* * *

  The passenger in the rear of the SUV barely noticed the woman. He was thoughtful, having left his principal headquarters under the control of his Chief of Staff at a critical time. Sheikh Umar al-Aziz had no choice. He was on his way to a meeting with commanders from other regions to discuss strategy. Not that he gave a tinker’s curse for their strategy. He had his own grand plan, but if he failed to turn up for one of their regular conferences, they’d see it as a sign of weakness. Weakness was not an option in the Army of the Righteous. Eventually, another warlord would challenge him for the leadership of his men, alternatively, a bullet in the back when he least expected it.

  He looked back at the fortress of Hisnul ibn-Jannah and felt his chest swell with pride. He was the envy of the other commanders, and rightly so. His headquarters was impregnable, impossible to assault. Other men had no choice but to listen to him, for when he spoke, it was with the certainty that he was beyond enemy attack. Almost invincible, and when they were attacking and destroying other insurgent units, his was secure, a legacy that would last forever. Hisnul ibn-Jannah, a rallying cry to all Pakistanis who fought for the Holy cause. The walls were thick, and the construction so solid, it would last for a thousand years.

  The phrase ‘a thousand years’ sounded familiar, and he recalled a major historical figure had made the same claim, although he couldn’t remember who it was. No matter, he took a last look at Hisnul ibn-Jannah before the Mercedes took a sharp turn in the road, and it disappeared from view. His journey would take no more than three days, and soon he would be back. Then they would implement the plan, and the infidels would recoil at the horror he was about to unleash. They would never forget the name of the man who’d bested them, Sheikh Umar al-Aziz, the undisputed ruler of Hisnul ibn-Jannah.

  * * *

  The Osprey landed at Kabul International, AKA Bagram, twenty klicks north of the capital. Their boss, Vice-Admiral Jacks, gave the SEALs a nod of welcome as they filed inside the tiny operations room, part of the SOCOM compound.

  “You men did well, taking out the target. A lot of lives will be saved, many of them American lives. Now we need you to go out and save a few more.”

  “You want us to go out again? We just got back.” Behind Nolan, his men were silent, stunned.

  “Nevertheless, this can’t wait. A job that requires your particular expertise.”

  “What’s it is all about, Sir?”

  “It’s about the operation you carried out inside Hermon. The nuclear warhead you recovered, which they shipped back to the U.S.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “It never arrived. They hijacked the ship and stole it, happened over two weeks ago. Several days ago, we learned it ended up in Northern Pakistan. We want it back.”

  “Excuse me, Sir, did you say they stole it? A nuclear warhead, that’s impossible. Surely it would have had a sizeable escort.”

  “No, it didn’t. Apparently, there had been a diplomatic problem and demonstrations that were getting out of hand. The German government refused to allow it to travel through their airspace when it left Germany, so it was deemed politic to keep the transfer low-key. The cargo vessel was found adrift in the Atlantic a week ago. The warhead was missing.”

  “Did the crew tell us anything useful?”

  “They’re dead. Slaughtered, cut to pieces. The decks were literally awash with blood. This time, it’s Lashkar-e-Taiba behind it. They’ve forged links with al Qaeda and ISIS, and there’s no doubt they intend to use that nuke in a major capital.”

  “Jesus. Do we have a location?”

  He nodded. “We believed they’ve taken it to the region south of the Hindu Kush, and so we sent in a man to take a closer look, an Afghan cleric, Mullah Khalid Bakhtari, known to be friendly to the West. Now we’ve hit a problem. He got a message out to us before we lost contact. It gave us the names of the men behind the theft of the warhead, the Lashkar local commander, Sheikh Umar al-Aziz, and his Chief of Staff Omar Firooz. They must have captured him, as we haven’t heard from him since.”

  “You sent an Afghan Mullah on a spying mission? That’s crazy.”

  Jacks frowned. “It’s not that simple. The man we sent wasn’t the real Bakhtari. He’s a ringer, a volunteer who’s the spitting image of him. A U.S. Marine Sergeant, Sammy Borowski. Afghan mother, American father, and he speaks fluent Pashtu. We knew they’d capture him, in fact we relied on it.”

