part0008

They piled into the GAZ, and it was almost comical. The three Afghans, two men, and the boy perched on top of cartons and boxes piled in the back. In the gap between the two front seats, Archer stretched himself out. He rested his head on the gearstick, so every time Greg needed to use the shift, he had to move him gently, and Stoner held him while he changed gear. They drove away, and almost immediately Noyan pointed to a narrow track that led up into the hills.

"That is the only route for us to take. It’ll double the distance, but it’ll give us the best chance of avoiding discovery. There is one thing. Like I said, most men we encounter along the way will regard us as hostile. If you’re in any doubt when you see a man with a gun, shoot first. That's the way it works around here."

"Like it is in Afghanistan.”

The grizzled Taliban commander shook his head. “In Afghanistan, we’re civilized.”

Greg drove, and Stoner settled down for what he knew would be a nightmare ride. They followed a series of rough tracks that threaded across the badlands of Northeast Pakistan, and they were riding in the worst possible vehicle for the job. Stalin’s Revenge, Stoner nicknamed it. The venerable GAZ may have been a tough little SUV, but when the Soviets built it fifty years before, the last thing on their minds had been any consideration of comfort. Before they'd covered the first ten klicks, the bruises and wounds he'd suffered at the hands of the Haqqanis were causing him real trouble. He tried to ignore the pain, constantly shifting position, until he came up against Archer, who'd made himself comfortable and decided nothing was about to budge him. They drove for four long, miserable hours until night fell. Stoner estimated they'd covered less than one hundred klicks. A long way still to go, he tapped Greg on the shoulder and shouted over the noise of the engine.

"We need to stop for the night, and find somewhere we can bed down. If we carry on like this, we’re liable to drive off a cliff."

"Have you seen anything for the last hour? Any sign of human habitation?"

Greg grimaced. “And I doubt we’ll find anything ahead of us. If I see a sign for a Holiday Inn, I'll be sure to stop and find us rooms for the night.”

At first, they managed to stay on the track. The clouds had disappeared, and they had moonlight and stars to light up the land. Greg was driving without headlamps, on the advice of Abbas Noyan.

"If we are to survive we must remain invisible. Switch on the headlamps, and they'll know we're coming before we make it halfway."

"I thought we were halfway," Stoner said.

The Taliban commander raised his eyebrows. "You haven't traveled this route before, and I have. We may have made half the distance in kilometers, but the next half is the difficult part. The going gets very rough.”

Almost as he said the words, Greg cried out in alarm, and the GAZ lurched off the track where the rain had washed the surface clean away. They were sliding down a steep, muddy bank. All they could do was hang on grimly to avoid being tossed out and wait until they reached the bottom. They were descending into a black nothingness. Then they hit, and the collision threw them out of the jeep. They landed in a heap in the soft, wet mud, surrounded by boxes, cartons, and crates that had tumbled out of the jeep. Only Archer managed to land well, between Blum and Stoner. The dog wore a quizzical expression. As if to ask them why they'd been so stupid as to come this way.

The three Afghans were unscathed, although covered in mud like they all were. Javed offered to climb back up the slope and find a way to get back on the track. He scampered away and was back a few minutes later.

"The track has disappeared along a stretch of about twenty meters, and there's no way we can get back up there."

"We'll have to find another way," Blum said, “There's no way I'm leaving the GAZ, not out here. Besides, we have the gear to carry. What do we have to go, about one hundred klicks?"

Noyan nodded. "About that. Perhaps we can find a way to drive out of this valley further along."

