Prologue
Afghanistan
The barren landscape was simultaneously alien yet
oddly familiar to Eddie Chase. The young Englishman had grown up in
the rugged hills of Yorkshire, the topography of the northern
county in many ways similar to the gnarled ground below the
helicopter. But even at night, one difference was obvious. The
hills and moors around his home town were green, a living
countryside; beneath him now, everything was a parched and dusty
brown. A dead land.
More death would be
coming to it tonight.
Chase looked away
from the window to the seven other men in the Black Hawk’s dimly
lit cabin. Like him, all were special forces soldiers, faces
striped with dark camouflage paint. Unusually, though, the
participants in this mission were not all from the same unit, or
even the same country. Five were from the 22nd Special Air Service
Regiment, one of the United Kingdom’s most admired – and feared –
elite units. The remaining three, however, were from other nations,
the team hurriedly pulled together by the Coalition for the urgent
operation.
Despite this, Chase
doubted they would have trouble working together. He already knew
two of them, even if his previous dealings with Bob ‘Bluey’ Jackson
of the Australian SAS had only been brief. Jason Starkman of the
United States Army Special Forces – the Green Berets – had, on the
other hand, been a friend for years.
The third foreign
soldier was the unknown quantity, to Chase at least. Although he
had been vouched for by the team’s commander, Major Jim ‘Mac’
McCrimmon – and to Chase there were few higher recommendations – he
still wanted to get a handle on the beaky-nosed Belgian’s
personality before they hit the ground. So he had taken the seat
beside him with the intention of teasing out information about the
Special Forces Group’s Hugo Castille.
As it happened, no
teasing was necessary. The genial Castille had volunteered so much
that even a trained interrogator would have struggled to keep up.
‘So we found a little bar off Las Ramblas,’ he was saying now, ‘and
I met the most beautiful Spanish girl. Have you ever been to
Barcelona?’ Chase shook his head, wondering how the conversation –
well, monologue – had moved from a military operation in Bosnia to
chatting up women in Spain in the few seconds he had been looking
out of the window. ‘Its architecture matches its women! But as for
what we did that night,’ a broad smile, ‘I am a gentleman, so I
shall not say.’
Chase grinned back.
‘So there actually is something that
stops you talking?’
‘Of course! I—’
Castille stopped as he realised he was being ribbed, and sniffed
before taking a polished red apple from a pocket and biting into
it.
A Scottish voice came
from across the cabin. ‘Eddie, you accusing somebody of talking too
much is a definite case of the pot calling the kettle black.’ The
comment prompted laughter from most of the other men.
‘Ah, sod off, Mac,’
Chase told his commanding officer cheerily. The tightly knit,
high-pressure nature of special forces units allowed for a degree
of informality uncommon in the regular military – to a point. ‘At
least I talk about more interesting things than bloody cricket and
snooker.’
The stiff-backed man
beside Mac had conspicuously not joined in with the laughter. ‘Your
definition of interesting isn’t the same as everyone else’s,
sergeant.’ Like Chase, Captain Alexander Stikes was in his late
twenties, but the similarity ended there. Chase was fairly squat
with a square, broken-nosed face that could at best be described as
‘characterful’, while the six-foot-tall, fair-haired officer had
the high brow and straight nose of a throwback to Prussian
nobility. ‘I think we’d all prefer a bit of quiet.’
‘Quiet is the last
thing we’ll get in this tub, Alexander,’ said Mac, a hint of
chiding audible even over the roar of the Black Hawk’s
engines.
Amused by Stikes’s
telling-off, Chase turned back to Castille. ‘That’s the third bit
of fruit you’ve had since we left the base. Last I had was a banana
for breakfast, and one end was all smushed.’
Castille took another
bite. ‘I always bring lots of fruit on a mission. Much nicer than
rations, no? And I have my ways to stop them getting bruised. My
father taught me how to take care of them.’
‘So he’s some sort of
. . . fruit vet?’
The Belgian smiled.
‘No, a grocer. Nobody wants to buy mushy fruit. What about your
father?’
The question caught
Chase off guard. ‘My dad?’
‘Yes, what does he
do?’
‘He works for a
logistics company. Shipping,’ he clarified, seeing Castille’s
uncertainty. ‘He transports stuff all over the world, gets things
through customs. Oh, and he’s also an arsehole.’
‘Like father, like
son, eh, Yorkie?’ said one of the other SAS men, Kevin Baine.
Unlike Mac’s earlier remark, the estuary-accented comment was
devoid of playfulness.
‘Fuck off,’ Chase
replied in kind. Baine’s flat face twisted into a
sneer.
‘An arse-hole,’
echoed Castille, the word somehow comical in his Belgian French
intonation. ‘You do not like him, then?’
‘Haven’t spoken to
him since I left home ten years ago. Not that I saw much of him
even before then. He was always off travelling. And having affairs
behind my mum’s back.’ The admission took him somewhat by surprise,
Castille’s affable questioning having drawn more out of him than he
had intended. He gave his SAS comrades warning looks, daring anyone
to make a joke. Stikes’s expression suggested that he had stored
the fact away in his mental database, but nobody said
anything.
‘Ah, I am sorry,’
said Castille.
Chase shrugged. ‘No
problem.’ He had exaggerated – as far as he knew, there had only
been the one affair.
But that was
enough.
Castille was about to
add something when the pilot’s voice crackled over a loudspeaker:
‘Ten minutes!’ The mood instantly changed, the eight men
straightening sharply in their seats. The red interior lights went
out entirely, the only remaining illumination the eerie green glow
of the cockpit instruments. Combat lighting, letting the troops’
eyes adapt to night-time conditions.
‘Okay,’ said Mac, now
entirely serious, ‘since we were a little short on prep, let’s
review the situation one last time. Alexander?’
Stikes leaned forward
to address the other men. ‘Right, now listen. As you know, we’ve
got eleven United Nations aid workers – and one undercover MI6
officer – being held hostage by the Taliban, and twelve spare seats
in our choppers.’ He glanced towards a window; flying a hundred
metres from the US Army Black Hawk was a smaller MH-6 Little Bird
gunship. ‘I want all of them occupied on the way back. And I want
that seat,’ he pointed at one in
particular, ‘to have our spy friend in it, alive and well. He’s got
information on al-Qaeda that we need – maybe even Osama’s
hidey-hole.’
‘Makes you wonder if
we’d be going on a rescue mission if one of ’em wasn’t a spook,’
said Bluey.
‘I don’t wonder,’
Chase told the shaven-headed Australian with dark
humour.
Stikes was unamused.
‘Keep it closed, Chase. Now, the GPS trackers on the UN trucks
showed they’d been taken to an abandoned farm, and as of thirty
minutes ago they’re still there. A satellite pass earlier today
showed one other vehicle and a couple of horses, so we estimate no
more than ten to twelve of Terry Taliban. We go in, reduce that
number to zero, and recover the hostages.’
‘Just to clarify the
rules of engagement here,’ said Starkman in his Texan drawl, ‘we’re
not only rescuing the good guys, but taking out the bad guys, am I
right?’
Even in the green
half-light from the cockpit, Stikes’s cold smile was clearly
visible. ‘Anyone who isn’t a hostage is classified as hostile. And
you know what we do to hostiles.’ Grim chuckles from the
team.
‘Any more word on air
support, sir?’ asked the fifth SAS trooper, a chunky Welshman
called Will Green.
‘Nothing confirmed as
yet,’ said Stikes. ‘All our aircraft in the region are engaged on
another operation – the ones that aren’t broken down, at least. If
anything becomes available, it’ll almost certainly be
American.’
‘Fucking great,’
muttered Baine. ‘Anyone got spare body armour? Nothing I like more
than dodging friendly fire.’
‘That’s enough of
that,’ said Mac sharply. ‘If it wasn’t for our American friends, we
wouldn’t even have these helicopters. Be glad we’re not driving out
there in Pink Panthers.’ The SAS Land Rovers, painted in pinkish
shades for desert camouflage, had inevitably acquired the
nickname.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Baine
gave Starkman a half-hearted nod of apology.
‘Any further
questions?’ Stikes asked. There were none.