  Bryce was watching, his jaw dropping with incredulity. “You sent a man into enemy territory to get him captured? Why not just put a bullet in his head, same result, but less painful than execution?”

  “Execution is the least of his problems. Sergeant Borowski agreed to carry a radioactive implant under his skin so we could track him. Their security checks would have uncovered a conventional radio beacon. The radioactive material is the minimum we could use to pick him up on our scanners. The problem is, it’ll kill him if we don’t get to him soon and administer the anti-radiation drugs. He doesn’t have long to live. Either the radiation kills him, or Lashkar execute him.”

  Bryce grimaced. “I assume you’ve lost this fake Mullah, is that the problem?”

  “No, Master Chief, the exact opposite. Our surveillance aircraft picked up the radioactive trace, it worked a treat. We know exactly where he is.”

  Nolan interrupted. “So why not send in a team to get him out? Why recall us?”

  “Because of your experience in Hermon, Lieutenant. The Lashkar headquarters is a mountaintop fortress, and people say it’s impregnable. Not only is it impossible to attack the place with conventional forces, it’s also set deep inside the tribal badlands of Northern Pakistan.”

  “Not Pakistan again,” Merano groaned.

  “I’m afraid it is. It’s called Hisnul ibn-Jannah, a fortress set high in the mountains of the Hindu Kush mountain range. At this time of year, the area is covered in thick snow.”

  “I hate snow,” he mumbled, “I hate snow, and I hate Pakistan.”

  Jacks ignored him. “The problem isn’t the snow. The problem is Hisnul ibn-Jannah. The experts say getting inside is impossible. A conventional attack would likely fail, and once it started, they’d kill Borowski and spirit away the nuke. I want you men to go in there, get him out, and destroy that nuke.”

  “Into an impregnable fortress, above the snow line, in the mountains of a hostile region ruled by Lashkar-e-Taiba. Was there anything else?” Nolan grunted.

  He grinned. “Yeah, there is something else. This guy Firooz, the Lashkar-e-Taiba Chief of Staff, I want him dead.”

  “You want him dead, is that all? Four men to infiltrate an impregnable fortress, recover the nuke, kill the bad guy, and bring back Sergeant Borowski."

  “That’s it, except it’s seven, not four. We’ve already sent in an operative. You’ll meet up when you get there. And you’ll be taking along a couple of Afghans.”

  They stared at him. Nolan said, “You’re joking. Afghans, you cannot be serious.”

  His face didn’t crack a smile. He wasn’t joking.

  * * *

  Major Peter Brody made a slight course adjustment and nodded a greeting to Lieutenant Nolan as he entered the cockpit. They were flying at an altitude of twelve thousand meters, high above the mountain range that marked the Pakistan Afghan border. The Air Force officer gave Nolan’s costume a wry grin; an odd assortment of Afghan tribal clothes, stuff that wouldn’t look out of place in the target area. A thick, sheepskin coat, belted over gray-brown tribal robes, on his feet, surplus, high laced boots, a relic of the long war that had torn apart Afghanistan and devastated much of Northern Pakistan.

  “Fancy duds, Lieutenant, that coat could take some getting used to.”

  It stank like a dead sheep, and he grimaced. “It’s worse wearing it, believe me.”

  “I believe you. We're fifteen minutes from the drop. You looking good back there?”

  He thought about the five men waiting in the cavernous cargo hold. Three SEALs, Will Bryce, John-Wesley Ryder, and Vince Merano. Good men, and if a mission took them to the depths of hell, they’d make it back. The other two operators concerned him, officers of the Afghan Special Forces.

  The Commander of Afghan Special Forces, Colonel Kami Hassan, had insisted the two specialists go along, a sop to the Afghan government, so-called realpolitik in these days of joint cooperation. Javed Khan, and his twin brother Kamal, both on their first operation after completing their training, graduates of the National Military Academy of Afghanistan in Kabul. Both men were untried and untested. Yet Hassan was adamant, despite Admiral Jacks’ attempt to persuade him otherwise.

