Rogue Predator (2 page)

“Yes, it is I.” A surprised and delighted Assif Aziz beamed a welcoming smile. “Praise be to Allah. After all these years. Nathan, is it really you? Come in. Come in. Welcome to my humble home, dear friend.”

As Connor lowered his M4, childhood memories flooded back. As boys he and Assif had become best buddies after Connor’s dad saved Assif’s mother’s life when she’d fallen seriously ill.

“How is your father, Nathan?” Assif asked as they embraced.

“Fine. He often speaks fondly of his time over here working for the UN.”

“They were good days, Nathan.”

Connor nodded. As a boy he had spent two years alongside his father in Afghanistan. “Was that your son I saw outside?”

“Yes. His name is Hassan. He’s a good boy. Tomorrow, I’m sending him south to stay with his Uncle Emil, near Kandahar. There is a fine school nearby. I want a better life for Hassan. Better than this.” He gestured to his bleak surroundings. “You remember Emil?”

As they settled down onto large cushions, Connor nodded. “Yes, of course. Is it wise to send Hassan to stay with him?” He pulled a face. “Emil was always causing trouble. Hope he’s changed — for Hassan’s sake.”

Assif laughed. “Emil is my brother. What can I say?” An awkward pause followed and his smile disappeared. “You should not have come here, Nathan. The Taliban may be watching.”

“I know. Actually, that’s why I am here,” Connor replied. “Things are about to hot up between here and the border. We know your village is on the Taliban trail north. We need you to feed us intel on their comings and goings.” He sensed the heavy weight his words suddenly placed on Assif’s shoulders. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but we’ll make it worth your while. A thousand bucks a month, and we’ll pay for anything else you need; a new well, your own schoolhouse or repairs to the mosque. I guess you know what’ll happen if you refuse. Your village may be targeted by ISAF, maybe even by air strikes. Even as we speak, a reconnaissance team has set up camp near here.”

Assif cursed. “What use is money or a new schoolhouse to dead men?” His tone dripped bitterness. “It’s the same story in every village, Nathan. Soldiers come and tell us to grow wheat instead of opium. And that we must inform them should any Taliban pass through. But by sunset the soldiers are gone. Left alone, we are defenceless. Then in the night the Taliban come and make demands too. Like you, they threaten us. They punish us if we don’t grow poppies for their opium. They punish us if we talk to you. It’s the complete opposite and we cannot win.” He threw up his arms in surrender.

Connor understood the awful dilemma he’d brought to the village and to his old friend’s home. All over Afghanistan thousands of farmers like Assif were chained to poverty and stuck in the middle of a land that had only known war for hundreds of years. They were always in the wrong place at the wrong time, but had nowhere else to go. Connor knew he had some persuading to do.

Outside in the fields, Hassan saw the American soldiers watching him from the rocky outcrop. Nervously, the barefoot boy pushed his heavy wooden handcart along the rutted path between the poppy fields, picking up fist-sized stones as he went. He wanted to leave the cart and run, but there was nowhere to hide. Hassan didn’t want to catch their attention — they might scramble down to talk to him. Maybe they’d yell and point their rifles. Or chew him out for being uncooperative. Would they shoot him? “
Inshallah
,” he muttered aloud — if Allah wills it. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to get shot, and wondered whether it was better if a bullet passed right through him rather than it getting lodged inside his belly. On the other hand, they might give him a bar of chocolate. The infidels always had lots of tempting bars of delicious chocolate. Hassan knelt down, picked up another stone, and dropped it into his cart. The distant roar of engines made Hassan turn and shield his eyes. He spotted a rising trail of dust amid the shimmering heat. Three red Toyota pickups sped past on the main road, heading south. He watched them until they were out of view. Taliban, he suspected. He was curious as to why the Americans hadn’t opened fire.

Hassan began wheeling his cart full of stones back to his village. Had the Americans come to blow up his house? he fretted. He also knew that the Taliban sometimes blew up houses; but mostly they slit throats or cut off heads. Anyone who didn’t do as they were told, or who made friends with the American infidels, would suffer. They’re all crazy, Hassan decided. All of them.

He heard a strange noise, and looked up into the sky. It was a drone. He’d never seen one so close, and this one was heading his way. It was flying as if it was out of control, like it was being flown by a drunken pilot. Then he saw the missile spark into life and accelerate away, leaving a trail across the sky. Hassan gulped. Was he the target? He dropped to his knees, crawled behind his cart and prayed. The missile flashed overhead and a moment later smacked into the outcrop.

A blinding flash. A deafening, earth-shaking crump. The pressure wave toppled Hassan’s cart, knocking him flat and scattering the stones. A mushroom cloud of black smoke rose hundreds of metres into the air. Rubble, dirt and debris rained down. A set of dog tags and a severed arm landed close to where Hassan lay.

Shaken, he stood up and dusted himself down. He stared at the arm; the fingers were still twitching. Somehow, it didn’t look real. Slightly dazed, he picked up the dog tags. The name on them read: Brad Somersby. It doesn’t make sense, Hassan thought. Why would the Americans bomb their own patrol? Without thinking, he put the dog tags into his pocket.

