PART 2: War
Chapter 31
RAF Transport Flight 253... the next day
Ian Kincaid tried to stretch out his legs... to flex his knees and ankles to get some circulation going. "Jesus," he muttered, checking his watch. Only three hours out, nearly six to go, and he was already stiff. Old age was every bit the pain in the arse they'd always said it was. He searched his drab, functional surroundings, recalling his first flight in a military aircraft... with Winston Rayne in 1944. "In damned near sixty years they've not done much for comfort." His lower back hurt like hell. "What do you expect, old boy?" he silently lectured himself. "Scotch, down pillows, and a buxom stewardess?... You're bloody lucky the RAF let us hitch a ride. Private planes sure as hell weren't welcome."
He glanced across at Derek and hoped he was asleep. He needs sleep, Ian thought. He may have convinced the tribunal he was OK... but....
Almost as if he sensed he was being studied, Derek abruptly woke and tried to stand, but the seatbelt pinned him down. Ian saw momentary panic in his hazel eyes, before his brain took charge.
"You OK?" he asked over the roar of the engines to remind his friend that he was close by.
"Of course!" Derek snapped back. "Why do you ask? I wasn't asleep... just resting my eyes.... That's all." He reached for the papers on the seat beside him and began to read, making it quite clear that conversation was not desired.
"Right...." Ian shook his head.... When the other man was in this mood, there was no sense trying to reason with him. The Brit smiled to himself.... Was there ever a time when you could reason with Derek Rayne!... Hell... the man hadn't even been willing to explain about his sudden recovery... only... "I don't know.... I woke up.... Leave it at that."
He turned to the small window, gazed at his own weary reflection in the glass, at the wrinkles and the rakish, white hair... and allowed it all to blur. He cast his mind back to late the night before... the scene in the lobby of London House as Derek and his angry entourage had stepped from the lift. Derek, with his "stone face" to the fore, had completely ignored Sloan's desperate attempts to dissuade him from this trip.
Poor Willie had been bouncing up and down in fury.... It had been a scene that had appealed to Ian. He replayed it again, in his mind....
< < + > >
"For God's sake!" Sloan had cried. "I've just spent the last hours trying to convince the Council you're not raving lunatic.... Christ! Was I wrong!" Sloan's face, his small eyes glinting with rage, had been inches from Derek's. "I know you're worried about Boyle.... Hell, we all are...." His voice had betrayed his fear that Nick was already dead.
"Sloan's right...." De Foix's soft, French accent had intruded as he had reached for Derek's arm. "Please, mon ami
.... You're not up to this adventure... your health... what happened... your age... the conditions there....""Derek, leave it to others," William had said harshly. His voice had taken on a commanding edge. "Leave it to those trained for the job."
"What others?" Derek had demanded. "Has the Council done anything to find Nick?... Has the military... any military?... Have the intelligence services?.... Nobody's done a damned thing but wring their hands and shed crocodile tears!... He's a soldier on active duty in wartime... therefore, at risk... expendable."
"Derek," Ian remembered interrupting, "the SAS never leave their men behind. I promise you... they're working on the situation, but circumstances are exceptionally difficult."
"Get the Limey here," Sloan had scoffed and gestured towards Kincaid, "to send out the necessary 'feelers'.... I'll bet he's got cronies in all camps.... Offer a ransom. The Legacy won't do it, but you can.... This isn't a Legacy matter."
"William...," Derek had firmly replied, looking his oldest friend straight in the face, knowing that Sloan was trying to place the burden on any shoulders but those of Derek Rayne. "Even if it was possible, would you have me put money in the hands of those bastards that killed Willem and all those other people?"
"Would you give yourself to those very same bastards, Derek?" Sloan had countered. "Because that's what you'll be doing, my friend. What in the hell makes you think you can find him... let alone get you both out?... Have you called your mother... or Ingrid... to tell them this hair-brained scheme?... Do they even know you're back with us?... You're delusional, my friend.... Wait.... Think this through.... We'll find another way." He had gripped his friend's shoulders and turned him to look directly into his eyes. "I swear... Derek. Please, don't do this.... I... we...." He had hastily covered his slip of the tongue. "...need you here...."
