When? Not if?

  When. Something’s going to happen.

  He had no doubt.

  3

  It was Trautman’s turn to ride. Slouched on a horse, half asleep, he swayed with every jolting hoof-fall as the caravan proceeded through the night, working higher into the mountains. He jerked upright, fully alert when the horse stopped. What now? he thought.

  The caravan had halted. Tribesmen stared past the front of the line toward something dead center on the trail above. Trautman squinted.

  What was it? A boulder? A hut?

  In the shadowy moonlight, he couldn’t tell.

  His companions unslung M-16s from their backs and began to stalk up the trail. Trautman slid from the horse, drew his pistol, and quickly joined them. As he edged closer, the shape became clearer, more distinct. Became…

  A man on a camel. Trautman frowned. A camel? Up here? His frown became more severe when he recognized an AK-47 lying across the stranger’s lap.

  Trautman’s group stopped a cautious distance from the rider. Several tribesmen murmured in suspicion and surprise. One tribesman shouted something to the rider, who shouted back. Several harsh exchanges followed.

  “What are they saying?” Trautman asked his interpreter.

  “Man on camel say his men were killed. He want travel with us.”

  “Does he sound as if he can be trusted?” Trautman asked.

  The interpreter shrugged. A tribesman shouted something else to the rider. The rider shouted an answer.

  The interpreter stepped back nervously. “Man on camel say he come from Jegdeleg. Our village. I know everyone there. I do not know him.”

  A frightened tribesman opened fire. As blood erupted from the rider’s face, the night turned into chaos, roaring and blazing with exploding grenades and stuttering muzzle flashes from automatic weapons.

  Trautman dived toward the side of the trail, scurrying on his hands and knees toward a pile of rocks. From every flank, dozens of enemy rifles laid down a constant barrage of murderous inescapable crossfire. Dying tribesmen screamed.

  Trautman shot until his pistol was empty. He ejected the empty magazine, slammed in a full one, and prepared to squeeze the trigger again, only to realize that the night was still. Except for the agonized moans of wounded tribesmen and the frenzied cries of gutshot horses, he heard just a ringing in his ears. He smelled gunsmoke, excrement, and blood.

  The stillness was broken. Angry voices shouted everywhere around him. Afghanistan government troops rose from hidden positions. Heavy boots crunched over stones.

  Rifle barrels surrounded him. A soldier slammed the pistol from his hand. Trautman raised his arms in surrender, then gasped from a rifle butt that punched his stomach and knocked him to the ground.

  Another soldier kicked his side. As Trautman rolled, he felt a massive impact to the back of his skull.

  The night became red.

  4

  “Sir, this is a United States embassy, not a missing persons bureau.” At his desk in a cubbyhole off the lobby, the minor official peered over his glasses toward Rambo. “Even if it were a missing persons bureau, this is Thailand, and you claim the man you’re looking for went to Pakistan.”

  Rambo strained to remain polite. The official obviously disapproved of his appearance. In place of a suit, dress shirt, and tie, none of which Rambo owned, he wore laundered jeans and a fresh denim shirt. In Bangkok’s heat, he’d rolled up his sleeves and opened the two top buttons on his shirt. The official glanced at Rambo’s thick long hair, his bulging arm and chest muscles, Co’s Buddhist medallion tied to his throat, and the scar on his upper left cheekbone. Dismissiveness clouded the official’s eyes.

  “I didn’t say I wanted the embassy to find my friend,” Rambo said.

  “Then explain it again. What exactly do you want?” The official held a pen to an imposing-looking document. Rambo wanted to cram the document down his throat.

  “I want to see Robert Briggs.”

  The official scratched the side of his face. “Briggs? I don’t recall anyone with that name working here.”

  “He’s with State Department intelligence.”

  “They don’t circulate the names of their personnel. How would you know he’s with intelligence?”

  “Just ask him if he’ll talk to me,” Rambo said.

