A young man wakes up in the desert. The wreckage of an ambulance lies smashed against a boulder and charred to a crisp. By the stitches on his head and face, he assumes he was the patient. But why was an ambulance driving through a desert? Where wa...
"Yeah, transmitter too...Around three-second delay. White Side One checked it up in the black box when it crashed...'kay, gotta hang up. Party's about to get started...Yeah, bye."
Conan Seiber hung up the desk phone with his gaze stuck in his portable mirror, smearing faded lines of dark camouflage wash on his face.
"No makeup for me?" asked Skyler Landau from the couch, his face pristine.
"We don't want your face to be painted. You must be recognizable for what we're gonna do. But it's not like you'll be a moving bullseye. I mean, those fatigues are enough," he said, referring to the desert camouflage clothing both were wearing, hiding bulletproof vests beneath. "This is just an extra precaution for us. And besides, it may be safer for your face to be bare all along the trip."
"How's that?"
"Well, for one, as long a shot as it may be, if an enemy patrol spotted you with your face camouflaged, they might try to kill you and us on sight, thinking we're enemies. But if they make you out, they'll refrain from starting a shootout. That might buy us some time to find them eventually when we sweep the terrain, and maybe give us some room to run, or even strike back."
Landau nodded and shifted his sight beyond the window, towards the jeep parked in the expanse of the hangar, lit up by the cold white light of hundreds of bulbs in the stratospheric ceiling.
"You're kidding," he muttered as he saw the brothers getting out of the car, also with faces painted and wearing desert camouflage fatigues. "They're coming too?"
"Why do you think we chose these guys to run the Afghan section? They were born in sand and they become snakes in it. They can tell which way the wind blows across the paths like you can feel your heartbeat in your veins."
"You come up with that, or are you just a moron?"
"Yes."
"Yes, to what?"
"To your question," Seiber replied as he turned to the cockpit. "Cedric, we'll reach out when we're getting back."
"I'll get Dad Oscar warm for you," Lockhart replied from behind the door.
"OK, we're leaving. By the way—" he looked back at Skyler—"keep in mind that as soon as we step off the plane, our mission will have begun. So, no going on your own, and follow my instructions to the letter, OK?"
"Of course."
"Let's go then.
*****
The brothers were arranging and checking out some gear in and around the car. As he walked in, Skyler noticed the rocket launcher protruding from the open trunk.
"Was that a curve ball, too?"
"Yeah, I told it I had Munchausen's. Didn't take the blow well," Nadim said pointedly as he grabbed the RPG and laid it on the ground. He spread the folding roof and locked the weapon onto the car.
"What's that about?" asked Seiber.
"I think it's baseball," answered Siraj nonchalantly. "Coach of the Sox or something."
"You have baseball here in Afghanistan?"
"Yeah, we're always running home. Anyway, we shouldn't take more than two hours. C'mon."
The four got in the car, and Siraj pulled out two night-vision goggles and gave one to Seiber. As soon as they both put them on, they drove the jeep hectically off to the outside, totally stained by the night, as if the four of them were headed to hell itself.
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