Empire of Gold

Empire of Gold - By Andy McDermott


Prologue


Afghanistan


The barren landscape was simultaneously alien yet oddly familiar to Eddie Chase. The young Englishman had grown up in the rugged hills of Yorkshire, the topography of the northern county in many ways similar to the gnarled ground below the helicopter. But even at night, one difference was obvious. The hills and moors around his home town were green, a living countryside; beneath him now, everything was a parched and dusty brown. A dead land.

More death would be coming to it tonight.

Chase looked away from the window to the seven other men in the Black Hawk’s dimly lit cabin. Like him, all were special forces soldiers, faces striped with dark camouflage paint. Unusually, though, the participants in this mission were not all from the same unit, or even the same country. Five were from the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment, one of the United Kingdom’s most admired – and feared – elite units. The remaining three, however, were from other nations, the team hurriedly pulled together by the Coalition for the urgent operation.

Despite this, Chase doubted they would have trouble working together. He already knew two of them, even if his previous dealings with Bob ‘Bluey’ Jackson of the Australian SAS had only been brief. Jason Starkman of the United States Army Special Forces – the Green Berets – had, on the other hand, been a friend for years.

The third foreign soldier was the unknown quantity, to Chase at least. Although he had been vouched for by the team’s commander, Major Jim ‘Mac’ McCrimmon – and to Chase there were few higher recommendations – he still wanted to get a handle on the beaky-nosed Belgian’s personality before they hit the ground. So he had taken the seat beside him with the intention of teasing out information about the Special Forces Group’s Hugo Castille.

As it happened, no teasing was necessary. The genial Castille had volunteered so much that even a trained interrogator would have struggled to keep up. ‘So we found a little bar off Las Ramblas,’ he was saying now, ‘and I met the most beautiful Spanish girl. Have you ever been to Barcelona?’ Chase shook his head, wondering how the conversation – well, monologue – had moved from a military operation in Bosnia to chatting up women in Spain in the few seconds he had been looking out of the window. ‘Its architecture matches its women! But as for what we did that night,’ a broad smile, ‘I am a gentleman, so I shall not say.’

Chase grinned back. ‘So there actually is something that stops you talking?’

‘Of course! I—’ Castille stopped as he realised he was being ribbed, and sniffed before taking a polished red apple from a pocket and biting into it.

A Scottish voice came from across the cabin. ‘Eddie, you accusing somebody of talking too much is a definite case of the pot calling the kettle black.’ The comment prompted laughter from most of the other men.

‘Ah, sod off, Mac,’ Chase told his commanding officer cheerily. The tightly knit, high-pressure nature of special forces units allowed for a degree of informality uncommon in the regular military – to a point. ‘At least I talk about more interesting things than bloody cricket and snooker.’

The stiff-backed man beside Mac had conspicuously not joined in with the laughter. ‘Your definition of interesting isn’t the same as everyone else’s, sergeant.’ Like Chase, Captain Alexander Stikes was in his late twenties, but the similarity ended there. Chase was fairly squat with a square, broken-nosed face that could at best be described as ‘characterful’, while the six-foot-tall, fair-haired officer had the high brow and straight nose of a throwback to Prussian nobility. ‘I think we’d all prefer a bit of quiet.’

‘Quiet is the last thing we’ll get in this tub, Alexander,’ said Mac, a hint of chiding audible even over the roar of the Black Hawk’s engines.

Amused by Stikes’s telling-off, Chase turned back to Castille. ‘That’s the third bit of fruit you’ve had since we left the base. Last I had was a banana for breakfast, and one end was all smushed.’

Castille took another bite. ‘I always bring lots of fruit on a mission. Much nicer than rations, no? And I have my ways to stop them getting bruised. My father taught me how to take care of them.’

‘So he’s some sort of . . . fruit vet?’

The Belgian smiled. ‘No, a grocer. Nobody wants to buy mushy fruit. What about your father?’

The question caught Chase off guard. ‘My dad?’

‘Yes, what does he do?’

‘He works for a logistics company. Shipping,’ he clarified, seeing Castille’s uncertainty. ‘He transports stuff all over the world, gets things through customs. Oh, and he’s also an arsehole.’

