And should the enemy somehow make it up to the castle itself, it would be to enter a crossfire from the corner towers, even as paths sucked them into narrow killing zones.

  But times had changed. And while Qila Kom was nearly impregnable to ground forces, it was vulnerable from the air, and shoulder launched missiles wouldn’t be sufficient to defend it.

  That was what loomed over Warlord Akhtar Wali’s Taliban guests as they arrived one after the other and parked their Toyota gun trucks, dusty Land Rovers, aging Humvees and, in one case, a captured Cougar infantry mobility vehicle. All accompanied by a menagerie of vehicles carrying bodyguards and advisors. Most of whom would be forced to remain in the dusty parking lot for the duration of the Loya Jirga, while their betters rode up to the castle.

  The meeting was the direct result of warlord Jalaal al-Molla’s assassination, followed by Taaj al-Qazi’s death at the hands of the Americans, who employed a drone to kill him.

  A series events that led many Afghans, perhaps most Afghans, to hunger for a strongman as their leader. And Wali was ready to fill that role.

  But what would the warlord give the Taliban leaders in return for their backing? Would he allow them to keep their various fiefdoms? And their private armies? If not, they would refuse to support him.

  There were thirty-three leaders, plus two bodyguards each, which meant there were ninety-nine visitors in all. Two school buses had been secured to take them up the winding road to the fortress. Among those riding in the second bus was Musheer el-Rahimi who, as the Governor of Herat Province, was concerned lest he lose his hard-won position should Wali come to power.

  El-Rahimi was seated by a window. And as the bus growled up the hill, he could see evidence of the failed attack two years earlier, when the governor of the province, took issue with Wali’s refusal to pay taxes, and sent a small army to confiscate the castle.

  To say that the effort failed would be an understatement. The government troops were annihilated. And, rather than clear the detritus from the slopes around Qila Kom, Wali left the wreckage where it was. A not-so-subtle warning to any warlord or official stupid enough to attack his home.

  El-Rahimi could see the burned-out vehicles that had been pushed clear of the road, the shell craters and, at one point, a sun-bleached skull sitting atop a stake.

  That was consistent with what he’d heard. Rather than bury enemy soldiers in keeping with custom, Wali left them for the vultures which, according to the rumors, covered the hillsides like a blanket of feathers.

  All of which scared the crap out of el-Rahimi since he had less than two hundred armed retainers to do his bidding. You must be careful, el-Rahimi admonished himself. Very, very careful.

  Most of el-Rahimi’s fears were put to rest by the welcome the Taliban delegation received. Wali had four wives—all of whom were present to greet the visitors.

  Servants hurried to serve refreshments, answer questions, and present each guest with a tiny likeness of the castle. The gifts were made of sixteen karat gold and could be worn on a chain.

  But the warmth of the welcome had limits. El-Rahimi noticed that most of the hallways providing access to the reception area were guarded, and he couldn’t help but see the 21st century surveillance cameras mounted on the ceilings.

  But how could it be otherwise? El-Rahimi thought. There are many people who would like to kill Wali, el-Rahimi reasoned. Some of whom are present in this room. And he must protect himself.

  After cold drinks and snacks the Taliban leaders were escorted down a hallway and into a male only dining room. El-Rahimi noticed the domed ceiling, the geometric art that graced it, and the second-floor gallery encircling the large space.

  There were three tables, each set for eleven people, and each separated from the others. Bodyguards were required to stand with their backs to the walls.

  Colorful Afghan rugs covered otherwise cold flagstones while all manner of antique swords, spears, and muskets decorated the walls.

  Once the guests were seated more cold drinks were served. And that was when Akhtar Wali appeared. He was dressed in his usual outfit of a turban, a loosely fitting smock, a khaki vest with pockets, baggy trousers, and a pair of leather sandals. As the warlord spoke, el-Rahimi wondered where Wali would sit. Every chair was occupied.

  “I am,” Wali continued, “a man who likes to use my time wisely. That’s why I don’t plan to negotiate with thirty-three cholaks (dildos). And that was when the soldiers appeared above, took aim with scoped AKs, and fired.

  The gunfire was extremely loud within the stone walls and over before el-Rahimi could reach for his pistol. All the bodyguards were down. And, when one of them stirred, another shot rang out. “Do not reach for your weapons,” Wali advised, as soldiers surged into the room.

  There was no point in trying to fight back, so el-Rahimi raised his hands when ordered to do so, and felt a soldier remove his gun.

  “Now,” Wali said. “My men are going to secure your wrists to a long chain and lead you down into the lowest floor of the Qila where you will be processed. Please don’t make a fuss. This is being taped. And it would be unfortunate if your families were to see what Go khors (shiteaters) you are.”

  El-Rahimi felt a sense of relief. Captivity wouldn’t be pleasant. But kidnappings were a cottage industry in Afghanistan. A few weeks would pass, his family would pay the ransom, and he’d be free. Then the Taliban would have its revenge.

  One by one the leaders were zip tied to a rusty chain and led out of the room. A series of turns led the captives to a circular staircase which spiraled downwards. It was so old that the stone treads were slightly concave from centuries of use.

