CHAPTER 16

al qadar warehouse and drone hangar

mingora, pakistan

0240 local time

The “cyber shack,” as Qasim had dubbed it, was about as out of place inside the dilapidated warehouse as a strip club in Taliban country. It was the only room inside the building with air conditioning, actual chairs, and proper lighting. It was also the only place where he felt comfortable enough to relax and let his guard down. Despite the camaraderie Hamza’s men had expressed after the successful drone strike, he still didn’t feel he meshed with the rest of al Qadar. He didn’t have the foggiest idea what any of them actually did, other than carry around assault rifles. The lone exception was the hacker sitting in the chair next to him, typing away at a computer with two monitors.

With Hamza pressing him to make quick progress, Qasim had spent every waking hour with al Qadar’s hacker in residence—a kid everyone called Fun Time. When first introduced, the black hat had described himself as the “badass Uyghur from East Turkestan.” East Turkestan, Qasim had since learned, was what ethnic Uyghur dissidents called China’s Xinjiang Province. Through vague and dubious means, Fun Time had fled China and ended up in Pakistan. He was fluent in Mandarin and the Uyghur dialect, but also could speak passable English and middling Arabic. Despite only having just met the guy three days ago, Qasim knew the kid’s entire life story. Five years ago his father and uncle had been rounded up in one of the government’s mass incarceration sweeps and were now living in detention camps run by the Chinese government.

“My father no terrorist,” Fun Time had exclaimed emphatically when telling the story. “I’s the motherfuckin’ terrorist, bitches.”

Despite his over-the-top personality, Fun Time was unquestionably the best hacker Qasim had ever crossed paths with. His tool kit of exploits and cheats was unlike anything Qasim had seen. At first, he wondered if Fun Time had worked for China’s government cyber programs, but on reflection the kid seemed too raw and rough around the edges for that.

“Gazaaaa,” Fun Time said with a fist pump to the air.

He did that a lot.

Qasim turned to look at him. “Something good?”

Without taking his eyes off the monitor, the hacker answered, “Ya, something really good, man. We in RTS Diego Garcia.”

“Are you serious? You got in?” Qasim said, his eyes going wide. “How?”

Fun Time didn’t answer him, just started bobbing his head to the beat of whatever he was listening to on his chunky headphones.

Qasim was about to slide his chair closer to watch what he was doing, when shouting outside usurped his attention. He popped out of his chair and walked to the door that led to the main floor of the warehouse. The door had a rectangular inset window, but Fun Time had taped brown paper over it. Qasim hesitated a moment. It technically wasn’t any of his business what was going on out there, but this was the first conflict he’d witnessed since he’d agreed to work for Hamza.

He opened the door.

What he saw next made his heart skip a beat. A man knelt beside the tarp-covered Pterodactyl, begging for his life while Hamza pointed a pistol at his forehead.

“Search him,” Hamza ordered.

Hamza’s bodyguard and another al Qadar fighter forcibly stripped the man naked, searching for hidden transceivers and destroying his clothes and shoes in the process. When they finished, the man’s belongings were tossed into a steel barrel and set on fire.

“Two men from Pakistani Intelligence came to your store. What did you tell them?” Hamza asked, his voice cold and clipped.

“Nothing, I swear,” the man said, naked and trembling. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

“The ISI cannot be trusted. They work very closely with the Americans. You never know if an agent is a true believer or a traitor.”

“I told them nothing. I swear! I followed all the protocols you taught me.”

“How can I believe you, Mohamed, when you tried to hide the meeting from me? Even worse, once you suspected you’d been caught in your lie, you decided to come directly here, potentially compromising this location.”

“I’m sorry, I was afraid, but I am loyal. I swear. Have mercy, please,” he begged.

“There is no place for lies and incompetence in my organization,” Hamza said, his voice hard, but at the same time he holstered his pistol.

