Insurgency (10 page)

“Let us not waste any more time, my friend. I have a film to make.” The Afghan stood and handed his pipe to an underling.

***

The hut was part of a deserted compound located in a small valley all but hidden by surrounding mountains. It had been used by a hill farmer who years before had disappeared at the hands of the Russians. The land that he had tried to cultivate had reverted to the wild and successive harsh winters and dry summers had caused what little soil there had once been to erode away giving the surface the appearance of a weathered skull. Now that the sun was high, Black climbed to the nearest summit. He squinted and could just make out smoke on the horizon from the Firebase. Krasnov was asleep in what looked like a black body-bag, behind a locked door, in a purpose built room within the hut. He had not survived in Afghanistan for so long without taking precautions and before going to sleep had shown Black his weapons and ordnance cache. Krasnov had taken standard 7.62 ammo and then added silver jackets. He had also fabricated grenades and claymores filled with silver ball bearings. All were deadly to humans but more importantly would have the same effect on a vampire. As Black sat on the exposed rock and looked into the distance he felt a cool breeze on his face and then his chest. It was only then that he noticed the true state of his uniform. He removed his jacket and counted the bullet holes from AK rounds and a much larger hole from the .50 cal. How the hell could his body have survived, it was beyond belief but now belief he had. Numerous rips in his fatigues were witness to the effects of shrapnel yet his body displayed not a single mark. A thought struck him. He lifted his vest, which too resembled Swiss cheese, and searched for the scar he had gotten as a boy when he fell through a plate glass window. He snorted as he remembered how his mother had become apoplectic, yelling at his father who she blamed for his accident. Black ran his hand over his stomach as he relived the moment and then dared a look. There was no scar. A mark that had been part of him since childhood had been wiped away. His eyes became moist as he remembered again his parents and his sister. Had becoming a vampire caused him to lose the only people he had ever loved? Had they too been wiped away? Black had no idea. It was then that he decided that whatever happened he would fight for them, but first he would fight for his country.

Rockbridge and Gonzalez were grabbed, hauled to their feet and hustled out of the darkness of the cave into the cool night air. Instantly lights dazzled them. As his eyes started to adjust Gonzalez could see that the light came from three pairs of headlights. A makeshift set had been created with a camera on a tripod, facing four chairs positioned in front of the sheer rock-face. To his shock he saw that two seats were already taken by Styles and Miller. Gonzalez could remember Miller returning to the base but after that it all went fuzzy. As they were pushed towards the seats Miller tried to stand and was pistol-whipped by a Talib for his trouble. Without a word from any of their captors, Rockbridge and Gonzalez were made to sit. Rockbridge sat teeth clenched attempting to hide the pain that his shattered shoulder was causing him. Two Talibs, their faces covered by Shemags stood behind cradling AKs. Their leader appeared and addressed the Americans in Pashtun. A much younger Talib, whose beard reminded Gonzalez of pubes, translated.

“He says that Ghulam Ali is a name you and all of the ISAF forces will learn to respect and fear!”

“If you let us go now I can promise that you will be treated fairly by the Government of your country.”

Ghulam Ali’s eyebrows raised as the translator relayed Rockbridge’s reply. The warlord then laughed so hard that his belly shook. After he had regained his composure he replied again via his translator. “You are a famous American comedian, but you shall soon stop joking. Now you shall each read a statement to the camera and then we shall see what your own government says.”

Another Talib stepped forward carrying several sheets of paper. He tried to hand one to Styles who snatched the paper, quickly scrunched it into a ball and rammed it into his mouth. Without hesitation Ghulam Ali drew a Makarov pistol from his waistband and shot Styles in the left knee. Styles screamed.

The translator again made the Afghan leader’s words clear. “The next refusal gets one in the head. What is it, can you not read? Are you that backward?”

The video camera was now switched on. Apart from Styles’ moans the group was silent. Each American was handed their own piece of paper. Rockbridge studied his, the hand was spidery but the English correct. He looked up to meet the eyes of his captor. Rockbridge was under no illusion that the man was capable of murder but would he really risk the loss of such an HVH as himself or one of the Deltas?

