Page 29 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

“No problem. Let’s go.”

?

The final stop on their whirlwind tour took them to Bagram Airfield, the scene of the humiliating American evacuation from the country.

The giant facility had originally been a Soviet air base, but the U.S. government took it over, enlarging and improving it over the decades. The longest runways could accommodate the world’s largest cargo aircraft including the American C-5M Super Galaxy capable of carrying a quarter-million pounds of cargo nearly five thousand miles.

But with the U.S. Air Force and its vast fleet of aircraft now gone, the Kabul government had provided incentives for commercialaviation to use the facility. Military trainers from China were among the first to arrive.

The MD-530 pilot cleared with the tower and landed Yaqoob’s helicopter a safe distance from the main runway, near one of the largest hangars in the facility. Yaqoob and Juan exited just as a gas truck approached the helicopter for a refill.

The heat radiated up from the tarmac as Juan limped along. The high-pitched whine of jet turbines rang in his ears and his nostrils filled with the stench of jet exhaust from a large Air Astana commercial airliner that had just landed. Its tail bore the national flag of Kazakhstan.

The two men approached what appeared to be a fortified hangar. The large doors were closed, but the Pashtun directed Juan toward a small exterior door on the side. An armed guard opened it and in they went.

It clearly wasn’t a hangar. It was some kind of storage facility, as large as a football field.

“More vehicles than a Los Angeles CarMax,” Yaqoob said.

He was probably right, Juan thought. There must have been at least nine hundred Humvees parked with military precision inside the thick cement walls.

“There are three more such storage facilities scattered around the country. For you? Five hundred Humvees, no problem. A thousand. We also have pickups, passenger cars, ambulances, even an ice cream truck. Whatever you need.”

Juan shook his head in disbelief. “You are a man of your word, Commander.”

He needed to drop another GPS homing beacon from his boot heel outside the entrance to be read by satellites later or, better still, by Tomahawk cruise missiles. He’d planted beacons at each of the facilities they’d visited so far—but skipped the hospital. He wasn’t willing to gamble the lives of sick children against the fatigue of an overworked targeting analyst who might inadvertently screw up.

Juan was racking his brain trying to figure out how to get Yaqoob to show him all of the other warehouses and storage depots theTaliban had scattered around the country, but he didn’t dare make the killer suspicious. The targets he had already identified would have to be good enough for now.

“Are you ready to deal, then?” Yaqoob asked hopefully. Juan saw the dollar signs spinning in his black eyes like reels in a Vegas slot machine.

“Like you said before, if the price is right. What do you propose?”

“For this priceless American equipment?”

“Name it.”

The Pashtun did.

Juan haggled with him over the exorbitant price. If he didn’t, the Afghani would become suspicious. They both knew his quoted fee was outrageous. A few moments later, Juan got the number down by nearly half. It was still an enormous sum of money.

“You drive a hard bargain, Ivan. But I want to do further business with you, so I will accept your poor offer.”

“There is still one issue. How do you plan on transporting all of this?”

“What is the destination?”

“The Central African Republic. Air transport is required.”

“It will all be arranged.”

“The deliveries must be on time. They must be guaranteed.”

“We have the means.”

“ ‘We’? No offense, friend, but unless the Americans left behind a couple of C-5 Galaxies, there’s no way you can transport all of this equipment.”

The Taliban frowned. “The deliveries will be made. You have my word.”