  “That’s not how the system works. You can’t walk in off the street and demand to see an intelligence officer. How do we know what your motives are? You might be a terrorist. By the way, may I ask what you’re doing in Thailand?”

  “Losing my patience.”

  The official stiffened. “Leave your name, address, and telephone number. If he wants to talk to you—”

  “Call him,” Rambo said. “Now.”

  “I think we’ve spent enough time on this subject. I’d just like to say you’re the kind of American who hurts our image abroad.” The official tapped his pen on his desk. “Now, you can leave of your own accord…or you can go another way.”

  “Don’t touch that button,” Rambo said.

  “Is that a threat?”

  Rambo walked along a corridor.

  “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

  Rambo walked faster, staring into offices. “Briggs! Can you hear me, Briggs? I want to talk to you!”

  Embassy personnel glanced up, startled.

  “Briggs!”

  “Stop him!”

  “I want to talk to Briggs!”

  “Buddy, hold it right there!”

  Rambo glanced back toward the lobby. A U.S. marine unholstered his pistol.

  “I want to see Briggs!” Rambo kept walking.

  “Stop!” the marine yelled.

  Two other soldiers joined him.

  “He may be armed. He threatened me.”

  “Briggs!”

  “Halt!”

  Rambo reached a stairway.

  The marines cocked their pistols.

  “Wait! Don’t shoot!” a voice ordered.

  Rambo turned, seeing Briggs rush across the lobby.

  “It’s all right, Sergeant. I know this man. Put your weapons down.”

  “But, sir…”

  “It’s fine,” Briggs said.

  The marines looked annoyed and confused. “If you’re positive.”

  “Sergeant, you did the right thing. You and your men can relax. The situation’s under control.”

  Reluctantly the marines uncocked and lowered their pistols.

  Briggs walked toward him.

  “We need to talk,” Rambo said.

  “Yes, I guess we do.”

  5

  Briggs shut the office door. “Have a seat. You want some coffee or—?”

  “I’m here about the colonel,” Rambo said.

  “I figured that. But how the hell did you find out? We’ve been keeping it under wraps. Reporters won’t be told until we see how the situation develops.”

  “Reporters? What are you talking about?”

  “The colonel. You said you were here about… My God, you don’t know?”

  “I came to get directions so I could join him. What the hell happened?”

  “I’m not allowed to—”

  “Briggs, if something happened to the colonel and you don’t tell me…”

  The room became silent.

  Rambo stepped toward him.

  “All right.” Briggs flinched. “Relax.” He slumped behind his desk.

  “Briggs…”

  “It was a simple operation that ran into complications. All the facts aren’t in. What we know is the colonel was training refugees in Pakistan to go back to Afghanistan and fight the Soviets. Apparently he wanted first-hand experience of how difficult it was for the rebels to cross the mountains and get back home. He went with a rebel caravan, intending to turn around as soon as he reached the Afghan border. There aren’t any fences to mark the border. The rebels must have misjudged distance, or maybe Trautman’s guide made a mistake. For whatever reason, he went into Afghanistan. The caravan was hit by Afghan government troops. One rebel escaped. He saw the colonel being captured. We don’t know what happened next, but we can assume. The soldiers will turn the colonel over to the Soviet commander of the region.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “There’s not much we can do, considering the propaganda the Soviets will make out of this.”

  “One more time. What are you going to do about this?”

  “Our hands are tied.”

  “Your hands are as free as you want them to be.”

  “I’m going to be frank. You are just a former soldier, not a diplomat. At the moment we cannot even acknowledge that this happened to Colonel Trautman. To do so would jeopardize sensitive hostage negotiations currently being conducted in other parts of the world.”

  “You’re telling me you’d sooner have other American hostages freed before you arrange to have the colonel freed?”

  “We’re not even sure we can arrange to have him freed. Damn it, what happens if the Soviets torture Trautman or use chemicals on him, and he breaks?”

  “He won’t,” Rambo said.