‘One last thing,’
said Mac. He regarded his men, focusing particularly on Chase.
‘You’ve all been in combat before, but this might feel different
from anything else some of you have experienced. No matter what
happens, just stay calm, keep focused, and remember your training.
I know you can get these people to safety, so stick together, and
fight to the end.’
‘Fight to the end,’
Chase echoed, along with Green and Castille.
The next few minutes
passed in as near to silence as it was possible to get inside the
Black Hawk’s industrial clamour. Then the pilot’s voice boomed
again: ‘One minute!’ Chase glanced out of the window. His eyes had
now fully adjusted to the darkness, revealing that the landscape
was climbing towards ragged mountains to the north. There were
still expanses of desert plain, but they were broken up by steep,
knotted hills. Tough terrain.
And they had six
miles of it to cross.
The Black Hawk’s
engine note changed, the aircraft tilting back sharply to slow
itself before landing. Chase tensed. Any moment—
A harsh thump. Green
slid open the cabin door on one side, Bluey the other, and the team
scrambled out. Chase already had a weapon ready – a Diemaco C8SFW
carbine, a Canadian-built variant of the American M4 assault rifle
– as he ran clear of the swirling dust and dived flat to the
ground, the others doing the same around him.
The Black Hawk heaved
itself upwards, hitting Chase with a gritty downblast as it wheeled
back the way it had come. The Little Bird followed. With surprising
speed, the chop of the two helicopters’ rotors faded.
The dust settled.
Chase stayed down, scanning the landscape for any hint that they
were not alone.
Nothing. They were in
the clear.
A quiet whistle. He
looked round, and saw Mac’s shadowy figure standing up. The other
men rose in response. Still wary, they assembled before the bearded
Scot as he switched on a red-lensed torch to check first a map,
then his compass. ‘That way,’ he said, pointing towards the
mountains.
Chase regarded the
black mass rising against the starscape with a grumbling sigh.
‘Buggeration and fuckery. Might have bloody known we’d be going the
steepest possible route.’
‘Enough complaining,’
snapped Stikes. ‘Chase, you and Green take the lead. All right,
let’s move!’
For most people,
traversing six miles of hilly, rock-strewn terrain – in the dark –
would be a slow, arduous and even painful task. For the
multinational special forces team, however, it was little more than
an inconvenient slog. They had night vision goggles, but nobody
used them – the stars and the sliver of crescent moon, shining
brilliantly in a pollution-free sky, gave the eight men more than
enough light. After covering five miles in just over an hour and
forty minutes, the only ill effect felt by Chase was a sore toe,
and even Mac, oldest of the group by over fifteen years, was still
in strong enough shape to be suffering only a slight shortness of
breath.
Not that Chase was
going to cut him any slack, dropping back from Green to speak to
him as they ascended a dusty hillside. ‘You okay, Mac?’ he asked
jovially. ‘Sounds like you’re wheezing a bit. Need some
oxygen?’
‘Cheeky sod,’ Mac
replied. ‘You know, when I joined the Regiment the entrance
exercises were much harder than they are now. A smoker like you
would have dropped dead before finishing the first
one.’
‘I only smoke off
duty. And I didn’t know the SAS even existed in the nineteenth
century!’
‘Keep your mouth
shut, Chase,’ growled Stikes from behind them. ‘They’ll be able to
hear you half a mile away, bellowing like that.’
Chase’s voice had
been barely above a conversational level, but he lowered it still
further to mutter, ‘See if you can hear this, you fucking bell-end.’
‘What was that,
sergeant?’
‘Nothing, Alexander,’
Mac called back to Stikes, suppressing a laugh. ‘That’s enough of
that, Eddie. Catch up with Will before he reaches the top of the
hill. We’re getting close.’
‘On it, sir,’ said
Chase, giving Mac a grin before increasing his pace up the slope.
By the time he drew level with Green, his levity had been replaced
by caution, senses now on full alert. Both men dropped and crawled
the last few feet to peer over the summit.
Ahead was a rough
plain about half a mile across, a great humped sandstone ridge
rising steeply at the far side. A narrow pass split the ridge from
the mountains, a large rock near its entrance poking from the
ground like a spearhead. The obvious route to the isolated farm was
by travelling up the pass.
So obvious that it
had to be a trap.
Unless the Taliban
were complete idiots, which whatever his other opinions about them
Chase thought was unlikely, there would almost certainly be guards
watching the ravine’s far end. It was a natural choke point, easy
for a few men to cover, and almost impossible to pass through
undetected. And if the team were
detected, that would be the end for the hostages. One gunshot, even
one shout, would warn that a rescue was being
attempted.
Which meant the
guards had to be removed. But first . . . they had to be
found.
Chase shrugged off
his pack and extracted his night vision goggles. He switched them
on, waited for the display’s initial flare to fade, then donned
them. The vista ahead became several times brighter, picked out in
ghostly shades of green. He searched for any sign of movement.
Nothing.
‘See anything,
Eddie?’ Green asked quietly.
‘Nothing on the
ground . . . just checking that ridge.’ Chase raised his head. The
top of the rise would be a good place to station a lookout, giving
a clear view of the plain, but it would also be a lot of effort to
scale.
Too much effort,
apparently. There was nobody there. He closed his eyes to ease the
transition back to normal sight, then removed the goggles and waved
to the waiting soldiers. By the time Mac joined him, his vision had
mostly recovered. ‘Anything?’ his commanding officer
asked.
‘Nope. Thought they
might have put someone on the ridge, but it’s empty.’
Mac surveyed the
scene, then took out the map. ‘We’ll go over the ridge, come at
anybody watching the pass from the southeast. It’s a closed canyon;
they won’t be expecting anyone from that direction.’
Starkman examined the
closely packed contour lines. ‘Steep climb.’
Bluey regarded his
bulky Minimi machine gun – and its 200-round ammo box –
disconsolately. ‘Aw, that’s great. I’m hardly going to spring up
there like a mountain goat with this lot.’
‘Starkman, Chase,
Castille,’ said Stikes impatiently, ‘get to the top and see if you
can snipe them, otherwise go down the other side and take them from
the canyon. The rest of us will wait by that large rock for your
signal.’ He gave Mac a brief glance, waiting for affirmation; the
Scot nodded. ‘Okay, move it.’
After checking their
radios, the trio made their way across the plain. Chase looked up
at the moonlit ridge. ‘Should be able to get up there without
ropes,’ he said, indicating a likely path. ‘We— What the bloody
hell are you doing?’
Castille had peeled a
banana, wolfing down half of it in a single bite. ‘For energy,’ he
mumbled as he chewed. ‘We have a big climb.’
Chase shook his head.
‘Hugo, you’re weird.’
‘Literally bananas,’
Starkman added. He and Chase laughed, prompting a snort from
Castille, who polished off the fruit before bagging and pocketing
its skin.
‘So, we all ready?’
Chase asked. ‘Or have you got a bunch of grapes an’
all?’
‘You may laugh,’ said
Castille, starting up the ridge, ‘but you British should eat more
fruit. It is why you are all so pale!’
Grinning, Chase
followed, Starkman taking up the rear. The climb proved a little
more tricky than it looked, the three men having to help each other
scale a couple of particularly steep sections, but before long it
flattened out.
By now, the trio were
again all business. They advanced along the top of the ridge. About
two hundred metres from the pass, Castille let out a sharp hiss.
All three immediately dropped into wary crouches, weapons ready.
‘What?’ Chase whispered.
The Belgian pointed.
‘I see smoke.’
Chase narrowed his
eyes, picking out a faint line wafting into the night sky. Its
source was near the far end of the pass.
No need for further
discussion; they already knew what they had to do. They quietly
headed across the ridge. Below was the closed canyon – and at its
head a small patch of glowing orange amidst the darkness. A
campfire.
Chase raised his C8
and peered through its scope. As expected, the Taliban had left
guards to watch the pass, positioned amongst broken boulders for
cover. Two men in dusty robes and turbans sat near the fire. One
had an AK-47 propped against a rock beside him; another rifle lay
on a flat rock not far away. Of more concern, though, was a
different weapon – the long tube of an RPG-7, a Russian rocket
launcher with its pointed warhead loaded.
