Cobra Strike by J.B. Hadley Page A

when it rang, listened for a moment, and said, “For you. He says it’s Andre.”
    Campbell’s eyes flickered with anger at a mere phoning him here. How had Andre gotten the number?
    “They picked me up coming through Kennedy Airport,” Verdoux’s familiar French-accented voice told him. “I’ve been given no
     reason and have been locked in a tiny windowless room for five hours now. Then a gentleman arrived and gave me a piece of
     paper with your name and this number on it. I’m standing at a private phone I’m sure is tapped. I’ve no idea what’s going
     on. Have you?”
    “What’s the name of the man who gave you my number?”
    “Oh, yes. He left a card. Here it is. T. D. Lowell, Nanticoke Institute. Mean anything to you?”
    “Who did you tell I was going to work with you?” Mike asked.
    “No one. Except the two cameramen. I had to persuade them by assuring them of protection. I said Mad Mike Campbell would look
     out for them. The Frenchman hadn’t heard of you, but the American cameraman had.”
    “You bet. He also reported back home, which is why you are being held.”
    “The pig!”
    “I’m afraid Mr. Lowell wants his mission to take priority over yours, and he seems to have certain powers of persuasion,”
     Campbell said. “What do you say?”
    “Can I come?”
    Mike laughed. Andre Verdoux was an old soldier who wanted to go to war, and it no longer mattered very much to him which war.
    The Russians reacted like Turner guessed they would. After sending the three fake Americans along with the three other Afghan
     puppet-government soldiers and six loaded asses into the Soviet encampment, Turner, Winston, and Baker hurried back to the
     cave. While Winston and Turner loaded their asses with the missiles, Baker monitored the Russian-language broadcasts on the
     radio. What they were listening for came soon: the proud boast of the Soviet unit that it had captured the three wanted Americans.
     Other transmitters picked up the news right away, and the relief could be heard in the tone of the Russian voices.
    “The pressure must have been hard on the bastards to find us,” Baker said in an almost sympathetic tone. “Wait till they find
     they’ve made a mistake.”
    “They might find that out sooner than we think,” Turner snapped. “Let’s move out while we can. It’s dark enough now, and we
     can make a few miles while the Russians are still relaxing and congratulating themselves. We could have all night to travel
     if the Russians decide to kick the shit out of their American’ prisoners and the three Afghans withthem, instead of questioning them. Either way, we better make tracks.”
    They gained a little more than an hour before the first warning transmittal came through, and then it was only a caution rather
     than a warning that the Americans were still loose. Apparently the Russians were finding the bad news hard to believe. Baker
     had the radio strapped on the donkey next to him, with its loose wire antenna extended forward to the donkey in front. Confusion
     continued. Reports were denied, then confirmed, only to be denied again. There was more resentment than urgency in the voices
     over the radio, and it was plain to Baker that it would be some time yet before Soviet troops close to them on the ground
     started an earnest search for them. Having kept on the move all night, they managed to clear the exit of the mountain pass.
     Now they were in open country again and would be much harder to locate, even traveling by known trails. They spent the daylight
     hours hiding in a gully and covered a lot of ground the next night. Gul Daoud’s men escorted them from there, traveling now
     by daylight and consequently traveling much greater distances With relative ease. After two days of backbreaking trekking,
     they reached Daoud’s territory. All three of the Americans looked at one another with genuine surprise. They had made it.
    Gul Daoud was tall, skinny, bearded, and looked a