They'd been lucky. The jeep was still on all four wheels, and when Greg pressed the starter button, the engine ran. They piled the boxes back onto the vehicle and climbed aboard. Greg engaged low ratio and tried to drive out along the deep gully into which they'd fallen. The wheels skidded in the mud. They had to climb back out, get behind, and push to stop the wheels moving. The tires gripped the mud, spurting wet clumps of earth over them until they were plastered like circus clowns, but they kept pushing. After the first fifty meters, the ground was firmer, and the tires had enough grip for them to ride. They remounted, and Greg drove slowly. Their speed was reduced to less than five miles an hour, a fast walking pace, and he switched on the headlamps before they slipped into a deep ravine. Noyan cursed, told him he was stupid, but Greg shouted he couldn't see a thing, and if he ran without lights, they'd never make it. They’d fall into the first crevice they came across. A few meters later, he was proved right when the headlamps picked up the edge of a deep crevice. He drove around it, missing the sheer drop by inches. Noyan didn't make any further protests. A tacit admission he'd been wrong, and they needed to use the headlamps. Dawn was breaking when they finally drove out of the narrow valley they'd been driving along and rejoined the track, but Noyan was uncomfortable.

"This is a big mistake. Like I said, people around here will see us as hostile, and they have a simple approach to dealing with hostile strangers."

He ratcheted the action on his AK, and Nadiri did the same. Javed gave him a glance and picked up the AK he'd taken from the bank vault, doing his best to look fierce. Stoner carried the AK he'd taken from Chitral across his knees. They were prepared, but when it came, the ambush was a shock, and they almost had them.

One moment they were driving along the track, the next they rounded a bend and the road was blocked with boulders. After the fierce storm of the night before, it would have been a reasonable supposition that the fierce weather had detached the massive stones, and they'd roll down the hill. But the men in that jeep were no strangers to ambush, and experience told them the reasonable explanation was the most unlikely one. Traveling through bandit country, when the road ahead was blocked, there was already a simple explanation.

Greg was already jamming the brakes on, and he shouted, "Ambush!"

As he slowed the GAZ into the side, the first burst of gunfire hissed past them, two meters in front of the hood, where they would have been had he kept going. They were already out of the vehicle, and Stoner was scanning the ground ahead. Another burst of fire came, and several bullets drilled through the hood of the GAZ. None of them were hit, but he was able to see the flashes as they fired, and he picked them out level with the track, behind a ruined shepherd’s hut about one hundred meters ahead. He scanned the ground for cover. There was nothing, save for the steep drop at the side of the track, and with no other choices, he ran for it. Noyan and Nadiri were behind him, and they squeezed over the edge, hanging onto the steep slope with their fingernails.

He felt angry. They were barely halfway, they'd suffered the bone-jarring ride in the GAZ, tumbled down a steep, muddy slope, spent the rest of the night driving out of it, and now men were shooting at them. There was plenty to be angry about. He didn't wait to see if the two Afghans were with him. He slipped and squelched sideways along the bank, with the rifle slung on his back, holding onto the edge to prevent tumbling to his death one hundred meters below.

They were still shooting, so he had a rough idea of their position. When he estimated he was close, he finally looked sideways. The two Afghans were there, two meters away. Both men looked calm.

He mouthed one word, "Wait."

They indicated their understanding, and he slowly raised his head and looked across to the stone hut, now less than twenty meters away. There were five men, all armed with assault rifles. Four were taking potshots at the jeep while the fifth shouted orders. At the same time he was unsuccessfully trying to light a pipe, striking match after match, and he assumed they were sodden after the heavy rainfall.

He was so absorbed in his task he didn't notice the head staring at him from a short distance away. Which wasn’t surprising, the mud that had splattered his face when they pushed the jeep was effective camouflage. But still, they had twenty meters of open ground to cover, and there were five of them. With the help of the two Talibs he’d still be outnumbered. Even worse, the hostiles were sheltering behind rocks that made them a difficult target.

He was trying to work out his next move when he saw movement. Fifty meters past the ambushers, and with a sense of astonishment, he recognized Javed. Not just Javed, Greg was with him, and Archer. They were attempting to take them from behind. Not a good plan, for they were exposed to a casual glance, and the inevitable happened. The man finally lit his pipe, took a moment to look around, and he spotted them at once. With a sickening sense of what was about to happen, Stoner didn't hesitate. He looked aside at the two Talibs and snarled, “Now! Get at them. Charge, kill the bastards!”