Miller must have been thinking the same as without warning he stood. “I ain’t reading this. Screw you.”

The round hit Miller in the forehead, propelling him backwards. Gonzalez snarled and Rockbridge closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Two Talibs dragged Miller’s body away, his head leaving a bloody trail.

“Read.” Ghulam Ali said in thickly accented English as pointed his Soviet sidearm at Rockbridge.

Rockbridge looked at the note again and cleared his throat.

***

In the darkness Dratshev thought about his next move. The serum codenamed ‘Chornyi Svet’ (black light) had shown promise, at least one subject had displayed signs of photoresistance. The serum was derived from the blood of the elder of a small clan of Ingush in the North Caucasus region of Chechnya. Local legend had put the man’s age at well over one hundred and twenty. There were many more legends in other former Soviet territories. This had lead Dratshev to tie longevity with the missing ‘daylight’ gene, namely the human body’s ability to repair dead cells. Following this lead he had undertaken some research in Abkhazia where there had been reports since the nineteenth century of many men living well past a hundred. Some noticeable examples such as Tlabganu Ketsba had claimed to be one hundred and forty. Western science dismissed these claims as lies or mere Soviet propaganda but as with stories of vampires, Dratshev knew there was some truth. He had pursued this link over a century before but without the advancements of modern science had been unable to establish a strong enough tie. In 2008 the war involving Abkhazia, South Ossetia, Georgia and Russia had given him another ‘in’ but when peace had been established less than a month later Dratshev had been forced yet again to pull out and much of his new research had been destroyed by an errant Georgian artillery shell. Although he was by far one of the most powerful men on earth he was not a god and could not operate with complete impunity. He had managed to keep his existence and the existence of vampires clandestine, although he felt an unseen net slowly closing in. Involving the Afghan had been a risky strategy but he had needed the data and the chance to test the properties of his serum against American soldiers had been too exquisite to pass up. The Americans were coming and would attempt to free the hostages, he’d be a fool not to believe this yet he could not bring himself to leave. He had given the Chornyi Svet serum to the returning fighters and would now see how it would react when mixed with the existing serums within their bodies. Would a double dose of Chornyi Svet prolong the vampire’s ability to resist sunlight? His hypothesis was that it would, but if these test subjects managed to defeat the Americans he would take care of them himself leaving no trace, no evidence of the existence of vampires.

Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

Turner sat in the large open air food hall of camp Bastion and pushed a fry around her plate. At other tables ISAF soldiers of many nationalities happily munched away but she was not hungry.

“If you aren’t going to have that then I will.”

“Doesn’t it affect you anymore?”

“What?” Raymond crammed a fry into his mouth.

“That all those men we lived with and joked with could now be dead.”

Raymond shrugged and dipped another chip, as he liked to call them into a dollop of ketchup. “They were, are soldiers. They knew what they were getting into.”

“Wanker.”

Raymond spluttered. “Yes, but what has that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t you care at all?”

“Grow up Paige.”

“What!” Now it was her turn to become defensive.

“Of course I bloody care, but what can I do? I was one remember, I used to be a squaddie. I thought I was going to die in Iraq but I had to focus, had to cut away when my mates got mashed up by IEDs. That’s what I’m doing now. Paige, keep the tears for the soddin camera, get your BAFTA or whatever it is you want. But for your own sanity just switch off when the camera does. You want to cry? Do so on your own. Me? I’ll cry when I get home with a bottle of single malt.”

She folded her arms and for a while did not speak as he continued to eat from her plate. “Maybe I’m not like you. I can’t just stop thinking about something because I choose to.”

“You are a woman.” He saw her nostrils flare and held up his hand to stop her from exploding. “What I mean is that as a woman you are more sensitive than I am, you care more.”

She took a deep breath, placated. “What do you care about?”

“You. I care about you Paige.”

“And I thought you just wanted to screw me?”