‘Like father, like son, eh, Yorkie?’ said one of the other SAS men, Kevin Baine. Unlike Mac’s earlier remark, the estuary-accented comment was devoid of playfulness.

‘F*ck off,’ Chase replied in kind. Baine’s flat face twisted into a sneer.

‘An arse-hole,’ echoed Castille, the word somehow comical in his Belgian French intonation. ‘You do not like him, then?’

‘Haven’t spoken to him since I left home ten years ago. Not that I saw much of him even before then. He was always off travelling. And having affairs behind my mum’s back.’ The admission took him somewhat by surprise, Castille’s affable questioning having drawn more out of him than he had intended. He gave his SAS comrades warning looks, daring anyone to make a joke. Stikes’s expression suggested that he had stored the fact away in his mental database, but nobody said anything.

‘Ah, I am sorry,’ said Castille.

Chase shrugged. ‘No problem.’ He had exaggerated – as far as he knew, there had only been the one affair.

But that was enough.

Castille was about to add something when the pilot’s voice crackled over a loudspeaker: ‘Ten minutes!’ The mood instantly changed, the eight men straightening sharply in their seats. The red interior lights went out entirely, the only remaining illumination the eerie green glow of the cockpit instruments. Combat lighting, letting the troops’ eyes adapt to night-time conditions.

‘Okay,’ said Mac, now entirely serious, ‘since we were a little short on prep, let’s review the situation one last time. Alexander?’

Stikes leaned forward to address the other men. ‘Right, now listen. As you know, we’ve got eleven United Nations aid workers – and one undercover MI6 officer – being held hostage by the Taliban, and twelve spare seats in our choppers.’ He glanced towards a window; flying a hundred metres from the US Army Black Hawk was a smaller MH-6 Little Bird gunship. ‘I want all of them occupied on the way back. And I want that seat,’ he pointed at one in particular, ‘to have our spy friend in it, alive and well. He’s got information on al-Qaeda that we need – maybe even Osama’s hidey-hole.’

‘Makes you wonder if we’d be going on a rescue mission if one of ’em wasn’t a spook,’ said Bluey.

‘I don’t wonder,’ Chase told the shaven-headed Australian with dark humour.

Stikes was unamused. ‘Keep it closed, Chase. Now, the GPS trackers on the UN trucks showed they’d been taken to an abandoned farm, and as of thirty minutes ago they’re still there. A satellite pass earlier today showed one other vehicle and a couple of horses, so we estimate no more than ten to twelve of Terry Taliban. We go in, reduce that number to zero, and recover the hostages.’

‘Just to clarify the rules of engagement here,’ said Starkman in his Texan drawl, ‘we’re not only rescuing the good guys, but taking out the bad guys, am I right?’

Even in the green half-light from the cockpit, Stikes’s cold smile was clearly visible. ‘Anyone who isn’t a hostage is classified as hostile. And you know what we do to hostiles.’ Grim chuckles from the team.

‘Any more word on air support, sir?’ asked the fifth SAS trooper, a chunky Welshman called Will Green.

‘Nothing confirmed as yet,’ said Stikes. ‘All our aircraft in the region are engaged on another operation – the ones that aren’t broken down, at least. If anything becomes available, it’ll almost certainly be American.’

‘F*cking great,’ muttered Baine. ‘Anyone got spare body armour? Nothing I like more than dodging friendly fire.’

‘That’s enough of that,’ said Mac sharply. ‘If it wasn’t for our American friends, we wouldn’t even have these helicopters. Be glad we’re not driving out there in Pink Panthers.’ The SAS Land Rovers, painted in pinkish shades for desert camouflage, had inevitably acquired the nickname.

‘Sorry, sir.’ Baine gave Starkman a half-hearted nod of apology.

‘Any further questions?’ Stikes asked. There were none.

‘One last thing,’ said Mac. He regarded his men, focusing particularly on Chase. ‘You’ve all been in combat before, but this might feel different from anything else some of you have experienced. No matter what happens, just stay calm, keep focused, and remember your training. I know you can get these people to safety, so stick together, and fight to the end.’

‘Fight to the end,’ Chase echoed, along with Green and Castille.