He lowered his gun,
judging the distance. Slightly under two hundred metres: well
within range of his Diemaco, even with its power reduced by the
bulky suppressor on the end of its barrel. An easy
shot.
Starkman had come to
the same conclusion. ‘Let’s do ’em,’ he said. ‘You take the left
guy.’
Chase nodded and
shifted into firing position. The Taliban member reappeared in his
scope. He tilted the gun up slightly, the red dot at the centre of
his gunsight just above the man’s head. The bullet’s arc would
carry it down to hit his temple . . .
A part of his mind
intruded on his concentration. You’ve never
killed anyone before. Not that he knew of, at least; he had
been in combat, fired on people shooting at him . . . but this was
the first time he had ever prepared to kill an unsuspecting
man.
He shook off his
doubts. The Taliban were enemies in a war, and the man in his
sights would kill his friends and comrades if he got the chance. It
was up to him to make sure that didn’t happen.
‘On three,’ Starkman
whispered. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Okay. One,
two—’
‘Hold fire, hold
fire!’ Chase hissed. His target had just hopped to his feet. He
tracked him. ‘Wait, wait – shit!’
The Taliban
disappeared behind a boulder. Chase quickly panned past it in the
hope of reacquiring him on the other side, but after a few seconds
it became clear that he wasn’t coming out. ‘Arse! Lost
him.’
Castille searched
through his own gunsight. ‘I think he has sat down. The other one
is still talking to him.’
‘We need to get both
those fuckers at once,’ Starkman muttered. ‘If one gets off a shot
. . . ’
‘We’ll have to get
’em from the ground,’ said Chase. He saw a large rock near the
ridge’s edge. ‘Tie a rope round that – I’ll go first.’
A line was quickly
secured to the rock. Chase glanced down. This side of the ridge was
roughly sixty feet high, more cliff than slope. He slung his rifle
and took hold of the rope. ‘Okay, if the guys by the fire start
moving, pull on the rope twice.’ Castille gave him a thumbs-up,
Starkman nodding before aiming his rifle back at his
target.
Chase began his
descent. Even with two hundred metres separating him and the
Taliban, he still moved stealthily, a shadow against the ridge’s
craggy face. Ten feet down, twenty. Sandstone crunched softly under
his boots with each step. Thirty feet, halfway. The fire was now
out of sight behind the rocks, though its glow still stood out
clearly. Forty. He checked the cliff’s foot. He would have to clear
a small overhang, but another few feet and he would be safely able
to jump—
A crunch beneath one
sole – then a louder clonk and hiss of
falling grit as a loose stone dropped away, hitting the ground with
a thud.
And a voice, a
puzzled ‘Uh?’ below—
Chase froze. Another
Taliban! The overhang was deeper than he had thought, enough to
conceal a man. Pashto words came from below. Chase didn’t know the
language, but from the tone guessed that the unseen man was asking,
‘Who’s there?’ A flashlight clicked on, a feeble yellow disc of
light sweeping across the sand.
More Pashto, the tone
annoyed, not concerned. That was something, at least; the Taliban
wasn’t expecting anyone but his comrades to be nearby. But if he
remained suspicious and decided to investigate further, all he had
to do was look up . . .
The C8 was hanging
from Chase’s back on its strap. Gripping the rope with his left
hand, he tried to reach back with his right to take hold of the
rifle . . . but as his weight shifted the weapon swung round, the
suppressor almost scraping against the cliff. He held in an
obscenity. Even if he got hold of the gun, he would still have to
fumble it into firing position with just one hand, an awkward – and
almost certainly noisy – task.
He had a handgun, a
Sig P228 holstered across his upper chest, but it was unsilenced.
The shot would be heard for miles.
That left his combat
knife, sheathed on his belt. He slowly reached down and released
the restraining strap, then drew out the six-inch
blade.
The yellow circle
danced over the ground as the man emerged from the overhang. He
gazed towards the campfire, then looked round. Chase knew what he
was thinking: none of his companions was nearby, so something else
must have made the noise.
The dangling
Englishman stepped sideways across the cliff, bringing himself
closer to his target.
Target. A human
being, enemy or not. You’ve never killed
anyone before, not close enough to look into their eyes . .
.
The Taliban turned in
place. The beam found the dislodged stone, a jagged lump the size
of a grapefruit. He peered at it, started to turn away – then some
flash of curiosity made him look up—
Chase dived at him,
slamming the man to the ground and driving the knife deep into his
throat as he clamped his free hand over the Afghan’s mouth. Blood
gushed from the wound, an arterial spray jetting over his cheek and
neck. The Taliban kicked and thrashed, the fallen torch lighting
one side of his face. His visible eye was wide, filled with agony
and terror. It fixed on the soldier’s camouflage-blackened
features, their gazes meeting . . . and then he fell still, staring
emptily at the stars.
Chase regarded the
corpse for a moment that felt like half a lifetime, then yanked out
the knife and sat up. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, a bilious nausea
rising inside him. He forced it back down, wiping the knife clean
and returning it to its sheath, then switched off the torch.
Darkness consumed his vision for several seconds before his eyes
adjusted.
The body was still
there, the neck wound glistening accusingly.
He looked away,
unslinging his rifle and aiming it towards the distant fire. If the
fight had been heard, the other Taliban would be on their way . .
.
No movement. He had
been lucky.
He returned to the
rope and tugged it three times – all
clear – before investigating the space beneath the overhang
to see what the Afghan had been doing. The smell from the little
nook provided the answer. He had interrupted the dead man during a
call of nature.
A fall of sand
announced Starkman’s descent, the American dropping down beside his
friend. ‘What happened?’
‘He got caught
short,’ Chase replied, the grim gag escaping his lips before he had
time to process it consciously.
Starkman grinned,
then moved back as Castille descended the rope. ‘Are you all
right?’ the Belgian asked.
Chase didn’t want to
think about it any more. ‘Fine.’ A wave of his gun towards the
fire. ‘They’ll soon start thinking their mate’s been gone too long
just to be constipated.’
Keeping low, they
advanced, stopping behind a rock some sixty metres from the
campfire. Chase’s erstwhile target sat with his back against a
large boulder, gnawing the meat off an animal bone. The other
Taliban had moved closer to the fire, within reach of the
RPG.
Chase was about to
take aim when Castille touched his arm, a hint of sympathetic
concern in his voice. ‘I can do it, if you want.’
He brusquely shook
his head. ‘That’s okay.’ A pause, then more lightly: ‘But thanks
anyway.’
‘No problem.’ They
shared a brief look, then Chase returned his attention to the
scope.
The red dot fixed on
the Taliban’s forehead. ‘Ready?’ he whispered to
Starkman.
‘Yeah. One, two . . .
three.’
This time, nothing
disrupted the shots. Each rifle bucked once, the retorts reduced to
flat thwaps by the suppressors. Chase
blinked involuntarily, his eyes reopening to see a thick, dark red
splash burst across the rock behind his target’s head.
‘Tango down,’
Starkman intoned.
‘Tango down,’ Chase
echoed. The body of his victim slowly keeled over, leaving a
smeared trail over the stone. ‘Okay, let’s bring the boys through.’
He reached for his radio.
The rest of the team
arrived three minutes later, Mac leading the way. ‘Good work,’ he
said as he took in the bodies. ‘Just these two?’
‘There was another
one back there,’ Starkman reported. ‘Eddie took him out. Stabbed
him in the neck.’
Mac looked at Chase,
raising an eyebrow at the sight of his uncharacteristically
expressionless face. ‘Your first kill, yes?’
‘Yeah,’ Chase
replied, his voice flat.
‘Well, it’s good to
know there’s more to you than just talk, Chase,’ said Stikes
sarcastically as he checked one of the corpses. When no reply was
immediately forthcoming, he went on: ‘What, no smart-arse comments?
Not going wobbly on us, are you?’
Mac’s face creased
with irritation. ‘Alexander, take Will and Bluey and check that the
way’s clear.’ He gestured at the dusty slope to the north. Stikes
gave him a puzzled look, prompting him to snap, ‘Well, go on!’
Annoyance clear even under his face paint, Stikes summoned the two
men and started up the hillside. Starkman took the hint and nudged
Castille to give Chase and Mac some space.