The explosion from the Hellfire missile shook Assif's house. Dust fell from the ceiling. Startled, Assif leaped to his feet. Connor snatched his radio from his trouser cargo pocket. “Sparks, what the hell is going on out there, over?”

Silence.

“Sparks? Do you read me, over?”

Eventually, Connor's radio crackled into life. Sparks's voice sounded odd. “S-s-sir, something terrible has happened. One of our drones has taken out Halo, over.”

“What?” Connor sprang to his feet too. “Repeat that, over.”

“The whole hillside, sir, it's…it's gone! Over.” Connor gaped in a mix of astonishment and horror. His brain could barely grasp what had happened. Then Jacko radioed in from the Humvee.

“Sir, we've got company too. Insurgents heading in from the east, over.”

Connor had to think fast but calmly. Years of combat experience kicked in. “Roger that. Everyone evac now. Get your butts back to the Humvee, over.” He turned to Assif. “Gotta go, old friend. Think about what I've said.”

Reluctantly, Assif nodded. “First, I must speak to the village elders. I shall organise a shura, an informal meeting of the village council. They may have their own demands. And, Nathan, they will want to look you in the eye and see that your promises of help are truthful. Return tomorrow evening, then you shall have our decision.”

Connor nodded.

“As for myself, I shall recommend that we assist you. For old time's sake.” Assif smiled awkwardly. “But I have one demand of my own.”

“Go on,” said Connor, heading for the door.

“Should anything happen to me, promise that you will seek out Hassan and make sure he's OK. Do what you can for him.”

Connor paused in the doorway and held out a hand. “You have my word.”

 

The following evening Connor and his team headed back to Assif's village to hear their decision. As they drew closer they saw smoke rising into a rapidly darkening sky. “Don't stop,” Connor ordered, the contents of his stomach suddenly feeling leaden. “Drive into the village.”

The Humvee crawled slowly up the main street. Connor stared at the burned-out buildings. “Wait here,” he ordered, leaping from the vehicle and heading up the alley.

Assif's body lay in the courtyard in a pool of sticky blood. His throat had been cut. The Taliban had come and wreaked revenge against the villagers for daring to talk to the Americans. Connor sank to his knees next to his dead friend. “This is my fault,” he said, choked. “You were right, Assif, old friend, I shouldn't have come.” Peering around, he called out desperately, “Hassan? Hassan?”

News of the marines in Halo Forward Patrol killed in action travelled fast. Photos and names filled every newspaper and TV news channel across the world. Most reports were vague about just what exactly had happened. With facts thin on the ground, rumours of a friendly fire incident spread quickly.

Connor knew the truth would come out before long. It always did. But for now, no one was quite sure exactly what had happened. With the Predator drone missing, along with the remainder of its Hellfire missiles, Central Command was desperate for information. Connor reckoned he knew just the man to talk to. Dressing native to blend in with the locals of Kandahar, Connor wore a long white cotton shirt and white cotton trousers. The turban on his head was expertly wrapped — the result of years of practice in front of a mirror. With a deep tan, decent beard growth, and speaking fluent Pashto, few eyed him with more than the usual suspicion.

Connor pressed through Kandahar’s crowded bazaar, passing stalls selling everything from pirated DVDs, jerry cans of fuel, to slabs of slowly rotting meat swarming with flies. Connor’s senses buzzed — the Taliban had surely infiltrated the bazaar. Chatter filled his ears; heated arguments, determined bartering for the best price. The air reeked with a mix of hot spices and excrement; every house ditched its human waste into the nearby stream, and in the same foul waters Connor saw women wash clothes and children splash and play.

Connor arrived at a market stall flogging old car radios, guarded by a dumb-looking youth with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue.

“Is your grandfather here, Mushtaq?” Connor asked.

Mushtaq stared at Connor like he’d seen a ghost, then cursed him at length before finally nodding and gesturing to an open doorway covered by a striped cloth. Connor pushed past him and entered the dusty brick building. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the gloom and observed Mushtaq’s grandfather, Abdul, sitting cross-legged on a mattress and dribbling chewed tobacco into a spittoon. Most of it ended up on his long grey beard. They exchanged greetings and Abdul beckoned Connor to sit.

“Mushtaq!” the old man yelled. “Bring us tea!” He turned his attention to Connor. “So, the rumours are all lies. You’re still alive, Major Connor. Last I heard you’d got into a spot of bother at Lashkar-Gah. It was reported that one of the local warlords stuck your head on a pole outside his tent.” Abdul chuckled. “Is this an official visit because I know nothing about those stolen rocket-propelled grenades?”

“Nice to see you too, you old rogue,” Connor replied. “Relax. I’m just after some intel. We lost one of our birds.”

Abdul grinned. “So I heard.”

“Thought you might have. You know everything that goes on within a hundred mile radius of this dump. You and I are the same, Abdul, we’re both fixers. It’s our job to keep our fingers on the pulse.”