Hostage Crisis (2 page)

Amid chants of
Allahu Akbar
Masud issued orders to his men. “Gather weapons and strip the jeep of anything useful.” He pointed at Kate. “You will come with us. Amin, tie her hands.” He then turned to Tom. “You, infidel, will return to Kandahar with a message. Here, give this to the American general.” He pressed a piece of paper into Tom’s hand. “These are my demands. One million dollars if you want to see the woman again, alive.”

“Take me instead,” Tom pleaded. “Let her go.”

Masud shook his head. “She is worth ten times more than you. We know she is the daughter of an American senator. Tell the general he has one week, or she will die.”

The following day and several hundred miles further north, Major Nathan Connor and his Delta Force team were on a reconnaissance mission. They were driving to a new hydroelectric plant and dam. A mile behind them was the main convoy, which included a small party of American politicians and the head of Central Command, General Patterson.

Taking point duty, Delta Force opted for their Ranger Ground Mobility Vehicle. The GMV was a version of the Humvee stripped of its doors to enable instant access and use of small arms from inside. Connor had a grenade launcher mounted on top, as well as a heavy machine gun. He was confident they would be able to handle Taliban resistance. Plus there were two Black Hawk helicopters circling above the main convoy. Just as long as the track is clear of IEDs, we should be OK, Connor thought.

The road was dusty and heavily rutted. Sergeant Sam Wilson was at the wheel of the GMV next to Connor. Sam pulled the GMV off the main track, up a steep climb. The road wound in a series of tight bends towards the dam. Connor felt a tap on his shoulder. “What’s up, Sparks?”

“CENTCOM says they’ve lost contact with the dam construction site, sir. Visual feeds from high altitude drones have detected suspicious movement on the mountainside above us.”

“Right. Try to call the site staff yourself, and inform General Patterson. In the meantime, I guess we’d better check it out. Sam, put your foot down.”

As they approached, Connor ordered Sam to pull over. Dozens of temporary buildings — home to the construction workers and their families — had created a small town. They overlooked the half-built dam on both sides of the road. The site office was located at the far end of the street.

“Sparks, any luck raising the site staff?”

“No, sir.”

“OK, we’ll do a recce on foot. Sam, you stay here and establish a line of fire to the rocks above us. Ben, you’re up top. Danny and Jacko, come with me.”

Connor grabbed his M4 rifle and jumped out. Lieutenants Danny Crow and Jacko Alvarez ran to take up tactical positions on either side of the road. Connor walked, his eyes darting from doorway to doorway. He checked the flat rooftops and alleyways, but the place appeared to be deserted. The only thing he could hear was the thud and hammering of construction traffic in the valley beyond. After twenty metres he stopped and knelt down. He waved Jacko forward, and signalled for Danny to move up.

“It seems OK, sir. Sounds like everyone’s at work on the dam.”

“Perhaps.” Hearing an approaching Black Hawk, Connor realised the VIPs would soon arrive. “Let’s get a move on and check out the site office.”

The site office was a grey Portakabin at the entrance to a large, wire-fenced compound protecting heavy machinery and materials. The door was open. As Connor approached he called out. There was no reply.

He pressed up against the wall next to the door, counted to three and then spun round into the doorway, M4 raised and finger on the trigger. A fan whirred noisily, fluttering piles of paperwork. Connor saw a body on the floor behind the desk. Blood was splattered on the wall. Then he saw the large package and a mass of coloured wires. He turned quickly. “Fall back to the GMV, now! This place is rigged to blow.”

They hurried along the street towards their GMV. Connor spoke into his helmet mic, telling Sparks to warn the convoy to abort the visit. The sergeant’s reply made Connor’s guts tighten.

“They’re already here, sir.”

“Then tell them to take up defensive positions and hold. The bomb might be detonated remotely by Taliban as soon as the VIPs are in range.”

A boy leaned out of a window in one of the temporary houses. He waved and pointed to a house opposite. “Boom! Boom!
D kor deneneh!
” he yelled, before ducking back inside.

Connor’s instinct kicked in. The boy was telling him that there was another bomb inside the house. They were in the middle of a Taliban trap!

“Prepare for incoming,” he warned his team. Had the convoy reached the site office and the bombs been detonated, there’d be no evac route — no way out.

Gunshots cracked from the hillside above. Danny let out a cry and sank to his knees. Connor grabbed Danny’s webbing and began to drag him back towards the GMV. Jacko covered their backs, laying down a blanket of covering fire.

“Danny is hit,” Connor announced into his helmet mic. “Ben, there’s a second bomb in that house I’ve just passed. Hit it with everything you’ve got. Sparks, there are snipers up on the hillside. Call in our Hawks to take them out.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Connor hauled Danny to the cover of the armoured GMV. Coughing between gasps for breath, he managed to speak, “I’m OK, sir. Body armour did its job. Just winded me.”

Next to them, Sam steadied his aim. He had a target in the crosshairs of his rifle sight: a figure crouching behind a rock some five hundred metres away. Sam exhaled, gently squeezed the trigger, and absorbed the recoil. “That’s two down, sir, but there are at least five more of them up there.”

