part0011

She'd told him to ‘kill the fuckers,’ and it was language he understood. He'd tucked the Tokarev into the waistband of his pants, with his shirt hanging loose over the top to conceal the gun. He wasn’t confident he’d have an opportunity to use it. They were being extra careful, and they'd fill him full of lead if he made a sudden move.

Then again, what do I have to lose? That’s what Sara doesn't understand. Life is an equation. Kill or be killed. In these badlands, there’s no other law, just the law of the jungle, the survival of the fittest.

Inwardly, he smiled, for he was anything but fit.

Although I have a gun, I'm breathing, and I have bullets in my gun. I can keep going. I’ll empty the magazine into the hostiles in a last, suicidal fusillade of bullets. Before they tear me apart with their assault rifles.

He watched them carefully as he emerged from the tunnel. They were still standing well back, giving him no chance to make his play. Barbara emerged beside him, and he had a flash of inspiration. He put his head close to hers and murmured, "Pretend to fall. I need to get them close."

She gave him a slight nod and proceeded to put on a command performance. Her body twisted, as if a muscle had failed in her leg, and she fell heavily to the floor, shrieking in agony. The Afghans acted on instinct, charging forward in a group to catch her, and bring her out of the cave for her execution. Stoner was no danger. His face battered like a casualty from a major traffic accident, his pant’s leg bloody from a bullet wound, he looked like a man already on borrowed time. In their haste and inexperience, they ignored him.

He could hardly believe the ruse had worked so well. Four pairs of eyes concentrated on Barbara Adams, and it was a simple matter to slip out the Tokarev He put one bullet into each man, each shot well aimed, two in the head, two in the heart. Four bullets, four dead bodies. He had a brief image of a big man on a motorcycle, dispensing justice. No, this wasn’t justice. This was war. He helped the Congresswoman to her feet.

"Barbara, go back to the cell and let them out. I'll hold Rahman’s men off."

He tucked the Tokarev back into his waistband and snatched up an assault rifle. A Kalashnikov AKM, the modern variant of the iconic AK-47. It fired the same size round, the Russian military grade 7.62mm. Men were shouting panicked questions from nearby, no doubt wondering about the reason for the gunfire. He hunched in the shadows of the cave entrance and watched them rush toward him. Five men, blundering into him like the rookies they were. He flicked the selector to full auto, pulled the trigger, and hosed them down with a long burst from a full magazine. Thirty bullets for five men, an average of six rounds apiece, and they were bunched up like newborn pups. Amateurs, and they paid the price for their inexperience in full. One moment they were running, the next tumbling into the dirt, riddled by his bullets. Sara came beside him and watched the carnage for a few seconds. Her expression was unreadable. She wrenched her eyes from the bodies and looked at him.

"What do you want me to do?"

“Pick up a rifle. There’ll be more of them soon, and we’ll need to defend ourselves. See if you can find spare magazines, and give the other two rifles to anyone who can shoot. Go for it."

Seconds later, women were scrambling out of the low tunnel, and Sara handed out the two spare rifles. He took out the Tokarev and gave it to Barbara. "The magazine carries eight rounds, and I fired four. You’re welcome to the rest."

Her expression was grim. "I’ll put them to good use."

The ground in front was clear as the remaining hostiles fled for cover. He shouted across to Greg, hoping he was still in position behind the building.

"Greg, it's me, Stoner. Are you still there?"

"We’re here. Hey, Stoner, we've been waiting what seems like forever. How come it took you so long?"

He smiled to himself. “I must be getting old, Greg. We’re coming out, me and the women."

A pause. "The survivors, not all. Cover us."

He ran into the open and slowed to a jog because of the leg. But he made it to cover behind the building. Sara was beside him, and the rest of the women arrived, led by Barbara Adams. Blum stepped out and gave him a wide grin. Archer barked and rushed at him, attempting to lick him to death. The two Afghans, Noyan and Nadiri stood watching, aloof and dignified.

The boy was ecstatic, and he rushed to pat him on the back. Stoner noticed something surprising. He wasn't just congratulating Stoner. He was celebrating their escape with the dog, and Archer responded with a series of wet licks. Boy and dog were getting on well, and that was just fine by him.

If a man’s able to enjoy that kind of relationship with a dog, he can't be all bad. Now I need to convince the other two, Noyan and Nadiri. That’s going to be long and hard.

