Lieutenant Nolan glanced at the unit sniper, Petty Officer Vince Merano. For some time, he'd been watching the distant convoy through his Leopold sniper scope, and he removed it from his eye for a second.

  "There’s something not right. They took too long to reappear after they rounded that last bend. It may be something."

  "Like what, Vince?"

  Nolan had plenty of respect for the sniper's powers of observation. His eyes were sharper than those of any normal man.

  "It could have been anything or nothing. Maybe they stopped to take a leak. Still…"

  Deep inside, he felt uneasy, although there was no reason to suppose the men they were following had tumbled the pursuit. The Land Cruisers were laden with supplies for the Afghan insurgency, probably the Taliban, although other insurgent groups were starting to make their presence known. Amongst them were ISIS, and the formidable Lashkar-e-Taiba. There was no shortage of weapons in the benighted country of Afghanistan. The real shortage was for explosive ordnance, bomb-making equipment, C4, hardwired and radio detonators, together with the paraphernalia required to create the lethal devices. Too many coalition troops, as well as innocent civilians, had died when the IEDs detonated. Their mission was to make sure the deadly cargo never got to the bomb makers waiting for the means to kill more men, women, and children. Waiting to fill the canvas vests with sticks of explosive, ready to send wide-eyed children to their deaths. Their heads stuffed with more lies than a political manifesto.

  It would have been a simple operation for a pair of United States Air Force FA/18s to swoop down and turn the SUVs into fiery hell. Alternatively, a strike from a drone like the Predator, armed with a Hellfire missile. It wasn't to be. Politics played a deadly hand, as it so often did, in this case, Pakistani politics. The Muslim population had pressured the government to cut back the American drone overflights, and so it had to be done the hard way. A discreet surveillance on the ground, track them as they crossed the Hindu Kush, the high range of mountains that were the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Then kill them after they’d left Pakistani territory.

  The uneasiness wouldn’t leave him. He squinted aside at Petty Officer John-Wesley Ryder, the man in the driver’s seat. "Keep following, but stay further back. If they’re planning an unpleasant surprise, make sure it doesn't catch us out."

  Ryder acknowledged and slowed the Land Rover. The tall spur of rock that marked the bend in the track was as far as they could see, a half-kilometer ahead, a spur of high rock soaring into the sky, ending in a ledge high above them. Beyond the ledge lay the distant, snow-covered peaks. He heard the metallic noise of Master Chief Petty Officer Will Bryce, checking and rechecking the M249 machine gun. Ready to blast anyone who might pop out to give them a nasty surprise. They shared his unease. Anything could be waiting for them beyond that curve in the track, a bomb, an IED, an ambush. Or nothing.

  They were close to where the track followed a long curve and disappeared behind the loom of the mountain. Two kilometers away it reappeared in the distance. The convoy resurfaced; still moving but their progress was a crawl. Why had they slowed, what were they up to? Each man fingered his weapon, waiting for the chattering burst of gunfire that would signal an ambush. None came. It was possible the hostiles didn’t suspect anything yet. Although each man wore camos and an armored vest, they’d donned tribal robes over their gear. Not much of a disguise, but at a distance, it was convincing enough. At night, it was more than convincing. Close up, the disguise was not so good. The plan was not to get close up, unless it was to kill them.

  He saw no obvious sign of impending attack, and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. At that precise moment, Vince shouted, "Stop the truck now! Bomb!"

  He’d picked it up in the precision optics of his sniper scope.

  "There's something there, next to the track. Could be a vine, even a thin branch, but I think it's a command wire. They would’ve tried to cover it, but they didn't do a very good job. Maybe the wind blew the dirt covering away. We should…"

  The burst of machine gun fire smashed into the side of the vehicle, and he didn't need to give the order. They hurtled out through the doors and rolled into the cover at the side of the track. A few rocks, enough to give them temporary cover. Will Bryce, the tough, black Master Chief opened up with his M249 machine gun.

