‘See anything, Eddie?’ Green asked quietly.
‘Nothing on the ground . . . just checking that ridge.’ Chase raised his head. The top of the rise would be a good place to station a lookout, giving a clear view of the plain, but it would also be a lot of effort to scale.
Too much effort, apparently. There was nobody there. He closed his eyes to ease the transition back to normal sight, then removed the goggles and waved to the waiting soldiers. By the time Mac joined him, his vision had mostly recovered. ‘Anything?’ his commanding officer asked.
‘Nope. Thought they might have put someone on the ridge, but it’s empty.’
Mac surveyed the scene, then took out the map. ‘We’ll go over the ridge, come at anybody watching the pass from the southeast. It’s a closed canyon; they won’t be expecting anyone from that direction.’
Starkman examined the closely packed contour lines. ‘Steep climb.’
Bluey regarded his bulky Minimi machine gun – and its 200-round ammo box – disconsolately. ‘Aw, that’s great. I’m hardly going to spring up there like a mountain goat with this lot.’
‘Starkman, Chase, Castille,’ said Stikes impatiently, ‘get to the top and see if you can snipe them, otherwise go down the other side and take them from the canyon. The rest of us will wait by that large rock for your signal.’ He gave Mac a brief glance, waiting for affirmation; the Scot nodded. ‘Okay, move it.’
After checking their radios, the trio made their way across the plain. Chase looked up at the moonlit ridge. ‘Should be able to get up there without ropes,’ he said, indicating a likely path. ‘We— What the bloody hell are you doing?’
Castille had peeled a banana, wolfing down half of it in a single bite. ‘For energy,’ he mumbled as he chewed. ‘We have a big climb.’
Chase shook his head. ‘Hugo, you’re weird.’
‘Literally bananas,’ Starkman added. He and Chase laughed, prompting a snort from Castille, who polished off the fruit before bagging and pocketing its skin.
‘So, we all ready?’ Chase asked. ‘Or have you got a bunch of grapes an’ all?’
‘You may laugh,’ said Castille, starting up the ridge, ‘but you British should eat more fruit. It is why you are all so pale!’
Grinning, Chase followed, Starkman taking up the rear. The climb proved a little more tricky than it looked, the three men having to help each other scale a couple of particularly steep sections, but before long it flattened out.
By now, the trio were again all business. They advanced along the top of the ridge. About two hundred metres from the pass, Castille let out a sharp hiss. All three immediately dropped into wary crouches, weapons ready. ‘What?’ Chase whispered.
The Belgian pointed. ‘I see smoke.’
Chase narrowed his eyes, picking out a faint line wafting into the night sky. Its source was near the far end of the pass.
No need for further discussion; they already knew what they had to do. They quietly headed across the ridge. Below was the closed canyon – and at its head a small patch of glowing orange amidst the darkness. A campfire.
Chase raised his C8 and peered through its scope. As expected, the Taliban had left guards to watch the pass, positioned amongst broken boulders for cover. Two men in dusty robes and turbans sat near the fire. One had an AK-47 propped against a rock beside him; another rifle lay on a flat rock not far away. Of more concern, though, was a different weapon – the long tube of an RPG-7, a Russian rocket launcher with its pointed warhead loaded.
He lowered his gun, judging the distance. Slightly under two hundred metres: well within range of his Diemaco, even with its power reduced by the bulky suppressor on the end of its barrel. An easy shot.
Starkman had come to the same conclusion. ‘Let’s do ’em,’ he said. ‘You take the left guy.’
Chase nodded and shifted into firing position. The Taliban member reappeared in his scope. He tilted the gun up slightly, the red dot at the centre of his gunsight just above the man’s head. The bullet’s arc would carry it down to hit his temple . . .
A part of his mind intruded on his concentration. You’ve never killed anyone before. Not that he knew of, at least; he had been in combat, fired on people shooting at him . . . but this was the first time he had ever prepared to kill an unsuspecting man.
He shook off his doubts. The Taliban were enemies in a war, and the man in his sights would kill his friends and comrades if he got the chance. It was up to him to make sure that didn’t happen.
‘On three,’ Starkman whispered. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Okay. One, two—’
‘Hold fire, hold fire!’ Chase hissed. His target had just hopped to his feet. He tracked him. ‘Wait, wait – shit!’
The Taliban disappeared behind a boulder. Chase quickly panned past it in the hope of reacquiring him on the other side, but after a few seconds it became clear that he wasn’t coming out. ‘Arse! Lost him.’
Castille searched through his own gunsight. ‘I think he has sat down. The other one is still talking to him.’
‘We need to get both those fuckers at once,’ Starkman muttered. ‘If one gets off a shot . . . ’
‘We’ll have to get ’em from the ground,’ said Chase. He saw a large rock near the ridge’s edge. ‘Tie a rope round that – I’ll go first.’
A line was quickly secured to the rock. Chase glanced down. This side of the ridge was roughly sixty feet high, more cliff than slope. He slung his rifle and took hold of the rope. ‘Okay, if the guys by the fire start moving, pull on the rope twice.’ Castille gave him a thumbs-up, Starkman nodding before aiming his rifle back at his target.
