CHAPTER 43
mobile gcu
highway n-80
five miles east of kohat, pakistan
2130 local time
Qasim could not help but grin as he held the joystick gently, with three fingers and his thumb. He made subtle corrections as the ground streaked by on-screen, streaming to him in real time from the high-def camera in the nose of the Pterodactyl. The weapons data at the bottom of screen was green, indicating both missiles were armed and ready to fire once the targeting data was in.
“Final targeting data loaded,” Hamza said from the sensor operator’s chair, and a flashing red circle appeared on Qasim’s screen to the left of the projected track of the drone.
Qasim applied gentle left pressure on the stick and watched as the red circle slowly moved right in the display, until it was just above the green crosshair circle. Next, he leveled the wings and looked at the range to target.
“In sixty seconds I can execute the pop-up maneuver and deliver the missiles.”
“Excellent,” Hamza said, the satisfaction in his voice matching Qasim’s elation.
Three kilometers.
Two.
One.
He pulled the stick back and watched as the night sky filled the screen, and the red flashing circle dropped to the bottom of the screen, still directly below his track indicator. He watched the altimeter scroll up on the right side as the airspeed to the left of the display fell away. At ten thousand feet, he pushed the stick forward, crossing the horizon, the lights of the city of Kandahar in the distance. The red circle moved up slowly from the bottom of the screen until it overlapped the green crosshair circle again, stopped flashing, and became brighter. A warble announced missile lock on the target Hamza had designated—the American drone compound on the southeast side of the runway at Kandahar Airfield.
Qasim took a deep breath.
He thanked Allah for the honor of meting out his vengeance on Americans and squeezed the trigger.
White light filled the screen, and he watched the first missile scream off into the distance.
He counted to fifteen very slowly, then selected the second missile. Immediately the red circle flashed once, then locked and became solid, and the high-pitched warble confirmed target acquisition.
He squeezed the trigger again.
Hamza rose from his seat and kissed Qasim’s right cheek. “It is done, brother.”
“Almost,” Qasim whispered and pressed forward on the joystick, lowering the nose and dropping his altitude quickly. He stabilized at five hundred feet.
“What are you doing?” Hamza asked curiously.
“Crashing the drone into the airbase. There is no recovering it now . . . I intend to kill as many of them as I can.”
“Lock it in with the autopilot, Qasim.”
“No. If the American SEALs come for us, I want them to see my hands at the controls. They will know who killed their brothers at Kandahar.” He felt tears—of joy and pain, of rage and satisfaction—streaming down his face.
Hamza whispered in his ear. “That is not your fate, brother. Allah has other plans for us. This attack was only the beginning.”
Qasim looked up at him. Now, he felt only love and brotherhood for the man he had days ago feared and maybe even despised.
“Is that true?”
“Yes, brother. Do as I say. Lock in the autopilot.” Hamza said, then radioed the truck driver and instructed the convoy to slow. “Our work is done here. We’re separating from the convoy.”
“And if the Americans come anyway?”
“Then I have one final surprise for them . . .”