  Bullets peppered the hostile position, marked out by smoke and gun flashes. The insurgents had prepared the ambush well. An IED planted in the road, and the machine gun to mow down any survivors. A bullet slammed into his armored vest, and he ducked lower. They blazed away at the distant machine gunner, but he was hidden behind the rocks. All they managed was to keep his head down, and prevent him from finding an easy target. He had them trapped, and Nolan surveyed the surrounding slopes looking for a way to get to him.

  He found nothing, and ahead of them, an IED lay buried below the surface of the track. Either they dealt with him or they died.

  We’re not gonna die. If anyone dies today, it’s that bastard, not us.

  Close to the ledge occupied by the machine gunner, he spotted a narrow cleft in the rocks. Perhaps an ancient, dried up stream, carved out over thousands of years. Little more than a foot wide, it was rough, strewn with loose scree and small rocks. Which he may be able to use as handholds. He shouted, "Cover me," and ran out into the open.

  The gunner picked up the movement and traversed the gun, pulled the trigger, and spat bullets that chipped up stone around his racing feet. The bullets came nearer, and three feet from the slope he made a final, despairing dive. His shoulder slammed into granite-hard rock as the bullets pursued him. He stopped below the line of fire, and the gunner was unable to aim the gun to hit him. Nolan paused for no more than a fraction of a second to catch his breath and then started to climb.

  At first it wasn’t too hard, and he almost ran up the first section of the narrow channel. Halfway up, the going got harder. He slipped, boots scrabbling for grip, hanging on by his fingertips, and forcing himself up, inch by inch. He almost made it, hanging onto a sliver of rock with one hand while he pushed up with his feet, but stopped when a bearded head appeared above him. The man's eyes widened, and a moment later, he poked the barrel of an assault rifle over the edge. Nolan was ready, with the Sig 9mm in his hand. It spoke once, and the bullet struck an inch above the beard. The scream of agony was short, and the body brushed past Nolan to slam into the rocks below.

  Nolan scrambled over the edge, just in time. Another insurgent was running toward him. He pumped two bullets into him and ran past the body. Racing to the machine gun position, the gunner was already swiveling the Russian-built PK to destroy him. Nolan fired fast. Three, four, five bullets left the muzzle of the Sig, and most of them slammed into the target. He pitched over, already dead.

  He hadn’t finished. From a niche in the rocks, maybe one hundred meters away, pinpoints of light sparkled as they opened fire. More insurgents hidden in the rocks had started shooting. He dove flat next to the gun as bullets flew inches above him, and peeked out at the enemy. They were maddened by the death of their men at the hands of an infidel soldier, but they hadn’t grasped the reality. He’d killed the gunner, but not the machine gun. It would still work as well as the day it left the Russian factory. Nolan made a rapid check of the magazine, found it half-full, and swung the barrel in the direction of the enemy.

  He pulled the trigger, and a long stream of bullets hammered out. Maybe they were stupid or inexperienced, but they'd assumed they had him cold. They were wrong. The burst tore into their ranks, and he saw at least four fighters hurled to the ground. Two men scrambled away, and they ran, heading further up the slope. He put the front sight on them, hitting them both with another raking burst.

  The weapon clicked on empty. He tossed it aside, snatched out his Sig, and went out to check for any surviving hostiles. He climbed a few meters up the slope, and in front of him a man leapt from cover. The man was running, except he wasn’t a man, just a boy, little more than thirteen or fourteen-years-old. He carried the iconic Kalashnikov assault rifle, the tool of the trade for any serious or would-be terrorist. Nolan raised the pistol to put a bullet him in him, took aim, but at the same moment the boy slipped, slid past him, and tumbled down the rocky slope to his doom.

  Human instinct made him throw out a hand to grab the boy’s wrist as it went past. It was enough to arrest the slide, but the boy struggled. He shouted, "I’m trying to save you. Hold on!"

  Understanding reached the boy's face. With his free hand, he gripped a rocky outcrop and helped Nolan drag him back up. He reached the ledge, shivering in terror. He’d dropped his rifle during the fall, and a quick check confirmed he was unarmed. Nolan stared at him hard, and he shook even more.

  “You speak English, kid?”

  A pause. “English? Yes, little.”

  "What are you doing here? You should be in school."