‘How do you feel?’
Mac asked.
‘I dunno,’ Chase
replied truthfully. ‘Shaken, I suppose.’
‘A bit
sick?’
An admission took a
few seconds to emerge. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ Mac put a
reassuring hand on Chase’s shoulder. ‘If you hadn’t, I would have
been concerned.’
‘How come?’ Chase
asked, surprised. ‘I mean, after all the training I thought I could
just do it without thinking. Without worrying, I
mean.’
‘Training can only
take you so far, Eddie. The first time you actually have to kill
someone for real . . . well, it’s different. Some people find they
can’t do it at all. Others do it . . . and enjoy it. I’m glad
you’re in the third category.’ He squeezed his arm. ‘You did the
right thing – you protected your teammates, the mission and the
lives of the hostages. You did well, Eddie. I always knew you
would.’
Chase managed a faint
smile. ‘Thanks, Mac.’
‘So let’s get back to
work.’ He waved, telling the rest of the team to move out. As the
men set off, his radio clicked. ‘Yes?’
Even over the
headset, Stikes sounded concerned. ‘Major, we have a slight
problem.’
‘He wasn’t fucking
kidding,’ Chase growled.
The team hid amongst
desiccated scrub at the top of the slope. Before them was a
relatively flat expanse backed by the rising mountains, a few
tumbledown buildings about three hundred yards away: the abandoned
farm where the Taliban had taken their prisoners.
In its description of
the location, the mission briefing had been accurate. In its
assessment of the enemy forces, however, it had not.
‘Where the fuck did
this lot come from?’ said Baine. They had expected at most a dozen
Taliban, but at least that could be seen beside the single-storey
farmhouse alone, and the number of tents pitched nearby suggested
many more. The three white-painted United Nations vehicles – two
medium-sized trucks and a Toyota Land Cruiser – and the battered
pickup spotted by satellite had been joined by another three
well-worn off-roaders, and the ‘couple’ of horses had multiplied to
at least ten. There were even some motorcycles.
‘Doesn’t really
matter, does it?’ said Starkman. ‘Question is, what do we do about
’em?’
Mac looked through
binoculars. ‘If this were a search-and-destroy mission, nothing
would change – we’ve still got surprise and firepower on our side.
But with hostages to worry about . . . ’ His gaze fixed on a
barn-like structure a hundred yards from the house. ‘There are two
men guarding the barn, but no lights inside. That’s probably where
they’re being held.’
Movement at the main
building; several Taliban, chattering loudly, went inside, while
others headed for the tents. A few men remained outside. ‘That’s
useful,’ said Stikes. ‘If they stay in the house, we can bring the
whole thing down on top of them.’ He indicated the Heckler &
Koch AG-C 40mm grenade launchers mounted on Green’s and Baine’s
rifles. ‘Get a lot in one go.’
‘Still plenty left,’
Mac replied. He pointed at a shallow irrigation ditch not far away.
‘Eddie, Hugo, see if the hostages are in the barn. And check for
any more tents behind the house.’
Chase and Castille
slipped off their packs, then, weapons in hand, crawled across the
dusty ground and slithered into the ditch. It took them almost ten
minutes to reach the barn, moving at a silent snail’s pace to avoid
alerting the guards. The dusty channel passed about forty feet from
the dilapidated structure; once out of the guards’ field of view,
Chase cautiously raised his head. Nearby was a rubbish pile that
would provide additional concealment as they approached the barn.
He ducked back down and signalled for Castille to follow, crawling
onwards until they drew level with the garbage heap.
He peered up again –
and froze as a guard came into view, AK hanging from one shoulder.
The man trudged along the side of the barn, passing the pile of
rubbish with barely a sideways glance.
Chase expected him to
round the rear of the building, but instead he continued across
open ground to a small shack. He unbolted its door and went
inside.
A woman’s fearful
shriek cut through the night air. Chase whipped up his gun. It
couldn’t be any of the hostages – mindful of Afghanistan’s
repressive attitudes, the UN workers were all men. The Taliban had
another prisoner.
Prisoners, plural. A second woman wailed a plea,
which was cut short by the thud of a foot hitting flesh and a
pained squeal. The man shouted, his tone filled with disgust, and
reappeared, slamming the door and bolting it before stalking
away.
Chase waited until he
was out of sight, then emerged from the ditch and took cover behind
the trash heap. Castille followed. ‘What was that?’ the Belgian
whispered.
‘I don’t think these
fundamentalist fuckwits are running a women’s refuge,’ Chase
snapped. ‘Come on, let’s get them out of there.’
‘Wait, wait, wait! We
have to find the hostages first.’
Chase frowned, but
knew Castille was right. ‘Okay. You watch for—’ He stopped,
sniffing. The stench of garbage was unpleasant enough, but there
was another, more ominous odour mixed in with it. ‘You smell
that?’
Castille’s large
nostrils twitched, and his face fell. ‘Yes. Do you think . . .
’
‘Yeah, I think.’
Chase peeled away a mouldering piece of sacking to reveal what he
had feared – a corpse. White skin, not olive or brown. One of the
hostages. ‘Shit!’
‘There is another
here,’ Castille reported mournfully. ‘No, two more. Their throats
have been cut.’
‘Saves on bullets,’
Chase said bitterly as he found a fourth body beneath the first.
Even in the moonlight, he recognised the face from the mission
briefing. ‘I’ve found our spook. Fuck!’ He sat back on his
haunches, fuming. ‘Any more?’
‘No. So, they’ve
killed four of them.’
‘Which still leaves
eight.’ He looked at the barn . . . then an object beside it. A
large, old-fashioned refrigerator lying on its side, the door
missing. Churned-up dirt showed where it had been dragged from the
trash and pushed against the wall. ‘Keep an eye out, I’ll check the
barn.’
Castille covering
him, Chase crept forward. As he suspected, the fridge had been
moved to act as a barricade, blocking a gap. He peered between the
planks.
Holes in the roof
provided pools of moonlight inside, enough for him to make out the
slight movement of somebody’s breathing. The man was bound, his
face darkened with bruises and blood. Another man’s tied legs were
visible nearby, other forms in the shadows.
The mission wasn’t
over, then. He moved to the corner of the barn and glanced round
it, seeing another half a dozen large tents behind the house, as
well as more tethered horses. He returned to Castille, and they
dropped back into the ditch. Another long crawl, and they reached
the scrubby bushes where the others were waiting. ‘They’ve killed
four of the hostages,’ Chase reported. ‘Including the guy from
MI6.’
That prompted a round
of muttered obscenities. ‘The mission’s down the lavatory then,’
said Stikes.
‘There are still the
other hostages,’ Mac reminded him. ‘Did you see them?’
‘Yeah,’ said Chase.
‘They’re tied up in the barn. But there’re another six tents behind
the house, and more horses. I think we’re talking at least forty
Terries altogether.’
‘Hrmm,’ Mac rumbled,
thinking. ‘Jason, get on the radio and see if any additional air
support has become available. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a
try.’
‘You don’t think
we’ll be able to take ’em?’ Baine asked.
‘Not all of them, and
if we have to make a run for it with the hostages I’d like to have
as much firepower covering us as possible.’
‘There’s something
else,’ said Chase as Starkman made the call. ‘There’s a hut past
the barn, and there are more prisoners in it. Women.’
‘So what are you
proposing we do?’ said Stikes with a sneer. ‘They’re not our
problem – our only concern is rescuing our hostages.’
Chase stared at him
in disbelief. ‘Are you fucking serious? These Taliban arseholes
hate women. Whatever they’re planning on doing with them, it won’t
be giving ’em flowers and foot massages!’
‘Watch your language
with me, sergeant,’ Stikes hissed.
‘Much as you might want to play the white knight, we can’t take
them with us. There isn’t enough room in the
helicopters.’
‘Four of the hostages
are dead,’ Chase insisted, ‘so we’ve got spare seats – and if
there’s more of them some of us can ride on the
skids.’
Baine snorted. ‘I’m
not hanging off the bottom of a fucking chopper so some silly bitch
in a burka can get a free ride, Yorkie. Fuck that!’