Noyan approached Barbara, and there was none of the Afghan macho in his expression. He was a worried father, looking for his kids. “Did you see them? Two young children, a boy and a girl?”

She gave him a flinty look. “Excuse me, who are you?”

“Abbas Noyan, their father. Khan’s men took them.”

Her expression changed. “I see. I’m so sorry, Mr. Noyan, but no, we didn’t see any young children. Perhaps…”

“They aren’t dead. I know they’re not dead.”

“No, of course not. Perhaps they’re hiding them in another part of Chilas.”

The first shots thumped into the ground around them. Stoner aimed the rifle at the man who'd just gone into the cave and emerged when he found they were gone. He’d seen them and started shooting. Wildly aimed shots, but the noise drew more of Rahman’s men, and the bullets came thick and fast.

Stoner pulled the trigger and hit him with the first three bullets. Which was fortunate, as there was no fourth bullet. The magazine was empty, and he slammed in a replacement.

"There’ll be more of them soon. We need to get out of here. Abbas, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to look for your kids later.”

“It may be too late.”

“It will be too late if we stick around here. Look, I promise I’ll help you. And I won’t give up until we find them. Is that a deal?”

After a short pause, he nodded. “Deal.”

He looked at Greg. “Have you seen anything we can use for transport? These women can’t walk out of here.”

Blum was staring toward the road that went to Chitral. “Like that, you mean?"

A bus was driving toward them, painted in the garish colors of the jingle trucks, but this was a passenger vehicle, and the driver blasted his horn for them to step aside and let him pass. When they stood in the road and pointed their assault rifles at him, he brought the bus to a halt. He looked out of the driver’s window.

"Sirs, how can I help you? Did you want to go somewhere?"

"We sure do. That’s why we’re taking the bus."

He raised his hands in outrage. "You cannot take this bus. It belongs to the Imperial Transport Company of Northeast Pakistan. We have been carrying passengers since the days of the British Raj. If you take the bus, there will be serious consequences."

Stoner fixed him with an icy glare. "Pal, there’ll be serious consequences for you if you don't get out of the way.” He pointed the rifle at his head, “You have five seconds."

He nodded. “Help yourselves. The bus is yours."

They climbed aboard, and Barbara demonstrated yet another of her many and surprising talents. "I'll drive."

She was already sitting in the driver's seat, examining the controls. Stoner threw her a questioning glance.

"Are you sure? These things are not like driving a regular car back home. It has a manual shift and a clutch, and there’s also the steering wheel. You’ll find it’s like an overloaded truck."

"I can handle it. Mister, when the massage work went quiet, I volunteered to drive the local school bus."

His eyebrows shot up. "A masseuse driving a school bus?"

“You’re damn right. Never had an accident.”

He shrugged. "Knock yourself out. The rest of you get down on the floor, except for the shooters. There's only one way we’ll get out of here, and that's to blast our way through."

Barbara started the engine and simultaneously forced the gearlever into low gear with a screech of tortured metal. He’d no doubt they'd lost several teeth from the cogs in the gearbox.

Barbara turned her head and grinned. "Sorry, folks, I forgot the clutch."

With brisk, businesslike movements, she stomped on the clutch, slammed the lever into low gear, revved up the engine, and let go the clutch. The big old bus lurched forward, jerking like a drunken kangaroo, and they were heading along the street. Except Chilas had a single way in, and a single way out.

Stoner shouted, "You’re going the wrong way! Turn around."

She wrenched the wheel and swung the bus around as they reached the outskirts of the small town, knocking masonry from adjacent buildings. She stomped on the gas, and the bus was heading west, out of Chilas. They passed the cave where the women had been imprisoned, and the shooting started. Rahman’s surviving troops sheltered behind nearby buildings, and a storm of bullets tore through the thin vehicle body. They replied with assault rifles, eight in all. The firing slackened when the Afghans learned they were facing a tougher enemy, and they kept their heads down. Then they were past, roaring out of town, and Stoner reloaded.

"I think we made it. Damn, that was close."

"Too close for some," Sara said, moving beside him, "We lost two. Two of our people are dead."

He walked back down the bus, and behind the driver, two bodies lay in a heap on the floor, ripped apart by long volleys of incoming fire.

"They were aiming at the driver. They’d have had more of us, but it's lucky they’re lousy shots.”