He leapt to his feet and raced across the track, rifle slung under his arm, and firing from the hip. The two Talibs were right behind him, and they added their fire to his, spewing out lead at the ambush party. The hostiles saw them and stopped shooting at Greg's party coming in from the south, to line their guns up on Stoner and the two Afghans coming at them from across the track.

What saved them was the ambushers’ inexperience. With attackers coming at them from both sides, they hesitated. They fired several wild shots at Greg and turned to target Stoner. More bullets hissed overhead, and he ignored them. They were closing the distance fast, but not fast enough, and then Stoner's AK jammed. Probably the effect of the rain and mud, but a jam was a jam. He tossed it away and pulled out the Desert Eagles.

They reloaded and sent scores of bullets toward them, reaching out to hiss and spit past them. Most went high, and they ran on. Nadiri grunted when a bullet grazed his side, and Stoner felt the sting of a bullet slicing a chunk of flesh from his leg. Then all three men disappeared behind cover. They hadn't noticed the drainage ditch dug to prevent the track flooding during heavy weather, and they ran straight into it.

It was all that saved their lives. They’d been getting close, and even badly aimed shots couldn't fail to hit their target. Stoner and the Talibs were knee deep in water at the bottom of the ditch. He waded to the bank and pulled himself up, with Noyan and Nadiri right behind.

The ambushers had screwed up. They’d assumed they'd killed the three attackers, and now they turned their attention to the man, the boy, and the dog. Easy targets, and their supreme confidence was the biggest mistake of their lives. They stepped out from behind the rocks, still shielded from Greg's attack, but their backs exposed to Stoner, Noyan, and Nadiri climbing out of the ditch. The first they knew of their mistake was when he took aim with the big .50 caliber handguns. The Desert Eagles boomed out their awesome message of death. Beside him, the Afghans selected full auto and opened fire. Streams of bullets tore into the Pakis, and three died in the first volley.

Another man was badly wounded, and the leader, still with his pipe clenched between his teeth, started to run. He shouldn't have bothered. A German Shepherd is quick and surefooted, especially on slippery, sloping ground. He didn't make more than ten paces before Archer was on him. He held him by the arm, growling and savaging until Greg called him off. They came up to the terrified Pakistani and looked down at the shivering man.

He looked to be in his fifties, which in this country meant he was little more than thirty-years-old. He wore twin bandoliers over his shoulders and several daggers sheathed in his belt, as well as two large pistols in his belt, gunfighter style. They were 9mm Russian made Makarovs. He was the very image of a warrior, an authentic fighting man, except for the shivering. Stoner couldn't help but smile. The effect was like he’d dressed up for a Halloween parade. The guy was shivering in terror now his men were dead, and he had few illusions about the fate awaiting him.

"Don't kill me. Don't kill me. Please, I can help you. Tell me what you want."

The voice was like ice. "What we want is for you to die.” Javed had drawn his dagger and was moving toward him. The Pakistani shivered even more. There was something about the boy with the innocent young face approaching with his dagger drawn. Something elemental that would have sent a chill through the bravest of men. He looked up at them.

"Don't let him do it. Don't let him do it. Please, whatever it is you want, I can give it to you. Anything.”

They questioned him at length, and when he offered the services of his young daughters for their comfort, Stoner was ready to give Javed the go ahead to kill him, when the man said the words that saved his life.

"I can lead you to them."

"Javed, stop," he snapped. "Lead us to who?"

He sneered. “The women, of course. The hostages, I know where they are. The place they are holding them.”

“Who said we came for any hostages?"

A shrug. “Why else would anyone come to this place? There is nothing here except poverty, disease, and death."

“And travelers to ambush, rob, and kill.”

He gave a faint nod of acknowledgement. “There is that, yes.”

It wasn't hard to envisage the hardscrabble existence of people unfortunate enough to call this place home, and to feel sorry for them, until they tried to rob and kill you.

"Okay, tell us about these women. Where are they?”

“I can take you to them."

“If you want to live, you’d better tell us where they are, and make it fast."

He shook his head. He wasn't stupid and knew the moment he gave away the location his life would hold no further value for his captors. He stubbornly refused to talk, and Mohammed Nadiri moved closer, his expression fixed in a cold, gloating smile.