  "They told me…"

  He cut him off with a growl. “Fed you a line of bullshit about dying for Allah; is that what happened?”

  He looked away and nodded. "Yes, they promised me a martyr’s death. Are you going to kill me?"

  He shook his head. He wasn’t sure why he was letting an enemy off the hook, except he was too young to be part of the grim realities of warfare. “Not this time. Go home, and get yourself to school. Find a job and a nice girlfriend, start a family. Stay away from all this crap, unless you want to die young.”

  “You really won't kill me?”

  He gave him a mock scowl. “No! Now git!”

  He still hesitated, looked uncertain, and miserable. “They will not give up. When they see me, they will make me rejoin them. I’m sorry, I won’t have any choice.” His head hung down, and tears appeared in the corners of his eyes, “Perhaps you should kill me now.”

  “There’s always a choice. Go!”

  The kid scrambled away and made his way downhill. Nolan punched the transmit button. “This is Bravo One. There’s a kid on the way down. Let him go.”

  “A hostile?” Will’s voice sounded incredulous, “Hey, Boss, is that a good idea?”

  “He said he’d look for a new line of work.”

  “He could change his mind,” John-Wesley Ryder’s voice. The faint, Louisianan drawl, flat, toneless, and he sounded eager. Fast with a knife, the sallow New Orleans native was ever on the lookout for an opportunity to use his blade, “The Bible says, ‘The fear of the Lord prolongs life, but the years of the wicked will be shortened.’ He looks wicked enough to me, Boss. I reckon we should shorten his years.”

  “Leave him alone.”

  A sigh. “Copy that.

  Nolan watched the kid reach the SEALs waiting for him on the ground. Will Bryce, big, black, and deadly. John-Wesley, slim, snake fast, a knife expert, and a stone killer, and Vince Merano, the handsome Italian American. A sniper who made his kills at distances further than most Afghans traveled from their homes. They stood aside, and the boy ran off. He began to climb down and reached the foot of the slope.

  “We’ll locate the IED and clear it. Then we’ll find their vehicles and destroy them. A big bang should wake up the locals.”

  Will gave him an anxious look. “You sure about letting the boy go? It could rebound on us. We could find him waiting around the next bend with a grenade in each hand.”

  “He’ll work out fine. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a doctor, make his mother proud.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  They started walking, searching for the roadside bomb. When they reached the telltale disturbance in the surface of the track, Vince bent to inspect it and stood back. “Bastards, you know what they did? It’s cemented into the road surface, like a road repair. It’ll take a crew of engineers to remove it.”

  Nolan stared at it for several seconds and grinned. “I have a better idea. How about we run the four Land Cruisers into it? A single explosion and we take out the lot.”

  “There are five Land Cruisers,” Will pointed out.

  “You mean the one we’ll use to ride back to Kabul? Or did you think I planned to freeze our balls off and go back in the tin can we came in?”

  “The Toyota sounds good. But what about the Land Rover, they’ll want it back?”

  “Forget the Land Rover. It can go up with the other vehicles. We’ll give the military a nice, comfortable Land Cruiser instead.”

  It took them fifteen minutes to locate the Land Cruisers. They stripped out the cargo from the lead vehicle and reversed the other four to the site of the IED. They brought up the Land Rover and positioned all five vehicles less than five meters from the roadside bomb. Vince rerigged the wire detonator, and they retreated past the next bend in the track. He hit the button, and a large chunk of Pakistani hillside erupted in smoke and flame. Enough to give the four SEALs a glimpse of what the enemy had lined up for them.

  It was time to leave, and they jogged to the surviving Toyota. The most luxurious of the five, the men reclined on the soft leather seats. Bryce was about to start the engine when the satcom beeped. Nolan answered.

  “This is Bravo One.”

  “Vice-Admiral Jacks. What’s your status, Lieutenant?”

  “Hostiles all accounted for, Sir, and we destroyed the cargo.”

  “Roger that. I’ve sent a V-22 to pick you up.”

  “Sir, we have a vehicle. We can drive back to Afghanistan.”

  “No, there isn’t time. He’ll be with you in five. Call me when you land at Bagram. Jacks out.”