Derek had hung his head and shook it sadly. "No one's found a way yet." Silence had hovered over the room. At last, had come the simple statement, "I have to try....
"...and William," Derek had continued. His tone had become quiet... gentle. "...you said you didn't know what was real any longer.... Our friendship is real... Wells Ward was real.... My recovery is real... for the moment.... It's also real that the Ruling Council will soon need a new president.... Trust me... your way will be open."
A moment later, Alex had sailed into the scene... bursting the bubble. Her face had been a strange, incongruous mixture of love and fury and fear. She had brushed the others aside... magnificently.
"Derek Rayne... you selfish, arrogant son-of-a-bitch!... If I didn't love you so much.... So help me!... But that can all wait.... You might just be the only person in God's creation with the chutzpah and luck to save Nick... and he's the only one in the whole goddamned world I'd let you do it for. So you get the hell outta here... now... and make sure you get both your asses back here in one piece." She had grabbed his hand and squeezed hard, then had stood on tiptoes to brush his cheek and ear with her lips. In the shocked silence, they had all caught the whisper. "When you get back... we'll talk... or... I'll talk... and you'll damned well listen!"
< < + > >
Ian smiled at the memory of her angry rant at "the Dutchman". It had sounded more like Maggie Hamilton at her Texan best, than the usually calm, cultured Alex Moreau... but perhaps Alex had decided to take a page from Judge Maggie's book on the "handling and housebreaking" of a certain Legacy precept. For the first time ever, he believed, Alex had bested Derek. Perhaps, she and Derek might have a future.... If, of course, the fool managed to stay alive long enough to have one.
The Brit reached across to pluck an aviation map from amongst Derek's folders. Again he checked his watch, then the map.... They should be somewhere north of the Caspian Sea. He looked out the window, but saw only a vast carpet of clouds. Another three to four hours should put them into Bishkek.
Kincaid looked down the aisle at the other passengers... mostly male, but a couple of women as well... some in civilian dress, most in uniform, both US and British. Carter, who had accompanied them, was busy chatting up one of the ladies. Derek had objected to his presence. "I do not need a nursemaid. I'm going in alone." To which Ian had replied. "You may not need a nurse, but I do. I'm an old man.... Allow me a companion... someone to fetch and carry." It had taken the wind from Derek's sails. Ian glanced down the aisle again and smiled... ever the good, observant sergeant, the man was allowing the two officers their privacy, without appearing to avoid them. Kincaid's ears caught the soft murmur of a conversation in French. Again he smiled.... There was always more to SAS men than met the eye.
Using the map as a shield, Kincaid surreptitiously studied the uniforms... mostly officers... RAF, of course... a couple of Royal Marines... with engineering insignia.... Odd, he thought. There were engineers amongst the Yanks as well... US Army Corps of Engineers... and Air Force. What's at Bishkek, he mused.... Of course, Manas International Airport, their destination. Kyrgyzstan had built the largest, most modern airport in the Central Asian Republics.... What better place to establish a staging area for a prolonged stay in the region?
"Ummmm...." He encouraged his bored, devious mind to ponder the ramifications and the potential advantages of such information.
< < + > >
Later...
The plane hit a patch of turbulence. The bump and rattle brought Derek, Ian, and all their fellow passengers immediately back to the moment. As the bouncing and vibration settled, grey eyes met hazel and the two friends exhaled in relief.
"You know... they never saw Nick's chute open.... Neither his 'marker'... nor the SAS corporal's ever activated." Ian used the incident to broach the subject carefully. "They hit extremely rough turbulence that damned near tore the plane apart.... He might not have made it." He studied the other man's face. "Intelligence hasn't come up with a bloody thing... nor have my feelers.... If somebody has them, they've gone to ground and not come up. Unless... you've 'seen' something?"
As Derek stared out the small window, his eyes grew distant. Long moments passed. Ian began to think that there would be no reply.
