Hide and Seek Read online

  June 6

  THE MESS HALL WAS deserted. Master Sergeant J. J. Bartley sat alone at a long, well-worn table that had seen thousands of airmen, soldiers, and Marines pause from their work long enough to pound down some grub before returning to their duties. On the table rested a chipped plastic coffee cup and two file folders. The expansive room seemed twice the size J. J. remembered the last time he passed through the air base. Of course the room was full of hungry servicemen then, many headed to Afghanistan. That was Manas’s primary role over the last decade: the jumping-off spot for troops headed to hostile country.

  As an Army Ranger he did two tours of duty in Afghanistan before being hand-selected by Sergeant Major Eric Moyer to be part of a unique spec ops team. He made several other missions into the country as part of that squad, including one he was sure would be his last moment on earth. As it turned out, a pair of F-18s came to the rescue of the six-man unit as they fought off overwhelming numbers of Taliban fighters advancing on their position. The jet jockeys saved their lives by dropping a pair of ICM bombs on their location. The Improved Conventional Munition bombs exploded fifteen feet above their heads, leaving the ground littered with dead Taliban and a ringing in J. J.’s ears that took a week to go away.

  That seemed a lifetime ago. Since then, as the sniper and explosives expert for his team, he traveled to a dozen different places on the planet, none of which he was allowed to name, and carried out missions he was forbidden to speak about.

  “Stare all you want, Boss, but that coffee ain’t going to do any tricks.”

  J. J. didn’t have to look up to know that Sergeant First Class Jose “Doc” Medina was approaching. He raised his gaze anyway and returned the medic’s smile. Jose was a solid man with a keen mind, quick humor, and an admirable steadiness. If the sky were to rip in half and a million alien ships from another dimension appeared ready to take over the world, J. J. was sure Jose would look up and say, “Well, look at that. A man doesn’t see that everyday.” J. J. liked the man for another reason. In addition to his being a superior soldier, he also saved J. J.’s life after a gun battle. He owed the man several pizzas for that.

  “Hey, Doc, where you been?”

  “They have a great rec hall here. I was shooting pool with the Air Force guys.” He pulled out a chair and sat.

  “All in the name of inter-service fun, no doubt.” J. J. lifted his cup. The coffee was cold.

  “Of course. You know I believe we should respect all branches of the military, even the inferior, less skilled ones.”

  “How much?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  Jose shrugged. “Maybe a couple of twenties.”

  “Total?”

  “Each.” Jose pretended to look guilty.

  “How many airmen did you fleece?”

  “Oh, who keeps track of such things? I was just killing time.”

  J. J. narrowed his eyes.

  “Okay, just four. My conscience was beginning to bother me.”

  “Lucky for them.” He put the cup down. “Seen Pete and Crispin?”

  “Not since Crispin gave his little demonstration. He did a good job. I was impressed, and I’ve seen his tech kung-fu in the field. All those itty-bitty surveillance drones were a hit. Left the local tech boys drooling.”

  “Yeah, I was there, but I haven’t seen them since.”

  “Do you need them? I’ll go round ’em up.”

  “Nah. Just as long as they’re front and center when the new guys arrive.”

  “Ah, that’s it.”

  J. J. cocked his head. “What’s it?”

  “You look down, Boss, like you’ve lost your favorite girlfriend.”

  “‘My favorite girlfriend.’ You know I’m married. Tess won’t let me have girlfriends.”

  Jose slumped in his chair. “Wives are funny that way. My wife won’t let me date either.” He paused to let the quip die before establishing a more somber tone. “I miss them too.”

  “I didn’t say anything about missing anyone.”

  “I was listening to your face.”

  “Sometimes you confuse me, Doc.”

  Jose chuckled. “You know what they say about Hispanics: we’re inscrutable.”

  “I thought that referred to Asians in old movies.”

  “Eh, Asians, Hispanics, whatever.” Another pause. “You’re thinking about Boss and Shaq.”