"Not lucky for them," she murmured.

"No, not lucky for them."

Sara grimaced. "The woman next to me took a bullet, but it was just a flesh wound, and it took a slice out of her side. The bullet struck about four inches from me."

"They almost hit you? Are you sure you’re okay?"

"Relax, I'm okay. Stoner, do you think we’re going to get out of this?"

He shook his head. "It depends what lies ahead of us. Let me think about this."

He wasn't thinking about whether they'd get out. He was mad with rage. Once again, they'd come close to killing his girl, and he fought down his fury. All he could think of was to kill them.

Rahman, the Afghan traitor connected to the President, Griggs, the treacherous former SEAL who’d deserted to continue blazing a path of butchery. Ishaq Khan, the man who'd brought them together, molded them into a bunch of sadistic murderers, and led them under the banner of the Hammer of God. His story was some deity had spoken to him personally and told him to slaughter the innocents. All that mattered to Khan was killing, to further promote his agenda of bloody conquest.

Hiding like a yellow coward under the under the banner of Islam, like so many before him, a smokescreen to hide the truth. The truth was murder, torture, and rape, with a first course of pillage and loot. Just like the men Stoner had hunted for so long in Afghanistan, admittedly for money.

They were five klicks west of Chilas, and Barbara was driving like crazy. He started to relax, but it was short-lived. Ahead of them, he saw a line of open back trucks, led by an SUV. In the exhilaration of getting out of Chilas, he'd forgotten Khan. Forgotten he was due back soon, and now they were here, in front of them. The lead truck overtook the SUV, slowed, and swerved across the road to block it. Men poured out, aiming their guns at the oncoming bus. Barbara didn't need to ask, and she brought the bus to a halt. They were five hundred meters apart, not close enough for accurate shooting, but one of Khan's trucks mounted a 12.7mm heavy machine gun, a Zil.

"You want me to turn around?"

He weighed up the odds, considered their options. Fight or flight. Fighting Khan's men was impossible. Eight rifles against fifty were absurd odds. Which left the other option, to flee. That meant turning around and driving back to Chilas. Driving into a trap. Beyond Chilas were just mountains, and no roads. Yet they had no choice.

“Turn around. We’re going back.”

They had one thing in their favor. Rahman’s men were a bunch of pussies. Hit them hard enough and they’d run.

“We don't have a choice, Barbara. Take us back to the town."

She made a tight turn and gunned the bus back toward Chilas. Khan's convoy followed, maintaining the same distance of five hundred meters. They had them beat, so why hurry? All Khan need do was follow them into the town. Sandwich them between his troops and Rahman’s men, and chew them up and spit them out.

Stoner put his arm around Sara. "I'm sorry. It's not working out."

She gave him a brave smile. “You did your best. Can we can get out of this?"

He didn't reply, and she grimaced. "Right, I guess this is the end. At least we know where we stand. Things couldn't be any worse."

He looked up and saw the aircraft heading in toward them. She was wrong. Things were about to get a whole lot worse.

“Fighter! Down, all of you.”

Captain Pervez Ashraf scanned the skies, searching for the intruder. In the tandem seat behind, Senior Sergeant Hussain fidgeted nervously. It was a tight fit, after they’d retrofitted the single seat fighter to carry a crew of two. Sergeant Hussain was also nervous, perspiring heavily, and the closer they got to the target the more he sweated. And stank. Ashraf concentrated on locating the intruder. They'd told him it was a rotorcraft approaching from the north, from Afghanistan, and it was somewhere in the mountains.

Northeast Pakistan was a region that consisted of hills and mountains, and helicopters could easily fly along the valleys, to avoid radar detection. Like now, when his eyes swept the screen in front of them and there was no sign of anything untoward. No hostile craft, in fact, no craft of any kind.

Which wasn't surprising, this region was the usual haunt of insurgents, Islamic extremists, and criminals on the run. No one came here, at least, no civilized people, and why would they? A barren area, and all it had to offer was poverty and misery.

Ashraf still felt pissed after the gunfire that shattered his canopy, and he’d returned to the airfield to derogatory sneers from his fellow pilots. The F-16 was an advanced fighter interceptor. A little dated these days, but still a potent aircraft, and a force to be reckoned with. To break off the mission with a shattered canopy, courtesy of some insurgent on the ground armed with a battered Kalashnikov, was a severe blow. The humiliation heaped on him by the other pilots made his anger burn with furnace-like heat.