"I've not 'seen' anything... as such...." Derek continued to gaze at the vast plains of the Kyrgyz Steppes, which lay far below, golden brown in the late afternoon sun. He spoke quietly, to his own reflection. "...But... I...." He gave a tired sigh. "Well... it was a vision... I think.... Merlin spoke to me.... He told me things.... Showed me things. Other things I simply knew." He turned round to meet Ian's eye. "Things about... about the past... the present... the future. I have to trust in that, Ian.... I have to."
Kincaid nodded, but something in the other man's tone worried him. Was Derek really planning something else? Finding Nick would be next to impossible.... Derek had to know that. He decided to press on. It wasn't often that he agreed with Sloan, but Derek wasn't fit.... He was a middle-aged man struggling to hold everything together.... His recovery had been miraculous... but...
"How the hell do you think you'll find him?" the Brit asked point blank. "It'll take miracle upon miracle for you to even get near the place where Nick and that other fellow jumped... and where the SAS plane hit the turbulence. Even if you do... it's been twenty years... or more... since you were in Afghanistan.... You've read the files... and the obits for Shah Massoud and Abdul Haq....
"Abdul Haq was killed not even two weeks ago... a Mujahideen hero.... He went back in... an emissary from the exiled king... sent to sound out potential Taliban defectors amongst the moderate Pashtun.... He was step one in laying the groundwork for a new government... afterwards.... He was Pashtun... one of them... sent into his own region... amongst his own people.... He went in with his own bodyguard of seasoned Mujahideen fighters.... He hadn't even been 'in country' a week, when the Taliban caught him, tortured him, and executed him within hours... for being a spy.... What do you think they'll do to you? We've been dropping bombs on them for over a month, you know.... Doubtless, they're in a rather hostile mood."
The precept interrupted, "What'll they do to Nick?" He paused for a moment, sighed again... then decisively shifted the conversation. "The Pakistani pilot's descriptions are excellent.... He knew the area... and I remember it well enough... particularly that place. The Major and I hit the same turbulence... in the same valley... with different results." Derek paused, recalling the insane topography of his destination. He then continued, "There's very little in these files to indicate why the CIA or MI6 wanted me... and then... Nick... to meet with ibn Sikander.... Just vague hints about old Soviet stores?"
Ian saw Derek flush and quickly turn to again gaze out the window. He could guess what was going through that mind... guilt.... He should have been the one on the mission... not Nick.... He should have been able to warn them about the World Trade Center.... He had tried, but he had failed.... Thousands of innocents had died.
The Brit ground his teeth with the futility of it all, then surrendered. "This isn't official source...." He leaned forward conspiratorially... even aircraft walls might have ears. "Buzz in 'the community' is that there might be old Soviet stockpiles of real nasties in caves in that area... smallpox... anthrax... God knows what.... Things bin Laden wants... and our boys definitely do not want him nor anyone to get hold of.
"I called in a few markers from some old KGB friendly enemies. Apparently, a Russian convoy went missing back in the mid to late eighties.... Info's quite scarce.... The whole thing was so top secret that not even my KGB sources know if the convoy was going into the area or coming out... only that it went missing somewhere within your warlord's domain... and so far he's the one bloke that's been unreachable.... He's a mystery... the convoy's a mystery, so you can see how they managed to connect the dots."
Derek gave another sigh... more despondent than tired.... Ian could hear the depression... feel it. It had a solidity about it. "Derek," he said, again leaning towards his friend, placing his hand upon the precept's knee. "Talk to me.... You need to talk... really talk... not bickering with Sloan... freezing us all out... nor giving the Council and the shrinks just enough information to outwit them. You owe me this." The old man's plea was met with silence. Ian pushed on. "You have no reason to play these cards so close to the chest... not with me." He looked Derek straight in the eyes and said, "I have nothing to gain but the life of my friend." He paused a moment. The roar of the jet's engines seemed to fill the cabin. "Just tell me about how you met ibn Sikander.... Start there...."
