or a traitor.”

“Of which I’m neither.”

“That’s good to hear. No fallout then. But you really need to come in.”

“Not until I know more.”

“We recruited you especially for this mission. We laid all the groundwork, spent God knows how much time and money, took more risks than we ever should have, and now it’s all gone to hell. And you’re right in the middle of it. I knew we never should have just sent out one guy. Temptation was too great.”

“I was never tempted.”

“Yeah, some guys just strolled along in the middle of freakin’ Afghanistan and in the mother of all coincidences took it from you.”

“I was supposed to be met by freedom fighters, not the CIA.”

“They were not the CIA,” yelled South.

“You know that for sure?” Wingo snapped.

He could hear South breathing heavily, but the colonel did not answer him.

“They were there. They knew what was in the truck. Their cred pack looked legit. This guy Simons said the plan had changed.”

“The plan had not changed. I would have known if it had.”

“I am not making this shit up, sir. It happened.”

South didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Okay, give me a description of this guy. And anybody else with him.”

Wingo did so. It was easy enough. He had been trained to remember details like that. And the truth was, when someone shoved a gun in your face, you did remember what he looked like, because it might be the last face you ever saw.

“I’ll see what I can find out, Wingo. But your staying out there has already confirmed your guilt to a lot of folks here that matter.”

“What happened to the people I was supposed to meet?”

“They were at the rendezvous spot.”

“No they weren’t.”

“Let me be more specific. They were found in shallow graves behind the building that was the rendezvous spot.”

Wingo drew a quick breath. “Then the CIA must’ve killed them.”

“Or maybe you did.”

“Sir–”

“Did you kill them?” South roared.

“No,” snapped Wingo. “If those guys weren’t CIA and the plan hasn’t changed, then they were wired into the whole thing. Which means we have a damn leak somewhere.”

“Look, Wingo, your part in this is done. You need to come in, give your debriefing, and we’ll go from there.”

“I need to make this right,” said Wingo.

“What you need to do is come in, soldier.”

“Why, so you can stick me in some prison somewhere? It sounds like you’re pretty well convinced of my guilt.”

“It doesn’t really matter if you’re guilty or not. You royally screwed up your mission and disobeyed direct orders. Any way you cut it you’re ending up in the stockade for a long time.”

At these words Wingo rested his head against the stone wall of the old building he was standing next to. His heart sank right down to the Afghan dirt.

Military prison for the rest of my life?

“I need you to contact my son and tell him I’m all right,” said Wingo. “I don’t want him to worry.”

Wingo heard South clear his throat. “That’s not possible,” said South.

“Why not? He was told I was MIA.[4] Just tell him I’ve been found. I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“He doesn’t think you’re MIA.” South paused. “He was told you were KIA.”

Wingo didn’t say anything for five beats. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said in a deadly whisper.

“The chances were very high you would not come back alive, Wingo.”

“I’m not dead yet.”

“It’s done. It can’t be undone without doing huge damage to the mission. Even more damage,” he added.

“I can’t believe this. My son thinks I’m dead? What idiot authorized that?” Wingo barked.

“You have no one to blame but yourself. We thought you were dead. You didn’t report in.”

“I couldn’t report in. I had no way to report in until just now.”

“Well, you have a lot more to worry about than that, soldier,” South said. “Are you still in country? I can send a chopper or a Humvee depending on where you are.”

“I’m not in country,” lied Wingo, his head still spinning.

South spoke slowly and with great deliberation. “Tell me exactly where you are and I will send people to pick you up.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Wingo!”

“Next time I call I would appreciate some real answers, instead of bullshit. And if anything happens to my son, anything, because of this, I will hold you personally responsible.”

“Wingo!”

But Wingo had already clicked off. And then he turned off his phone. He’d already disabled the GPS chip in it. He knew that South had been stationed in Kabul, so the good colonel was probably within fifteen minutes by car from him. But Wingo was not hanging around Kabul. Or Afghanistan.

He started walking. It was clear from what South had said and what he had left unspoken that Wingo was being set up as the fall guy on this.

But what felt like a dozen AR-15[5] rounds penetrating his body was the thought of Tyler believing his dad was dead.

He tightened his knapsack strap and picked up his pace. Inside the knapsack was everything he had. But South knew about the IDs he’d been given, which meant he couldn’t use them or the next thing he’d be facing was a court-martial. He had to get out of Afghanistan, through Pakistan and into India. He could lose himself in New Delhi or Mumbai and then figure out a new course of action. It would also give him time to change his appearance and construct a new ID, because he wasn’t planning on staying in India. His ultimate destination was home. He was going to make this right somehow.

He looked down at his phone and turned it on. Should he call his son? He hesitated, trying to think through what such an action might do. Finally, he compromised with himself. He thumbed in a carefully worded email and hit send.

Then he hurried off.

Thousands of miles away Tyler Wingo’s phone buzzed. And a hand reached for the phone.

And nothing would ever be the same again.