  “They’re home safe and sound. I’m not worried about them.” Images of the team’s former leader and second-in-command strobed in his mind. Last he saw them, they looked well and happy. He could hardly tell both were severely wounded and the latter lost an eye. Both retired shortly after the mission in eastern Siberia and took jobs with a civilian security firm.

  “I didn’t say you were worried about them. I think you’re worried because they’re not here. You went from team member to boss in short order. There’s gotta be some psychological whiplash in that.”

  “Psychological whiplash? They teach you that at Fort Sam Houston?”

  “Nope. Medic training taught me many things but not much psychology. Life, on the other hand, has taught me a ton.”

  “Okay, Doc. What’s eating me?”

  Jose sat up and leaned forward on the table. “Nothing bad, Boss. You’re just being human.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being called Boss. Every time someone calls me that, I think of Moyer.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it.” Jose paused. “Can we talk like a couple of old buddies?”

  “That’s what we are, Jose.”

  “Well, at least in here. Anyone else walks in this room and I’ll go back to being formal.”

  The corner of J. J.’s mouth inched up. “You have a formal side?”

  “I’m nothing if not a model of Army decorum.” He inched closer to the table as if he were about to whisper a secret. His volume remained the same. “Okay, here’s how I see it. We are creatures of training. We enlist and start at the lowest rank. Time in service and experience lead to promotions. We have a good idea how that’s going to progress. You’ve just been pushed up the ladder faster than expected. The view is different up there.”

  “True.”

  “So now you’ve been selected to take over for a man we admire and respect. He’s one in a million. He’s got it all: brains, courage, loyalty, and a soldier’s sixth sense. He left under tough circumstances. Nearly lost his daughter to kidnappers trying to sway him in his mission. Took a beating. Nearly died. To hear him tell it, he did die and came back. His cover was blown so his usefulness as field operative was gone and that’s all he ever wanted to do.”

  “He is a great man. Taught me more about soldiering than basic, AIT, and Ranger training combined.” A wave of sadness ran over J. J. “I can’t be Eric Moyer, Doc. In my mind, he will always be Boss.”

  “But he’s not, J. J. He was team leader. Now you’re the man. No one is asking you to be Eric Moyer. The Army—the team—wants you to be you.”

  “Is that enough?”

  Jose straightened and stared into J. J.’s eyes. “It is in my book.”

  “It’s not that I’m afraid—”

  “You’d better be afraid. I don’t trust a man who says he’s not afraid. Such men are either liars or lunatics.”

  J. J. raised an eyebrow. “Really? And which am I?”

  “You’re neither. I’ve seen you afraid and you’ve never been braver. You can do this, J. J. I got your six. You know that. Pete danced a jig when he heard of your promotion. At least I think it was a jig. The man has no rhythm.”

  J. J. laughed. “You got that right. First time I saw him bust a move I thought he was being electrocuted.”

  Jose chuckled, then the grin evaporated. “Seriously
, J. J., I’m proud to follow you into battle. Don’t doubt yourself and don’t doubt us. Besides, if you screw up, Moyer will kick your butt then turn on me for not straightening you out.”

  “There’s a terrifying thought.” J. J. gazed into the black fluid in his cup. More than self-doubt was eating at him but he had endured all the pep talk he could. Jose seemed to sense it.

  “You happy with the new guys?” The medic motioned to the personnel jackets.

  “Yeah, as much as I can be. It’s hard to judge a man’s character from notes on evaluation forms. Both are experienced and decorated. Seen lots of action, mostly in the last half of Iraq and in the wind down of Afghanistan. Both Rangers. One comes in at the same rank as me: Master Sergeant. He’s got six months on me as well.”

  “Doesn’t matter, J. J.; you’re team leader. He’ll know that.”

  “He’ll also know that I was frocked. I have the extra stripe but not the official promotion and pay.”

  “It’s just a matter of time, J. J. You know once there’s some head room, you’ll get the full promotion and maybe more. It’s all a numbers game. There are scores of soldiers working at a higher rank than the Army is allowed to give them. Functionally, you’re the man, and I’ll fight with any man who disagrees.”