  The basement was cold. And el-Rahimi wasn’t looking forward to weeks of confinement there. The other captives towed him forward, through an arched doorway, and into a surprisingly modern room. It was equipped like an operating theatre with overhead lights, a stainless-steel table, and medical cabinets all around.

  What was it Wali had said? “Processed?” A medical checkup then … To ensure that none of the warlord’s newly acquired assets were about to die.

  The lead man on the chain was a mullah named Turki a-Dajani. He was ordered to strip. That was when Akhtar Wali entered the facility. He was by all appearances in a good mood. “Hello, my friends … It’s my pleasure to announce that you are about to take part in a historical reenactment. There was a time when offenders such as yourselves were executed by a process called impalement.”

  The announcement produced an immediate response. The chain rattled as prisoners tried to free themselves, cries of pain were heard as rifle butts struck heads, and a long farting sound erupted as a senior military commander lost control of his bowels. The stench filled the air.

  It took four soldiers to wrestle Turki a-Dajani onto the table face down and pull his legs apart. “You might as well cooperate,” Wali advised them. “And use the time to pray. Who knows? Perhaps Allah will forgive you.

  “As for the process of impalement, a merchant named Jean de Thevenot witnessed an impalement in 17th century Egypt, and took the time to document what he saw. I think you’ll find his account instructive.”

  With that Wali put on a pair of rimless glasses, and began to read from a typed page: “They lay the malefactor upon his belly, with his hands tied behind his back, then they slit his fundament with a razor, and applied a handful of paste that they had in readiness, which stopped the bleeding.

  “After that, they thrust up into his body a very long stake as big as a man’s arm, sharp at the point and tapered, which was greased, and driven in with a mallet, until it emerged at his breast, or at his head or shoulders. Then the stake was planted straight up in the ground, and left for a day.”

  Wali looked up from the page and removed his glasses. “Once impaled, and positioned on the slopes around my castle, you will still be alive. Not only that, but you’ll be able to enjoy the view, and converse with each other. For a while at least. You can even wave to your friends! Because a drone will record your predicament, and share it with the entire country, via the major TV networks. Qad yakum Allah maeak.” (May Allah be with you.) That was when El-Rahimi fainted.

  ***

  Zahedan military base, southeastern Iran

  The Zahedan Airbase was located in the city of Zahedan, fifteen miles from the Pakistani border. It was manned with elements of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Crops Air Force, as well as an army battalion, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Naasif el-Bagheri. He stood in a circle of light with feet apart and hands clasped behind his back.

  Okada was seated on a wooden stool. Her eyes were lowered and she was crying. Women are weak, the scientist thought. That’s what this pot-bellied asshole believes. And that could break my way.

  “Your name is Susan Okada,” el-Bagheri said, in heavily accented English. “You have a doctorate in applied physics. You are, or were, a member of an American special operations group called Strike Team 3. They’re dead you know … All your comrades are dead. So, you might as well tell us everything there is to know about the plan to steal Iran’s nuclear weapons.”

  Okada couldn’t see them but knew cameras were on her, recording every word she said. Would the footage be used for propaganda purposes? Of course it would. That meant she had to weigh each word. It was obvious that Jafari had given her up. One more reason to kill the bastard.

  Okada sniffed and wiped her nose with a sleeve. “I am a foreign national who was abducted by an Iranian citizen named Ahura Jafari. I was being held for ransom when your men arrested me. I want a lawyer.”

  A sergeant stepped into the circle of light, pulled his arm back, and slapped her. The force of the blow knocked Okada off the stool and onto the cement floor.

  Okada lay sobbing on cold concrete, determined to stretch the moment out for as long as possible, when rough hands jerked her upwards. “You lie,” el-Bagheri said, as Okada was forced to sit on the stool. “Tell me about the role the Israelis played in stealing the bombs.”

  “What bombs?” Okada inquired.

  The sergeant slapped her again. And so it went until el-Bagheri grew bored and sent Okada back to her cell. It was small, cold, and furnished with nothing more than a pail to poop in. It felt good to lay on the bare mattress. Were the rest of them truly dead? Okada feared that they were. This time the sobs were real.

  ***

  West of Rostam, Iran

  The sun was rising, and Strike Team 3 was breaking camp, when the radio operator appeared. “I have Colonel Selton on the horn, sir.”

  The specialist was holding a sat phone. A sure sign that Selton wanted to speak privately. Finn said, “Thanks,” and accepted the phone. “Good morning, sir. Finn here.”

  “What the fuck is good about it?” Selton demanded. “The Iranians captured the bombs plus Jafari and Okada. They’re playing footage of her being interrogated on the Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting network.”

  Finn felt a mix of emotions including fear and anger. “How is she? Can you tell?”

  “Doctor Okada is playing them,” Selton replied. “She alternates between crying, being evasive, and telling lies. We haven’t seen any footage of Jafari yet.”

