Page 16 of The Fourth Option
The gloomy storms that battered the west side of the state were kept at bay by the mountains. Here on the eastern slope, the sky was clear, and the stars flickered in the night just as they had during bivouacs inAfghanistan’s Hindu Kush. Walker had operated with his SEAL troop and then the CIA under these same stars. He thought of moving through the Spin Ghar Mountains in Nangarhar Province with Staub, navigating via GPS and NODs.
Walker pushed the memory aside, throwing a fresh cedar bough onto the fire. Its sap was a highly flammable accelerant and hit the flames like gasoline, sending embers skyward.
With Paladin settled near the warming rocks, Walker grilled two steaks he had bought in Cle Elum, at Owens Meats. After two weeks on the Quinault Reservation eating fish, he went for two pounds of prime rib eye, one for himself, the other for Paladin.
While the steaks sizzled, Walker found the bottle of Four Branches bourbon in the van’s galley. He didn’t drink often, but after surviving a near-death experience earlier in the day and being thoroughly tired of listening to the philosopher in his head, it felt like the right remedy as he accepted his decision to remain among the living, at least in the short term, until he got this one last thing done for his old friend. Then he would revisit the .45.
Sitting on a thick flannel sleeping bag, bundled in his blanket-lined Carhartt, Walker reclined on an elbow and stroked his dog as the fire crackled. Though a philosopher at heart, his studies led him to history and human motivations. He thought about ancient wolves, and the finely tuned weapon curled up by his side. There was a wolf pack that lived in the Teanaway. He wondered if Paladin could sense them beyond the glow of the fire.
Walker kept the .30-30 nearby. It stayed there that night as he slept, his dog nuzzled against him, briefly at peace.
Seventeen hours later, he turned the van into the driveway of the house that used to belong to his foster mother, Teri. According to the typed letter in an envelope under the gun tray, proceeds from the sale of the house were to go to the Rescue 22 Foundation, an organization providing fully trained service and support dogs to veterans dealing with the physical and emotional trauma of the battlefield.
“Sorry, guys,” Walker said, looking up at the modest home. “You’re going to have to wait a little longer.”
He exited the vehicle and punched a code into a box on the side of the garage that opened the door. After he pulled in and shut down, the van’s engine clicked, and Walker could smell a faint trace of burning oil. Worse, he could hear dripping onto the garage floor. While Paladin leaped out, Walker lowered himself to the concrete for an inspection. Sure enough, there was a growing puddle, which meant he would need to replace the van’s water pump again, or at least its seals, a recurring problem.
The house remained exactly as his mother had left it, her clothes hung in the closet, while the other two bedrooms were dedicated to her hobbies, sewing and music. It was fully paid off when she had passed away when Walker was still in his teens and she had left him just enough money to make sure he could keep it. Walker slept on the sofa. There were too many memories in his old room.
In the morning, he practiced dog-whistle drills with Paladin and then went on a long run through the high desert sage with the Belgian Malinois at his side. Later, he did his laundry and sifted through an old milk crate of cassettes to stock his vehicle with different tapes. Around three that afternoon, he drove the van onto two steel ramps and worked on the water pump.
His tools and spare parts hung on a pegboard as neatly as a NAPA auto store. It took him all of three seconds to locate the spare gaskets for the pump, even less to find the right sockets and wrenches.
Then he used a sealant to fix the .45-caliber bullet hole in the roof and checked the vehicle’s power system. Walker had mounted a six-hundred-watt solar array on the roof of the van, which was enough to keep the batteries topped off after a full day in the sun. The charge controller fed a steady twelve volts into the lithium bank that powered the fridge and interior lights.
After dinner, he prepared the van for departure. He swapped out the LP gas tank, filled the potable water jerry can, and ensured he had the correct tools to adjust the engine on his journey, stowing them in the van’s kit with the intricacy and care of a Zurich watchmaker. He ensured the fan that circulated air throughout the cabin for Paladin was in working order, as he had not checked it in a while with the cooler weather and the fact that Walker rarely, if ever, left his dog alone in the van.
Before he set off, Walker knew he had to flip a switch. He had designed the three levels of the storage vault under the back bench seat that separated the living area from the cargo area to be interchangeable. Sincehe left the Agency, he had prioritized his more primitive weapons on the top. That was about to change. He pulled up the seat and removed the layer that held his trad bow in place. Then he pulled up the middle one that contained his trench gun, .30-30, Colt Peacemaker, and 1911. Lastly, he detached the level with his Bravo Company AR, helmet, and NOD. While the 1911 felt at home in a Milt Sparks Summer Special 2 leather holster, the Glock 19 was secured in a Kydex Tenicor like he had used overseas on the enemy’s turf. He then replaced the layers starting with his bow, next the guns with wood furniture, and finally, on top went the instruments of his former profession.
When the van was stocked and organized, Walker pulled a bag from a shelf in the garage and removed his Velocity Systems plate carrier and low-profile chest rig. The bloodstains from the last time he had worn it were visible. He had never cleaned it off. The blood wasn’t his. It remained infused with dried dust and memories of Afghanistan.
CHAPTER FIVE
Afghanistan
2020
NESTLED AMONG THEstark hills three miles north of Hamid Karzai International Airport, the former brick factory was now a compound consisting of climate-controlled trailers, a faux training village, shooting ranges, a burn pit, and a holding facility known as the Salt Pit. Those who had been held there had another name for it: the Dark Prison.
Covered with antennas, watchtowers, and sandbags, the base spanned over two square miles. If Afghanistan was the main event of the Global War on Terror, Eagle Base was the ticket office, and it was the compound where Walker and Staub lived, worked, and trained. It was home to the Zero Units, the Afghan paramilitary teams, vetted and trained by the Americans, and it was from Eagle Base that the CIA ran the secret war.
In the narrow chute before the main gate, Walker zigzagged the Rover through a complex maze of barricades. At the final barrier, bearded contractors in ball caps and body armor, holding M4s, inspected the car with mirrors and sensors. They popped the hood and trunk and asked Staub and Walker to stand outside while they looked through the passenger compartments. It wasn’t so much that they didn’t know or trust the two CIA operators; it was that they needed to know their car hadn’t been sabotaged with an IED that could be triggered by a cell phone. A decade earlier seven CIA officers and contractors along with a Jordanian intelligence officer and Afghan driver had been killed when a triple agent detonated a suicide vest at FOB Chapman after a lapse in security protocols. The contractors at Eagle Base were not about to let that happen here. There were always eyes in the hills waiting on the Americans to let their guard down.
“Hey, Clorox,” Staub said to the supervising contractor. “Who’s on overwatch right now?”
CIA contractors usually used call signs while in country. “Clorox” had earned his nickname by claiming that his blond hair and beard were natural.
“That’s Toad in the south tower, Garbo to the east,” Clorox said.
Staub waved at the two men in helmets and black balaclavas. Toad, the man farthest from him, returned the wave with a middle-finger salute.
“What’s his problem?” Walker asked.
“I kicked his ass in yesterday’s bench press competition,” Staub explained.
“He said you cheated,” Clorox said.
“I didn’t. Chris will back me up on that.”