"I can make him talk. Give me a few minutes."

Stoner recalled the piteous, howling screams that came from behind the coffeehouse when Nadiri had gone to work to make the other man talk, and he held up a hand.

"Leave him. He could be useful."

The man smiled in relief, but the smile faded when Stoner added, “We can always kill him later.”

They redistributed the load on the GAZ, and with the extra weight, the bodywork was down on the springs, almost rubbing the tops of the tires. The captive, whose name was Jamal Sama, rode on the hood, his hands tied to the windshield and his ankles to the front fender. When he protested the heat of the engine was burning his ass, Nadiri offered to put him out of his misery. He didn’t complain again.

They still had a long distance to travel, and Stoner was thinking ahead. Reaching them would be hard enough in this bandit-infested territory. But getting them out would be something else. They’d be followed and shot at every kilometer of the way back to the border and beyond.

The overloaded GAZ struggled to make progress along the rough, narrow track. Because of the heavy rains, in parts the surface was no more than a bog, and they had to dismount and push the jeep forward to make it back to solid ground. Eventually, the route climbed into the low hills, and they had less mud to contend with. They drove on, although the engine had started to splutter and misfire, due to the excess water that had drowned and soaked every cable under the hood. They crested a low rise and started down the other side. The going looked better, until they ran into a deep hole that buried the GAZ above the axles. Once again, they had to climb out and push, wading through knee-deep water. When they at last reached solid ground, the engine refused to start.

Greg opened the hood and delved in the engine to look for the source of the problem. Javed rooted around for dry rags to wipe the cables dry, and he started to work next to Greg. The boy was enjoying himself, a natural at understanding how to fix the mechanics and electrics of vintage engines; a promising start for a career as a mechanic, or to continue his sideline of vehicle theft, at which he'd already proved himself highly skilled.

With nothing to do but wait, Stoner began to quarter the landscape, searching for threats. Yet the region was deserted, and with good reason, a wasteland of potholes, mud, and scattered rubble, with no sign of any means to support life. Water occasionally hammered down from the skies during heavy rains, and later disappeared, soaking into the parched earth. There were no streams, rivers, or reliable roads. No huts, no villages, and no people. It was like they'd broken down on the surface of the moon. He was still searching around for movement when something caught the corner of his eye, and he glanced up. A tiny dot in the sky, and he watched it come nearer. He wasn't that worried. It had to be a Pakistani Air Force jet, and as far as he knew, they hadn't done anything to upset the Paks. Given time, they’d do plenty to upset Islamabad, but as yet, they were just innocent travelers, making their way across the country. He relaxed as the aircraft came nearer. It was also descending, clearly coming down to have a good look at them. He watched the Pakistani F-16 flash past in a thunder of powerful Pratt & Whitney F100 jet engine.

The aircraft was close enough for him to see the helmet and oxygen mask of the pilot as he stared down at them, and he noted the munitions loaded on the weapons pylons. The Fighting Falcon wasn’t on a simple training fight. It was loaded for bear. The aircraft banked away and roared up into the sky, almost standing on its tail. As it gained height, the pilot performed a flashy roll. The bastard was confident, enjoying showing off to his victims. Giving them a taste of what awaited them. The aircraft turned through one hundred and eighty degrees and came hurtling back in at them. The fighter hadn't launched a missile yet; standard practice against a small target, an unknown vehicle, and a group of armed fighters.

He thought about waving to try to persuade the guy they weren’t hostile, but a second later, the aircraft came in for an attack run. He took a couple of seconds to slash the ties that bound Jamal Sama to the hood, and still with his wrists and ankles trussed, tossed him on the back seat, where he would at least be less exposed. He dove for cover at the side of the track. The F-16 wasn't using missiles for good reason. The pilot had decided to have some fun, and the hammering of the internal M61 cannon was loud above the roar of the engine. As if someone had imported a jackhammer into the remote region, but this was no jackhammer. The heavy cannon rounds smashed into the ground around them, throwing up clods of earth and stones that rained around them as they fell back to earth.

