Rogue Predator (4 page)

“Allah have mercy. Please, sir, let the boy live… Anyway, I’ll need his help to harvest my poppy fields if I’m to have your opium ready in time for your return. Alone, it cannot be done. I’ll keep him off school to work the fields.”

Masud stared thoughtfully at Emil. “Very well. Keep the boy here. He can help you deliver your harvest. We shall let him live until we return. Then he must die.”

Hassan crept quickly to his room and gathered up his few possessions in a blanket. One thought occupied his head — to run away in case they changed their minds and decided to kill him now. He climbed out of his window and dropped softly onto the earth outside. Looking round he saw other Taliban on watch; one on the roof of a building opposite, one on the wall, another lurking in the alleyway. Keeping low, he ducked into the poppy fields, using the tall flower stems for cover. There he lay on his belly, trembling. And as he waited for the Taliban to go, a crushing reality dawned on him. He had nowhere to run. There was nobody he could trust. He was alone.

As he watched the Taliban leave, his fear faded and was replaced by a growing anger. Men like them had ruined his life and murdered those he loved. He knew nothing would ever change while they roamed about spreading terror. Slowly his anger changed to thoughts of revenge. If he knew where the Taliban camp was, he could tell the Americans. They would come and get rid of them. That would be just revenge. Hassan knelt on his kness and offered up prayers; that Allah would protect him, that Allah would show him the way, that Allah would let him succeed. Carefully he got to his feet and began walking, following in the footsteps of the Taliban.

As well as Connor and his team, Camp Delta was temporary home to several hundred soldiers of the renowned 101st US Airborne Division. It was a sun-baked sprawl of tents, cargo containers and temporary structures housing pizza and hamburger outlets, all surrounded by Hesco fortifications; wire structures filled with rocks, sand and concrete. Security was tight. Incoming mortar fire was an almost daily occurrence.

Connor paused by the makeshift memorial to the fallen in the central parade ground and studied the list of names. The most recent additions were those of Halo Forward Patrol, including Brad Somersby… Connor was in a reflective mood.

“You wanted to see me, Major Connor.”

Startled, Connor spun round. “Yes, padre.”

“What can I do for you?”

Every camp had a padre — or army chaplain — who ran church services. They were often the ones soldiers turned to when they wanted to talk about personal problems — in confidence. Connor glanced both ways to make sure no one was in earshot. He felt awkward — he hated the idea of appearing weak. “I’ve been having a recurring nightmare, sir. They started about a month ago. Haven’t had nightmares since I was a kid. And they’re getting worse.”

“I see. Tell you what, let’s go grab a cup of coffee in my quarters.”

In the privacy of the padre’s hot stuffy tent, Connor spoke of how every night he dreamed of raiding a village. Then he would frantically search house after house, but everyone was lying dead in pools of blood. He always awoke drenched in sweat. The padre listened carefully, but then coaxed out of Connor the trigger for his night terrors: the death of his friend, Assif.

“You blame yourself for his death,” the padre declared with conviction. “Such guilt is a normal reaction. It wasn’t your fault and you know it, but sometimes that’s not enough.”

“But will the nightmares go away?”

“Time is a great healer, Major. They will fade. I’m sure of it. And you mustn’t see it as a weakness. You may be a highly trained soldier and taught to act instinctively, to kill the enemy without a second’s thought, but never forget the most important thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re still human, Major.”

“But what can I do to stop them?”

The padre shrugged. “Hard to say. Finding that boy Hassan might do it.”

“Thank you. You’ve been a great help, sir.” Connor got up from his canvas chair and shook the padre’s hand.

The padre grasped Connor’s hand tightly and stared into his face. “You had a son, didn’t you, Major? If my memory is correct he was killed in a hit and run back home. Must be two years ago now?” He waited to see how Connor would react.

Nodding slowly, Connor broke free from the padre’s grip. “Yes. Almost three years ago. I was in Iraq at the time.”

“I see. Must’ve been very difficult for you, especially so far away from home. Listen, if you need to talk, Major, I’m always here, 24-7.”

“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary, sir.”

Connor strode back towards the Ops Room filled with a renewed determination to find Hassan.

The padre flipped open his notebook and wrote: “Major Connor — early signs of instability. Possibly battle fatigue but more likely personal matters, maybe elements of post-traumatic stress. Keep a close eye on him.”

For three days and nights Hassan followed the Taliban as they moved from village to village. There they collected food and negotiated deals for their drugs, to sell over the border or exchange for guns. At one stop they took two donkeys and used them to carry supplies. Hassan stole what little food he had to in order to survive.

They travelled on, keeping to hidden trails and deep gullies, and frequently they posted spotters. Hassan had to tread carefully, never getting too close or dropping back too far in case he lost sight of them.

Slowly the journey took him into the foothills. Tall mountains seemed to grow higher with every step. As he followed Masud and his men, Hassan drew his own map, marking villages and landmarks. He’d need it to find his way back. Hot days turned into freezing nights, and Hassan slept under the stars wrapped in his blanket. On the fourth morning he woke up aching all over. He shivered and cursed the Taliban with their warm campfires and steaming cups of tea. Around him lay barren rock and loose scree shrouded in the early morning mist. Suddenly he felt something prod his back. He rolled over. A young Taliban fighter stood over him holding an AK-47 rifle.

Hassan was dragged kicking and screaming to the Taliban’s overnight camp. He was taken straight to their leader — Masud.

“Why have you been following us?”

Hassan had to think fast. Masud clutched a knife and had evil in his eyes. “I want to join you,” Hassan lied, unconvincingly. The blade was quickly at his throat. Hassan flinched. “That’s the truth. I want to fight the American infidel. To kill them all.” This time he sounded more believable.