Chase began his descent. Even with two hundred metres separating him and the Taliban, he still moved stealthily, a shadow against the ridge’s craggy face. Ten feet down, twenty. Sandstone crunched softly under his boots with each step. Thirty feet, halfway. The fire was now out of sight behind the rocks, though its glow still stood out clearly. Forty. He checked the cliff’s foot. He would have to clear a small overhang, but another few feet and he would be safely able to jump—
A crunch beneath one sole – then a louder clonk and hiss of falling grit as a loose stone dropped away, hitting the ground with a thud.
And a voice, a puzzled ‘Uh?’ below—
Chase froze. Another Taliban! The overhang was deeper than he had thought, enough to conceal a man. Pashto words came from below. Chase didn’t know the language, but from the tone guessed that the unseen man was asking, ‘Who’s there?’ A flashlight clicked on, a feeble yellow disc of light sweeping across the sand.
More Pashto, the tone annoyed, not concerned. That was something, at least; the Taliban wasn’t expecting anyone but his comrades to be nearby. But if he remained suspicious and decided to investigate further, all he had to do was look up . . .
The C8 was hanging from Chase’s back on its strap. Gripping the rope with his left hand, he tried to reach back with his right to take hold of the rifle . . . but as his weight shifted the weapon swung round, the suppressor almost scraping against the cliff. He held in an obscenity. Even if he got hold of the gun, he would still have to fumble it into firing position with just one hand, an awkward – and almost certainly noisy – task.
He had a handgun, a Sig P228 holstered across his upper chest, but it was unsilenced. The shot would be heard for miles.
That left his combat knife, sheathed on his belt. He slowly reached down and released the restraining strap, then drew out the six-inch blade.
The yellow circle danced over the ground as the man emerged from the overhang. He gazed towards the campfire, then looked round. Chase knew what he was thinking: none of his companions was nearby, so something else must have made the noise.
The dangling Englishman stepped sideways across the cliff, bringing himself closer to his target.
Target. A human being, enemy or not. You’ve never killed anyone before, not close enough to look into their eyes . . .
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The Taliban turned in place. The beam found the dislodged stone, a jagged lump the size of a grapefruit. He peered at it, started to turn away – then some flash of curiosity made him look up—
Chase dived at him, slamming the man to the ground and driving the knife deep into his throat as he clamped his free hand over the Afghan’s mouth. Blood gushed from the wound, an arterial spray jetting over his cheek and neck. The Taliban kicked and thrashed, the fallen torch lighting one side of his face. His visible eye was wide, filled with agony and terror. It fixed on the soldier’s camouflage-blackened features, their gazes meeting . . . and then he fell still, staring emptily at the stars.
Chase regarded the corpse for a moment that felt like half a lifetime, then yanked out the knife and sat up. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, a bilious nausea rising inside him. He forced it back down, wiping the knife clean and returning it to its sheath, then switched off the torch. Darkness consumed his vision for several seconds before his eyes adjusted.
The body was still there, the neck wound glistening accusingly.
He looked away, unslinging his rifle and aiming it towards the distant fire. If the fight had been heard, the other Taliban would be on their way . . .
No movement. He had been lucky.
He returned to the rope and tugged it three times – all clear – before investigating the space beneath the overhang to see what the Afghan had been doing. The smell from the little nook provided the answer. He had interrupted the dead man during a call of nature.
A fall of sand announced Starkman’s descent, the American dropping down beside his friend. ‘What happened?’
‘He got caught short,’ Chase replied, the grim gag escaping his lips before he had time to process it consciously.
Starkman grinned, then moved back as Castille descended the rope. ‘Are you all right?’ the Belgian asked.
Chase didn’t want to think about it any more. ‘Fine.’ A wave of his gun towards the fire. ‘They’ll soon start thinking their mate’s been gone too long just to be constipated.’
Keeping low, they advanced, stopping behind a rock some sixty metres from the campfire. Chase’s erstwhile target sat with his back against a large boulder, gnawing the meat off an animal bone. The other Taliban had moved closer to the fire, within reach of the RPG.
Chase was about to take aim when Castille touched his arm, a hint of sympathetic concern in his voice. ‘I can do it, if you want.’
He brusquely shook his head. ‘That’s okay.’ A pause, then more lightly: ‘But thanks anyway.’
‘No problem.’ They shared a brief look, then Chase returned his attention to the scope.
The red dot fixed on the Taliban’s forehead. ‘Ready?’ he whispered to Starkman.
‘Yeah. One, two . . . three.’
This time, nothing disrupted the shots. Each rifle bucked once, the retorts reduced to flat thwaps by the suppressors. Chase blinked involuntarily, his eyes reopening to see a thick, dark red splash burst across the rock behind his target’s head.
‘Tango down,’ Starkman intoned.
‘Tango down,’ Chase echoed. The body of his victim slowly keeled over, leaving a smeared trail over the stone. ‘Okay, let’s bring the boys through.’ He reached for his radio.