He glanced again at the screen, and there was still nothing. Automatically, his gaze swept the ground five thousand meters below. After the last time, he was careful to take note of any insurgent activity on the ground, and a moment later, his prayers were answered. He saw the familiar winking gun flashes of rifle fire, and he began to descend. When he reached two thousand meters, he could see them. A bunch of insurgents in a series of trucks, with an SUV in the lead, and they were trading bullets with a bus. Not any bus, he concluded whoever was inside had hijacked it, for they were pouring out rifle fire at the other hostiles. This choice was a simple one. Hit the bus first, and go on to take the string of vehicles. Or take the convoy first.

He briefly thought again about the helicopter they’d sent him up locate and destroy. The thought was brief, and he muttered a curse. The helicopter could wait. The people on the ground had already proved they could be dangerous to military aircraft. He’d made up his mind to hit the bus first, but at the last moment, with his thumb over the fire button, he spotted a more serious threat. The convoy of vehicles, including a truck with a mounted heavy machine gun, a 12.7mm DShK, designed for anti-aircraft use. If they opened up on him, he'd lose a lot more than a canopy, like his aircraft, and probably his life. He twitched the stick a fraction and swung onto the new target. At an altitude of one thousand meters, he hit the fire button. The 20mm M61A1 Vulcan 6-barrel rotary cannon roared, and he stitched a line of cannon shells into the target.

The first shots were fifty meters wide, but he guided the aircraft in, and less than a second later, the truck-mounted heavy machine gun disappeared in a billow of smoke and fire. A moment later, the vehicle exploded when several of his bullets hit the gas tank, and black smoke and flames belched out of the wreckage. He pulled the stick back hard and shot the Falcon straight up into the sky, jinking from side to side in case they were armed with missiles, but nothing came toward him. When he reached five thousand meters again, he performed a wing over and started back down for a second attack run.

This time, they were all ready, and a score of assault rifles blazed away at him. He smiled; he'd use different tactics. At two thousand meters, he found the fire button again and stitched a line of bullets along the convoy. At such a distance, the fire was less than accurate, but it was enough to see the enemy vehicles take hits. He didn't go low, staying out of effective range of the guns on the ground, and wary for missiles. He flung the aircraft in a tight loop, barreling away from the target and pulling back on the stick to soar back into the air.

The G-force of the sudden, high-speed turn almost made him blackout, but he gently eased off the turn and continue to climb. This time, he stayed at a safe height while he surveyed the damage. It was then he noticed the man with the shoulder-launched missile, a Soviet-era 9K32 Strela-2, NATO codenamed the Grail. If he got too close, they'd launch. In which case he was in danger of taking a missile into the exhaust of his jet engine. He circled, gaining height, and surveyed the ground below. The bus hadn't moved, and he decided to take it out. He'd approach at low level from the east, keeping far away from the hostile convoy and their missile. Stitch a long line of bullets into the bus, and pull up before he reached the danger zone, staying out of the effective range of the missile.

He flew higher, heading east. They'd assume he was leaving the scene. He chuckled.

When the bus was just a dot in the distance, he flung the aircraft around, pushed the throttle forward to the stop, and kicked in the afterburner. The aircraft broke the sound barrier, and the sonic boom would be rolling across the countryside. He lined up the bus in his sights as he drew nearer. He'd give it a long burst, rip it into scrap, then pull up and return to base. Tell then he hadn’t seen the helicopter, but he’d destroyed an important insurgent target. There was no need to tell them the rest of it. That he’d decided the last thing he needed was to tangle with ground-to-air missiles. His thumb was on the fire button, and he estimated he make the decision to open fire in the next second.

Ivan was in the cockpit of the Mi-24 gunship, standing behind the pilot. They'd just popped up from the deep valley they'd been following; in time to see the Pakistani F-16 Fighting Falcon attacked the convoy. He focused his binoculars on the bus and recognized a group of women. Western women. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

"That bus down there, it’s our people. Somehow Stoner and his pals managed to free the hostages. You see the convoy that jet just attacked, that has to be Khan. They’ve taken some hits, but half their vehicles are still intact and undamaged. That fighter is lining up to hit the bus, and those women will die. You have to do something."