  “They need the combat experience, Admiral,” the Afghan Colonel had said. His voice and expression were as smooth as poured oil, “Your men will help them overcome any difficulties they face.”

  “Lives are at stake, Colonel. This is neither the time nor the place for a pair of rookies.”

  Hassan smiled. “That may be, Admiral. However, I must insist.”

  Problem was, Nolan had no idea how much he could trust them. No, that wasn’t quite true. He’d spent some time getting to know Kamal, and the guy looked to be on the level.

  “Don’t worry, I couldn’t give damn about this Muslim crap,” Kamal assured him, “The Mullahs are tearing my country apart. I’d shoot the lot of them if I had my way.”

  Kamal’s identical twin, Javed, was altogether different. Surly, and he made it clear he was uncomfortable getting too cozy with non-Muslims.

  They took the Khan brothers along, with the hope they might both break a leg on landing. Nolan’s mind snapped back to the present. Brody had asked a question.

  "We're all set, Major. Say, I'd like a last look at those photos and maps of the target area before we make the drop. For security reasons, we're going in without any electronic gizmos or maps. This’ll be the last chance."

  He passed him a folder. "You'll find maps and photographs in there. Not an easy target, Lieutenant."

  Nolan nodded.

  They never are.

  * * *

  The missile battery in the foothills of the Hindu Kush existed to prevent incursions of enemy aircraft into Northern Pakistan. Although the installation was close to the Afghan border, the intention was to protect the nation from sneak attacks by India, who may choose to send their bombers through a third nation. Lieutenant Feroz Noon, the battery commander, took his job seriously, except during the long hours of darkness, when his men would complain if they didn’t get sufficient time for sleep; especially when they’d been out whoring in the local town of Landi Khotal. After all, it was bitterly cold in these high altitudes in winter. A man needed something to ward off the cold chill that wafted down from the distant mountains, like a woman.

  He was on duty with just one man, the radar operator, Corporal Nazir. Who was asleep, his head slumped over his console, when the alarm screeched its note of warning. At first, Feroz took little notice. Since they’d installed the new Spada 2000 Air Defense Missile System, it had been plagued with problems. Each time they sent a technician from Islamabad to fix it, the man blamed the men on site. In turn Noon’s men blamed the technician, and the result little was done. Except the false alarms continued to sound, triggered by ghosts.

  However, on this occasion a glance at the screen confirmed the signature of an incoming aircraft. There was no indication of Identification, Friend or Foe, or IFF. Which meant it had to be an enemy aircraft, and his orders were clear.

  “Nazir, start tracking, designate new target as hostile, and prepare the missile for launch. Alert the men. We’re going into action.”

  For long seconds, nothing happened. Eventually, he heard the sleepy voice say, “What?”

  The Corporal regarded him with sleep-filled eyes, and Lieutenant Noon lost it, lashed out with his fist, and punched him on the side of the head. “Wake up, you damned fool! We have an enemy aircraft inbound! Prepare the missile for launch. And get those lazy bastards out of bed!”

  “Er, Yessir.”

  Nazir stared at the screen and hit the button to start automatic tracking. The Spada System was the latest and most sophisticated weapon in the Pakistani armory. Target detection and tracking range was up to sixty kilometers. With an effective range of twenty-five kilometers to target, the kill probability was high.

  Nothing happened. He punched the button again. Still nothing. The Lieutenant was frantic. The target was getting away. “What’s happening? Why is the guidance system not locking onto the target?”

  “Sir, it was Mohammed. He said something about swapping a circuit board in the main power assembly.”

  “Well?”

  “He, er, took out the old board, which was faulty.”

  “Yes? What then?”

  “He said his shift had ended, and he’d put in the new board when he next came on duty. That’ll be at 06.00, Lieutenant.”

  Feroz kept himself under control. He wanted to take out his pistol and kill the man for dereliction of duty. Which wouldn’t help anyone. Instead, he snarled at Nazir to get Private Mohammed out of bed to replace the missing module.

  “Now, Sir? At this time of night?”

  “Of course, fucking now, and tell him he’s on permanent night duty for the next three months!”