Chase made an angry
move towards him, but Mac raised his hand. ‘Eddie, I’m sorry, but
Alexander’s right. The hostages are our priority. The women will .
. . ’ He shook his head, downcast. ‘They’ll have to fend for
themselves.’
‘Can I at least let
them out of the hut?’
Mac considered for a
moment. ‘If the situation allows.’
Chase nodded, then
everyone looked round as Starkman finished his radio call. ‘Good
news and bad news,’ the American announced.
Bluey chuckled.
‘There’s a surprise.’
‘Good news is,
there’s a Spooky, call sign Hammer Four-One, in the air. Bad news
is, it’s currently on another op and they don’t know when, or even
if, it’ll be able to get to us.’
‘No helicopters?’
asked Mac. Starkman shook his head. ‘That settles it, then. We
can’t wait for backup – it won’t be long before somebody realises
those sentries are missing. We move in now.’
Ten minutes later,
Chase was back at the barn. This time Stikes, not Castille, was
with him. The captain lurked by the pile of garbage and corpses,
while Chase squatted in the shadows against the rusting
refrigerator.
Minutes ticked by.
Chase’s calf muscles started aching, but he ignored the discomfort,
staying focused on his task. This time there was no self-doubt, no
uncertainty; the knowledge of what the Taliban had done to the four
dead hostages, and what they were likely to do to their other
prisoners, had eliminated any concerns about whether he was doing
the right thing. He flexed his legs, trying to keep them from
stiffening. He couldn’t afford to be even a second late in reacting
. . .
‘Psst!’ Stikes,
signalling that a guard was beginning another patrol round the
barn. Completely still, Chase listened to the plodding crunch of
the Taliban’s footsteps, the rustle of loose clothing as he drew
level—
Chase leapt up, left
hand locking firmly over the Afghan’s bearded mouth as his right
whipped up the knife. This time, though, he didn’t drive the blade
deep into muscle and sinew, but pressed it flat across the man’s
throat to choke him. Simultaneously, Stikes rushed to them, yanked
up the Taliban’s robes and jabbed his own knife up between the
man’s legs as he hissed in Pashto: ‘Make a noise and I’ll cut off
your balls.’
Chase felt the Afghan
tense in utter terror. ‘I think he gets the point,’ he
whispered.
Still holding the
knife to the Taliban’s groin, Stikes straightened and waved at the
ditch. Two figures emerged: Castille and Starkman. Stikes spoke
again in Pashto, his intense blue eyes glinting in the moonlight as
they fixed on the prisoner’s. ‘If you don’t do exactly what I tell
you, I’ll gut you like a pig. Nod if you understand me.’ The
trembling man did so. Starkman and Castille pressed against the
wall just short of the barn’s front corner. ‘Good. Now, call to the
other guard – not too loudly – and ask him to come here.
Okay?’
Another feeble tip of
the head. Stikes nodded to Chase, who took his hand away from the
man’s mouth, keeping the point of his knife pressed against his
windpipe. The Afghan took several long, gasping breaths, then spoke
in quavering Pashto. Stikes pushed his knife harder against the
man’s testicles. ‘Again. Less frightened.’ The Taliban repeated
himself with fractionally more confidence.
The other guard, out
of sight round the front of the barn, replied dismissively. One
look into Stikes’s eyes was enough to convince the prisoner to be
more insistent. Complaining, the second man padded round the corner
– to find five figures in the moonlight where he had expected only
one. Fumbling for his AK, he opened his mouth to yell a
warning—
Bullets from the
silenced C8s of Green and Baine, the two SAS men still concealed in
the scrub three hundred yards away, blew out the back of his skull
in a spray of brain and bone. His body flopped grotesquely forward
– to be caught by Castille, Starkman lunging to grab his
Kalashnikov before it could clatter to the ground.
Stikes withdrew the
knife from his captive. For a moment, there was a faint flicker of
hope in the Taliban’s eyes, but it vanished when Stikes placed the
blade’s point over his heart. The captain spoke again, this time in
English. ‘Give my regards to the seventy-two virgins.’
The man stared in
fearful incomprehension – and the blade sank to its hilt into his
chest. With a hint of a smile, Stikes twisted it, then yanked it
out. The man’s robes darkened as spewing blood soaked them. Chase
clamped his hand back over the Afghan’s mouth as he struggled,
trapping an animalistic sound inside his throat . . . until both
noise and movement dwindled to nothing.
Suppressing shock,
Chase let go. The corpse slumped to the dirt. Without even giving
it a look, Stikes turned away as Mac and Bluey emerged from the
ditch. ‘Bluey, watch the front of the barn; Alexander, cover the
back,’ Mac ordered. He pointed at the fridge. ‘Everyone else, move
that. Let’s get them out of there.’
With four men to lift
it, the corroded fridge was hauled clear in moments. Chase looked
into the barn. The confrontation had caught the hostages’
attention, and the bound man he had seen earlier was staring at him
in alarm. ‘It’s okay,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re here to get you
home.’ He squeezed through the gap, Mac, Starkman and Castille
following. The prisoners’ bonds were quickly cut.
‘Mac!’ An urgent
whisper from outside. Bluey. ‘Two blokes coming from the
house.’
The guards’ absence
had been noticed. ‘Hugo, take them to the ditch, then join Bluey,’
said Mac. ‘Eddie, you go with Alexander. Jason?’
‘Already on it,’
Starkman drawled, extracting a pair of Claymore mines from his pack
and placing them facing the barn doors before connecting their
tripwires.
The hostages were in
a bad way, Chase realised as he followed the eight men out through
the hole and watched them stagger after Castille. That would slow
their escape – not good with forty pissed-off Taliban on their
heels.
They would have to
reduce that number.
He joined Stikes at
the barn’s rear corner. A couple of bearded men carrying AKs were
now standing by the horses, another ambling amongst the tents.
Behind him, he heard Mac on the radio, alerting the helicopters
that they were about to evacuate – most likely under
fire.
The hostages were
hiding in the ditch. Castille ran to join Bluey. Starkman emerged
from the barn and readied his weapon. Chase’s heart pounded,
adrenalin rushing into his system.
Someone at the front
of the barn called out in Pashto, then with a creak of wood pulled
open the doors—
Both Claymores
detonated, a pound and a half of C-4 explosive in each mine
blasting seven hundred steel balls outwards in a supersonic swathe
of destruction. The doors were obliterated, the two Taliban outside
disintegrating into a bloody shower of shredded meat and
bone.
Before the boom of
the twin detonations had faded, Chase and Stikes stepped out into
the open and fired. The two Taliban by the horses fell to Chase’s
bullets, the walking man tumbling before Stikes switched his aim to
the closest tents. Screams came from them as the dirty fabric
puckered with bullet holes.
More gunfire from the
front of the barn, the suppressed thumps of Castille’s C8 almost
lost beneath the chattering roar of Bluey’s machine gun as the pair
opened fire on the Afghans outside the farmhouse. More screams, and
shouts from within as the Taliban realised they were under attack
and piled for the exit—
The house’s front
wall blew apart, the roof crashing down on the men inside. It had
been hit by high explosive grenade rounds fired by Baine and Green.
A huge dust cloud burst from the ruins, roiling over the tents and
the panicked horses.
A man with an AK
leapt out from a tent – only to fall dead as Chase picked him off.
Stikes was still shooting into the other tents to slay their
occupants before they could even move. The Minimi’s hammering
stopped, angry yells reaching the team as the surviving Taliban
started to regroup – then they were drowned out again as Bluey
resumed firing.
Chase glanced back,
seeing Mac and Starkman herding the hostages along the irrigation
ditch. Castille and Bluey retreated to provide covering fire. He
knew he should join them, but there was something he had to do
first.
The swelling dust
cloud covered the tents behind the destroyed house. This was his
chance. He broke away from Stikes, and hurried to the
hut.
‘Chase!’ Stikes
roared. ‘Get back here!’
Chase ignored him,
yanking the bolt and throwing open the door. A cry of fear came
from the darkness inside. He fumbled for his penlight torch,
shining it quickly round the interior to see five dark, almost
formless shapes: the women, even their eyes only part visible
through the netted slits in their all-encompassing chadris. Their hands were tied behind their backs,
their ankles also bound under the heavy robes.
