The mobile medical station was little more than a sun-baked tent that reeked of antiseptic. Dr Tom Ford said goodbye to his last patient and stepped outside for some air. Within moments he was arguing with a short Afghan soldier called Hajji.
“My orders are to protect you,” Hajji insisted. “We must leave.”
“There are Taliban all over this goddamn country,” Tom snapped angrily. “So what if they might be watching us. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if half the elders here are Taliban informants. We knew this trip wasn’t going to be easy, but the locals need us. We’re the only source of medical help for hundreds of miles.”
The young Afghan sergeant pointed his rifle towards the steep mountains framing the valley. “Up there are hidden trails to the border with Pakistan. The Taliban use them. They will come in the night and slit our throats.”
“Not if you do your job and shoot them first,” Tom responded bluntly. “We’ve only been here a week. We’re staying, and that’s the end of it.”
Dr Kate Shawcross paused to wipe the sweat from her brow and adjust her headscarf. “Everything all right, Tom?” she called out across the dusty, mud-walled village compound.
Tom walked over, pursued by the group of unruly children who seemed to follow him everywhere. “Nothing to worry about. Hajji reckons the Taliban are up in the hills. He probably saw a couple of old goatherders. Told him we’re staying. I think he’s looking for any excuse to get back to Kandahar.” He jerked a thumb towards the Afghan National Army truck where Hajji’s two comrades were sitting cross-legged, smoking and sipping tea.
Kate slammed their Land Rover door shut and leaned her back against it. The sun was sinking behind a mountain ridge, turning the barren hillsides a hard blue colour.
“So, how’s your first week been?” asked Tom.
“Amazing!” Kate felt exhausted but bursting with pride. “We’ve reset four broken limbs, amputated a foot, handed out countless antibiotic pills and immunised eighty children against polio. I’d say we’ve made a difference.” She paused thoughtfully. “I don’t like the way the locals gawp at me, though. And they didn’t exactly welcome me when we arrived.”
“It’s not that they’re ungrateful, Kate. They just don’t think women should do this work.”
“I know, but even so—”
A sudden shout for help made both Tom and Kate turn in alarm. They saw a tall, skinny man hurrying along the village track. It was littered with stones and potholes. He was carrying a boy in his arms. The boy’s shirt was soaked with blood.
“Quick, Tom,” said Kate, reaching for the vehicle’s door handle. “Give him a hand. I’ll grab the medical bag.”
Hajji’s men rose slowly to their feet.
“Komak! Dakter!” the man carrying the boy called out breathlessly. “Help…Doctor. Please.”
Kate swung the bag over her shoulder and shouted, “Hajji, come on. We may need you to interpret for us.”
Tom reached the boy first. His body was lifeless. Tom helped to gently lower the boy to the ground. “Who are you? What happened to him?” he asked the tall, bearded man dressed in pale baggy trousers and a loose-fitting shirt.
“Assalam u alaikum — peace be upon you. His name is Hassan. He fell down a mountain. I am Amin and brought him to you so you can save him, inshallah.”
Kate arrived with Hajji close behind.
“Pass the surgical scissors, Kate.”
Carefully, Tom began cutting away the boy’s shirt. “He’s lost a hell of a lot of blood. Grab some pressure pads. We need to slow down the bleeding.”
Gently, Tom peeled back Hassan’s shirt. “What the hell?” He froze in astonishment. There was no wound.
By the time they heard the incoming rocket-propelled grenade it was too late. Hajji’s army truck exploded into a ball of flames. Shrapnel cut down Hajji’s men, hot fragments slicing through their uniforms. Tom sprawled flat on his stomach, covering his head with his hands. Kate shielded the boy as debris fell around them, peppering the ground. Cracks of rifle fire echoed around the houses, each shot making Kate flinch with fright. She thought she heard Hajji shout something but didn’t dare raise her head.
Silence. “Tom, are you OK?” Kate couldn’t conceal the tremble in her voice.
“Yes. Are you?”
“Uh-huh.” Kate turned her head. Her ears rang from the blast. She gazed at the burning remains of the truck. Bodies littered the ground.
From doorways and rooftops, and from gaps in the compound’s mud-brick walls, Taliban fighters emerged. Kate sat up and saw Hajji lying next to her, his throat cut. She shrieked and looked up at the figure standing over her. Amin — the man who had carried the boy to them — held a knife in his hand, its blade was covered in blood. Confused, she looked down at the boy.
Hassan opened his eyes and leaped to his feet.
As Tom tried to stand, Amin grabbed him around his neck and held the knife against his throat. “Don’t move, infidel.”
In seconds, Kate and Tom were surrounded by Taliban fighters. Some carried heavy machine guns and ammo belts, others were just wearing trainers and dressed in dusty pirhan tonban. A man pressed through the circle and grinned toothlessly. He was the Taliban leader, Masud. “Well done, young Hassan.”
Hassan tore off his tattered shirt in disgust. It smelled horrible, and felt cold and clammy against his skin; Masud had used goat’s blood.
Amid chants of Allahu Akbar Masud issued orders to his men. “Gather weapons and strip the jeep of anything useful.” He pointed at Kate. “You will come with us. Amin, tie her hands.” He then turned to Tom. “You, infidel, will return to Kandahar with a message. Here, give this to the American general.” He pressed a piece of paper into Tom’s hand. “These are my demands. One million dollars if you want to see the woman again, alive.”
“Take me instead,” Tom pleaded. “Let her go.”
Masud shook his head. “She is worth ten times more than you. We know she is the daughter of an American senator. Tell the general he has one week, or she will die.”