CHAPTER 12

wing loong pterodactyl ucav ground control unit (gcu)

kanju, pakistan

Before he could get to Hamza, Qasim knew it was too late.

Everyone was awake and crowded around the charismatic al Qadar lieutenant, cheering, shouting, and backslapping.

Hamza was all smiles, and when he saw Qasim, he waved him over. “Qasim, your timing is perfect. The strike was a success!”

Qasim squinted as Hamza showed him a grainy image of a large explosion in the middle of a military convoy.

“The pilot took this picture of the laptop screen at the moment of impact.” Hamza threw his arm around Qasim’s shoulders. “We did it, Qasim. We executed the world’s first drone missile strike against an American military target. Allah is smiling upon us today, my brother.”

Looking at the image, a quizzical emotion washed over Qasim, one he did not expect: pride. The disgust and anxiety he’d been feeling in his dream was unexpectedly displaced. He was glad the Americans were dead. He was glad the operation had been a success. And in that moment, he wondered if he was losing his mind. How was it that he could flip-flop between revulsion and excitement so readily? How was it that two personas could occupy his thoughts at the same time? Which reality was true—Qasim, the law-abiding naturalized British aerospace engineer, or Qasim, the Afghan drone pilot and terrorist? Is this what it meant to be trapped in a duality?

He looked up from the image and met Hamza’s eyes. “We really got a hit?”

“Yes!”

“Have the Americans shot the drone down yet?”

“No, the pilot is flying it back into the Hindu Kush. The plan is to keep it airborne and as far north as line of sight will permit. If we can make it to nightfall, we will attempt to fly it across the border and land it at the Mingora airport. Do you want to pilot the landing?”

Qasim nodded, eager to get back in the pilot’s chair.

He joined the group, talking little but accepting words of praise and congratulations from the other al Qadar men, most of whom he recognized but still did not know. He’d made a point of not fraternizing with anyone other than Hamza these past twelve days. He didn’t feel comfortable with these men and suspected he never would.

A breakfast of chai and paratha was served, prepared, and delivered by women he also did not know. It was that way with all the food since Qasim had arrived; it just showed up, and he’d never once been asked to pay for his share. Hamza maintained a strict policy of limiting traffic in and out of the building. Only Eshan seemed to be permitted to come and go freely, and Qasim wondered when his best friend would return. It had been three days since they’d spoken.

After the meal, Hamza pulled Qasim aside, leading him to the boxy GCU, where he closed and locked the door from the inside.

“So that we are not disturbed,” he said, turning to look at Qasim.

“I figured as much.”

“How are you feeling about all of this? The first operation can be . . . emotional for thoughtful men like yourself.”

“When you sent me off to get some sleep, I had a nightmare,” Qasim said, looking down at his hands. “I dreamed about the strike. There were bodies, and pieces of bodies, everywhere. Charred and smoldering. I woke up in a panic. When you waved me over, I was coming to ask you to call it off.”

“Mmm-hmm,” was all Hamza said.

Qasim looked up. Instead of judgment, he found empathy in Hamza’s eyes. “Are you angry with me?”

“With these other men,” Hamza said, gesturing outside the walls of the GCU, “I would not tolerate such behavior. But from you, I would be concerned if you were not conflicted. You have suffered great tragedy in your life. You have lived through a drone strike. You know the cost. You know the carnage. You’re not an evil man, Qasim, and neither am I. Only a sadist enjoys the torture and mutilation of others. That is not what we’re about. That is not what jihad is about. Under my leadership, al Qadar will not follow the path of al-Qaeda or the Islamic State. This was a tactical strike on a military target. We are professionals, Qasim. We do not blow up women and children. We do not murder our fellow Muslims. I know such things have weighed heavy on your mind, but now you can sleep easy. You have my word on this.”

“I’m not sure I can go back,” Qasim said, shaking his head. “Not after this.”

“You mean back to work? Back to England?”

Qasim nodded, the duality of his personas strained to the breaking point.

“Why?”

Qasim shrugged. He worried that if he said more, he would undermine all the goodwill he’d built with Hamza.

“Because you’re a terrorist now? Is that it?”

He nodded.

“Does that make you ashamed?”

He looked away, unable to hold the other man’s gaze any longer.

“Do you think that an American soldier, a Navy SEAL, for example, is ashamed of the work he does? Do you think he calls himself terrorist in his own mind? No, of course not. He calls himself patriot. He calls himself warrior. He is a soldier fighting his enemy with a mandate from his country. We are soldiers too, fighting our enemy with a mandate from God. Which mandate do you think holds more weight? Which mandate do you think is more just? The one from Allah, or the one from President Warner?”

“God’s mandate,” he whispered.

“That’s right,” Hamza said, his voice hardening. “I want you to strike this word terrorist from your personal lexicon, Qasim. You are not a terrorist. Do you understand? Look at me.” Qasim found it difficult to lift his gaze, and for a moment felt like a child, his eyes now rimmed with tears. “You . . . are . . . not a terrorist. You’re a drone pilot and engineer. You’re a patriot and warrior in Allah’s army. These are things to be proud of. It’s time to purge your shame. It’s time to purge your guilt. When you go home to England—and you will go home, my friend—be proud.”

Qasim nodded, empowered by the other man’s words. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“Good,” Hamza said, giving Qasim’s shoulder a squeeze. “It won’t happen overnight, but think about my words. A man’s personal truth is the only truth that matters.” Hamza released his shoulder, then pulled a folded envelope from his pocket and handed it to Qasim.

“What’s this?” Qasim asked, accepting it.

“For your work, of course,” Hamza said with a laugh. “You don’t think I expect my people to work for free, do you? You’re a professional with an extraordinarily valuable skill set. You deserve compensation.”

Qasim’s heart rate picked up as he opened the flap and peeked at the stack of notes inside.

“Twenty thousand euros,” Hamza said. “I counted it myself.”

Qasim refolded the envelope and stuffed it in his pants pocket. To his surprise, his mind went to Diba. He could buy a very nice wedding ring for her with this and still have money left over to pay for an extravagant, romantic holiday when this was all over.

“Thank you,” he said, not sure what else to say.

“You’re welcome,” Hamza said. “But that’s only the start. Assuming we recover the drone, if you and my cyber team can succeed in hacking the US satellite network and configure the drone for another mission, I’ll give you access to an account in Dubai with a starting balance of one hundred thousand.”

“One hundred thousand?” Qasim said, his jaw agape.

Hamza nodded. “As I rise, so do those who help me fulfill my vision. As your role and commitment increase, so will your bank—” Hamza’s mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, stopping him midsentence. He checked the message and his expression darkened.

“Is everything okay?” Qasim asked.

“It doesn’t concern you,” Hamza said. Then, tone softening, he added, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Eshan should be arriving within the hour. Just make certain you’re back after sundown to pilot the drone . . . assuming it lasts until then.”

“You can count on me,” Qasim said and meant it.