‘Don’t be scared,’
said Chase. ‘I’m here to help. British, not Taliban.’ Despite the
netting, he could see that the women’s eyes were swollen and
blackened. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered as he drew his knife. One of the
women made a terrified keening sound and tried to wriggle away. He
put down his Diemaco. ‘Here to help, okay?’ She got the message and
turned so he could reach her ties. From outside came another
grenade explosion, followed by the thump of a fuel tank detonating:
Green or Baine had destroyed one of the trucks.
‘Chase!’ Stikes
appeared at the door, gun raised. ‘What the hell are you
doing?’
‘What I said I
would.’ He started to saw at the rope.
‘Leave them – that’s
an order. We’re moving out. Now!’
‘We can take them
with us.’
‘Leave
them!’
‘No, there’re enough
seats in the choppers. I’ll—’
Stikes fired. Even
with its suppressor, the noise of his rifle on full auto was
painful in the confined space. The stream of bullets sliced down
the five women and spattered Chase with blood.
‘Jesus fucking
Christ!’ Chase yelled, rolling out of
the line of fire. He whipped up his C8 at the captain – to find the
smoking barrel pointing straight back at him. ‘What the
fuck are you doing?’
‘I told you the rules
of engagement,’ said Stikes coldly. ‘Anyone who isn’t one of the
hostages is a hostile.’ A thin, malignant smile. ‘And as I said,
you know what we do to hostiles. Now lower your
weapon.’
‘You fucker,’ Chase snarled. The black tube of the
suppressor was still aimed at his head. Slowly, unwillingly, he let
his own rifle drop.
‘Good. Move it,’ said
Stikes. The Diemaco not wavering, he backed out of the shack, then
turned and ran for the barn.
Chase jumped up, rage
flooding through him. He should shoot the bastard in the
back—
No. He shouldn’t.
There was a mission to complete. He went to the door, then
hesitated, his gaze drawn back to the sprawled bodies. With an
angry growl, he ran after Stikes.
Castille and Bluey
were still firing as they advanced along the ditch after the
fleeing hostages. Stikes ran past the pair, but Chase joined them.
One of the UN trucks was aflame, and the other vehicles had all
taken damage. There were at least fifteen Taliban survivors,
judging from the muzzle flashes from behind the collapsed house. It
was mostly panic fire, the shots smacking harmlessly into the
ground short of the trench. Chase matched the timing of the closest
impacts to the flash of the most accurate gunman, then dropped him
with a single round to the head.
‘Good shot,’ said
Castille. ‘What were you and Stikes doing back there?’
‘I’ll tell you
later,’ Chase replied grimly. He looked along the ditch to see that
Stikes had caught up with Mac, at the tail of the shambling line of
hostages. Starkman, leading, was almost at the bushes. ‘Time to
go.’
‘Can’t argue with
that,’ said Bluey, releasing a sweeping burst before scuttling
crab-like down the ditch. Chase and Castille trailed him. A hollow
whomp came from the scrub, and a moment
later one of the 4×4s was bowled on to its roof in a huge fireball
as another AG-C round found its target. A man, robes and beard
aflame, ran screaming into the night. ‘Don’t think they’ll be
driving after us now!’
‘They’ve still got
bikes, though,’ Chase told him. ‘And horses.’
‘Well, they shoot
horses, don’t they?’ With a cackle, Bluey fired another sweep to
force the Taliban into cover, then hurried after
Stikes.
Chase grimaced at the
joke, then took up the rear. The AK fire was now more intermittent,
but also better aimed. The remaining Taliban had overcome their
initial shock.
The hostages were
past the bushes, Mac directing them down the slope. A small object,
spitting sparks, arced from the scrub – a smoke grenade. A thick
grey cloud spewed from it. A second followed, putting an obscuring
curtain between the team and the Taliban.
‘Hugo, Eddie, come
on!’ Mac called as Green and Baine jumped up from their hiding
place. ‘Choppers are on their way. Move it!’
The two stragglers
needed no further prompting, Chase catching up with his commanding
officer on the hillside. ‘Mac, those women – they’re all
dead!’
‘What? How did the
Terries even get near them?’
‘They didn’t. It was
Stikes – that bastard shot them!’
Mac’s expression was
one of shock, but before he could reply a shout from Starkman
interrupted them. ‘Mac! Hammer Four-One is inbound, three minutes
away. They want to know if we need support.’
A crackle of AK fire
came from behind them. The Taliban were through the smokescreen.
‘I’d say that was a yes,’ Mac told Starkman with a wry grin as the
soldiers shot back. He raised his voice. ‘Strobes on, strobes on!
Gunship inbound!’
Chase switched on the
infrared beacon attached to his equipment webbing. The strobe
light’s pulses were invisible to the naked eye – but would flash
brilliantly on the approaching aircraft’s targeting screens,
warning its gunners of the location of friendly
forces.
In
theory.
‘Alexander!’ Mac
shouted as Starkman made the call. ‘Get the civvies to the landing
zone – take Will and Kev. The rest of us will cover you.
Go!’
Stikes gave him a
thumbs-up and took the lead. Chase saw that despite the danger the
hostages were slowing, already worn down by maltreatment and
hunger. And the landing zone was still over half a mile
away.
Worse, the Taliban
were gaining. They were moving cautiously down the slope, keeping
in cover behind rocks, but they had the tactical advantages both of
moving forward and having the higher ground, while the rescue team
had to back up as they fired uphill.
‘Should we hold ’em
off here?’ Chase shouted to Mac as they crouched behind adjacent
boulders.
Mac expertly assessed
the area. ‘Further back, nearer the entrance to the pass. If we can
hold them from there, it’ll give the hostages time to reach the
choppers.’ He pointed at a large rock. ‘Behind that. We
can—’
‘RPG!’ screamed Starkman. Chase immediately
scrunched down, covering his face and ears as a rocket-propelled
grenade streaked down the slope and exploded less than thirty feet
away. The rock protected him from the direct effects of the blast,
but the detonation was still painfully loud at such close range.
Stones and dirt rained over him. The warhead had been high
explosive, not a shrapnel-filled anti-personnel charge, but this
near it was no less dangerous.
Bluey, though further
away, had been without cover and unable to do more than throw
himself flat on Starkman’s warning. Chase saw the Australian clutch
at his head. ‘Bluey! You okay?’
‘Those dirty little
bastards!’ Bluey yelled back. ‘Copped a stone to my fucking
noggin!’ Still on his stomach, he slithered round and fired his
machine gun up the hill, then scrambled behind a jagged
rock.
Bluey wasn’t the only
person affected by the explosion. The hostages were still a hundred
yards short of the pass – and panic consumed one of them. He broke
from the group and ran for the closed canyon. ‘Green!’ shouted
Stikes. ‘Get that idiot back here!’
Green followed – but
the Taliban had already spotted the running figure. AKs barked,
gritty dust spitting up from the ground around him. The Welshman
rushed to tackle him—
Too late. The man was
hit, spinning before dropping like a discarded doll. Green, only a
couple of feet behind, was caught too, a round ripping into the
side of his chest. He fell with a choked scream, trying to crawl
behind the hostage’s body for what little protection it
provided.
‘Man down!’ Mac
cried. Chase swore. Green was exposed, over twenty yards from any
usable cover. The Taliban kept firing. If they had another rocket,
it would soon follow their bullets.
He knew what Mac’s
plan would be before he said it. ‘Alexander, get the civvies to the
choppers!’ the Scot yelled. ‘Kev, Jason, get Green. Everyone else –
give them cover!’
Chase sprang up from
behind his rock and opened fire, his C8 now on full auto.
Conserving ammo was no longer a consideration; all that mattered
was for himself, Mac, Castille and Bluey to force the Taliban to
keep their heads down until Starkman and Baine recovered their
wounded comrade.
He picked one AK
flash and sprayed it with bullets until it stopped, then moved on
to another. His magazine ran dry; he ducked and thumbed the release
to eject the empty mag, pulling a replacement from his webbing and
slotting it into place with a precise, intensely practised move
before tugging back the rifle’s charging handle to chamber the
first new round. The entire process took barely three seconds, and
he rose to fire again.