Raymond reddened. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Honestly.”

“I don’t just want to screw you.”

“Thanks."

Raymond pointed. “Look.”

Turner followed Raymond’s finger to the CNN News team who suddenly seemed very excited. The reporter, Greg Salmon was getting ready to do a piece to camera.

“Now what do you think they know that we don’t?”

“Looks like something we should know.” Turner stood and walked towards their table. “Greg, what gives?”

“What no internet connection Paige? The Taliban has released a hostage video; they’ve got the CO of Firebase Python and three other Americans.” Salmon could see how shocked she was. “Didn’t you just get back from there?”

Turner nodded then returned to her seat. She was in shock, actually in shock. Her fears were now confirmed. “The Taliban have Rockbridge.”

“Shit…if they’ve got him it means they’ve got the base and if that’s the case then…”

“Everyone’s dead.” She felt her whole body start to shake; she didn’t want to lose it not here in front of her colleagues and the ISAF soldiers. “Take me to our room.”

Raymond nodded and for once did not even think of making any innuendo.

Matthers hung up phone and then hung his head. Why him, why his command? A media coup for the Taliban; the impossible possible. But the Taliban had made a mistake, one that even the most unsophisticated insurgent would have avoided at all cost. The hostage video had been uploaded directly via an Iridium satellite phone and as such the NSA’s Echelon monitoring program had ‘pinged’ it. JSOC had already tasked several drones to overfly the surrounding area and the feed from the US satellites going back twelve hours was being studied. He had no doubt that the hostages would be found it was just a matter of if they would be alive. The demands on the video, even if realistic would not be met as the US ‘did not negotiate with terrorists’. As it happened the demands were anything but realistic. The leader of the Taliban group called for the immediate departure of all ISAF forces from Afghanistan, the immediate release of all prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay and the immediate recognition of the Taliban as the true government of Afghanistan by the United Nations. And the time scale for all of this? Immediately, by midnight Kabul time. The hostage takers were nothing if not ambitious but it wasn’t their demands that had caught the attention of the world but the fact that they had executed a Delta operative. In the good old days news could have been suppressed but now it was impossible, take down one website and another would instantly pop up to replace it. Matthers stood and paced. It did not make sense. Why get such HVHs and then give away your position? It was almost as if they wanted to be found, as if they wanted a fight. He shook his head; did the Taliban actually believe that they could spring a trap? That they could out-fox the resources of ISAF with a few men wearing dresses armed with AKs? What was the plan, try to take down a helo or perhaps kill the hostages and blame ISAF? He had no idea but he also had no time. He checked his watch; a Delta team would be going in within the hour. They had already been given valuable ‘HUMINT’ by the only survivor of the attack, an ANA soldier who claimed to know exactly who was responsible and where they were based. This was being crosschecked against the satellite and drone feed. Feed…food; that always helped. He left his office.

***

No sooner had the sun set than Krasnov appeared and readied their arsenal. Now they had taken the Toyota and were en route to attack the Taliban base. It was another cave system known to Krasnov; he had used it before, when he had been an ally against the West. If Dratshev was still in Afghanistan Krasnov had bet that he would be with his pet Taliban warlord, Ghulam Ali.

Carefully strapped to the back of the Toyota their bespoke ordnance could have passed for ‘bling’ on an MTV rap video. This included two modified RPGs with silver filled and coated shells, a box of silver fragmentation grenades, a Russian Dragunov sniper rifle and an AK47 each with 1000 silver jacketed rounds.

“I’ve had a long time to prepare for this war; I do not intend to lose.” Krasnov stated dryly as they pulled away. “They will expect to be attacked with conventional weapons so we shall have the advantage until they realise that we are outnumbered.”

“How many men does this warlord have?”

“Around his base perhaps two hundred, that he can call upon to take arms against ISAF? That could be thousands, remember you Americans are not at all popular here.”

“You know this man how?”

“He was in league with Dratshev during the occupation; that is how he survived and gained his power.”