The next few minutes passed in as near to silence as it was possible to get inside the Black Hawk’s industrial clamour. Then the pilot’s voice boomed again: ‘One minute!’ Chase glanced out of the window. His eyes had now fully adjusted to the darkness, revealing that the landscape was climbing towards ragged mountains to the north. There were still expanses of desert plain, but they were broken up by steep, knotted hills. Tough terrain.

And they had six miles of it to cross.

The Black Hawk’s engine note changed, the aircraft tilting back sharply to slow itself before landing. Chase tensed. Any moment—

A harsh thump. Green slid open the cabin door on one side, Bluey the other, and the team scrambled out. Chase already had a weapon ready – a Diemaco C8SFW carbine, a Canadian-built variant of the American M4 assault rifle – as he ran clear of the swirling dust and dived flat to the ground, the others doing the same around him.

The Black Hawk heaved itself upwards, hitting Chase with a gritty downblast as it wheeled back the way it had come. The Little Bird followed. With surprising speed, the chop of the two helicopters’ rotors faded.

The dust settled. Chase stayed down, scanning the landscape for any hint that they were not alone.

Nothing. They were in the clear.

A quiet whistle. He looked round, and saw Mac’s shadowy figure standing up. The other men rose in response. Still wary, they assembled before the bearded Scot as he switched on a red-lensed torch to check first a map, then his compass. ‘That way,’ he said, pointing towards the mountains.

Chase regarded the black mass rising against the starscape with a grumbling sigh. ‘Buggeration and f*ckery. Might have bloody known we’d be going the steepest possible route.’

‘Enough complaining,’ snapped Stikes. ‘Chase, you and Green take the lead. All right, let’s move!’

For most people, traversing six miles of hilly, rock-strewn terrain – in the dark – would be a slow, arduous and even painful task. For the multinational special forces team, however, it was little more than an inconvenient slog. They had night vision goggles, but nobody used them – the stars and the sliver of crescent moon, shining brilliantly in a pollution-free sky, gave the eight men more than enough light. After covering five miles in just over an hour and forty minutes, the only ill effect felt by Chase was a sore toe, and even Mac, oldest of the group by over fifteen years, was still in strong enough shape to be suffering only a slight shortness of breath.

Not that Chase was going to cut him any slack, dropping back from Green to speak to him as they ascended a dusty hillside. ‘You okay, Mac?’ he asked jovially. ‘Sounds like you’re wheezing a bit. Need some oxygen?’

‘Cheeky sod,’ Mac replied. ‘You know, when I joined the Regiment the entrance exercises were much harder than they are now. A smoker like you would have dropped dead before finishing the first one.’

‘I only smoke off duty. And I didn’t know the SAS even existed in the nineteenth century!’

‘Keep your mouth shut, Chase,’ growled Stikes from behind them. ‘They’ll be able to hear you half a mile away, bellowing like that.’

Chase’s voice had been barely above a conversational level, but he lowered it still further to mutter, ‘See if you can hear this, you f*cking bell-end.’

‘What was that, sergeant?’

‘Nothing, Alexander,’ Mac called back to Stikes, suppressing a laugh. ‘That’s enough of that, Eddie. Catch up with Will before he reaches the top of the hill. We’re getting close.’

‘On it, sir,’ said Chase, giving Mac a grin before increasing his pace up the slope. By the time he drew level with Green, his levity had been replaced by caution, senses now on full alert. Both men dropped and crawled the last few feet to peer over the summit.

Ahead was a rough plain about half a mile across, a great humped sandstone ridge rising steeply at the far side. A narrow pass split the ridge from the mountains, a large rock near its entrance poking from the ground like a spearhead. The obvious route to the isolated farm was by travelling up the pass.

So obvious that it had to be a trap.

Unless the Taliban were complete idiots, which whatever his other opinions about them Chase thought was unlikely, there would almost certainly be guards watching the ravine’s far end. It was a natural choke point, easy for a few men to cover, and almost impossible to pass through undetected. And if the team were detected, that would be the end for the hostages. One gunshot, even one shout, would warn that a rescue was being attempted.

Which meant the guards had to be removed. But first . . . they had to be found.