Mac and Castille were
just as efficient, the rattle of their guns getting louder as
sustained fire burned out the suppressors. A shriek came from the
hillside. Another Taliban down. But he couldn’t tell how many
remained. Too many.
The onslaught had
achieved its purpose, though – the AK fire had all but stopped.
Chase glanced towards Green, seeing Starkman haul him upright,
Baine running to assist. It would take both men to carry the
wounded trooper to the landing zone, and while they were doing that
the amount of fire they could provide would be extremely limited.
The team was effectively down to five fighting men.
And it would soon be
just four. Bluey’s withering storm of lead was now reduced to
intermittent bursts as the Minimi’s ammunition supply ran low. The
Australian only had one ammo load: two hundred rounds was normally
more than enough.
Baine and Starkman
supported Green, moving at a jog towards the pass. ‘Keep firing!’
Mac ordered as the thud of Kalashnikovs resumed. Chase sprayed one
of the muzzle flashes with fire. He scored a hit. The AK flailed
madly, blazing skywards before falling silent. Another magazine
change, and now conservation was an
issue – he only had one spare mag remaining.
Stikes and the
hostages were out of sight, Baine, Starkman and Green nearing the
pass. In the distance, Chase heard the thud of rotor
blades.
‘Hugo, Bluey, move
out!’ Mac called. ‘Eddie, cover them!’ He was about to say
something else when his radio squawked. He crouched, struggling to
hear the message over the noise of Bluey’s machine gun as the
Australian and Castille retreated for the ravine.
Chase switched his
Diemaco back to single-shot, trying to pick off the shooters up the
hill. Bullets cracked off his cover; he flinched, shielding his
eyes from flying stone chips, then snapped his sights on to the
source of the fire and pulled the trigger. A dark shape beside a
boulder flopped to the ground.
Green and his
companions entered the pass, Bluey and Castille not far behind.
‘Eddie!’ Mac yelled. ‘Come on! The gunship’s—’
A rising high-pitched
whine from the sky drowned him out—
An explosion ripped a
crater out of the hillside sixty feet in front of Chase. The blast
knocked him off his feet. His senses reeled as if he had taken a
fierce punch to the head, a ringing rumble almost blotting out all
other sounds. Somehow, he made out another shrill noise and clapped
both hands to his ears. A second detonation shook the
ground.
The air support had
arrived.
Orbiting the battle
zone was an American AC-130U ‘Spooky II’ gunship, a humble Hercules
transport turned angel of death. Instead of cargo, it carried three
cannons, ranging from a 25mm Gatling gun to a 105mm howitzer,
jutting from its port side so they could be fixed on a target as
the aircraft circled. The weapon that had just fired was a 40mm
Bofors gun, an artillery piece originally designed to shoot
at aircraft rather than from them. With
its battery of sensors, a Spooky could locate and destroy ground
forces from several miles away.
And Chase was in its
sights. ‘I’m on your side, you fucking idiots!’ he
shouted.
Another explosion,
and a fourth, but higher up the hill. Chase hoped that meant the
Bofors gunner had finally seen his strobe. He looked round. Mac was
now at the pass, signalling frantically for the Englishman to
follow.
He shook off the
earth and grit the 40mm rounds had thrown on to him, realising he
had lost his radio headset, and stood. His hearing returned, the
distant pom-pom-pom of the Bofors
accompanied by the shriek of incoming shells. More explosions on
the hillside. He ran for the pass. Mac gave him one final wave,
then sprinted after the rest of his men. The Spooky would keep the
Taliban pinned down with its awesome firepower, giving the rescue
team all the time they needed to reach the waiting
choppers—
The Bofors stopped.
One last explosion, and the battlefield behind him fell silent.
Either the Taliban had been completely obliterated, or . .
.
Chase looked to the
sky, and realised the battle wasn’t over. The Spooky’s orbit had
carried it behind part of the mountain, placing a barrier of rock
between its weapons and their target. The gunship would already be
gaining altitude to compensate, but the surviving Taliban now had a
chance to continue the pursuit.
Feet pounding, he
reached the pass. Mac was over a hundred yards ahead. No gunfire
from behind—
A new noise instead.
Engines. Not the AC-130 clearing the mountains, but
motorbikes.
The Taliban were
riding after him.
Two headlights swept
down the hill, glare obscuring the bikes and their riders – but if
the Taliban had any remaining rockets, one of the men would surely
be carrying the RPG-7.
The entire mission
was now in jeopardy. An RPG round could easily bring down a
helicopter.
Ahead, the ravine
opened out on to the plain. Mac was already clear, running towards
a sputtering red flare marking the pick-up point. The choppers had
not yet touched down, the Black Hawk moving in while the Little
Bird circled. Stikes had radioed the pilots to tell them they were
collecting only fifteen men rather than the expected twenty; it
would be a tight squeeze, but they could all cram into the Black
Hawk to save the MH-6 from having to land.
All the eggs in one
basket. They didn’t know about the bikes.
Another glance back
as he left the pass told Chase that he would never reach the
landing zone before the Taliban caught up. Instead he charged for
the giant spearhead of rock poking from the sands.
The Black Hawk was
about fifty feet above the ground, dust swirling out in concentric
rings beneath its rotor vortex. The men at the landing zone
shielded their faces from the gritty onslaught. Mac still hadn’t
reached them, looking for Chase – and seeing the headlights. He
tried to shout a warning to the others, but his voice was lost
under the helicopter’s thunderous noise.
The lead bike, two
men aboard, burst out of the pass. It turned to follow Chase –
until its driver spotted the more tempting targets on the plain. It
swung back, the man riding pillion raising his weapon.
The RPG-7. Loaded and
ready.
The second bike
roared after its original prey, the passenger firing his AK-47 at
Chase as he dived behind the rock. Bullets splintered the stone
beside him, but he couldn’t shoot back – his attention was fixed on
another target.
The Taliban with the
rocket launcher took aim, the RPG-7’s sights fixed on the Black
Hawk as it hovered the final few feet above the ground. The
helicopter was two hundred metres away, large, barely moving – an
unmissable target.
Mac’s shouted
warnings finally reached the soldiers. They dropped, pulling the
hostages down with them.
Chase fired his C8 on
full auto, emptying his magazine into both the bike’s riders. The
old Soviet motorcycle swerved . . .
But the trigger had
already been pulled.
The rocket-propelled
grenade burst from the launcher as the bike tumbled. It streaked
past Mac and hissed over the men on the ground, heading for the
Black Hawk—
Thrown off target,
the conical warhead only caught the cockpit canopy a glancing blow.
The rocket spiralled away, exploding harmlessly fifty yards beyond
the helicopter.
But the danger was
far from over. The pilot had jerked in fright at the impact. The
Black Hawk rolled sideways. The tips of its rotor blades dropped
towards the ground, carving through the air like a giant circular
saw . . .
Straight at
Castille.
The Belgian froze as
he saw the helicopter bearing down on him. The blades buzzed at his
face—
The pilot yanked the
collective control lever and applied full throttle. The Black Hawk
lurched upwards, engines screaming - and the rotor passed six
inches over Castille’s head, the force of the displaced air
knocking him flat. ‘Merde!’ he
screeched, hurriedly patting his hands over the top of his skull to
check it was still attached.
The gunman on the
second bike kept shooting. Chase scrabbled backwards as more
bullets cracked off the rock, but the Afghan would have a direct
line of fire in moments.
And he was out of
ammo.
Three seconds to
reload, but he didn’t have even that long—
Instead, he flung the
empty rifle with all his might. It arced through the air – and hit
the bike’s driver hard in the face as he rounded the formation. The
bike crashed down on its side, throwing the two Taliban into the
sand.
The gunman groaned,
then realised he still had his AK. He saw a figure in the moonlight
and brought up the rifle—
Chase fired first,
four shots from the Sig P228 he had snatched from his chest holster
slamming into the man’s upper body. The Taliban slumped lifelessly
to the ground. The driver struggled to rise – and another two shots
to his head dropped him beside his comrade.