Derek sat in silence for a moment, chewing the inside of his lower lip. He remembered the valley... how it snaked upward until it came to a vast rock wall.... At last, he spoke. His tone was hushed, contemplative; his accent had become thick.... "Johnny... Maj. Boyle... and I had been working on an archaeological project in co-operation with the Kabul Museum. As you may know, it was the great storehouse of Persian art... a treasury for a very unique civilization that had been the contact point between the Mediterranean world, India, and Asia... where Christianity had met Hinduism had met Buddhism... where the Mongols had raged and Alexander conquered Darius... and maybe... just maybe... where a man called 'Hazerat Issah' had wandered... before he became Jesus Christ.
"When the Russians came to bolster their puppet regime," he continued, "they landed in wave after wave of troop transport planes at the Kabul airport, at Begram, at other cities... Johnny wanted to get out... immediately... but I insisted that we stay as long as possible to help the curator and staff hide as much as we could. Finally... we had to go.... We bought an ancient plane for an outlandish price.... The situation was in flux.... No one knew what was happening. I insisted we escape up the Panjshir Valley to our digs. It had immense potential. It had to be reburied.... I'm sure that the community was somehow linked to the Essenes... the sect that compiled the Dead Sea Scrolls.... I must return there one day."
"How did you meet this Rumi-Khan Zarek ibn Sikander?" Ian asked... to keep Derek talking... and to get him back on target. "You certainly couldn't find a name pointing more to the West, could you?... Rumi... a Roman, Greek, Byzantine... Khan... a Mongol or Turkish ruler... ibn Sikander... son of Alexander." Ian mused... was the tribe a remnant of Alexander the Great's army, as myth said? Leave it to Derek Rayne to plunge into their midst.
"You and I hadn't met yet," the Brit said, "but I knew Boyle from Vietnam... and I owed your dad... so I'd always kept a discrete eye on you. I was in Peshawar... arranging for ammunition and relief shipments. You were skimming along the edges of a major Soviet foray... a pre-emptive strike against what would become the principle opposition. I was sure I was going to hear that a Dutch-American 'Indiana Jones' with a son-of-a-bitch ex-army major in tow had been killed."
Derek smiled gently, then explained, "The Major fretted, demanded, ordered, cajoled, trying to convince me to leave... now!... He said he could 'smell' trouble coming.... But," the precept chuckled as his eyebrow rose, "you know me.... We ended up tearing out of there in a last minute, panicky withdrawal.... It was a desperate flight in a nearly crippled aircraft. We skimmed through the valleys of the Hindu Kush, avoiding the Russian gun ships and MIGs that buzzed around like angry hornets, as well as the future core of the Mujahideen, who were shooting at everything in the sky.
"As we approached an abrupt curve in a very narrow valley, we hit freak weather... turbulence with an updraft unlike any I've ever experienced before or since.... It forced us up, out of control, so high that we nearly surpassed that little plane's altitude limits. Then we dropped, spiraling. Somehow we clung to consciousness.... At last, we regained control and made a successful landing in an isolated valley.... Well...." He paused with a half-smile. "It was successful in that we crawled away from the wreck... battered... bloodied... but somewhat upright. We looked up... and into the gun barrels of hostile tribesmen.... These were the same people who had rebuffed the Mongols, the British.... They looked every bit the part and they were sure we were Russians.
"With our limited Pushtu and Tajik vocabulary, plus some Arabic, we convinced our 'hosts' that we were being pursued by the 'Shuravi', the Soviets, and by the strange rule of Afghan hospitality 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'.... They took us to the local warlord... ibn Sikander.
"He's a good man, Ian... despite his reputation... and appearances. Nick would be welcomed as the son of a man who had saved his own son's life.... He wouldn't deal with the Taliban, I'm sure of it.... I have to talk to him.... Besides finding Nick, I have to clear his name... and I have to make sure the outside world stays out."
Ian watched the other man's face.... The fatigue was evident. "God," he muttered, "I hope Joseph's right about these 'mysterious ways' of yours, 'cause all I can see is a brave man about to sacrifice himself in a pointless quest." The old man dry washed his face, then ran his hands through his white hair. Derek wasn't the only one feeling tired.
