Kill Decision(124)
As she watched, a rusted freighter three hundred feet long steamed at full speed toward the wide beach. The vessel rode high in the water, its load line twenty feet above the waves, and its interior frame evident in the grid of worn, dented metal plates that showed its age. The tops of the propellers chopped the water into froth as the freighter pushed toward a wide beach littered with derelict ships, winches, rusting scrap metal, and dilapidated worker housing. Sparks and the hiss of a hundred blowtorches cutting through steel extended into the distance. Scores of men waited on the beach to receive the new freighter, their own blowtorches at the ready.
The ship plowed into the sand with an echoing, deep boom and groans of fatigued metal—like an office building running aground. In a moment it lurched to a halt. Even as the engines shut down, the men moved in to secure it with winches and chains.
McKinney glanced over at Odin and Foxy, who sat on the bench across from her in the back of a canvas-covered Bedford truck. They both wore shalwar kameez with black shemagh headscarves covering most of their faces. They held stubby AKS-74U carbines across their laps.
The idea of people carrying around unregistered automatic weapons in public was something she never got used to, but then she knew Pakistan was a restive place. “How far does this scrapyard go?”
Odin swept his hand northward. “Five miles or more.”
She gazed out at small hills of cut-up, rusted inch-thick steel. Lines of men were carrying newly cut metal plates up their slopes in a way so reminiscent of leaf-cutter ants it was uncanny. “I can see why you thought it was strange that large chemical shipments would be made here.”
Odin nodded as he unfolded a printed map. “They go through a lot of acetylene and other volatile gases, so the chemical shipments wouldn’t attract much attention from locals.” He gazed out at the hills of scrap metal around them. “Plus, this place is busy enough and big enough to conceal a drone project. Welding wouldn’t attract any attention. And it’s a twenty-four-hour operation.”
McKinney warily scanned the hazy sky. “Can you trust your contact?”
Foxy and Odin nodded confidently. Odin added, “He’s not a company asset. We’ve known Azeem for years. Syrian. Ex–suicide bomber.”
McKinney’s look showed that had done nothing to ease her mind.
Odin shrugged. “He got disenchanted after he found out how much corruption there was. Wherever there’s fighting, criminals capitalize on the chaos. They thrive in lawless environments. A lot of faithful teenage jihadists arriving here found themselves in rough company—heavily armed men more interested in moving heroin than defeating the infidel. We rescued Azeem from a criminal gang. He’d lost a lot of his idealism. He stuck around to rescue other idealists from their clutches and send them back home. That wasn’t popular with my high command, but it opened up channels of communication.”
The truck’s diesel engine rattled in low gear as they navigated a tangled warren of dirt roads bustling with workers walking to and from their shifts, vendors hawking food, or phone cards, or cheap electronics. The carcasses of rusting cargo ships being cut to pieces loomed over the flat, dry landscape. It all seemed so dirty and industrial—not what she imagined Pakistan would look like. It made her realize that life goes on wherever you happen to be. She could see the tired faces of Pashtun workers treading along the roadside, goggles up on their foreheads, and tools over their shoulders. Some squatted in front of shacks, heating up tiny pots of tea with blowtorches. Not many of them had beards—a measure of practicality amid a daily shower of sparks. She could see just how hard these men worked, and she did not doubt that they supported families in distant villages. Life was a struggle.
McKinney heard Smokey’s voice in her radio earpiece. “We’re arriving at Mantoori Industries. I see Azeem at the gate with two other men—both armed. He’s giving the all-clear signal.”
Odin nodded and examined the Rover video tablet to see a raven’s-eye view from Huginn and Muninn, who were covering them from overhead. “I don’t see anything suspicious in the work yard. It looks aban-
doned. Keep weapons at the ready, and let’s go in.” Odin looked up at McKinney. “The presence of women here is unusual, Professor, but I need your expertise. So please don’t speak or look any of these men in the eye. Basically, act like you don’t exist. You and I will confer in private, like man and wife.”
McKinney winced.
“We’re undercover. Goes with the territory.”
The engine of the truck slowed, and soon the Bedford truck turned to drive through a battered rolling gate painted in bright colors. The truck came to a stop. Odin and Foxy immediately opened the tailgate and leapt down, weapons held casually but at the ready.