Chase shrugged off his pack and extracted his night vision goggles. He switched them on, waited for the display’s initial flare to fade, then donned them. The vista ahead became several times brighter, picked out in ghostly shades of green. He searched for any sign of movement. Nothing.

‘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 f*ckers 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 . . .

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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 until 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.

Chase waited until he was out of sight, then emerged from the ditch and took cover behind the trash heap. Castille followed. ‘What was that?’ the Belgian whispered.

‘I don’t think these fundamentalist f*ckwits are running a women’s refuge,’ Chase snapped. ‘Come on, let’s get them out of there.’

‘Wait, wait, wait! We have to find the hostages first.’

Chase frowned, but knew Castille was right. ‘Okay. You watch for—’ He stopped, sniffing. The stench of garbage was unpleasant enough, but there was another, more ominous odour mixed in with it. ‘You smell that?’

Castille’s large nostrils twitched, and his face fell. ‘Yes. Do you think . . . ’

‘Yeah, I think.’ Chase peeled away a mouldering piece of sacking to reveal what he had feared – a corpse. White skin, not olive or brown. One of the hostages. ‘Shit!’

‘There is another here,’ Castille reported mournfully. ‘No, two more. Their throats have been cut.’

‘Saves on bullets,’ Chase said bitterly as he found a fourth body beneath the first. Even in the moonlight, he recognised the face from the mission briefing. ‘I’ve found our spook. F*ck!’ He sat back on his haunches, fuming. ‘Any more?’

‘No. So, they’ve killed four of them.’

‘Which still leaves eight.’ He looked at the barn . . . then an object beside it. A large, old-fashioned refrigerator lying on its side, the door missing. Churned-up dirt showed where it had been dragged from the trash and pushed against the wall. ‘Keep an eye out, I’ll check the barn.’

Castille covering him, Chase crept forward. As he suspected, the fridge had been moved to act as a barricade, blocking a gap. He peered between the planks.

Holes in the roof provided pools of moonlight inside, enough for him to make out the slight movement of somebody’s breathing. The man was bound, his face darkened with bruises and blood. Another man’s tied legs were visible nearby, other forms in the shadows.

The mission wasn’t over, then. He moved to the corner of the barn and glanced round it, seeing another half a dozen large tents behind the house, as well as more tethered horses. He returned to Castille, and they dropped back into the ditch. Another long crawl, and they reached the scrubby bushes where the others were waiting. ‘They’ve killed four of the hostages,’ Chase reported. ‘Including the guy from MI6.’

That prompted a round of muttered obscenities. ‘The mission’s down the lavatory then,’ said Stikes.

‘There are still the other hostages,’ Mac reminded him. ‘Did you see them?’

‘Yeah,’ said Chase. ‘They’re tied up in the barn. But there’re another six tents behind the house, and more horses. I think we’re talking at least forty Terries altogether.’

‘Hrmm,’ Mac rumbled, thinking. ‘Jason, get on the radio and see if any additional air support has become available. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’

‘You don’t think we’ll be able to take ’em?’ Baine asked.

‘Not all of them, and if we have to make a run for it with the hostages I’d like to have as much firepower covering us as possible.’

‘There’s something else,’ said Chase as Starkman made the call. ‘There’s a hut past the barn, and there are more prisoners in it. Women.’

‘So what are you proposing we do?’ said Stikes with a sneer. ‘They’re not our problem – our only concern is rescuing our hostages.’

Chase stared at him in disbelief. ‘Are you f*cking serious? These Taliban arseholes hate women. Whatever they’re planning on doing with them, it won’t be giving ’em flowers and foot massages!’

‘Watch your language with me, sergeant,’ Stikes hissed. ‘Much as you might want to play the white knight, we can’t take them with us. There isn’t enough room in the helicopters.’

‘Four of the hostages are dead,’ Chase insisted, ‘so we’ve got spare seats – and if there’s more of them some of us can ride on the skids.’

Baine snorted. ‘I’m not hanging off the bottom of a f*cking chopper so some silly bitch in a burka can get a free ride, Yorkie. F*ck that!’

