Chapter 3

Mac and Harm sat in the officers' wardroom with Clay and his team, nursing cups of bitter Navy coffee—which might barely have passed for Marine coffee, she thought with a grin—and waiting for the captain of the Patrick Henry to arrive. She and Harm endured the looks they received from the CIA team without visible reaction. The two organizations instinctively distrusted each other's philosophies and methods. All of them were quite content to play on the same team so long as they didn't have to do so together.

Captain Ingles arrived a few minutes later. Mac and her husband came to their feet, braced at attention—to the great amusement of the CIA people watching them.

Captain Ingles looked the room over, his scowl lightening only slightly when it reached the two officers. "At ease," he growled at them. They retook their seats. The Captain turned his focus to Harm.

"Commander, it's always a pleasure to have you aboard my boat."

Harm met the Captain's eyes and nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Ingles's gaze flicked to Mac. He gave her a barely perceptible nod. "Colonel."

Mac returned it. "Sir." She wasn't as welcome as Harm, but was pretty well-regarded for an outsider.

Ingles turned to Clayton Webb. "Let's get this show on the road, Mr. Webb. My time is valuable."

Webb straightened from where he'd been leaning a shoulder against the wall. "Unfortunately, there's not much to tell at this point. Almost forty-eight hours ago, a truck we think was carrying weapons grade plutonium crossed the border into Afghanistan around Jalalabad."

"Why didn't the truck get stopped at the border?" the captain wanted to know.

Webb shrugged. "Our best guess is that it was being transported along with payment for an opium shipment. The Poppyland Express is still going strong, despite interdiction efforts."

"That's going to make it harder than usual to get any information," Harm put in with a frown. "The local warlords don't like us asking questions about their drug trafficking."

"They don't have to like it," was Webb's response. Harm raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything further.

Webb motioned to one of his men, who spread a large topographical map of Afghanistan out on the table. Mac helped him straighten it, then plunked her coffee mug down on the nearest corner to help hold it flat. Captain Ingles drifted closer.

Webb pointed out Rawalpindi, near Islamabad, where the plutonium was believed to have originated. His finger traced the main road that ran toward the border to the west. "Here's where we think the truck crossed. As soon as the information came in, forces in the area set up a screen along the major roads, with a couple of helicopters tasked to keep an eye on the countryside. Here." He drew long arc to the west of Jalalabad. "We can't be sure, of course, but we think the truck is still in this area." He indicated the area inside the arc. "The biggest drug king in the region is Nabeel Mojadeddi. He's a pretty major player, and he's rumored to have family ties to Bin Laden."

"You could say that about half the warlords over there, Clay," Mac pointed out. "Is there any substantive evidence pointing to Mojadeddi?"

Clay gave her one of his mildly annoyed looks. "No. He's simply our top pick. But, that's where you two come in."

Mac and Harm shared a look, then turned in unison to Webb.

He flashed a tight smile. "With Captain Ingles's permission, I'd like to arrange for one of his people to get caught smuggling heroin onto the ship. We know Mojadeddi hasn't gotten into the heroin business, but some of his chief rivals have. So if the JAG investigators were to go to him to ask some questions about who among his cronies might be involved..."

Harm grinned. "He gets to make life difficult for his competitors and we get a look around the place. Not bad, Clay."

"I'm so glad you approve." The sarcasm wasn't lost on Harm, who chuckled.

A thought occurred to Mac. "This guy probably has access to television and the internet. What if he recognizes us?"

Clay shrugged. "What if he does? You are JAG investigators, aren't you?"

She sat back with a frown. "True. I guess it just means I can't assume my ability to speak Farsi won't be known."

"So what should we be looking for, specifically?" Harm fingered the edge of the map as he talked. "Last time the plutonium was unshielded, so we had a pretty clear trail of bodies to follow. It sounds like that might not be the case this time."

Clay gestured to one of his compatriots. "This is Jon Burke, our nuclear materials specialist."

Burke was a shortish man with curly brown hair and a goatee. He reminded Mac of Bud, oddly enough. He had the same intelligent, self-effacing geek aura about him.

Burke stood. "We're looking for a single shipping container, most likely. It's a gray metal box about the size of a small television, and weighs about two hundred pounds. Most of that is shielding. The plutonium for a single bomb only weighs two to three pounds."

Clay stepped forward. "To our best knowledge, that represents somewhere between one half and one seventh of Pakistan's entire production of weapons grade plutonium to date."

That was the most alarming thing Mac had heard so far. This was no fly-by-night operation. "Do we know anything about the money trail?"