  “But what if he does? Suppose they force him to admit the U.S. is financing, arming, and training Afghan rebels? Suppose they force him to lie and say he deliberately entered Afghanistan with the approval of the U.S. government?”

  “Take my word, they’ll never make him do it.”

  “I appreciate loyalty,”Briggs said. “But the political facts are that the U.S. might need to insist that Trautman’s a rogue, that our government had no knowledge whatsoever of what he was doing. We might need to cut him loose.”

  “You bastard.”

  “That’s what Trautman called me. It’s my job. But what I just explained to you is a worst-case scenario. It might not come to that. We might not need to cut him loose. Everything depends on the Soviets now. They might not use the colonel’s capture as the basis for a massive propaganda campaign. It’s possible they’ll agree to release him in exchange for our promise to cut back on our criticism of the Soviet invasion. Or maybe they’ll give him up if we give up one of their captured spies. Who knows? The bottom line is we sit tight and take a wait-and-see approach. Believe me, he’ll be getting official help when the timing is right.”

  “The timing is right now. The longer you wait, the easier it is to forget.”

  “He can not get official assistance at the moment.”

  “Then make it unofficial.”

  “What?”

  “Give me what I need. Then forget I’m alive.”

  “You’re volunteering to go in after him?” Briggs sounded astonished. “What if you’re captured, too?”

  “Just to ease your mind, if I do get caught, you can tell the press I’m a hotdog ex-soldier who wanted to go back to war. The government can say it’s glad to be rid of me.”

  “Go back to war? A week ago, you refused. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because the colonel would do it for me.”

  6

  With frantic effort, Rambo worked the bellows, thrusting air beneath the flaming coals in the forge, urging them to a searing white heat. Sweat cascaded off his body. His muscles flexed and knotted, rippled and bulged as he labored. With tongs, he pulled a bar of glowing 440C stainless steel from the coals. He grabbed his massive hammer and struck it repeatedly against the red-hot metal. Clang! His blows were stunning, jolting his body as they did the steel. His arm ached from the fury of his assault. He pounded. He slammed. He shaped. For Trautman. Need to find Trautman. Need to save Trautman. Clang!

  The shaping completed, Rambo studied the instrument he’d created. It was flat, twelve inches long, two and a half inches across, a quarter-inch thick, with a double-edged blade. Its tip had a curve. Eight notches—four along each side—signified the eight members of his A-team, friends, who’d died in Nam. The weapon had such weight he needed to make it lighter, needed to cut a slot along the middle of its length, to reduce the weight, and as a bonus, to add what was called a blood groove, to prevent suction from making him struggle to withdraw the instrument from a body.

  Hours from now, fully tempered, polished, and sharpened, its double edges would be the strongest and keenest that any blacksmith had ever created. When he secured a handle to its tang—the handle slanted to give him greater leverage on downward cuts—the total length would be eighteen inches. An instrument of war. A knife whose modified Bowie design resembled a miniature Afghan sword, for he was soon to enter a land in which modern weapons competed with those from the Middle Ages. A land in which centuries overlapped, in which then and now were meaningless distinctions.

  Nodding bitterly, Rambo thrust the glowing blade into a water barrel. As if infused with a life of its own, the knife hissed angrily. Steam enveloped him.

  7

  Trautman moaned and slowly wakened. Agony wracked his stomach, his side, his spine, and his head. He feared that the rifle butts had broken his ribs or fractured his skull. He gasped from dry heaves. Pierced by blazing lights, his vision spun. With terrified concentration, he managed to steady his eyes and focus them. He lay in a small stone cell with an iron door. A square of bars in the door formed a high narrow window. Beyond the bars, there seemed to be a corridor. Turning painfully, Trautman saw that the walls themselves had no windows. The cell was empty. No cot. Not even a latrine. The blinding lights were recessed behind protective metal grids in the ceiling.