Breathing heavily,
hands trembling from a burst of adrenalin, Chase lowered the Sig
and looked across the plain. The Black Hawk had finally touched
down, the rescue team bundling the hostages into the
cabin.
But now he could hear
another sound echoing through the pass. Not the roar of more
motorcycle engines.
The pounding of
hooves.
‘Oh, fucking pack it
in!’ he gasped. The bike’s engine was still sputtering, but the
front wheel was buckled. Unrideable.
Two options. Either
sprint for the Black Hawk, and be trampled or shot before he
reached it . . . or make sure it took off safely and got the
hostages and his comrades home.
The decision was made
before the thought was completed. He recovered his rifle and loaded
his final magazine. The last few men boarded the Black Hawk. Even
from this distance he could pick out Mac’s grey hair, his commander
– his mentor, his friend – waving for him to run to the chopper.
Chase instead crouched and took aim.
The first horseman
emerged from the pass, hunched low on his galloping steed with an
AK raised in one hand—
Chase tracked him,
firing twice and bowling the Taliban off his horse. But his rifle’s
suppressor was now completely burned out, and the shots had given
away his position. Another horseman appeared, and a third, charging
at him.
A mechanical roar:
the Black Hawk taking off. Three more riders thundered from the
ravine, going after the helicopter as it lumbered into the air.
AK-47s chattered, tracers streaking after the rising aircraft.
Moonlight flashed off another RPG-7 as a Taliban slowed his mount
to take aim. A burst from Chase’s C8 cut him down before he could
fire. The chopper was safe, but now the nearest riders were almost
upon him—
A sizzling chainsaw
rasp from above – and men and horses alike were torn apart by a
laser-like stream of orange fire.
The Little Bird
swooped down, its twin six-barrelled Miniguns blazing as each
unleashed over sixty rounds per second at the Taliban forces. It
pulled up sharply, pivoting to follow the surviving horsemen, then
fired again. Hundreds of spent shell casings hailed down around
Chase, one plinking off the top of his head and singeing his scalp.
‘Great, now I’ll have a fucking bald spot,’ he muttered as he fired
at the last of the horsemen. The shot hit home, but it became
academic a moment later when the man literally disintegrated under
the force of the MH-6’s firepower.
The Miniguns stopped,
but he could still hear more horses approaching. Holding back a
curse, he looked up at the Little Bird as it started a rapid
descent towards him.
No time for it to
land. This would have to be a moving pickup, and he would only have
one chance . . .
He glimpsed the pilot
in the green light of his instruments, his night vision gear making
him look like a cyborg. The Little Bird was coming right at him,
slowing, but still travelling at twenty miles an hour.
Chase
jumped—
The skid slammed
against his chest. He wrapped his arms round the forward support
strut and clung for dear life as the MH-6 went to full power. The
helicopter surged skywards, Chase flapping beneath it like a
banner.
He turned his face
away from the downwash to see the plain wheeling below – and tracer
fire rising up after him as more Taliban came out of the
pass—
They disappeared in a
tremendous explosion as the AC-130 reacquired its targets and,
friendly forces now clear, fired its big gun. The blast from the
105mm shell collapsed part of the ravine, burying the Taliban under
tons of rubble. More explosions ripped along the length of the pass
as the Bofors gunner dealt with any stragglers.
The Little Bird
levelled out, flying after the Black Hawk. Chase heard a voice; he
squinted up to see the pilot shouting at him from the doorless
cockpit. ‘Are you all right, man?’
Despite the fact that
he was dangling from a speeding helicopter a thousand feet above
hostile territory, Chase still managed a grin. ‘Never better, mate.
What’s the inflight movie?’
The Black Hawk landed
at the Coalition base, the Little Bird close behind it. The MH-6
had briefly touched down, once both aircraft reached nominally
friendly territory, so that Chase could climb aboard; he leapt from
the cabin and ran to the larger helicopter. Three men from the
Royal Army Medical Corps were waiting, two bearing a stretcher and
a third to attend to the wounded Green. He was carried out of the
Black Hawk by Starkman and Baine, and quickly whisked away by the
medics.
The hostages came
next, and were escorted to a temporary building nearby. Finally,
the remaining soldiers clambered from the helicopter, Mac ruefully
looking after Green. The others were simply relieved to have made
it back in one piece. ‘Christ,’ said Bluey, rubbing his shaved
head, ‘that was a bit fierce.’
Starkman saw Chase.
‘Damn, almost thought we’d lost you,’ said the Texan. ‘You
okay?’
Chase ignored him,
eyes locked on another man: Stikes. The captain stepped out,
donning his beret and adjusting it to a precise angle. ‘Seven
hostages rescued, and it would have been eight if that idiot hadn’t
panicked. Not bad.’ He saw Chase step towards him. ‘So Chase,
you—’
Chase smashed a
brutal punch into his face. Stikes’s regal nose broke with a wet
snap, and he fell back against the fuselage. ‘You fucker!’ Chase shouted.
Baine lunged at
Chase, but Mac intervened, hauling the Yorkshireman back from the
fallen officer. ‘Eddie, for Christ’s sake!’
A hand to his
bleeding nose, Stikes pulled himself upright as the other team
members looked on in bewilderment. ‘It’s a court-martial offence to
strike a superior officer, Chase!’ he cried. ‘You’ll get five years
for an unprovoked attack – which you all witnessed!’
‘Unprovoked, my
arse!’ Chase said furiously. ‘You pointed a fucking gun at my
head!’
‘Eddie!’ Mac snapped.
‘Sergeant!’ Still tight-lipped with
rage, Chase stood at attention. ‘What the hell is going
on?’
‘This bastard
murdered five civilians – five women, sir,’ Chase said through
clenched teeth. ‘They were unarmed and tied prisoners of the
Taliban, but he shot them – then aimed his weapon at
me.’
‘That’s a complete
lie, Major,’ Stikes responded. ‘I did no such thing.’
Mac frowned. ‘But the
Taliban did have female prisoners. Did
you see them?’
Stikes’s cold eyes
didn’t blink as he answered. ‘No sir, I did not.’
‘That’s a complete lie,’ Chase hissed.
‘The only
non-hostages I saw had been designated as hostiles under the rules
of engagement.’ Stikes moved his hand from his nose; red liquid
trickled over his lips. ‘Damn it! Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like
to get this dealt with. And then’ – a venomous look at his attacker
– ‘I’ll make a full written report so charges can be drawn against
Sergeant Chase!’
Mac nodded, and
Stikes strutted away. The Scot hustled Chase out of earshot of the
others. ‘If you have a grievance against a superior, Eddie,’ he
rumbled, ‘there are well-defined procedures. That was not one of
them!’
Chase forced his
anger back under control. ‘Sorry, sir. I mean, I’m sorry for
causing you any trouble – not for decking Stikes! It’s the bloody
least that he deserved. He murdered
those women in cold blood.’
‘Nobody else saw
anything. It’s your word against his.’
‘Mac, you know me.
And you know Stikes.’ He gave Mac an almost pleading look. ‘Who do
you believe?’
Mac remained silent
for a long moment. ‘Eddie,’ he said at last, ‘however this turns
out, there will be consequences for you – for your career. The
plain and simple fact is that you punched an officer in the face in
front of half a dozen witnesses.’
‘I’ll take whatever
comes to me.’
‘I’d expect nothing
less. But . . . as you say, I know you. And I know Stikes. So when
the court-martial comes – which it will, he’s got connections that
will see to that – I’ll do everything I can to support
you.’
‘Thank you,
sir.’
‘And’ – a hint of a
smile – ‘I’d be remiss as your commanding officer if I didn’t
remind you to get straight on with a full written report of your
own, describing everything you
witnessed on the mission. Our well-defined procedures are there for
everyone’s benefit, not just officers’. If, as a result of that, an
investigation is warranted . . . again, you’ll have my full
support.’
Chase gave the older
man an appreciative look. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘Well, you’d better
get to it, sergeant. In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can
find a shower in this bloody hole.’ Mac walked off, then stopped
and looked back. ‘By the way, Eddie, you did excellent work
tonight. Well done.’
Chase saluted, and
Mac continued on his way. The Englishman stood for a moment, then
took out and lit a long-awaited cigarette.