Clay's expression told her she'd hit on something important. "So far there isn't one. Officially, Pakistan denies everything. Unofficially, the story is that the plutonium was stolen and they don't want to admit it." His expression grew even grimmer. "But, one does not just steal half of a country's most precious fabricated commodity. So either they sold it and have done a truly remarkable job of covering it up... or they gave it away."

"Countries don't give away plutonium as birthday presents, Mr. Webb." Captain Ingles crossed his arms.

"No, Captain, they don't. And there are only a few causes worthy enough in their eyes to warrant that kind of donation."

Harm snorted. "India and us."

"Yep. And though India is a heck of a lot closer, the U.S. is the more likely target if Al Queda is involved."

Mac looked from Clay to Captain Ingles. "When do we leave?"

Clay answered, "As soon as the good captain here gives us a stooge to pin the smuggling rap on. Someone who regularly goes with the resupply crew."

"That sounds like my cue." Ingles turned to leave. Mac and Harm rose to their feet as he did so and the captain nodded to each as he passed. "Commander, Colonel."

When he was gone, Harm turned to Mac. "We'd better go draw our gear."

She nodded, then turned to Clay. "Where are you going to be during all of this, Webb?"

He smirked. "Oh, I'll be around."

#

Four hours later, they touched down at Bagram Air Base, north of Kabul, where they immediately transferred to HumVee's for the trip to Site Echo, one of the staging areas for Task Force SWORD. SWORD was a coalition force that worked primarily along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, seeking to prevent Taliban and Al Queda forces from travelling between the countries.

Harm and Mac ended up near the front of the convoy of vehicles, since they were there in an official capacity. The Marine sergeant who had been tasked to drive them treated both officers like particularly bright children—quite valuable in their own way but painfully out of place in a war zone. It annoyed Harm to no end that because he was a reserved line officer people automatically assumed he was a non-combatant and incapable of holding his own under fire. He was pretty sure the sergeant had bitten his tongue to keep from asking the two JAGs if they knew how to use the M-16s they were carrying. No doubt it was even worse for Mac, he thought. She had the added handicap of being female.

The drive passed mainly in silence. Harm and Mac talked a bit about the "case" of heroin smuggling that had brought them in country, more to get into character than anything else. Eventually, they reached their destination.

Echo reminded Harm of a prison, ringed with heavy cement walls and long curls of concertina wire. Guard towers stood at each corner, topped with search lights and heavy machine guns. The barren, dusty Afghan hills surrounding the compound only made the place seem bleaker. As they drove up, Harm couldn't help but lean over to his wife.

"And you say I never take you anywhere."

She chuckled. "Romantic, Harm. You never take me anyplace romantic."

He grinned back at her. They had a running joke about lack of romance in the trips they'd taken since getting married—particularly since all of them to date had been work-related rather than personal.

"You've got to admit it's exotic, though."

"Afghanistan was exotic the last time we were here. Now it's just the same old same old."

He rolled his eyes. "Geez. Some people are so hard to please."

She laughed as they drove through the open gate into Site Echo. It was a little more cheerful on the inside, but only because there was plenty of activity. Harm spotted two buildings that might have been termed permanent structures—one looked like a headquarters building, the other a medical center of some sort. Everything else was a sea of tents. The far end of the compound was clear, save for the hulking forms of three helicopters sitting next to the makeshift helipad.

The caravan was met by a Marine lieutenant Sheffield, a severe young man who looked them over in much the way the sergeant had, though he kept the expression off his face.

"Your Marine buddies don't seem very friendly," Harm commented to Mac as they and Webb followed the lieutenant toward the headquarters building.

She gave him a sidelong look. "They're just wondering how a Squid can survive this far from the ocean."

Harm chuckled. "You're in a feisty mood today."

She flashed him a wide grin. On her far side, Clay shook his head at their antics.

They were led to the office of a Colonel Patrick Flynn. The Colonel was a huge man. He and Harm stood eye-to-eye, but Flynn was both broader through the shoulders and much more heavily muscled. His close-cropped hair was a brilliant flame orange, tinged with gray, and his eyes were a nearly colorless blue. His nose had been broken at least twice, turning it into a crooked, misshapen blob in the center of his face. He watched the officers approach with a scowl.

Harm rarely met anyone he found physically intimidating, but Colonel Flynn could definitely be put on that list. He did his best not to let it show as he and Mac came to attention in front of the Colonel's desk. Webb drifted in after them, coming to a stop a few steps to their rear, as if they could shield him from the Colonel's keen gaze.

