Oath of Office

45

Sixteen hours and three layovers after leaving Seville, the aging Ariana 737 carrying Jack Ryan, Jr., and Dom Caruso made a rapid descent toward the Herat airport, south of the city. There were few missile attacks of late, but the pilots didn’t seem to want to try their luck by staying in the air too long at low altitude. The other passengers rocked sleepily in their seats, reading or chatting happily with seatmates, apparently used to the rapid descents. Strong winds buffeted the airplane even after they’d landed, causing it to shake as the pilot took them down the runway toward the sad-looking terminal.

Ryan rolled his neck from side to side, doing little to get rid of the kinks brought on by long hours of sitting, and more than that, the anticipation of seeing Ysabel Kashani. He beat his head against the tattered headrest.

“I swear I saw a cloud of dust fly up from the upholstery when we touched down.”

Caruso rubbed his face and leaned forward to look out the window. “This whole place is a dust cloud. I can already feel the grit between my teeth. You think they have any other colors here besides brown?”

The lone Ariana flight attendant stood well back in the galley as the passengers deplaned. Her smile was friendly enough, but she said nothing to the passengers, mainly Afghan men, as they filed past her.

Apart from the constant shove of a wind that seemed made more of dust than air, the first thing Ryan noticed was the smell. The odor of cooked meat and burning plastic reminded him of a time when he was nine or ten and had hidden his G.I. Joe on the barbecue grill. His dad had lit the burners without checking under the lid.

Jack wondered about snipers as he walked across the tarmac but forgot about danger altogether the moment he got inside the unnaturally quiet terminal and saw Ysabel. She wore a loose cotton dress in charcoal-gray and a blue headscarf. He’d expected her to be in a T-shirt and tight jeans, like the last time he saw her, but her clothing was relatively progressive for a severely conservative place like western Afghanistan, where many women wore a burka.

Two men stood beside her, glaring hard at the newcomers. One was darker than the other, with a head that was very close to being shaved and a long pointy beard that reminded Ryan of a billy goat. His head was up, hands at his sides, shoulders hunched forward in a slight crouch, as if spoiling for a fight. The other was taller, better fed, but with an intense sadness around his dark eyes. Like the first man, he had an olive complexion, but this one had a full head of hair, combed straight back, dark, but with a rusty tint in the right light. Ryan suspected he was the Russian. Neither man smiled. For that matter, neither did Ysabel.

She simply nodded in greeting.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “The van is this way.”

Caruso and Ryan were shown to a battered minivan across the street in the small lot, a warm dust-filled wind whipping them the entire way. The guy with the buzz cut introduced himself as Hamid as he slid open the back door. He left them to get in the van themselves and walked around to get behind the wheel, apparently uninterested in learning their names. Ysabel sat up front in the passenger seat. The release button that would have allowed someone to reach the rearmost seat was broken, forcing the remaining three men to squeeze in together on the ratty bench seat in the middle of the van. Dovzhenko took the far window, directly behind Hamid, and Jack took the middle, riding the hump. He didn’t mind. It gave him a more unobstructed view of Ysabel.

He leaned forward, hands on his knees. Sweating and more than a little nervous at seeing her again after so long.

“I’m surprised you didn’t give me one of those Indiana Jones slap-to-the-yap welcomes when you saw me.”

Ysabel gave him a sullen side eye without turning her head. “Oh, I would have,” she said, completely serious. “But public displays of affection are frowned upon in Afghanistan.”

Hamid took the Kandahar — Herat Highway north past the Afghan National Army Base, turning west before entering Herat proper. They drove past fields of saffron crocus and poppies, and orchards of almond and date and pistachio. Stands of willow and cottonwood trees flourished in the valley, in stark contrast to the barren hills.

Jack tried to make small talk, but Ysabel gave only curt answers, so the conversation never went anywhere. He couldn’t help but notice that she hardly even looked at him, and never met his eye.

“You’ve been here a year?”

She nodded but explained no further.

“How’s Avram?”

“My father passed away,” Ysabel said. “Jack. I want you to listen to me very carefully. We do not have to catch up. You do not have to pretend to be interested in my life.”

“Ysabel—”

She cut him off. “I never would have called and taken you away from your busy schedule had it not been absolutely necessary.”

Caruso bounced a fist on Jack’s knee, showing his fraternal support.

“Look,” Ryan said, “I get that you’re pissed at me. But are you sure you want to do this here, in front of everyone?”

“Do what?” Ysabel said, still staring forward. “I am only apologizing for taking you away from your busy life.”