“What is your name?”

“Hassan, sir.”

The threatening expression on Masud’s face softened and then he grinned toothlessly. “Hassan, Hassan,” he repeated over and over. “You are a gift from Allah. You will have your chance to martyr yourself for our cause. We shall take you under our wing and teach you all we know. And for you, young Hassan, Paradise will come soon. Very soon.” He seized Hassan by the shoulder. “But first you can look after our stubborn donkeys for us. They don’t seem to share your enthusiasm.”

Blood. So much blood. Blood everywhere.

Connor woke in a sweat. Sparks was leaning over him. “Nate, are you all right?”

Blinking away the nightmare, Connor sat up on the edge of his camp bed. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and he could already feel the heat outside. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’s going on?”

“We think we’ve made a breakthrough.”

Connor and Sparks hurried over to Camp Delta’s Ops Room. The tables were littered with laptops, satellite photos, air reconnaissance pictures, maps, empty Coke cans and half-eaten pizzas. “We’ve been working all night, sir,” said a tired but beaming Danny Crow. “We’ve spoken to Army Intelligence, the CIA, and Central Command’s Comms section. We narrowed down the landing sites and reckon we’ve found it.”

Connor studied the maps and photographs that had been set out for him.

Crow pointed to the middle picture. “See that? The valley’s shaped like a scorpion’s tail. It opens up onto a plain where there’s a dried-up river bed. Now look at this picture taken two months ago. It’s different. Someone’s straightened out part of the river bed — like a landing strip. It’s located about forty miles from here.”

Connor could see it now and smiled. He remembered Abdul’s riddle about the scorpion’s tail in the north. “So where’s our bird?”

“Here, sir.” Danny tapped a finger. “There’s a massive rock overhang at the entrance to the valley. We think it’s hidden underneath, where there are also caves perfect for hiding all their gear. Guys over at Comms said they’re probably transmitting and controlling the drone from a mobile unit — like a truck.”

Ben added, “They chose the valley well. It is so narrow that an air strike is unlikely to work, even using deep penetration JDAM bombs, sir.”

Connor felt his cell phone vibrate. He took it out and checked the text message. Abdul had a possible address for Hassan’s uncle. Instantly, Connor’s mind drifted to thinking about Hassan.

“Sir?”

Connor saw his men looking at him expectantly. “Good work, team. This is our target. Now, let’s find our best insertion point — we go in tomorrow night and hit them hard at dawn. Jacko, you’re in charge of putting a plan together. Ben, inform General Patterson of our progress, and tell him that I’ll speak to him this evening, when I’m back.”

“Back from where?” asked Ben.

“I’ve got something to sort out.” Connor turned to Sparks. They’d fought together for over ten years, and were like brothers. “Sparks, I need your help. Fancy a little trip to the country, no questions asked?”

Sparks smiled. He didn’t know what Connor had planned, but he would always back him up.

At first, Hassan prodded the stubborn donkeys with a stick, but gradually they became easier to lead. They were walking over a flattened river bed when suddenly Masud stopped, turned and announced, “We are here, Hassan. This is where you will live from now on. Come.”

Masud led Hassan into the shadows beneath a huge overhanging rock. There, Hassan gazed awestruck at the smooth grey paint of a Predator drone. Men moved busily to and fro carrying equipment to a parked truck that somehow they'd managed to drive across the rough terrain of the plain. Hassan couldn't recall seeing anything resembling a road for miles.

Masud caressed the nose casing of a Hellfire missile. “You will share in our joy, Hassan. Soon, very soon, we shall strike at the heart of the American infidel. Their president, Hassan. He is coming here, and here he shall die. Just imagine. Men will see our victory and rise up. They will know that Allah is with us. We shall drive out the infidels. Our country will be free once more. And you, Hassan, will play your part. Now go and fetch me some tea.”

Hassan suddenly understood what had happened back home in his village. The Americans hadn't attacked their own. It was the Taliban's doing. They had blown up the soldiers on the rocky outcrop. It was Masud's drone now. Moving beyond the overhang he saw numerous openings to caves. Inside, fires had been lit and men were cooking food, cleaning their rifles and planning operations. There were weapons everywhere: rifles, rocket-propelled grenades, boxes of ammunition. He counted maybe forty men in total, and heard various languages being spoken. Many had travelled far to fight for their cause. As he watched tea being poured, he began to plan his escape.

It would have to be at night. His map would show him the way. It had to. If he got lost he might starve or die of thirst. But would he get back in time to warn the Americans? It was a long way and he was already exhausted. I know, he thought, I shall take food, water and a donkey. I shall lead him from here quietly in the dead of night and ride him down through the foothills.

Hassan knew that if they caught him creeping away, Masud would kill him.

Connor grabbed Hassan’s uncle by the throat. “What do you mean Hassan’s disappeared?”

“Sir, go easy on him,” said Sparks, surprised at his commander’s loss of control.

Connor released his grip. “I’m not leaving until I’ve got some answers. Now, Emil, start talking, or you can kiss your opium crop goodbye.” He saw the look of horror on Emil’s face. “I’ll burn every last damn poppy — and I bet the Taliban offered you a good price? Yes, of course they did.”

“Please, there have been no Taliban here, sir. Not for six months. I hate the Taliban as much as you do.”

“So where’s Hassan?”

“What do you want with the boy? And how is it you know my name?”

Connor resisted the urge to strike the man with his fist. “I know you, Emil. And I never did like you. Not when we were kids. Not now. You and your brother Assif are like chalk and cheese. In my book the wrong man’s dead. Don’t you recognise me?”