He looked at Ivan and shook his head. "My friend, you must be mad. There's no way we can take on a fighter interceptor. If we tangle with the F-16, we’re dead.”

He wasn't prepared to take no for an answer. "Look, pal, that's my friends down there. There’s also a bunch of women, including an American Congresswoman. Find a way to hit that fighter."

"I could try a missile, but the second we launch, he'll turn on us, and he’ll be madder than hell."

"Do it. Otherwise, all bets are off, and you won't get any money. I’ll also report you to Kabul for taking bribes to misuse Air Force equipment."

"You wouldn't do that."

He sighed. “This is suicide.”

“We all die sometime. As soon as you’ve launched, head for the hills. We’ll hide out of sight in a valley until he’s gone.”

His reply was sulky. “I don’t like this, but I’ll do my best.”

“You’d better.”

He increased speed and armed an air-to-air missile. A moment later, it exploded off the rails and hurtled toward the Pakistani fighter. The fighter spotted it and roared away on afterburner, heading west.

The pilot shot Ivan a triumphant expression. “It is done. I’ll set a course for home.”

He swung the nose of the Russian helicopter around, heading north back to Afghanistan.

Captain Pervez Ashraf felt a lurch in his guts when he saw the missile launch. Behind him, Senior Sergeant Hussain screamed in terror. The helicopter had come of nowhere, and now it was shooting at him. He took his thumb off the fire button and pulled back hard on the stick, simultaneously hitting the button to release bundles of chaff and flares to trail in his wake. The decoys failed to fool the missile, and the missile kept coming, twisting in the air to follow the fighter.

Ashraf automatically swung the nose over to confuse the relentless pursuit of the missile, and he banked again as it drew nearer. He was congratulating himself he’d managed to avoid it when it struck the nose of the aircraft. The explosion tore into his cockpit, killing him instantly, and his broken body began the long, slow, descent to earth. Senior Sergeant Hussain had seen the missile about to impact, and he did the sensible thing. He punched out. As Ashraf’s body fell to earth, he was heading in a similar direction. Propelled from the stricken aircraft by his ejector seat, and the parachute had functioned as it should. He watched the ground come near and saw the puff of dust as his pilot’s body hit the ground. Moments later, he landed rather more gently, and began to untangle his harness. He climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, and started walking.

Stoner looked up at the sky, and if he’d blinked, he’d have missed it, a Pakistani fighter about to tear them apart with cannon fire, and an Afghan gunship that appeared from nowhere. The helo launched a missile that looked like it hit the F-16.

Praise the Lord and all the saints. But what the hell is an Afghan gunship doing in Pakistani airspace? I doubt we’ll ever know, but if I discover the name of the pilot, he gets a one-year free pass to Ma Kelly’s. The full deal, booze, broads, and breakfast.

Further along the track, Khan’s convoy was stationary, licking their wounds, and counting their losses. It would be some time before they were ready to fight, and at that moment, they were in the clear.

“Barbara, get this thing moving. Back to Chilas, fast, before they recover.”

She didn’t move. “You said there was no way out, except this track. There’s also something you’ve forgotten, Rahman and his men.”

“I didn’t forget. We killed plenty of them. I doubt he had more than four or five left. It’s the softer option. They’re on the back foot, and they’ll be frightened and looking for a way out. They won’t want to fight, so if we hit them hard, we can finish them. Including Colonel Rahman. Then we prepare for Khan’s men. It’s the best we can do.”

She pressed the starter button, and they headed back to Chilas, five klicks down the track.

“We have something going for us. We outgun Rahman’s remaining men. When you reach the town, they’ll start shooting, and I want you to drive straight at them. We’ll lose the windshield and punch out some of the windows each side. Then we position our guns, two each side, and four facing forward.”

Nadiri was nodding in satisfaction at the coming action, but Noyan looked worried. “My children may be in that town. I don’t like the idea of a pitched gun battle.”

“We don’t have a choice, but there is something we can do. We found Chilas after we took a prisoner, so we’ll do the same. Keep one man alive, and they may know where the kids are being held. Okay, Barbara, go for it.”

He reversed the rifle and smashed out the windshield. Greg and the Afghans knocked out the remaining glass from the side windows, and they got into position. Stoner and Blum up front, with Noyan and Nadiri, where they expected the action to be hottest. Javed, already considering himself an expert with firearms, instructed the women with rifles to stand on either side. The boy assured them he’d bolster any part of the defenses that came under heavy attack. No one smiled, and no one missed the grim, determined look on his face. He meant business. He meant to kill.