Noyan and Nadiri, old hands at dealing with attacks from the air, were already on the other side of the track, hugging the ground. Javed ran from behind the GAZ and sped toward the pool of water that lay across the track. He dove in amidst a huge splash of spray. Greg came out from under the hood, shouted to Archer, and man and dog joined Stoner. The F-16 came in for a second pass, and more cannon rounds thumped into the ground around them. Several smashed into the GAZ, but so far, they’d taken no casualties.

The fighter banked away, performed a flashy wing overturn, and came back for a third time. The two Afghan Talibs had taken enough. When under attack from the air their practice was to return fire with assault rifles on full auto, and the 7.62mm bullets arced up toward the incoming fighter.

Hitting a fast-moving aircraft with assault rifles from the ground is an almost impossible task, but this time, the gods of war smiled on them. They scored a lucky hit. By some miracle, a bullet hit the Perspex canopy. The toughened plastic crazed, leaving the pilot almost blind. He pointed the nose upward, and the aircraft sped away. They’d survived this round, and they were alive. For now.

The silence returned, and Stoner let out a breath. "I think he's gone."

Greg nodded. “He didn't have any choice, not when those crazy Afghans hit his canopy."

They walked over to Noyan and Nadiri, who were casually reloading their assault rifles. Calm, as if they’d just taken tea with the pilot, not almost shot him out of the sky.

"That was good shooting," he said to Noyan, "You saved our lives."

The Talib shrugged. "It was nothing. Most of our bullets missed. If the bastard comes back we’ll open fire sooner. God willing, we’ll bring him down. A pity we don't have any missiles. Back in the day, we would have blasted him out of the sky with a Stinger."

Stoner didn't point out the Stinger was American-made, and probably the aircraft they were shooting at back then would also have been American-made, piloted by an American. Some things were best left unsaid.

Javed joined them, shaking off the water from his clothes like a dog. "Are you hurt?" Noyan asked him.

"Good. What about the engine? We need that jeep. Can you get it started?"

Greg was about to reply, but Javed got there first.

"Sir, there isn’t a vehicle made I can’t get started.” He grinned, "If I couldn't start them, how would I be able to steal them?"

Stoner suppressed a smile.

A skilled mechanic and a ruthless killer, some upbringing for a young boy!

Javed continued to work on drying out the electrics. Greg gave the jeep a thorough check for damage, and when he’d finished he looked relieved.

"We took three cannon shells, one through the rear seat, one the trunk, and one of them went through a box of ammunition. Thank God it didn't cook off."

Stoner had a sudden thought. "What about the prisoner? Is he alive?"

Blum chuckled. “You ought to take a look. He’s alive, sure, but it looks like he could do with a change of pants."

Stoner looked in the back of the jeep. Where the Pakistani had been lying on the back seat, tied and unable to move, a cannon round had smashed through the upholstery, directly between his legs, missing his genitals by less than two inches. He was still shaking with fear, and Greg was right, he could do with a change of pants. They were soaking wet after he'd pissed himself with terror. Not that surprising, after he’d come close to losing the family jewels.

Less than a minute later, the engine roared to life, and Javed gave them a huge smile. "I told you I’d get it started."

Greg grinned. "I didn't believe him, but damn, if he ever wants a career as a motor mechanic, he'd be a natural."

"We need to get going now," he told them, “If we stick around here, he’ll be back."

Noyan gave him a searching look. "And how long do you think it'll take them to bolt on a new cockpit canopy, or send a replacement aircraft to kill us? I doubt we have more than an hour."

"How long before we reach Chilas?"

“Four hours, no less."

"Then we need to leave. We can't find somewhere to hide in the hope he'll miss us. There is nowhere, not in this barren place.”

“He won’t miss us.”

“Then we'll just have to deal with the next attack when it comes."

Noyan smiled. "We’ve done this before, many times. I have a few suggestions."

"We need to cover the GAZ with the canvas tarpaulin to blur the outline. We can cover the canvas with sticks, branches, anything we can find. As we travel, we will watch the sky for when the aircraft comes back, and if he spots us, we defend ourselves. There’s one way to stand a chance of stopping him, and that’s for us to fire together on full auto. Let the bastard taste our lead.”