  “You’re a pal, but you may want to hold on to the boast for awhile.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The door to the mess hall opened and a skinny airman stepped into the dim space, saw them, then walked to the table. “Master Sergeant Bartley, I’ve been asked to tell you the transport plane you’ve been waiting for has touched down. It’s pulling to the tarmac now.”

  J. J. glanced at the rank insignia on the man’s upper sleeve: one stripe and an Air Force star in a circle. “Thank you, Airman. I would like to meet the plane. Can you get me there?”

  “I was told to have a vehicle waiting.”

  J. J. stood, lifted the cold coffee to his lips, and drank. He grimaced. “Where did the Air Force learn to make coffee?”

  The young airman remained straight-faced: “From the Navy.”

  “Figures.” He set the cup down. “Gather the team, Doc.”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE BLONDER PUB SAT back from a tree-lined Ibrainmova Avenue and a short walk from a parking lot in need of maintenance. The place was a local Bishkek hangout but new owners were making an effort to attract a higher class of patrons, as high as one could get in an unsettled, impoverished nation.

  Amelia Lennon, dressed in a plain woman’s business suit, left her silver Russian-made Lada Priora sedan in the parking lot, the heels of her spectator pumps tapping against the hard surface. A cool wind from the east—a Chinese wind—blew over the area, sending the flowers and bushes in the newly landscaped planters into a gentle waltz.

  The parking lot was nearly deserted, just a handful of cars, most old and battered by a life spent on degrading roads. Kyrgyzstan was a country on the ropes. It had, for a time, shown promise but without the old Soviet system to bolster its economy, the country grew weaker by the month. Throw in government corruption, rebellion, riots, and ethnic strife, and Kyrgyzstan was a powder keg one match away from conflagration.

  The wind ruffled Amelia’s shoulder-length, chestnut hair. She was unassuming in appearance: not catwalk beautiful, but not overly plain. She had enough East Europe qualities to pass as a local but not stand out on any U.S. street.

  Amelia glanced back at the parking lot. One car stood out: a sporty red BYD sedan that looked very similar to one of the more expensive Mercedes-Benz. The Chinese automaker, like many Chinese automakers, was accused of stealing designs from American and European countries. General Motors sued Chery, another Chinese manufacturer back in the early 2000s. Fiat, Toyota, and others made the same complaint. For China, piracy was not limited to movies and music. At least they steal from the best.

  It wasn’t the copycat car that bothered Amelia, it was who owned the vehicle. The car was a gift to Jildiz Oskonbaeva, the woman she came to meet. China gave the car to Jildiz and ones like it to other Kyrgyzstan leaders. They made no secret of that. What they did keep under their hat were the gifts they gave to those seeking to upset the sitting government. Those gifts were not well known, but they were known to Amelia. It was part of her job as an Army Foreign Affairs Officer, and she had a pretty good information pipeline.

  The pub/restaurant was repainted recently, replacing the dark, nearly black theme with something almost as obnoxious: lavender paint with blue trim. Someone somewhere convinced the owners this was a cool way to go. Firing squads were created for such people.

  The wide, arched wood doors remained the same. So far. The windows were also arched. As Amelia entered the eatery she had a passing sense she was being swallowed by a disco.

  She walked through the lobby, closing the door behind her. The smell of cooking meat assaulted her nose. The aroma was strong with seasoning. The room was empty. She had been to the pub several times over the last year and it was always full of noisy patrons and cigarette smoke. The silence was stunning even though she expected it. This meeting was to be private, just two women from different cultures seeking a common good.

