Beyond The Limit Read Free Page B

Army soldiers with M16s or machine guns. The capital of Afghanistan was bristling with firearms, with danger and spies. Perched at an altitude of six thousand feet, it gave new meaning to “Mile High City, the nickname of Denver, Colorado. Kabul teetered on lawlessness due to terrorists striking out of the shadows and killing Americans at any opportunity.
    As Pete hurried down the cracked sidewalk, he passed several men dressed in astrakhan hats or turbans, loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirts, vests and baggy trousers. Hearing snatches of many languages, he felt as if he were at the United Nations without a translator. In his Kandahar assignment, Pete got used to this situation. He kept his focus on the white stucco building before him, the U.S. government headquarters, surrounded by Marine Corps sentries. Once he arrived, Pete produced his ID and was allowed through the security perimeter.
    Inside, he went through a metal detector and another series of blockades designed to tell friend from foe. How he itched to get rid of his flak jacket. But he was on official business and needed to be wearing his Marine Corps desert-camouflage utilities.
    The sentry nodded to him as Pete picked up his 9 mm Beretta pistol and tucked it back in the holster strapped to his right thigh. No one went anywhere in Afghanistan without carrying a protective firearm.
    â€œCan you point the way to Mr. Elliot’s office?” Pete asked the short, thickset sergeant in charge.
    â€œYes, sir. Take this elevator up to the fourth floor. Mr. Elliot has his office there.”
    â€œThanks, Sergeant.” Pete gave him a brisk nod. His desert boots thudded on the polished white linoleum floor leading to the elevators. He caught a whiff of strong, rich coffee in the air and wished he had some. Maybe Kerwin Elliot, a U.S. liaison officer overseeing in-country projects, might offer him a cup. Pete tried to forget his eighteen hours in the air and his failed attempts to grab some badly needed sleep in the cargo hold of a C-9 Starlifter. The aircraft had been crammed with equipment for the war effort.
    Entering the elevator, Pete glanced down at his watch. It was 0830. Good. He was half an hour early for his meeting with all the major players in building this power plant. Excited despite his exhaustion, he gripped his black leather briefcase and exited the slow-moving elevator when the door opened.
    At the end of the hall was a middle-aged woman dressed in a springlike lavender suit. As he approached, she looked up and smiled.
    â€œMajor Trayhern here to see Mr. Elliot,” he told her as he halted in front of her.
    â€œAh, yes, Major. Welcome to Kabul. I’m Betty Johnson, his assistant.” She held out her hand.
    In her midforties, Betty was a good-looking woman, Pete decided. Shaking her hand gently, he said, “I’m sure I’ll see a lot of you in the next two years working on this power plant project.” He smiled.
    She laughed lightly and rose. “Oh, I’m sure you will, Major Trayhern.”
    â€œCall me Pete. I don’t like standing on protocol.”
    â€œOkay, Pete,” she said, smiling back, “just call me Betty. And yes, you’ll be interfacing with Mr. Elliot and his group probably on a daily basis by telephone, fax or e-mail. Would you like some coffee?” She gestured toward the station behind her desk. “Black? Cream? Sugar? What’s your pleasure?”
    Grateful, Pete looked around. “Yes, ma’am, I’d love some hot, black coffee.”
    â€œBetty, remember. You don’t have to ‘yes ma’am’and ‘no ma’am’ me.”
    â€œGot it.” Pete nodded and glanced at the large wooden doors to Kerwin Elliot’s office. They each had a rearing Arabian horse carved on them. Unsure what type of wood it was, he stared admiringly at the artwork. “Is anyone else here yet?”
    â€œOh, yes. They’re all waiting for you. But