Jack fell back in his seat, wedging himself between the two other men. “Suit yourself. It’s good to see you, too.” He turned to the Russian. “What’s your story? Did you get in some kind of trouble in—”

Ysabel wheeled in her seat, finally looking Ryan in the eye. “What was I to you, Jack? Were there other Iranian women after me? Do you have some Persian women fetish?”

“I thought we parted on good terms,” Jack whispered. “Your father made it very clear that your safety was paramount — and that any association with me put you in danger.”

“My father?” She spat, fuming now. “You would blame this on my father when he is dead and cannot defend himself?”

Jack looked to Caruso for help but got nothing. A silence fell over the interior of the van until Dovzhenko cleared his throat.

“I appreciate you coming,” he said. “I have information you might find useful.”

“I look forward to hearing it,” Ryan said.

More silence.

Hamid kept glancing in the rearview mirror, which, for some reason, was seriously beginning to piss Ryan off.

“Can I help you with something?” Ryan asked.

“No,” Hamid said.

“You keep looking at me like you have a question.”

“No,” the Afghan said again. “Merely an observation.”

“And what’s that?”

“I find myself surrounded by invaders.”

Ysabel looked sideways. “What are you talking about?”

“Persia, Russia, the United States — you have all invaded Afghanistan at one time or another. And now you sit here arguing among yourselves as if I am not even present.” Hamid shrugged. “The history of my country in microcosm.”

“I’m not invading anybody,” Ryan said. “I was invited.”

“How could you, Jack?” Ysabel said, ignoring her bodyguard. “You, my father, you were both supposed to be these enlightened men. How could you presume to make such decisions for me?”

“I almost got you killed,” Jack said.

“You give yourself too much credit,” Ysabel said. “I—”

Hamid cut her off. “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said, though it was clear from his tone that he was not. “But there are three motorbikes moving up behind us at a high rate of speed.”

Ryan, Caruso, and the Russian twisted in their seats to get a look behind them. The thick cloud of orange dust boiling up behind the van made it almost impossible to see anything.

“Are they armed?” Jack asked.

Hamid gave a grunting nod. “Everyone is armed. This is opium country. The Taliban are active not far to the south. Smugglers and bandits are as common as fleas here.”

“That’s odd,” Jack said. “That a bodyguard would take us through an area thick with opium smugglers.”

Hamid laughed, the way someone would laugh at a sophomoric child. “You are in Afghanistan. There are only two types of areas — unsafe and very unsafe.”

“Have you got any guns in the van?” Caruso asked.

Ysabel leaned forward and pulled an Uzi from under her seat. She passed it to Jack, keeping the muzzle down.

Hamid glanced in the rearview. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

Jack scoffed. “I do.”

“I only ask,” Hamid said, “because they fire from an open bolt, and I have seen more than a few Americans shoot holes in the floor believing the weapon is safe, when it is actually ready to fire.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’m familiar with how to work an Uzi.”

“I don’t want to come across as a whiner,” Caruso said, leaning across Jack and between the front bucket seats. “But do you have a gun for me?”

Ysabel passed him a Beretta 92 but kept a Kalashnikov pointed down between her knees. She looked at Dovzhenko. “I am sorry, but that’s all we have.”

The Russian held up a hand. “It is fine,” he said. “If things get bad, I will take one of theirs, whichever becomes available first.”

“They are about to pass us,” Hamid said, eyes glued to his side mirror. “They have not unslung their rifles.”

One of the motorcycles roared by, throwing up a rooster tail of dust but ignoring the van altogether.

The second bike passed, following the first. An AK-47 rifle was slung diagonally across the rider’s back.

The road narrowed some, curving sharply to the north as it followed the meandering course of the Hari River. The third bike kept to the rear, biding his time while his two friends drew farther and farther away. The river straightened, as did the road, and the bike moved up immediately, slowing a hair as he came abeam with the driver’s door.

Ryan heard a faint clunk, as if they’d kicked up a rock. The motorcycle rolled on the throttle and sped ahead.

“Sticky bomb!” Hamid said, throwing open the door in an attempt to rid the van of the magnetic device.

It was no use.

The blast lifted the front of the vehicle completely off the ground. One moment Hamid was there, behind the steering wheel, the next his seat was empty, torn to rags. The van lurched violently, the right wheel falling into the ditch that ran along the road and then rolling on its side as it slid along the gravel with a horrific squeal of metal on stone.

With no seat directly in front of him, Jack was thrown forward during the wreck, landing on top of Ysabel in a tangle of arms and legs and machine guns. Both of them were pressed against the shattered window that was now the bottom of the van and wedged between the dash and the bucket seat. Feet pointing skyward, Jack’s weight was on his shoulders and he essentially lay on his back in Ysabel’s lap.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She groaned. “I will be when you get off my ribs.”