  Jildiz Oskonbaeva sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by empty tables, a glass of red beer in front of her. At five foot five, she was two inches shorter than Amelia. She wore her black hair short and parted on the right. The first time Amelia met Jildiz she was impressed with the intelligent look in her eyes, an intelligence revealed in the conversation that followed. At times the daughter of the Kyrgyzstan president could be aggressive, pushy, and even obnoxious. Amelia liked that even though much of it was bluster learned in Western law school. Behind the confidence and assertiveness, Amelia sensed Jildiz was frail. She didn’t know how. The woman always appeared healthy. Maybe it was the pressures of her job. As chief negotiator for her father’s government, she had been called upon to deal with very difficult situations. Manas Air Base was one of them. No, not Manas Air Base, it is still the Transit Center at the Manas International Airport. Call it what you will, it was still home to the Ninth Air Force garrison and the jumping-off point for flights into Afghanistan.

  At least for now.

  Jildiz stood as Amelia approached and smoothed her black jacket. She wore a white blouse, black slacks, and black loafers. “It is good to see you, Jildiz. You look wonderful.” She kissed the lawyer on the cheek.

  “But not as good as you, Amelia. I would kill for long hair like that.” Jildiz returned the kiss.

  “What, this old stuff? I’ve had it all my life.”

  They exchanged a chuckle and sat. Jildiz waved at a waiter who stood near the entrance to the kitchen. As the dark, middle-aged man approached, Jildiz asked, “Beer? You know they brew it right here.”

  “I do know that and I don’t mind if I do.”

  Jildiz addressed the waiter. “One more beer, please, and you can bring the food when it is ready. Thank you.” She faced Amelia again. “I took the liberty of ordering some food for us.”

  “Wonderful.” Amelia forced her face to ignore her impulse to grimace. Please, no horse meat.

  “Besh barmak.”

  Oh yuck. “I haven’t had that for some time.” Amelia avoided making eye contact.

  “Not to worry, my friend. No horse meat and no goat’s head. I thought we would keep this casual. I know you Americans can be sensitive to such things so I asked the dish be prepared with beef.”

  “You are a gracious hostess. I didn’t know I was being so transparent.”

  Jildiz leaned closer as if there were others in the room listening. “Your face went pale.” She leaned back. “But I understand.”

  “Is it all right if I use a fork? I know the dish means ‘five-fingers’ but I tend to be a little messy when I eat with my hands.” In this country foo
d was a reminder of the people’s nomadic heritage. While the country was well grounded in the twenty-first century it still clung to its past. Normally a good thing, such historical memory is what fueled the tension between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks.

  “Eat in whatever manner makes you most comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” The conversation lagged as Amelia wondered when to broach the subject.

  As soon as the waiter brought Amelia a glass of beer and left, Jildiz took the lead. “There’s been another offer.”

  “From the Chinese?”

  “Yes. And the Russians have upped their offer too. There is a chance, since both want the same thing, they might combine their efforts.”

  Amelia sipped her beer as if they were talking about weather. “May I ask how much?”

  “In dollars? The Chinese have offered the U.S. equivalent of $10 billion and the Russians, $2 billion. Their economy is still shaky.”

  “The Chinese seem to be doing okay.”

  Jildiz shrugged. “Everyone owes them money. They own over $1 trillion of your Treasury bonds and Japan owns nearly that much. Of course, your country owes money to many other countries.”

  “That is true but, if I may say, a little off the topic, Jildiz. We have provided aid to your country several times and continue to pay a fair rate of rent for our presence in the transit center at Manas.”

  “Yes, but it is a fair trade. You need a departure point for troops moving in and out of Afghanistan. Even though there has been a reduction of troops in that country, America still needs a Central Asia airport. We have Russia to our north with just Kazakhstan in between and we share a border with China on the east. How do I put this delicately, Amelia? Both countries are uncomfortable with your air base and are willing to pay to have you evicted.”

  “Sometimes those who appear to have our best interest at heart have secret motives.” Amelia turned her glass on the table. “I don’t need to tell you that your country separated yourself from Russia in 1991.”

  “You are correct. You do not need to tell me that. The Russian government has done many things to help us in our difficult times. I am not so naive as to overlook their agenda, but then again, my friend, your country has an agenda too. You need a base in our region because you fear China, because you fear a Russian relapse, because you fear growing tensions with Pakistan, because you fear a Taliban resurgence in Afghanistan. Shall I go on?”