"You must be Commander Rabb and Colonel Rabb." Flynn's voice was deep—not surprising given how much space it had to echo around in.

"Yes, sir," Harm answered for both of them. He met Flynn's gaze, waiting for the inevitable.

The colonel didn't disappoint him. "I don't suppose the similarity of names is just a coincidence?" The colorless eyes flicked from one to the other, sharing out the disapproval evenly.

Harm bit back a sigh. "We're married, sir."

The mostly gray eyebrows dropped another fraction. "Did the military change its policy while I wasn't looking, Commander?"

"No, sir. But the President said 'go', so here we are. Sir." Harm held the other man's gaze, waiting for that one to sink in.

Colonel Flynn didn't betray any surprise, which made Harm think he already knew where the two officers' orders had come from. He just didn't like it and was taking it out on them since he couldn't very well tell the Commander-In-Chief what he thought.

Flynn pinned them both with a righteous glower. "If I see even one little infraction of the rules, Commander, Colonel, I'll have you both up on charges. This is a war zone. You are not married here. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," they barked in unison.

He glared at them a moment longer. "Very well. At ease."

They moved from attention to parade rest as the colonel sank his massive frame into his chair. Harm was surprised the metal frame didn't groan in protest. Flynn laced his fingers across his flat stomach, a light of humor kindling in his eyes.

"You can come out now, Mr. Webb. I don't eat civilians."

Clearing his throat self-consciously, Clay stepped up beside Harm. "I appreciate that, Colonel."

Flynn looked him over for a moment. His gaze flicked back to Harm. "Now, suppose you tell me why I have two JAGs from Washington and a truckload of spooks coming over to play in my sandbox."

In a quiet voice, Clay outlined the real reason for their visit to Afghanistan. They had permission to tell the colonel, though no one else at Site Echo. Flynn didn't react visibly to the information, but Harm could see the impact in his eyes. The disapproving bluster disappeared, replaced by the icy calm of a man who knew when real trouble was brewing.

"Well, that explains the CIA's presence," Flynn said once Clay had finished. "But it still doesn't tell me why you two are here." He thrust his chin in Webb's direction. "He doesn't need real JAGs for this little scheme."

"Sir, we tracked down that last missing plutonium that came through Afghanistan," Mac answered. "The President thinks we can do it again."

Flynn cocked his head, studying her. Harm wondered what he saw. A beautiful woman, slender and frail-looking? Or a Marine, regardless of size or sex?

"Have you ever been shot at, Colonel?" the colonel asked in a dangerously mild voice.

Mac nodded, equally solemn. "Yes, sir."

The Colonel's eyebrows rose fractionally, but he didn't challenge her statement. "Ever killed a man?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Harm saw Mac stiffen. He bit the inside of his lip. He knew the memories were bad, for her.

"Yes, sir," Mac said.

Flynn's attention shifted to Harm. "And you, Commander? The Navy doesn't usually get involved in the down-and-dirty fighting. Have you seen any action?"

At his shoulder, Clay snorted in amusement. Harm ignored him.

"A bit, sir."

Flynn turned a sharp stare on Webb, then returned his attention to Harm.

"So if I turn you two loose without bodyguards, is it likely you'll make it back here with your skins intact?"

Harm kept his voice calm with an effort. Flynn was prodding him. "Yes, sir. We're pretty good at taking care of ourselves."

The colonel gave him a hard look, but once again chose not to challenge the statement. "All right. I am going to send one of my men with you as a guide. He can help you avoid the unfriendly natives, and the minefields."

Harm saw Webb scowl at that, but personally he thought it was a good idea. "Thank you, sir. We appreciate the help."

"Thank me when you get back." Flynn leaned a little further back in his chair, studying them intently.

"Is there anything you can tell us about Nabeel Mojaddedi, Colonel?" Mac asked after a moment.

Flynn gave her an appraising look. "A little. Mojaddedi is a man living for revenge. He was one of the mujahidin who fought the Soviets back in the eighties. Now he sells the Russians drugs." He shrugged. "If that ever falls through, I'm sure he'll come up with some other way to hurt them."

"How does he feel about Americans?" Harm asked.

Flynn frowned. "We leave him alone, he leaves us alone. I wouldn't call him friendly, but he's not looking for trouble. He knows we'd bloody his nose pretty badly if it ever came down to it." He looked back and forth between the two officers. "Is there anything else?"

Harm shook his head. "I don't think so, sir. Thank you."

Flynn nodded and waved them away. The officers came to attention, then left, with Webb on their heels.