“Anti-aircraft style.”

“Yes. Last time we were lucky, but next time the chances of hitting him will be remote. Four rifles firing on full auto may give us a chance."

He stopped as Javed grabbed his AK from the GAZ. “Five rifles, Mr. Noyan."

"Five rifles," he agreed, "At least it may put him off his aim."

Stoner frowned. "Then he'll stand off and hit us with a missile."

"In which case it is in God's hands. However, as I said, there are steps we can take to help ourselves. First, we camouflage the jeep, and second, we watch the sky in case he comes back. I doubt they will give up, not after we damaged their aircraft.”

They set to work, dragging the heavy canvas tarpaulin over the vehicle, and they cut holes for them to see out. Next, they scouted the area for debris, dead branches, loose scree, anything they could throw over the makeshift camouflage. When they’d finished, the GAZ bore a faint resemblance to a small hill parked on the track, at least from a distance. They were in with a chance to elude the F-16, in the event it came back. And they were sure it would be back, thirsting for revenge.

Greg climbed back into the driving seat and got the jeep moving. They had to go slow to avoid the camouflage blowing off in the slipstream. Visibility made driving difficult, and the rest of them scanned the sky through the holes they’d cut, watching for the enemy. The first hour went past in nervous anticipation, but there was no aircraft, and every man prayed the Pakistani jet might not return. They were almost at the end of the second hour and starting to relax.

The track took them into a shallow valley, and a storm of machine gun bullets cut through the air two meters in front of them. Automatically, they scanned the sky, looking for the fighter, surprised they hadn't seen or heard him coming. Stoner thought about it some more.

"The fighter doesn’t carry a light machine gun. He has a cannon. The gunfire is come coming from somewhere else, somewhere higher up. Look at the sides of the valley."

Another burst came from above them, and he spotted muzzle flashes.

"There, over to the south, high up. There’s no shelter, so we’ll have to hide behind the GAZ until we can figure a way out of this."

They leapt out, just before the next line of bullets stitched holes in the seats, and they had to hug the ground, using the wheels for cover. Knowing that all it took was for the shooter to target and shred the tires, and they'd be trapped.

Stoner was gazing up at the place where he’d picked out the muzzle flashes and estimating the distance to the foot of the slope. About fifty meters, and every step would be across open ground. Yet they had no other options, and he had to try. He explained what he required from them.

"When I start running, pour fire onto that machine gun position. Keep their heads down until I reach the slope."

"You’ll never make it," Greg shook his head, "Look up there. The guy is tucked well in out of sight. No matter how many bullets we fire, I doubt we'll be able to put him off his aim."

"There is another problem," Noyan said, "We don't know how many men are up there. Even if you do make it to the slope, it will be a very difficult climb without any cover. Perhaps impossible.”

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"I do," Nadiri grunted. He was impassive as ever, and only the glint in the eyes told of his thirst to get to grips with the enemy, "I'm coming with you, and we can leapfrog up the slope. One gives cover, while the other climbs to the next stage."

“I've done it before," Stoner said, "And I need every gun firing when I make my run."

Nadiri shrugged. "Regardless, I shall come with you.”

“Forget it. Just give me the covering fire. I'll handle this."

Without waiting for further disagreements, he catapulted from behind cover and started to run. The machine gun opened up at once, and the gunner walked his bullets toward him. The men crouched behind the jeep began sending up covering fire. Burst after burst smashed into the rocks around the gunner, and the fire faltered. Behind him, Stoner could hear the pounding of boots over the rough ground, and the heavy breathing of a big man as he chased after him. When he reached the slope, Mohammed Nadiri flung himself down beside him.

"I told you I could handle this."

He gave him a flat stare. “I said you couldn't. I'll take the first sprint."