  He watched the blip on the radar screen move across. He relaxed. It wasn’t heading for the main population centers, so he doubted it presented a threat. Still, he’d have liked to shoot it down. Whatever it was, it would be a commendation in his service record. Next time, he’d make sure. Any unidentified aircraft that appeared on his screen was going down.

  * * *

  He surveyed the documents Brody had handed him, and although he’d had reservations about what they were getting into, the word 'impossible’ now came to mind. The fortress was on the peak of a high mountain in the Hindu Kush range, with a similar but uninhabited peak a kilometer away. A narrow shelf of rock connected both peaks. On the shelf nestled a tiny mountain village.

  The plan was to land on the adjacent peak and cross to the village below the fortress. A narrow path was the sole route to the forbidding structure, Hisnul ibn-Jannah, the Fortress of the Eagle. Staring at the photos and topography map, it looked like you’d need to be an eagle to get inside. Thick snow blanketed the approach, and the walls loomed high and massive. The place looked evil, generating an aura that emanated from the granite buttresses. A warning to a would-be attacker, try it and die.

  "What’s this?" He pointed to a high tower at the very top, with a narrow ramp that jutted out above a chasm one thousand meters above the ground. A long rope hung down, disappearing into the void, hundreds of meters below.

  Brody grimaced. "Yeah, I wondered about that. They call it the hanging tower. It’s an execution platform. The hangman puts a noose around the victim’s head and pushes them over. The fall is so long it rips the head off. The body hits the rocks almost a thousand meters below, and a couple of seconds later, the head joins it.”

  Nolan frowned. "How come these Islamists get their rocks off from brutal torture and execution? A bunch of real charmers."

  "You got that right, so make sure they don’t catch you. Lieutenant, the ramp is going down in five. Now would be a good time to get your men on oxygen."

  “Roger that, and thanks for the ride."

  “Yeah, good luck.”

  They shook hands, and Nolan returned to the enormous cargo hold. His men were already pulling on oxygen masks and checking parachutes. It was going to a cold jump. Even wearing military equipment, helmets, and armored vests, it would be cold. Without their military gear, dressed in thin cotton clothing with just a loose sheepskin coat, it was best not to think about it. At least they’d resemble the locals when they landed. Once they’d thawed out, and at a distance.

  The Jumpmaster was standing close to the ramp, with a safety line attached to his webbing. He held up four fingers. Four minutes to the drop, and they moved toward the rear. Watched as the aluminum ramp slowly lowered, allowing the bitter night air and howling winds to punch inside the cargo hold. They waited, already shivering in the cold, and the green light flickered on. The Jumpmaster flashed a hand signal, and they stepped out into the freezing night.

  The sheepskin coat gave little protection from the bone-numbing temperatures, and the long glide into target was an endless, freezing nightmare. When Nolan landed in soft snow, the temperature had increased to around minus fifteen. He felt almost grateful as he unsnapped the parachute harness and bundled it with the navigational device he'd used to guide him down to the LZ. The other three SEALs landed seconds later, and next came one of the Afghan twins, either Javed or Kamal. Without a word, they assembled their gear into bundles and hid everything in the snow. So far, so good. They checked their weapons before moving off. All primitive, Russian-made assault rifles. AKMs, 7.62mm Kalashnikov variants that wouldn’t arouse suspicion in an area where no man went unarmed. Russian rifles were as common as shopping malls and credit cards in the U.S.

  Nolan looked at the Afghan. “Where is Kamal?”

  “I am Kamal.”

  “Right. Spread out and go looking for Javed. He should have landed by now. Maybe he went off course. Kamal, go back where you landed and see if he’s there. The rest of you, fan out and search the area. It could be the wind took his ‘chute, and he missed the LZ.”

  They moved off to search. Nolan took the center with Ryder to his right, Bryce and Merano on the left. Moonlight aided the search until the snow started. Thick, heavy flakes, and it was hard to stay in visual contact. Finding a man who may have been injured was going to be hard. He was about to give the order to change the search area when the shots rang out, three in all, high-pitched pistol shots. They started to run toward the sound. If the enemy had found them already, they were in serious trouble.