There were several structures on the property, one of which Baba G had excluded from the hippies’ lease. It was here, inside a long, stone, garagelike structure, that he and Hoyt kept their most important investment.

Gallagher referred to it as the “Golden Conex,” and as he unlocked the twenty-foot-long shipping container he quoted a line from Willie Wonka, “A small step for mankind, but a giant step for us.”

Harvath let out a whistle. The ISS team had put together quite an impressive collection of small arms. In addition to crates of fragmentation grenades and RPGs, there were neatly stacked rows of battle rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns. Along one wall a pegboard had been mounted and from it hung a myriad of pistols. There were belt-fed weapons along the back, crates of ammunition, boxes of spare magazines, as well as an armorer’s bench. It was like stumbling into Santa’s workshop.

Leaning right up front was a pink M-16 covered in Hello Kitty stickers. “Who does this belong to?” he asked.

“Oh, that?” replied Gallagher. “That’s Hoyt’s.”

“Come on.”

“It’s a surprise for Mei’s birthday.”

“He better hope she loves it,” said Harvath with a shake of his head as he picked up a considerably more manly LaRue Tactical Stealth OSR-Optimized Sniper Rifle. It had a SureFire suppressor, Magpul Precision Rifle Stock, Harris bipod, and a Leuopold Scope.

“I’m running a special on that one today,” said Gallagher.

“Oh, yeah?” replied Harvath as he got comfortable with the weapon in his hands. “How much?”

“For you, mister, yak dollar.”

“Sold,” said Harvath, setting it aside. “How about these?” he asked, pointing to several Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns.

“Those are particularly fun. They scare the shit out of the Afghans, especially when you attach the suppressors.”

“Why?”

“Most of them haven’t seen that kind of weapon before. Plus, I don’t have to tell you how good they are for CQB work.”

No, he didn’t. Harvath had done a lot of close quarters battle with the MP5 and knew it was an exceptional weapon. “I’ll take it,” he said.

“Take two,” joked Baba G with a wave of his hand. “They’re small.”

“I think one will be fine.”

As they decided on the rest of the gear they would need, there was the sound of tires crunching on gravel outside. Harvath looked at his watch. Daniel Fontaine was right on time.

He stepped outside and greeted the former Canadian counterterrorism operative as he climbed out of his truck. “Did you get everything?” he asked.

“You owe me two hundred dollars,” said Fontaine as he shook Harvath’s hand.

Harvath looked at him. “On top of the stack of cash I gave you in Kabul?”

“I got stopped at a checkpoint on the way out of town,” said the Canadian with a shrug. “It was either one hundred bucks and they take half of the stuff, or two hundred and we call it even. I decided to call it even.”

“Good choice,” replied Harvath as he followed him around to the back of his SUV.

Fontaine lifted the tailgate and threw back the blanket covering the cargo area. Underneath were several cases of beer and hard liquor.

“And Hoyt said all your late nights in Kabul would never amount to anything,” stated Harvath.

“Obviously, he was wrong,” replied Fontaine.

“Obviously.”

“But wait,” said the Canadian as he stepped away from the tailgate and over to the rear passenger-side door, “there’s more.”

Harvath joined him as he opened the door and flung back another blanket, revealing a case of sugar-free Red Bull on the backseat. Looking at it, Harvath said, “There’s one missing.”

“Fine,” replied Fontaine. “Take five bucks off what you owe me.” But after thinking about it for a second, stated, “Better yet. Fuck you. That’s what you get for waking me up at three in the morning.”

Harvath laughed, peeled two hundred bucks from a wad of bills in his pocket, and handed it to him. Though Afghanistan was an Islamic country, there was still alcohol to be found. Getting this much of it, especially on such short notice, was a considerable feat. Fontaine had done well.

Still plagued by jet lag and not having had much sleep, Harvath appreciated the gesture and helped himself to a can of the energy drink.

“Tough night?” asked Fontaine as he watched Harvath pop another one-thousand-milligram Motrin in his mouth and wash it down with a swig of Red Bull.

“Just an underground party,” said Harvath as he slid a couple of cans into his pockets and closed the door. “You didn’t miss much.”

“Where’s Baba G?”

“Santa’s in his workshop,” said Harvath, pointing toward the structure, “checking off items on my Christmas list.”

Fontaine smiled, and after covering up the booze with the blanket, closed the tailgate. Following Harvath toward the building, he said, “I’ve got first dibs on the Hello Kitty rifle. The Taliban hate Hello Kitty.”

CHAPTER 35

Only a fool or a heavily armored military column went anywhere in rural Afghanistan uninvited. To enter the village of Asadoulah Badar, the young man Dr. Atash had treated for a broken jaw, Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine would have to be invited.

The best way, especially for Westerners, to secure such an invitation was to offer the village shura something they needed. Based on Gallagher’s relationship with his tenants in Butkhak, he came up with what he thought was the perfect offer.

In exchange for half the booze in the back of Fontaine’s SUV, Clean Water International’s project leader agreed to allow the trio to pose as a scouting team. They were given a brief overview of CWI’s mission and how they conducted project assessments. More important, the project leader contacted a resourceful “fixer” and interpreter they used in Khogyani who was adept at getting the most difficult jobs done, as long as the money was right. They asked him to reach out to the village shura to see if they would consent to being considered for a clean water project.

After agreeing to a price, the interpreter explained that he would call back in a few hours once he had been to the village and had met with its elders. Harvath gave the CWI leader an alias as well as his Afghan cell number for the interpreter to call back on.

They loaded the cargo area of Gallagher’s Land Cruiser with all of the weapons except for their pistols, threw a blanket over them, then loaded the alcohol on top and covered that with another blanket. If they were stopped along the Kabul to Jalalabad Road, they could plead to the lesser offense, give up the booze, and keep going. That was simply the price of doing business in Afghanistan. Once they got off the main road and headed for Khogyani, though, they weren’t likely to run into many official checkpoints. At that point, they were going to make sure they had the bulk of their firepower very close at hand.

CWI’s Afghan houseboy cooked them lunch, and then, after changing into their baggy salwar kameez, or “man-jammies,” as Harvath like to call them, the trio hit the road.

Gallagher drove while Fontaine rode shotgun and Harvath sat in back and tried to catch up on his sleep. The narrow, two-lane highway took them through snow-capped mountain passes and tunnels carved by hand out of solid rock. Garishly decorated, hand-painted Pakistani trucks, known as jingas, often found themselves stuck inside the tunnels or losing significant portions of their cargo, which were stacked Beverly Hillbillies-style, higher than common sense would ever allow.

They were halfway to Jalalabad when Baba G told Harvath to wake up. “All hands on deck,” he said.

Harvath’s hand moved to the butt of his Glock before his eyes were even fully focused. “What’s up?”

“We’re coming up on Surobi,” replied Fontaine.

“What’s in Surobi?”