  “Sir…”

  The line was dead.

  What the fuck was that all about?

  They used the time to plant the remaining munitions in the surviving Toyota, and the blast turned it to scrap metal. Moments later, the deafening sound of a hybrid Osprey tiltrotor echoed around the mountains, and it came into sight. The huge propellers slowly turned, and the craft became a helicopter, alighting on the ground in a storm of downwash. The wheels touched, the ramp lowered, and a crewman was already beckoning them forward. Nolan was the last man to step onto the ramp, and engines roared as the pilot gunned them for take-off. They took their seats, each man speculating on the change of plan. Knowing whatever the reason, it was nothing good. The burning question was exactly how bad it would be.

  * * *

  The Muslim woman climbed the steep slope that led up to the village. It had been a long, hard journey, crossing the mountains on horseback with a smuggler train. Men mounted on horseback, and donkeys carrying hessian bales. The women walked. The smugglers had been well paid to keep their mouths shut. The money extended to giving her protection. Muslim men tended to regard a female traveling alone as fair game.

  She left them when she was close enough to her destination and traveled on foot, over several kilometers of rough terrain, culminating in a steep climb. Each time she passed through a village, she had to suffer the abuse and leers of men who lounged outside the houses and coffee shops. Knowing she had no choice. Women in the boonies of Pakistan were chattels, the property of men. She was alone and unguarded, so some played hardball.

  So far, she’d managed to defend herself, but not without problems. A rebuff was often answered with a hard blow. She’d have liked to pull a gun and put a bullet into their stone-age brains, which would have been a giveaway. Wearing the blue burqa, the correct form of Islamic dress, she had to stay in character and not respond. Even if she could, the voluminous folds of the burqa would make fighting more than difficult. Walking through the snow made it more cumbersome when the hem of her garment soaked up moisture from the ground like a sponge.

  She was nearly there, and her destination lay ahead, at last. The climb had been endless, and she was tired, her feet aching and sore in the unfamiliar cheap plastic shoes. Hobbling over the rough terrain, knowing at any moment the wrong group of men could decide she was fair game, and it would all be over. She would fight, of course she’d fight, but she was alone and vulnerable. Maybe she could handle two, at the most. If they came at her in a pack, like wild dogs, she’d be finished. Rape of a lone woman was all part of the fun in the tribal lands of Northern Pakistan.

  Trudging through the snow, she reached the mountaintop village and started to look around. She was a stranger, and people scowled at her, men and women, suspicious of why she was there, wondering at her connection with the fortress above. They called it Hisnul ibn-Jannah, and the dark, massive walls appeared to radiate evil. It dominated the area, which meant whoever was master of the fortress ruled the entire region.

  The masters were known as Lashkar-e-Taiba, or the Army of the Righteous. Operating mainly in Pakistan, they were mushrooming, already spreading their tentacles into Afghanistan, and as far as the Middle East. The organization came into existence thanks to funding from Osama Bin Laden. The local commander was Sheikh Umar al-Aziz, who ran his terror network with Omar Firooz, the Lashkar-e-Taiba Chief of Staff. Both men strived to outdo the other insurgents to demonstrate that no heinous deed was beyond their abilities. They were usually successful.

  The woman reminded herself they were not righteous. They were butchers, murderers, and she was here to help defeat their latest infamy; a plan to expand their program of bloody slaughter with a single act of bloody terror. If they succeeded, the world would never be the same again. She couldn’t allow it to happen.

  Her inspection of the village was short, and when she’d found what she was looking for, she rested for several minutes. The light was beginning to fade, and soon it would be time to move out, a long, hard climb to an adjacent peak for the next phase of her mission. She was cold, freezing cold, tired, and hungry. Yet she had to put it behind her and keep going. If she failed, the Islamists would win. If the Islamists won, the abuse women suffered would be a nothing to the mass murder they planned to carry out.

  She noticed the Mercedes G-Wagen hurtling down the steep track, leaving the village at speed. She couldn’t fail to notice, the driver almost rammed her, and she just managed to jump aside at the last minute. Cursing her stupidity, for women had no rights and no value in this place. She’d forgotten.