“Give me the gun!” Dovzhenko barked from the backseat. He’d slid the van door open above him, revealing a bright patch of dusty sky.

Jack passed the Uzi without argument. He wasn’t using it at the moment.

“Dom!” he shouted. “You good?”

Dust and smoke poured into the van.

“Dom!” Jack said again.

Nothing.

Dovzhenko had climbed out and now looked down through the open door, the Uzi slung around his neck. “Pass the girl to me! The engine is burning. You need to get out now.”

Jack braced himself against the seats and helped Ysabel up. She looked at him in horror.

“You are bleeding,” she said.

“I’m fine,” Jack said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

She looked back at him, terror in her eyes.

“No,” she said. “You are not.”

Ryan pressed up with his legs, pushing on her buttocks while Dovzhenko pulled her up and out.

“We have to hurry,” the Russian yelled. “The motorcycles are returning.”

“I’m right behind you,” Ryan said.

Caruso was only half conscious. He moaned, looked at Jack as if he understood, and then closed his eyes.

“Come on, buddy,” Jack said through clenched teeth. He squatted low and looped Caruso’s arm around his shoulder, pressing with his legs to drag Caruso up toward the door. “Dovzhenko!” he hissed. “A little help here!”

Nothing.

“Dovzhenko!”

Caruso stirred, his head lolling sideways to look directly at Jack. His eyes were dazed, unfocused. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Jack said.

“No,” Caruso said. “I don’t think so, buddy. You should see yourself…”

“I said I’m fine.” Ryan called for the Russian again, then Ysabel, to no avail.

“I can’t lift you out of here by myself,” he said. “You still got that pistol?”

Caruso shook his head. “Nope.”

The sound of approaching motorcycle engines growled above the wind outside.

Jack lowered Caruso gently to the seat. This wasn’t working. He cast his eyes around the interior of the van, searching for another way out. He could crawl over the backseat and maybe kick open the rear doors, but Caruso was little better than deadweight.

The clack-clack cyclic of the Uzi ripped outside, followed by the distinctive crack of AKs. Acrid smoke began to pour in from the dash as the magnesium engine caught fire. Ryan knew they had maybe a minute before the van would become fully engulfed, less if the heat reached the fuel tank.

“Dom,” Jack said, heart racing now in near-panic mode. “We have to get you out of here.”

Caruso pointed at the ground. “Here.”

“I’m telling you we can’t stay here.”

Caruso shook his head, squinting now as the initial surge of adrenaline gave way to pain from his injuries. “Here!” He stomped on the window. “We’re on a ditch. Crawl out.”

Jack saw the butt of the Beretta now, jammed between the side of the seat and the passenger doorframe. He leaned Caruso against the backrest and traded places with him so he was on the bottom. It would be much easier if he went first and dragged his cousin out. The alternative would be like pushing cooked spaghetti. Jack grabbed the pistol and, bracing his feet on the metal frame, put a single round through the window. Fortunately, the van had shatterproof glass and it broke into a thousand tiny squares rather than deadly shards.

They’d come to rest with the wheels on the edge of the road and the roofline resting on the far bank, straddling the ditch. Gun in hand, Jack scrambled through the broken window, feetfirst, sinking immediately to his chest in muddy water. Caruso came behind him, gasping and becoming more animated from the surprise of hitting the muck.

“Can you keep your head up?” Jack asked.

“I’m good,” Caruso groaned. “My head feels like shit, though.”

“Looks it, too,” Ryan said, relieved that Dom seemed coherent enough to assist in his own rescue.

“Oh, yeah,” Caruso said. “Just wait until you look in the mirror…”

Jack shrimped backward, his back scraping the van, his body submerged up to his neck in the soupy muck. Dom’s brother, Brian, had been killed doing this job. Jack wasn’t about to lose another cousin. Caruso faced him, crawling along as well as he could, coughing and sputtering from smoke and muddy water.

Jack was vaguely aware of more shots outside, but they were in front of the van. He had a vague plan of staying as deep in the water as he could as he worked his way out feetfirst while making certain Caruso didn’t drown or burn to death.

“Stay with me, D—”

Strong hands grabbed Jack around both ankles. He kicked and twisted to try and get away, but, caught on the tunnel-like space between the ditch and the body of the van, he was robbed of any real power. He heard muffled voices and then felt more hands grabbing him, one person on each leg now, dragging him out through the mud. The image of his cousin seared into his brain. His dazed eyes, the crooked jaw, flames licking the van above him.