Chase made an angry move towards him, but Mac raised his hand. ‘Eddie, I’m sorry, but Alexander’s right. The hostages are our priority. The women will . . . ’ He shook his head, downcast. ‘They’ll have to fend for themselves.’

‘Can I at least let them out of the hut?’

Mac considered for a moment. ‘If the situation allows.’

Chase nodded, then everyone looked round as Starkman finished his radio call. ‘Good news and bad news,’ the American announced.

Bluey chuckled. ‘There’s a surprise.’

‘Good news is, there’s a Spooky, call sign Hammer Four-One, in the air. Bad news is, it’s currently on another op and they don’t know when, or even if, it’ll be able to get to us.’

‘No helicopters?’ asked Mac. Starkman shook his head. ‘That settles it, then. We can’t wait for backup – it won’t be long before somebody realises those sentries are missing. We move in now.’

Ten minutes later, Chase was back at the barn. This time Stikes, not Castille, was with him. The captain lurked by the pile of garbage and corpses, while Chase squatted in the shadows against the rusting refrigerator.

Minutes ticked by. Chase’s calf muscles started aching, but he ignored the discomfort, staying focused on his task. This time there was no self-doubt, no uncertainty; the knowledge of what the Taliban had done to the four dead hostages, and what they were likely to do to their other prisoners, had eliminated any concerns about whether he was doing the right thing. He flexed his legs, trying to keep them from stiffening. He couldn’t afford to be even a second late in reacting . . .

‘Psst!’ Stikes, signalling that a guard was beginning another patrol round the barn. Completely still, Chase listened to the plodding crunch of the Taliban’s footsteps, the rustle of loose clothing as he drew level—

Chase leapt up, left hand locking firmly over the Afghan’s bearded mouth as his right whipped up the knife. This time, though, he didn’t drive the blade deep into muscle and sinew, but pressed it flat across the man’s throat to choke him. Simultaneously, Stikes rushed to them, yanked up the Taliban’s robes and jabbed his own knife up between the man’s legs as he hissed in Pashto: ‘Make a noise and I’ll cut off your balls.’

Chase felt the Afghan tense in utter terror. ‘I think he gets the point,’ he whispered.

Still holding the knife to the Taliban’s groin, Stikes straightened and waved at the ditch. Two figures emerged: Castille and Starkman. Stikes spoke again in Pashto, his intense blue eyes glinting in the moonlight as they fixed on the prisoner’s. ‘If you don’t do exactly what I tell you, I’ll gut you like a pig. Nod if you understand me.’ The trembling man did so. Starkman and Castille pressed against the wall just short of the barn’s front corner. ‘Good. Now, call to the other guard – not too loudly – and ask him to come here. Okay?’

Another feeble tip of the head. Stikes nodded to Chase, who took his hand away from the man’s mouth, keeping the point of his knife pressed against his windpipe. The Afghan took several long, gasping breaths, then spoke in quavering Pashto. Stikes pushed his knife harder against the man’s testicles. ‘Again. Less frightened.’ The Taliban repeated himself with fractionally more confidence.

The other guard, out of sight round the front of the barn, replied dismissively. One look into Stikes’s eyes was enough to convince the prisoner to be more insistent. Complaining, the second man padded round the corner – to find five figures in the moonlight where he had expected only one. Fumbling for his AK, he opened his mouth to yell a warning—

Bullets from the silenced C8s of Green and Baine, the two SAS men still concealed in the scrub three hundred yards away, blew out the back of his skull in a spray of brain and bone. His body flopped grotesquely forward – to be caught by Castille, Starkman lunging to grab his Kalashnikov before it could clatter to the ground.

Stikes withdrew the knife from his captive. For a moment, there was a faint flicker of hope in the Taliban’s eyes, but it vanished when Stikes placed the blade’s point over his heart. The captain spoke again, this time in English. ‘Give my regards to the seventy-two virgins.’

The man stared in fearful incomprehension – and the blade sank to its hilt into his chest. With a hint of a smile, Stikes twisted it, then yanked it out. The man’s robes darkened as spewing blood soaked them. Chase clamped his hand back over the Afghan’s mouth as he struggled, trapping an animalistic sound inside his throat . . . until both noise and movement dwindled to nothing.