He didn’t have time to say any more. Nadiri was up and running, climbing the hill, and in spite of his huge, heavy body, he went up the slope like a gazelle. Until the machine gun found him, and bullets chipped up dust and small chunks of rock around his running feet. He dove behind a shallow outcrop of rock and began to return fire. Stoner didn't need to know more. He was already running, following Nadiri up the slope. He bounded past him as Nadiri fired burst after burst at the machine gunner. He made another fifty meters, halfway up when the next burst smashed down from above, and he had to dive for cover. He aimed his AK upward, pulled the trigger, and sent up another stream of bullets. Nadiri was on the move again, almost up with him and about to race past, when the shooting started again. But this time it was from about twenty meters to the east of the machine gun. Several men were firing assault rifles, and the bullets smashed around both men. With a sense of despair, Stoner realized he’d underestimated the enemy. They'd worked out how to counter the two men coming up toward them by splitting their force. Now they had them trapped between the two sets of gunfire. Sooner or later, the enemy would find the range and kill them.

He glanced down at the GAZ, and they were still sending short bursts up at the machine gunner. The idea was to encourage them to keep their heads down. Except they weren't keeping their heads down, almost ignoring the incoming gunfire from below, and treating it with contempt. They’d seen the main threat came not from the men behind the GAZ, but from the two men climbing toward them. The gunfire increased as they maneuvered into new positions, and it was almost like they had bullets to burn. Pinned down, there was no opportunity for Stoner and Nadiri to press home the attack.

The four shooters to the east were getting closer, using the bursts from the machine gun to cover their approach. When they were less than thirty meters away, they resumed firing, and Stoner could now see the machine gun crew scrambling to bring their weapon to a new position where they’d have a clearer sight of the target. Between the two groups of hostiles, they were closing off every escape route, and the two men were stymied.

“I was right,” Nadiri grunted from beside him, “You couldn’t do it on your own.”

“Sure, you were right. Why lose one man killed when you can lose two?”

The Talib scowled. “We’re not dead yet.”

Stoner glanced every which way to a solution, and there was nothing. If they went forward, they'd tear them apart with a storm of bullets. If they stayed where they were, the inevitable would happen, and they'd get close enough and pour fire down on them. They’d be flayed by a hurricane of lead, most of it ricochets from the impacts of cannon shells on the surrounding rocks. Their final option was no option at all. To retreat back down the slope, which would leave them exposed, and they’d die just the same.

He struggled to work out the least worst option. Go forward, stay, or to fallback, and there was a hair's breadth between any of them. He was still trying to work it out when he heard an aircraft and looked up. They had yet more trouble. The F-16 was back. Maybe they'd repaired the canopy, or this was a replacement aircraft, but the difference was moot. A fighter jet was a fighter jet. The pilot brought it down in a swooping dive, leaving them in no doubt as to his intentions. The Falcon came nearer and nearer, and Stoner waited for the GAZ to erupt in a fury of cannon fire, but it didn't happen.

Whether the pilot had overlooked the camouflaged vehicle, or had something else in mind, he had no way of knowing. The fighter swept overhead, and they knew the pilot was the same man. Flashy, and he barrel rolled above the valley, zoomed up into the sky, flipped the nose over, and came back at them. Stoner tensed, waiting for the gunfire to rip them apart. But the pilot still wasn't satisfied, and he roared past for a second recon of the target. Stoner wondered if from the cockpit he'd seen the two men sheltering in the rocks. They’d have been difficult to spot from the air, but surely he couldn’t miss the jeep. They'd know when the cannon fire thundered down, and the aircraft performed another flashy barrel roll, the nose flipped over, and the fighter came back in.

This time it was for real. No hesitation, and he came lower and lower, a hunter, not wanting to stand off and fire a missile from afar. No, he wanted to do it the old-fashioned way, up close with bullets, to rip them apart using his skill to destroy the target. The cannon fire started, spurts of smoke puffed from the nose of the F-16, and a line of tracer hurtled down toward them.

He had time to shout, "Down!"

They flattened even lower against the rock. The bullets missed them, although they felt the impacts of the heavy gunfire smashing into the rock all around them. It took him a moment to understand what was happening. The pilot had seen the ambush positions above the valley. The group of shooters to the east, the machine gun position to the west, and he’d identified them as his target. He was doing the job for them, and by a miracle, the man who'd tried to kill them was now saving them.