They lurched back toward the town. Javed had a last-minute thought and called to the dog.

“Archer, here. Get behind the seat and lie down.” The dog obeyed, “That’s it, stay.”

He began walking up and down the central aisle, wearing a warlike expression. Stoner smiled to himself, the kid was changing. The mind of a killer, which wasn’t surprising, considering his upbringing. He’d also been brought up a Muslim, to despise dogs as the devil’s creatures. His mentors, Noyan and Nadiri, reinforced that warped viewpoint. Yet here he was, forming an unmistakable bond with Archer. If they survived, there was hope for the boy. Probably not for the adults, their negative fixation on canines was too heavily ingrained. But the boy was, without realizing it, becoming a dog lover.

They were nearing the town, and the first shots cracked out. Two from the windows of low, stone buildings, and two from the dome of a makeshift, crumbling mosque. They were still some distance away, and the shots went wild. He pointed out the shooter to the others.

“They’ll be the easiest to knock out. Take them first, and we’ll have to get inside those buildings to kill the others. Greg, there’s something wrong.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Just about everything’s wrong. Men are shooting at us.”

“No, it’s not that. There should be more. I count four rifles. There should be five.”

“Why don’t we leave it at four? There’s no point in wishing for more.”

“I believe the fifth man is Rahman. I want him.”

“Yeah, I get that. Why don’t we deal with what’s in front of us first? There’s no other way out from here, so he has to be in the town somewhere. There’ll be time enough for Rahman when we’re done. Don’t forget, Khan will be on the way soon. He’s lost half his men and vehicles, but he still carries a lot more firepower than we do.”

“You’re right, but I’m worried about Rahman. Where he goes, there’s trouble.”

“We’ll bear it in mind. Hey, they’re getting close.”

Bullets peppered the bus, and a woman in back screamed.

The two men inside the buildings were behind thick walls. Not so those in the flimsy dome on top of the mosque. All four men emptied their rifles at the targets, and the shooting from the dome stopped. The men inside the buildings paused as they realized their numbers had halved, but then they began shooting again. Another woman in the center of the bus, lying on the floor, screamed as she took a bullet, and then Barbara rounded the building and screeched to a halt.

Stoner shouted, “Cover us,” and leapt out through the door.

The men followed him, and he shoulder charged the door. The rotten woodwork gave way, and he entered the dark gloom of what had once been a sizable dwelling. The two men were at the other end, shouting at each other as they debated how to handle the men who’d come back to kill them.

They took aim at Stoner, and the first man died, riddled by bursts from four rifles. They ran to cover the second man, who’d flung down his rifle and put his hands in the air. Greg picked up their rifles, searched their clothing for spare magazines, and Nadiri secured the prisoner.

He stared at Stoner. “He’s mine. This is for Noyan’s children. Or do you think those who make war on children deserve mercy?”

He shook his head. “Take him. He’s all yours.”

The Talibs stayed with the prisoner, and Stoner felt a momentary twinge of pity for the man, very momentary. They ran back out of the building, and the screams had already started. Sara was waiting with Barbara next to the bus.

“What’s going on in there?”

“The Talibs have a prisoner. They’re asking him where Noyan’s two kids are imprisoned.”

“They’re torturing him.”

“He doesn’t have to endure it. If he tells them where they are, it stops. It’s his choice.”

“It’s not right.”

“And if it was your kids whose lives were at stake? You’d make him a cup of coffee and ask nicely?”

She didn’t answer, but Barbara was more forthcoming. “I’d beat the crap out of the motherfucker. You never heard that. No U.S. Congresswoman would say such a thing.”

He grinned. “Noted. Did anyone see Colonel Rahman? Tribal dress, and an ornate, dark blue turban, black beard, paunchy.”

“No, there was no one like that amongst the dead.”

“Okay, let’s get ready for Khan. Barbara, use the bus to block the street. Then we need to prepare a little surprise for the Hammer of God.”

She muttered something about, ‘hammering his ass,’ and climbed into the bus. First, she shooed out the rest of the women, and Sara handed over the two extra rifles. Screams still issued from the building, and they gave it nervous glances. Barbara set them straight. “Don’t worry. It’s a guy who fancies himself as an abuser of children.”