Suppressing shock, Chase let go. The corpse slumped to the dirt. Without even giving it a look, Stikes turned away as Mac and Bluey emerged from the ditch. ‘Bluey, watch the front of the barn; Alexander, cover the back,’ Mac ordered. He pointed at the fridge. ‘Everyone else, move that. Let’s get them out of there.’

With four men to lift it, the corroded fridge was hauled clear in moments. Chase looked into the barn. The confrontation had caught the hostages’ attention, and the bound man he had seen earlier was staring at him in alarm. ‘It’s okay,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re here to get you home.’ He squeezed through the gap, Mac, Starkman and Castille following. The prisoners’ bonds were quickly cut.

‘Mac!’ An urgent whisper from outside. Bluey. ‘Two blokes coming from the house.’

The guards’ absence had been noticed. ‘Hugo, take them to the ditch, then join Bluey,’ said Mac. ‘Eddie, you go with Alexander. Jason?’

‘Already on it,’ Starkman drawled, extracting a pair of Claymore mines from his pack and placing them facing the barn doors before connecting their tripwires.

The hostages were in a bad way, Chase realised as he followed the eight men out through the hole and watched them stagger after Castille. That would slow their escape – not good with forty pissed-off Taliban on their heels.

They would have to reduce that number.

He joined Stikes at the barn’s rear corner. A couple of bearded men carrying AKs were now standing by the horses, another ambling amongst the tents. Behind him, he heard Mac on the radio, alerting the helicopters that they were about to evacuate – most likely under fire.

The hostages were hiding in the ditch. Castille ran to join Bluey. Starkman emerged from the barn and readied his weapon. Chase’s heart pounded, adrenalin rushing into his system.

Someone at the front of the barn called out in Pashto, then with a creak of wood pulled open the doors—

Both Claymores detonated, a pound and a half of C-4 explosive in each mine blasting seven hundred steel balls outwards in a supersonic swathe of destruction. The doors were obliterated, the two Taliban outside disintegrating into a bloody shower of shredded meat and bone.

Before the boom of the twin detonations had faded, Chase and Stikes stepped out into the open and fired. The two Taliban by the horses fell to Chase’s bullets, the walking man tumbling before Stikes switched his aim to the closest tents. Screams came from them as the dirty fabric puckered with bullet holes.

More gunfire from the front of the barn, the suppressed thumps of Castille’s C8 almost lost beneath the chattering roar of Bluey’s machine gun as the pair opened fire on the Afghans outside the farmhouse. More screams, and shouts from within as the Taliban realised they were under attack and piled for the exit—

The house’s front wall blew apart, the roof crashing down on the men inside. It had been hit by high explosive grenade rounds fired by Baine and Green. A huge dust cloud burst from the ruins, roiling over the tents and the panicked horses.

A man with an AK leapt out from a tent – only to fall dead as Chase picked him off. Stikes was still shooting into the other tents to slay their occupants before they could even move. The Minimi’s hammering stopped, angry yells reaching the team as the surviving Taliban started to regroup – then they were drowned out again as Bluey resumed firing.

Chase glanced back, seeing Mac and Starkman herding the hostages along the irrigation ditch. Castille and Bluey retreated to provide covering fire. He knew he should join them, but there was something he had to do first.

The swelling dust cloud covered the tents behind the destroyed house. This was his chance. He broke away from Stikes, and hurried to the hut.

‘Chase!’ Stikes roared. ‘Get back here!’

Chase ignored him, yanking the bolt and throwing open the door. A cry of fear came from the darkness inside. He fumbled for his penlight torch, shining it quickly round the interior to see five dark, almost formless shapes: the women, even their eyes only part visible through the netted slits in their all-encompassing chadris. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their ankles also bound under the heavy robes.

‘Don’t be scared,’ said Chase. ‘I’m here to help. British, not Taliban.’ Despite the netting, he could see that the women’s eyes were swollen and blackened. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered as he drew his knife. One of the women made a terrified keening sound and tried to wriggle away. He put down his Diemaco. ‘Here to help, okay?’ She got the message and turned so he could reach her ties. From outside came another grenade explosion, followed by the thump of a fuel tank detonating: Green or Baine had destroyed one of the trucks.