  He struggled to organize his thoughts, to quell his apprehension. He remembered being beaten unconscious after the government troops had captured him. He remembered waking briefly when the soldiers lifted him into a Soviet gunship. The soaring flight, during which he’d vomited, was only a blur. But as the gunship touched down and he was placed on a stretcher, he’d vaguely seen his destination.

  Haloed by early morning haze, an enormous fortress rose out of a dusty plain. Barbed wire surrounded huge granite walls. A guard tower sat on each corner. Soviet sentries patrolled outside the walls and on the parapets. Tanks and armored personnel carriers raised dust, arriving and departing. Hulking gunships lifted thunderously from within the fortress.

  Trautman’s memory halted as a key rattled in his cell door. Warily, he watched it swing open. A lean square-shouldered Soviet officer entered. He was in his mid-forties, had short gray hair, and exuded authority.

  With a raspy voice, the Soviet said, “I am Colonel Zaysan. Your identification tags indicate you are Samuel Trautman, a colonel in the United States Army. Special Forces unit. An inferior version of our Speznaz special operations group.”

  Trautman didn’t respond.

  “I can make this experience easy or painful for you,” the Soviet colonel continued. “The choice is yours. I could have told my superiors about your capture. I could have sent you to Kabul. But I hate this country. You can help me leave it, but to do that, you must supply worthy information, so I can impress my superiors. In return, I guarantee no further harm will come to you. So…we begin. Why did you come to Afghanistan? Who else is planning to cross the border? Will you publicly confess that your government sent you here? Do you know where my soldiers can find the rebel leader Akram Haidar and his gang of bandits? These and other matters I wish to know.”

  “Go to hell,” Trautman said.

  “No, it is you who are in hell. I will now introduce Sergeant Kourov.”

  A heavy cruel-looking bare-scalped soldier entered the room.

  “You and the sergeant will learn to know each other well.”

  As Zaysan left the cell and closed the door, Kourov stepped toward Trautman.

  Five seconds later, Trautman knew that Zaysan had been right.

  A boot struck his teeth. He vomited.

  A boot struck his balls.

  He was in hell.

  PART THREE

  THE GUNSHOP

  1

  From the sun-parched plain outside Peshawar, West Pakistan, Rambo stared toward his destination. Ten miles away, the legendary Khyber Pass zigzagged upward through the narrow confines of thousand-foot-high limestone cliffs toward the snowcapped peaks of the massive Hindu Kush Mountains.

  Those mountains were Afghanistan.

  Distracted by cries of distress, Rambo lowered his eyes to survey the chaos around him. Since the Soviets had invaded Afghanistan in 1979, their 115,000 soldiers had devastated the country, killing as many as one million villagers, forcing one and a half million to flee to Iran and three million to flee here to West Pakistan. Most of those three million refugees were spread out in every direction Rambo gazed. The newspapers called it a refugee camp, but “camp” couldn’t begin to describe so vast a nightmare.

  Three million fugitives. The number was too huge to be comprehended. They lived in tents made from blankets, the tottering shelters so crammed together it was almost impossible to walk among them. So-called hospitals were mostly first-aid stations, understaffed, underequipped—merely barricaded open spaces without a roof or walls, in which cots were squeezed side-by-side and patients were exposed to the scorching sun. He saw children whose legs had been blown off, women who’d been burned, old men who’d been blinded. Wounded rebels lay staring at the sky, suffering without complaint, except to beg doctors to help them get well so they could return to the fight.

  Pain struck the soul as well as the body. Farmers missed their land, villagers their homes. Herdsmen had no meaning without their animals. Veiled women, accustomed to hiding from strangers, endured the shame of constantly appearing in public. A proud independent people, committed to the dignity of self-sufficiency, were charity cases, their hunger-swollen bellies forcing them to take handouts.

  To Rambo’s left, an endless line plodded forward to fill gasoline cans with water from Red Cross trucks. To his right, another dispirited line brought tattered wicker baskets to piles of grain donated by Western nations. Along with tea and dried skim milk, that was all these refugees lived on.