She didn’t say any more, and the expressions hardened. He reckoned if the women had got hold of the guy, his suffering would be a whole lot worse.

Barbara drove away and parked the bus across the road, blocking it to anything bigger than a bicycle. Stoner led the armed women to their positions. He explained about the surprise he had in store for the enemy.

“When they come, they’ll stop before the roadblock and assume some of us are hiding inside the bus. Wrong.” He pointed to the houses at the edge of town, “We’ll be in there. They’ll stop for the roadblock and start shooting it up. When they’re fully occupied, we hit them from the flanks. It’s the only way to take out a superior force. When you start shooting, use single shots, and aim well. We don’t have a great deal of ammo. If they look like they’re recovering for a counterattack, we’ll hit them with automatic fire, and then slip back into town behind the buildings. Any questions?”

They smiled. There were no questions. Even Sara looked happy.

“We have two more rifles. Sara, hand them out to anyone who knows which end the bullets come out of, and we’ll start preparing a warm welcome for when Khan’s men arrive.”

She took the rifles from Greg and ran to the bus, where the women were still lying on the floor. Noyan and Nadiri emerged from the building, and they didn’t look happy. The first clue it hadn’t gone well was the absence of the man they’d interrogated.

“What happened to the prisoner?”

“He is unconscious.”

“Okay. So where are the children?”

He looked sheepish. “He passed out before he could tell us. All he said was they were holding them somewhere remote, not in Chilas.” He pointed to the hills and mountains looming in the distance, “We will leave now, before darkness falls, and start looking.”

Stoner put a hand on his arm, and Noyan flinched. “Abbas, when this is over, I’ll help you find them, like I promised. But first, we have to prepare for Khan’s men. Otherwise, they’ll be all over us, and if they win, they could kill your children before you find out where they’re holding them.”

He nodded. “We will stay until we’ve dealt with Khan. Then we go looking for them.”

They were halfway to the border, and Ivan was still thinking about what they’d left behind, like Congresswoman Adams. He’d need to explain why he hadn’t brought her back. He looked forward to the cockpit, and the pilot. The man had flatly refused to linger in Pakistani airspace, so the blame would fall on his shoulders. Still, he didn’t like it. They’d seen off the threat of the F-16, and they could have landed and taken some of the women back with them. Yet the Afghan pilot was too scared, and he reckoned he’d pushed him as far as he could.

He was sitting in the rear troop cabin with Gorgy and Akram, and they wouldn’t meet his eyes. He looked from one to the other. “What?”

“We could have taken some of them off, Boss. Doesn’t seem right, getting out of Dodge when they’re in trouble.”

“We did what we could. I persuaded the pilot to launch that rocket to send that fighter packing.”

He didn’t answer, watching the scenery slip past below.

Should I have done more? Sure, we could have brought back some of the prisoners, and Ambassador Adams would express his gratitude. Which would put me in good stead with the Agency. I could have given Stoner some assistance. Dammit, the guy’s almost a friend. Would the pilot have landed if I’d pushed him hard? Who knows what he’d have done, and it’s too late now.

But still, the feelings of guilt were a kick in the guts. He raked the distant mountain with his gaze, trying to forget what he’d left behind. Some would say it was dramatic, but all he saw was remote, harsh desolation. Sure, it could have been developed into something more attractive. Problem was, they’d need infrastructure. Roads, pipes for water and sewage, the trapping of civilization, at least enough to tempt the occasional visitor. They’d also need to deal with the extremists. At last count, more than fifty terrorist groups operated inside Pakistan, and even in the cities, people ran scared. Outside the cities, terrorist groups reigned supreme, and the security forces found it impossible to deal with them. For that reason, they had few bases in the desolate northeast, and they preferred to use mobile units.

They’d deployed the Chinese-made LY-80 Low-to-Medium Altitude Air Defense System into the region two weeks before for testing and assessment. The LY-80 was capable of intercepting and destroying aerial targets flying at low and medium altitude. Lieutenant Malik, in charge of the four-man crew, was sick of the time they’d spent in the hinterlands of the Pakistan border. Sleeping in a tent, a private soldier heating up the tasteless food supplied by the Army that always tasted the same. Like warm cardboard. Worst of all, there were no women, although today was the last day of this miserable duty, and he looked forward to returning to the city.