The pair of Black Hawks screamed overhead, and fired rockets at the hillside, turning it into a dust-laden fireball.

“Not any more, there aren’t,” Sparks added with immense satisfaction.

Grenades pumped from Delta Force’s GMV launcher, blasting the house where the boy had been. “Jesus, cease firing, Ben! Cease fire! That’s the wrong house!” Connor shouted.

He grabbed the trauma kit from the GMV. “Sam, cover me!” he ordered, and then hurried back along the street to the remains of the house. Connor searched through the debris, until he found the body of a woman. He checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

Jacko arrived in support. “Marines from the convoy are locking this place down, sir. Sparks has called in an anti-IED team to check for other bombs, but they won’t be here for at least an hour.”

“Shut up!” Connor snapped. “Listen.” He could hear faint cries. The boy was there, somewhere, and was still alive. “Over here. Quickly. Give me a hand lifting this wood panel.”

The boy, covered in yellow-grey dust, was in bad shape, his left leg crushed just below the knee. His piercing screams rang in Connor’s ears. After a quick check, Connor knew he had to stop the blood surging from the crushed leg. He applied a tourniquet, while Jacko pushed a fentanyl lollipop into the boy’s mouth to dull the pain. Over his cries, Connor was only vaguely aware of voices and footsteps behind him.

“Senator Shawcross, it really isn’t wise to be out in the open. Please return to your vehicle, where you’ll be safe,” General Patterson called out. “I must insist.”

“Nonsense, that boy needs my help. I was a doctor for twenty years before entering politics.”

Rolling up his shirtsleeves, the senator stooped down beside Connor. “Well done, soldier, but that tourniquet needs to be even tighter. Here, let me do it. We must get this boy to hospital within the hour.”

“Impossible,” General Patterson replied. “It’s over two hours back to Camp Delta by road.”

The senator studied the circling Black Hawks for a moment before searching the local terrain. He pointed, “Over there. Get the pilot to land and take the boy back to Camp Delta.”

The boy cried out for his mother in his native Pashto, “
Mor! Mor!
” Connor held him and whispered that everything was going to be all right. He thought of his own son back home, and the hit and run accident that had cut his life so short. And he thought of Hassan, the son of his childhood friend, Assif, and the promise he’d made to find him. A promise yet to be fulfilled.

As the Black Hawk took off with the boy on board, General Patterson received an urgent and disturbing message from CENTCOM. Grim-faced, he broke the terrible news to Senator Shawcross.

“Senator, the Taliban have attacked the medical station where your daughter was working. She’s been taken hostage.”

Kate pressed her eyes shut tightly. She couldn’t bear to look down. The high mountain path was narrow and the long drop down into the valley below made her feel dizzy. With her hands tied, she found it difficult to balance. One wrong step and she’d fall.

Kate was hungry, thirsty and stank with stale sweat. She was terrified, but determined not to let it show — not to give her captors the satisfaction. Her left foot suddenly slipped and she let out a shriek. Loose stones tumbled down over the edge.

Hassan appeared at her side. “Take my hand. Surely, you’re not more afraid than a stupid goat? See how they climb without a care.”

Kate had noticed the goats dotted about the steep mountain side, grazing quietly. They did little to reassure her. “Your English is very good. But a goat has four legs. I’ve only got two.”

The Taliban leader, Masud, overheard and before Hassan could reply, snapped, “Then crawl on your hands and knees, woman.”

“Damn it, I wish I’d never set foot in this hellhole. I only wanted to help, and this is the thanks I get. My feet are sore and my head hurts. How much further is it?”

Hassan looked away and felt choked. He had regrets too. All he had wanted was to find the Taliban camp and then tell the Americans so they could come and avenge his father’s murder. Setting off after Masud had been his first big mistake. Getting caught by Masud was his second. Worse, he’d lied to the Taliban leader about wanting to join their jihad, their holy war against the American infidel. It was a lie that Hassan feared would bring him a great deal of trouble. Already, Masud had used him. Hassan hated the fact he’d played a part in Kate’s capture.

Amin, the tall young Taliban fighter who had carried Hassan to the medical station, caught them up. He handed Hassan a bottle of water. Hassan had grown to like Amin because he seemed different from the others, with his constant joking,
tanbur
playing, and fine storytelling around their campfires.

“Masud’s in a really bad mood today,” Hassan observed.

Amin nodded. “His shoulder wound is painful and he is still angry about the American infidels’ attack we suffered a few weeks ago. We lost many good men, not to mention the drone and its missile intended for the American President’s visit. Still, we are used to setbacks. That is our story, the story of our country, Hassan. Our struggle is a hard one, harder even than trying to empty an ocean by throwing stones into it. We need to regroup and begin again. Taking the woman hostage was an opportunity not to be missed.”

An old man with a long grey beard emerged from behind a boulder, waved his stick in the air and called out. Masud approached the goatherder and spoke to him. Hassan took the opportunity to rest. He sat down, groaning at his aching muscles. He counted the blisters on the soles of his feet. Amin settled down cross-legged next to him.