"I do what I must, my friend... because I must." The precept fell into silence.
The Brit saw him suppress another small half-smile. Bitterness seemed written there. Yet he could guess his friend's thoughts.... "No reason to give too much away." As it is, he pondered, I know more than he'd like, but I've got to keep him talking.... He needs it. "Why must you?" Ian asked. "I have to agree with Sloan.... There must be other ways.... This is most likely a futile mission."
"Nothing in life is ever mere chance," Derek replied. "For every darkness there is light... for every evil there is good.... I must cling to that... somehow, Ian.... I must... as I must cling to Merlin.... Human evil can surpass anything the Darkside can produce. Are they one and the same? Mother always said yes... and human evil always goes hand in hand with human folly. Mine has been the folly." He looked into Kincaid's grey eyes. "I've always been able to take shelter in the idea of fate, destiny. If I couldn't prevent something, then Providence had decreed that it must happen.... After my father died...." He paused to swallow hard. "...After I 'saw' his death and could do nothing to prevent it, God somehow allowed me to survive the hell that followed... that trek from Chipote back to civilization.... I was only fifteen and it was three weeks of pure hell.... I just didn't think about Dad.... I didn't deal with it," he confessed, "but it all came crashing down on me two years later at Oxford. William saved me.... He taught me about 'Fate'... and about 'Destiny'.
"But, now, all I can think about are my own follies... my mistakes... Reston's experiments... the whole fiasco with West. All I want is for things to be the way they were... before Julia's death... before Philip left... just 'before'." Derek paused with a deep sigh, then, looking down at his empty finger, continued. "I wasn't recovering after the coma in the way I wanted. I was hiding confusion... doubt... physical problems... cognitive problems... even problems with my 'Sight' after I got it back. My control wasn't there the way it had always been. I was out of control in every which way. I was running away from me... running for my life... and I was doing it at a hundred miles an hour... and look what happened. I went insane...."
"No, Derek... look at it the other way round," Ian interrupted. "What you were going through opened you to the future."
"No... my friend," Derek countered. "Say it for what it was.... I was insane. I did belong there... in the straight jacket... in the padded cell.... Cross is right.... It could happen again... and had positions been reversed, I'd have done exactly what Cross and Loxley Millard did.... I'd have hauled out every filthy, dirty trick I know to protect the Legacy's future by securing Luna's trust fund... and believe me... I know a few tricks Cross never dreamed of.... I'd have badgered and harangued until my 'victim' broke to pieces... and the possession or insanity revealed itself in full glory.... Hell...." Derek paused to brush the hair back from his brow. "Hell," he repeated with a self-mocking smile, "I'd have even used Malcolm... and bugged the bedpan... and I'd probably have enjoyed it just as much as Franklin did... particularly if it had been Franklin in my seat."
Derek paused, then looked straight into the Englishman's eyes. In that instant Ian saw a hardness there that rivaled his own. "But," the precept continued, "had I been in their position... Derek Rayne would never have been able to walk into that Council room.... Derek Rayne would have vanished from Wells Ward, never to be seen again... or he would have never have been capable of leaving Wells Ward. They underestimated.... They took it for granted that my recovery was impossible, when they should have made sure themselves. It wouldn't have been hard... with Malcolm in place. They underestimated me... and they underestimated my Guardian Angels.
"I was insane... Ian.... I couldn't communicate.... I couldn't sort out what I was seeing or feeling... past, present, future... all chaos.... I am a potential danger to both the Legacy and the Luna Foundation.... I'm the chink in the armor.... I couldn't prevent Nine-Eleven... and because I couldn't prevent that... Willem and all those other people are dead.... Nick got called up... and he is where he is... and it's all at my doorstep."
"Listen to me, young man," the Brit firmly responded. "You spoke of Fate. Perhaps, it's all to bring you full circle... back to this Sikander... back to something unfinished... something that you weren't ready to finish then."