“Thank you, oh, thank you. Allah truly rewards the merciful,” the man said. But Hamza’s sunken-cheeked bodyguard had stepped into position behind him. “Wait? What is this?”

Hamza folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

With practiced efficiency, the bodyguard grabbed the condemned man by the hair and sliced open his throat. The cut was so deep that, at first, Qasim thought he’d decapitated the man. Bright-red blood sprayed from the wound, pouring down the man’s chest and abdomen and pooling on the concrete floor. He made no sound, just clutched at his ruined neck as he fell into the puddle. Only then did Hamza look away, his gaze settling on Qasim.

Qasim locked eyes with the terrorist, and in that instant, his perception of Hamza fractured. “Is this the price of failure?” a voice asked, and only once it was too late, did he realize it was his.

“No. This is the price of deceit, the price of cowardice . . . the price of willful incompetence,” Hamza said without a trace of malice or ire. “Do you think I should have let him go?”

Qasim didn’t answer.

“What would you have done in my stead?”

“I don’t know, but I would not have murdered him, that’s for certain.”

Hamza nodded, his expression cynical. “How magnanimous of you. Thankfully, you’re not in charge, or we’d all be dead or strapped to a board with water being poured down our throats. This is not a game, Qasim. It’s a war. Of all people, you should understand this by now. The Americans murdered your sister. They murdered your father . . . just as they murdered mine.” The terrorist then shifted from English to Pashto and asked the assembled fighters how many of them had lost a parent or family member to war. Every fighter present raised a hand. “You see, Qasim, we are all sons of war, come together for a single, unified purpose. And through that purpose we become a family. Mohamed was tested and he failed. His weakness jeopardized all of our safety, and I refuse to let anyone hurt my family.”

Qasim heard Fun Time curse inside the cyber shack. He looked over his shoulder as the hacker jumped out of his chair and darted toward him.

“We have big problem!” he cried, beckoning Hamza with a wave.

“Tell me,” Hamza said, striding over.

“Soldiers in the mountains. The Americans are approaching the cave. I see them on the camera,” the hacker said.

Qasim’s knees started to quake. Will Hamza be furious and blame me for the Americans tracing the signal? Is it my turn to have my throat slit? No, he can’t kill me. Fun Time can’t configure the drone-satellite data link without me . . .

“What you want me do?” Fun Time asked.

“We knew this was a possibility,” Hamza said. “Quite frankly, it took the Americans longer than I thought it would. Did you sever the data link to the camera?”

Fun Time shook his head. “Signal is encrypted and running through a hundred blinds. Impossible to trace.”

“Nothing is impossible. Sever the connection,” Hamza said. “And I will warn our Taliban partners that the Americans are launching an assault. If we’re lucky, our brothers in arms will usurp the Americans’ full attention and hopefully kill some Navy SEALs and Army Rangers in the process.”

The hacker nodded and ran back into the cyber shack, while Hamza shifted his gaze to Qasim.

“How is the work coming along?” he asked. “Have you made progress penetrating the American satellite communications network?”

“We just breached RTS Diego Garcia,” Qasim said. “That is the first step.”

“We need to accelerate the timetable,” Hamza said through a heavy exhale. “They’re hunting us now, and the Americans are very good at hunting. It won’t be long before they shift their spotlight from the Hindu Kush to Mingora. Tell Fun Time to work quickly and keep me posted.”

“Okay.”

Hamza walked several paces before he stopped and turned back. “And Qasim?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t blame you for the Americans detecting the line-of-sight transmissions from the remote pilot team. It was an inherent risk of the operation.”

“Okay,” Qasim said, heart still pounding.

Hamza smiled. “I’m not a monster, Qasim. Reason, not emotion, guides my decisions. I would hope you that you recognize that by now.”

“I do,” Qasim said unconvincingly.

“Okay,” the terrorist said, his gaze flicking to Qasim’s quivering knees. “Now go finish the work so that we may, inshallah, get the drone airborne again before the Americans find us.”