The rest of the team arrived three minutes later, Mac leading the way. ‘Good work,’ he said as he took in the bodies. ‘Just these two?’
‘There was another one back there,’ Starkman reported. ‘Eddie took him out. Stabbed him in the neck.’
Mac looked at Chase, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his uncharacteristically expressionless face. ‘Your first kill, yes?’
‘Yeah,’ Chase replied, his voice flat.
‘Well, it’s good to know there’s more to you than just talk, Chase,’ said Stikes sarcastically as he checked one of the corpses. When no reply was immediately forthcoming, he went on: ‘What, no smart-arse comments? Not going wobbly on us, are you?’
Mac’s face creased with irritation. ‘Alexander, take Will and Bluey and check that the way’s clear.’ He gestured at the dusty slope to the north. Stikes gave him a puzzled look, prompting him to snap, ‘Well, go on!’ Annoyance clear even under his face paint, Stikes summoned the two men and started up the hillside. Starkman took the hint and nudged Castille to give Chase and Mac some space.
‘How do you feel?’ Mac asked.
‘I dunno,’ Chase replied truthfully. ‘Shaken, I suppose.’
‘A bit sick?’
An admission took a few seconds to emerge. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ Mac put a reassuring hand on Chase’s shoulder. ‘If you hadn’t, I would have been concerned.’
‘How come?’ Chase asked, surprised. ‘I mean, after all the training I thought I could just do it without thinking. Without worrying, I mean.’
‘Training can only take you so far, Eddie. The first time you actually have to kill someone for real . . . well, it’s different. Some people find they can’t do it at all. Others do it . . . and enjoy it. I’m glad you’re in the third category.’ He squeezed his arm. ‘You did the right thing – you protected your teammates, the mission and the lives of the hostages. You did well, Eddie. I always knew you would.’
Chase managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks, Mac.’
‘So let’s get back to work.’ He waved, telling the rest of the team to move out. As the men set off, his radio clicked. ‘Yes?’
Even over the headset, Stikes sounded concerned. ‘Major, we have a slight problem.’
‘He wasn’t fucking kidding,’ Chase growled.
The team hid amongst desiccated scrub at the top of the slope. Before them was a relatively flat expanse backed by the rising mountains, a few tumbledown buildings about three hundred yards away: the abandoned farm where the Taliban had taken their prisoners.
In its description of the location, the mission briefing had been accurate. In its assessment of the enemy forces, however, it had not.
‘Where the fuck did this lot come from?’ said Baine. They had expected at most a dozen Taliban, but at least that could be seen beside the single-storey farmhouse alone, and the number of tents pitched nearby suggested many more. The three white-painted United Nations vehicles – two medium-sized trucks and a Toyota Land Cruiser – and the battered pickup spotted by satellite had been joined by another three well-worn off-roaders, and the ‘couple’ of horses had multiplied to at least ten. There were even some motorcycles.
‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ said Starkman. ‘Question is, what do we do about ’em?’
Mac looked through binoculars. ‘If this were a search-and-destroy mission, nothing would change – we’ve still got surprise and firepower on our side. But with hostages to worry about . . . ’ His gaze fixed on a barn-like structure a hundred yards from the house. ‘There are two men guarding the barn, but no lights inside. That’s probably where they’re being held.’
Movement at the main building; several Taliban, chattering loudly, went inside, while others headed for the tents. A few men remained outside. ‘That’s useful,’ said Stikes. ‘If they stay in the house, we can bring the whole thing down on top of them.’ He indicated the Heckler & Koch AG-C 40mm grenade launchers mounted on Green’s and Baine’s rifles. ‘Get a lot in one go.’
‘Still plenty left,’ Mac replied. He pointed at a shallow irrigation ditch not far away. ‘Eddie, Hugo, see if the hostages are in the barn. And check for any more tents behind the house.’
Chase and Castille slipped off their packs, then, weapons in hand, crawled across the dusty ground and slithered into the ditch. It took them almost ten minutes to reach the barn, moving at a silent snail’s pace to avoid alerting the guards. The dusty channel passed about forty feet from the dilapidated structure; once out of the guards’ field of view, Chase cautiously raised his head. Nearby was a rubbish pile that would provide additional concealment as they approached the barn. He ducked back down and signalled for Castille to follow, crawling onwards unt
il they drew level with the garbage heap.
He peered up again – and froze as a guard came into view, AK hanging from one shoulder. The man trudged along the side of the barn, passing the pile of rubbish with barely a sideways glance.
Chase expected him to round the rear of the building, but instead he continued across open ground to a small shack. He unbolted its door and went inside.
A woman’s fearful shriek cut through the night air. Chase whipped up his gun. It couldn’t be any of the hostages – mindful of Afghanistan’s repressive attitudes, the UN workers were all men. The Taliban had another prisoner.
Prisoners, plural. A second woman wailed a plea, which was cut short by the thud of a foot hitting flesh and a pained squeal. The man shouted, his tone filled with disgust, and reappeared, slamming the door and bolting it before stalking away.