Screams came from above, and one man stood up to try and run. Heavy cannon shells ripped his body apart, and chunks of flesh flew into the air, as if churned by an awful machine. The machine gunner attempted to target the aircraft, but the pilot was in no mood to screw around after he'd already taken damage from ground fire. Once again, he barrel-rolled up into the sky and banked over, but this time, he'd exhausted his patience. A missile dropped off of the starboard pylon and ignited, hurtling down toward the machine gun position, and his aim was good. The explosion was massive, and Stoner found himself thrown into the air by the blast wave.

The pilot zoomed away, turned, and came back in a slow pass to check his handiwork. He didn't see Stoner or Nadiri flat against the rock, perhaps because they were covered in dust and debris from the blast. Nothing was moving, and he evidently decided he’d completed his work. The aircraft zoomed away, gaining height, and disappeared into the distant clouds. Once again, the region went quiet, and the two men slowly picked themselves up.

First, they went to the machine gun position a few meters above them. There was little need to check. The heavy shells had torn the weapon apart, and there were four men, the gunner, the loader, and two fighters. At least there’d once been four men. Now all that remained were their dismembered corpses and body parts, torn out of recognition by the awesome power of the 30mm cannon. They went to check the secondary position, and the four shooters were similarly lifeless. All that remained were bloody scraps of flesh and bone.

Nadiri nodded to himself in satisfaction. "I'm certain these men are from the group we seek, the Haqqanis. The evidence is there, the religious beads each man carries, and the remains of a Koran in their robes. Haqqanis, no question."

They climbed back down the slope and reached the GAZ. Greg came out from behind cover. "How does it look up there?"

He grinned. "That's good enough for me. Who would have believed it? That Pakistani pilot saved our lives."

"I’ll remember to send him a bottle of Scotch," Stoner grunted, "Right now, I suggest we get your jalopy moving. Mohammed here reckons they were Haqqanis, and they weren't waiting up there for a picnic. They knew we're coming, and they intended to stop us." He looked at Noyan. "Is there a different route we can take?"

He shook his head. "We are on the different route. There is no other. However, in future we take more care."

"From the Haqqanis, or from the Pakistani Air Force?" He grimaced, "Not forgetting Colonel Rahman’s Special Forces. We know they’ve thrown in with Khan in return for a share of the ransom, so I doubt they’ll be far behind."

Greg whistled. "Stoner, that's three separate enemies chasing our tails. Even for you that's a record. How come you manage to piss off so many people?"

He smiled. "I reckon it must be my warm and engaging personality."

He didn’t reply. He felt something wet sliding down his leg, and when he looked down, his pants were dark, and it had to be blood.

He put a foot forward and felt his leg collapse. Waves of pain tore through his body, and all of a sudden he was lying on the ground, with Greg kneeling over him.

“Stoner, you’ve got a hole in your leg.”

“Right. Nothing too serious?”

“Apart from the loss of at least two pints of blood, no.”

“Help me up. We need to get out of here.”

He was shaking his head. “No way, buddy. You can’t even walk, let alone fight. We have to get you out of here, back over the border, and get medical treatment. This operation is a bust, at least for now.”

“No, no way. We go on. Greg, don’t even think about it. I’ll crawl if I have to, but there’s no way I’m leaving her.”

“Her? You mean the Congresswoman? Stoner, there’re a lot of women taken hostage, they reckon as many as twenty. As well as Noyan’s kids.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Them.”

Greg stared back at him. “I know what you meant, buddy. Okay, we go on. We’ll get her out, along with the rest of them. But before we leave, I’m gonna put a dressing on that leg.”

“It’s only a bit of blood.”

“It’s making a mess of my GAZ. Shut up, and let me handle this.”

When he’d finished, Stoner slumped on the passenger seat, doing his best to hide from them the waves of giddiness washing through his head. Archer wasn’t fooled, and he gave him a sympathetic whine, licking his hand in a show of affection and support. He stroked the dog’s head.