So far, everything had gone well, and the tests had shown the system to be in full working order. They’d tracked aircraft crossing the sky and carried out several theoretical launches. All had been successful, and if they’d launched a real missile, the targets would have been destroyed. He checked his watch. It was time. He glanced at his corporal.

“You can start to pack up the gear. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

A smile spread across his face. “Yes, Sir.”

He was about to leave the command cabin when the alert sounded. A gong sound, endlessly repeating, and it meant the aircraft detected showed no Identification Friend or Foe, or IFF. He yawned and squashed his annoyance. Almost certainly a civilian aircraft, but it would show in the electronic log, so he had to go through the correct procedure. He leaned out of the door.

“Corporal, get the men in here. We have an unidentified aircraft to plot.”

The man gave him a dubious look and doubled away to round up the other two men. The radar system was tracking, showing the white blob of a moving aircraft heading north. The Corporal checked the signature and announced it was an Mi-24.

“One of ours, Sir.”

He paused. “Perhaps it is faulty?”

“Contact base and ask for instructions.”

The answer when it came astounded them. They stared at each other. Shoot it down, they’d said. This was for real. Were they at war? Impossible, but orders were orders. Malik activated the launch procedure, and this time they were tracking the target for real. The helicopter was close, and after the barest hesitation, he gave the order.

“Launch. Take it out.”

The first warning they had was the threat alarm, shrill and loud in the cockpit. Without hesitation, the pilot put the Mi-24 into a steep dive, banking over and veering away from their course. He was wasting his time. The LY-80 was state-of-the art technology, designed for intercepting enemy aircraft at low altitude. The missile tracked on the starboard engine and exploded. Instantly, the Mi-24 began to lose height.

To his credit, the pilot did everything right, autorotating the aircraft toward the ground, switching off the fuel supply, and activating the onboard firefighting systems. The emergency alarms wailed, and Ivan heard someone shouting, one of the crew, but it didn’t make any sense. Besides, what was there to say? He and his two men strapped in tight and waited. They didn’t have long to wait. The gunship hit the ground hard and tilted over to the side. The momentum carried it further, and it tilted all the way, rolled over onto its back, and stopped. Inside the cabin, they could hear the noise of systems spooling down, and the tick of cooling metal.

They unstrapped and climbed down from the aircraft. The crew was emerging from the front, and neither looked injured. They walked away in case the fuel exploded.

“There was nothing I could do. It came out of nowhere.”

He patted him on the arm. The man was as white-faced as an Afghan could get. “No one blames you, and you got us down in one piece.” He grinned, “We’re alive. That’s all that’s important.”

The man nodded. “Yes, we’re alive.” He pointed to the north, “Afghanistan is that way.”

“I know.” He was thinking about the women trapped in Chilas. About Congresswoman Adams, and Stoner, and Blum.

He thought again of the people in Chilas under attack by a horde of Haqqanis.

He took out his satphone. “I need to connect to a feed from one of our UAVs. It should be over Stoner’s position by now. At least we can see what he’s up to.”

“Uh, Sir, this is the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Battlelab in Creech Air Force Base, Nevada. We have a query regarding your request for discreet aerial surveillance of Northeast Pakistan. It’s about…”

“You what!” He bellowed the question and lowered his voice, “What did you say?”

“We have a request for surveillance over Northeast Pakistan. I thought you authorized it, Sir.”

“The hell I did. Are you sure it’s in my name?”

“Yessir, no question.”

Bishop thought to himself, and a single name was at the forefront of his mind.

“Cancel it! Recall that drone, immediately.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m damned sure. Get it back. Now!”

“Yessir. Right now.”

He watched the screen of his state-of-the-art satphone. With the ability to connect to any live feed anywhere in the world, it was a combat information center in miniature. Able to control the forward area of battle in a small, six-inch-high screen, which right now was dark. He pressed button after button, and even considered calling Creech Air Force Base to get them to check the status of the drone. He decided not to bother. He knew what had happened. Henry Bishop had happened. The Head of Station had found out about the unofficial mission and terminated the order. Stoner could be in serious trouble, terminal trouble, and Ivan was blind.

Gorgy and Akram were waiting, and he wondered if they’d head to Chilas to help Stoner, even if he ordered them to do the opposite. They’d fought side by side with Rafe Stoner in the past, and that kind of bond was hard to break. He still hesitated, and the pilot looked impatient.