‘Chase!’ Stikes appeared at the door, gun raised. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘What I said I would.’ He started to saw at the rope.

‘Leave them – that’s an order. We’re moving out. Now!’

‘We can take them with us.’

‘Leave them!’

‘No, there’re enough seats in the choppers. I’ll—’

Stikes fired. Even with its suppressor, the noise of his rifle on full auto was painful in the confined space. The stream of bullets sliced down the five women and spattered Chase with blood.

‘Jesus f*cking Christ!’ Chase yelled, rolling out of the line of fire. He whipped up his C8 at the captain – to find the smoking barrel pointing straight back at him. ‘What the f*ck are you doing?’

‘I told you the rules of engagement,’ said Stikes coldly. ‘Anyone who isn’t one of the hostages is a hostile.’ A thin, malignant smile. ‘And as I said, you know what we do to hostiles. Now lower your weapon.’

‘You f*cker,’ Chase snarled. The black tube of the suppressor was still aimed at his head. Slowly, unwillingly, he let his own rifle drop.

‘Good. Move it,’ said Stikes. The Diemaco not wavering, he backed out of the shack, then turned and ran for the barn.

Chase jumped up, rage flooding through him. He should shoot the bastard in the back—

No. He shouldn’t. There was a mission to complete. He went to the door, then hesitated, his gaze drawn back to the sprawled bodies. With an angry growl, he ran after Stikes.

Castille and Bluey were still firing as they advanced along the ditch after the fleeing hostages. Stikes ran past the pair, but Chase joined them. One of the UN trucks was aflame, and the other vehicles had all taken damage. There were at least fifteen Taliban survivors, judging from the muzzle flashes from behind the collapsed house. It was mostly panic fire, the shots smacking harmlessly into the ground short of the trench. Chase matched the timing of the closest impacts to the flash of the most accurate gunman, then dropped him with a single round to the head.

‘Good shot,’ said Castille. ‘What were you and Stikes doing back there?’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Chase replied grimly. He looked along the ditch to see that Stikes had caught up with Mac, at the tail of the shambling line of hostages. Starkman, leading, was almost at the bushes. ‘Time to go.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Bluey, releasing a sweeping burst before scuttling crab-like down the ditch. Chase and Castille trailed him. A hollow whomp came from the scrub, and a moment later one of the 4×4s was bowled on to its roof in a huge fireball as another AG-C round found its target. A man, robes and beard aflame, ran screaming into the night. ‘Don’t think they’ll be driving after us now!’

‘They’ve still got bikes, though,’ Chase told him. ‘And horses.’

‘Well, they shoot horses, don’t they?’ With a cackle, Bluey fired another sweep to force the Taliban into cover, then hurried after Stikes.

Chase grimaced at the joke, then took up the rear. The AK fire was now more intermittent, but also better aimed. The remaining Taliban had overcome their initial shock.

The hostages were past the bushes, Mac directing them down the slope. A small object, spitting sparks, arced from the scrub – a smoke grenade. A thick grey cloud spewed from it. A second followed, putting an obscuring curtain between the team and the Taliban.

‘Hugo, Eddie, come on!’ Mac called as Green and Baine jumped up from their hiding place. ‘Choppers are on their way. Move it!’

The two stragglers needed no further prompting, Chase catching up with his commanding officer on the hillside. ‘Mac, those women – they’re all dead!’

‘What? How did the Terries even get near them?’

‘They didn’t. It was Stikes – that bastard shot them!’

Mac’s expression was one of shock, but before he could reply a shout from Starkman interrupted them. ‘Mac! Hammer Four-One is inbound, three minutes away. They want to know if we need support.’

A crackle of AK fire came from behind them. The Taliban were through the smokescreen. ‘I’d say that was a yes,’ Mac told Starkman with a wry grin as the soldiers shot back. He raised his voice. ‘Strobes on, strobes on! Gunship inbound!’

Chase switched on the infrared beacon attached to his equipment webbing. The strobe light’s pulses were invisible to the naked eye – but would flash brilliantly on the approaching aircraft’s targeting screens, warning its gunners of the location of friendly forces.