Derek laughed aloud... a laugh that cloaked a sob. "Gott... I pray not.... All those lives... Nick's life... to bring me to whatever my destiny is.... What a monstrous joke that would be." He picked up one of his files, opened it, and began to read.... End of discussion.
"Let me finish!" said Ian, pulling the file downward, forcing the precept to look up at him. "Perhaps Fate is taking advantage of a situation to bring you to something you won't finish, but someone else will. Perhaps, you are the weakness.... Perhaps, you think too much of yourself... value yourself too highly. Maybe, it has nothing to do with your ultimate destiny... but with someone else's... someone you may never even meet. Remember... Fate is a weaver... all those threads that go into the fabric of time.... Few of those threads ever touch, yet pull one and the fabric may shred. Play out your thread as you see fit. I'll be there when you need me. Goddammit!... What else can an old soldier do but sit and wait? Perhaps, this is my destiny too."
< < + > >
Over the Pamirs... the next morning
"Ian.... Ian!"
Kincaid woke as a hand on his arm gave him a rough shake.... Dammit!.. He'd intended to stay awake... to keep his eye on Derek. "What?" he asked, giving a quick look out the charter plane's window at the rugged mountains below... and the sun climbing off to his left. Their course was due south into Pakistan. He glanced up towards the cockpit and saw Carter's shoulder as he sat in the co-pilot's seat.
"I want you to give this to William," Derek said eagerly. A good night's sleep had produced a world of change. "I've granted him my authority by proxy... which... if anything goes wrong... will become permanent. Luna's trustees will respect this... and there's another letter for Joseph." The precept smiled.... He had given the priest full authority to initiate William as a Knight-Companion of the Phoenix. How he wished he'd be there to see Sloan's face!... Some of the initiation rites were... eccentric... by today's standards. But if the initiation proceeded, he would be dead.
Ian took the two letters, glanced down at the ordinarily round, erect handwriting, which had been turned to a scrawl by the vibration of the plane... or by the writer's nerves. He looked up into his friend's face. "Derek... this rescue attempt... you do intend to succeed?" he asked.
Despite last night's luxurious accommodations at the Hyatt Regency in Bishkek, Kincaid's sleep had been tortured. He had never been plagued by anxiety, nor gifted with premonition. Insomnia had always been a thing unknown. What then had caused such turmoil?... Instinct... perhaps? Yet Derek had slept soundly.... Some decision had been reached.
"You will try, my friend? It's not a hunt for vengeance... for Willem and Nick... is it?... You don't intend to go out in a blaze of righteous indignation taking as many of the 'enemy' with you as you can!"
A slight smile once more crossed Derek's face. "No," he replied, locking on Ian's appraising eyes. "You have my word... of honor," he added with an arcane sincerity. "I'm going to find Nick... and to do my damnedest to get us both out... in one piece."
Ian nodded, slightly mollified by Derek's reassurances... but what if his "damnedest" wasn't enough? The man had drawn his hidden reserves dry.... What else was left? "Derek... only you, in today's world, could use the word 'honor' with such earnestness, but equally... only you could use such earnestness to conceal your own motives."
With a silent chuckle, the precept checked his watch, then turned to pack away his papers. "We'll be landing in Chitral soon... then a little shopping.... I can't take anything in that we can't get on the local black-market.... Then we'll get a good meal... and a good night's rest... and bright and early in the morning, I'll meet your Mr. Rahim and be off."
"Yeah right," Ian sneered. "Clothes make the man, they say.... Sure.... They'll disguise that you're six-foot plus... carry yourself like a bloody sheik... you're pale as a ghost... without a beard... with just enough Pashtu to order chai tea... and ask for the local headman.... Jesus," Ian allowed a grin to cross his face. "You're a mad bastard, Derek Rayne!... and I wish I was young enough to go with you.... Don't let anybody kid you.... You may grow older and wiser... but the wiser part tells you how ancient you really are."
He reached into his pocket and produced his own old, much used Swiss Army knife. "Add this to your pack," the Brit said. "I bought it thirty years ago at the bazaar in Rawalpindi, so it should fit right in.... I expect it back... when you return."
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