  “Good for her,” Finn said. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “It’s the same fucking plan you already have. Get to the Zahedan airbase as quickly as possible. Once you’re close, we’ll drop a company of Rangers in to help you secure the base, and take control of the bombs. C-17s will land to take everyone out. That includes Strike Team 3.”

  “I like it,” Finn replied.

  “I thought you would,” Selton said. “And remember … The entire population of Iran knows that you’re in-country. And you can bet that the government has your twenty. But knowing your location, and doing something about it, are two different things. We’ll fly combat air patrols over you 24/7. How are your supplies?”

  “Running low.”

  “Alright, I’ll work on that. Get your ass in gear.” Click. Finn smiled.

  “You look happy.”

  Finn turned to find Keaton a few feet away. “I am. Sort of.” He told her about Okada, the propaganda broadcasts, and the plan.

  Keaton’s eyes grew wider. “I’m glad to hear that the Little Doc is alive. When can I file a story?”

  “Once we’re on the C-17s.”

  “What if I pout?”

  Finn laughed. “I’d like to see that. Get your stuff together … We’re pulling out.”

  Once preparations for departure were complete, Finn took a moment to explain the overall situation to the entire company, and wound up by saying, “So it’s on us. We need to capture those bombs. And we need to rescue Little Doc. She’s doing her part. It’s time for us to do ours. Over.” The men and women of Strike Team 3 responded with a blizzard of clicks.

  Finn was at the front of the column riding in the Stryker STEEL ON WHEELS as the unit got underway. Time was of the essence. That made it more important than ever to choose the best route to their objective. It was difficult to read the fine print on the paper map as the Stryker swayed, bounced, and swerved. But by using a grimy forefinger as a marker, Finn managed to chart a mental path to their destination.

  There were a number of obstacles to avoid or overcome, the worst of which was the Kal-e Jeni Canyon. The column could circle around either end of it. But to do so would consume a lot of time. Fortunately, according to the map, the bridge at the village of Rostam would allow the company to cross the canyon and make a beeline for the airbase at Zahedan.

  But what if the bridge was down? What if the Iranians had blown it up? Either to block the team’s path, or because they were blowing up any bridge the Allies might want to use.

  Finn thumbed the transmit button on his radio. “Freight-Train, this is Alpha-Six actual. Do you read me? Over.”

  “Freight-Train” was the call sign for the duty Reaper pilot located somewhere in the States. “I have you five-by-five,” Freight-Train replied. “What can the air force do for the army? Over.”

  Finn grinned. “How ‘bout some cold beer? But barring that, please take a look-see at the bridge over the Kal-e Jeni Canyon, and tell me what kind of condition its condition is in. Over.”

  “Roger that, Six. More when I have it. Freight-Train out.”

  A full half hour went by before Freight-Train made his report. “Alpha-Six, this is Freight-Train. Your bridge is up and appears functional.

  “But be advised that somebody or something was tracking my bird as I circled the area. I recommend that you maintain a high degree of situational awareness. Freight-Train out.”

  Well, that sounds ominous, Finn thought. But the bridge is up. And that’s good.

  The surrounding terrain was raw and dry. Ridges rose to the left and right. And, had it not been for the specks patrolling above, the column would have been vulnerable there. As precious minutes came off the clock Finn was staring ahead, searching for the first signs of the canyon that was going to cross their path.

  Eventually, after forty-five minutes, Finn saw the tall, spindly shape of a minaret in the distance. Finally … The village of Rostam.

  At first Finn assumed the column would pass through the village. And it wasn’t until the column drew closer that he realized that, while there were ruins on the north side of the canyon, most of Rostam was located on the south side, and could only be accessed via the bridge. Finn ordered the unit to halt.

  “STEEL ON WHEELS will go forward to reconnoiter,” Finn announced. “The column will be prepared to provide fire support if necessary.”

  “Alpha-Two … Do you read me? Over.”

  “Five by,” Pinnick replied.

  “What have we got overhead? Over.”

  “Two Warthogs, over.”

  “Tell them we might need some ground support. Over.”

  “Roger that, Six. Two out.”

  The Stryker’s commander was a noncom named Don Evitt. “All right Evitt,” Finn said. “let’s take a look-see.”

  ***

  Provisional Lieutenant Alexi Borin swore as he climbed the twisting-turning stairs toward the top of the minaret. There was no handrail. That caused him to hug the wall. His knees began to hurt about half way up. An unwelcome reminder of the fact that he might be the oldest lieutenant in the Russian army.

  Borin was huffing and puffing by the time he arrived at the top. Because Borin didn’t have any infantry, and couldn’t afford to detach tank crewmen for duty as snipers, he’d been forced to assign the job to one of the truck drivers. A man named Grekov who, according to his first sergeant, was the best shot in the unit.

  Back when the village had been a village, rather than a ghost town, the walkway circling the top of the tower had been used to summon the faithful to prayers.

  Now it had a new purpose. After using a hand sledge to open a hole in the parapet’s waist high wall, Grekov had taken up a position behind it. He was prone, and looking through the scope of his Dragunov sniper rifle, as Borin announced himself. “No need to get up son. What do you see?”

  Grekov turned to look. “They’re coming, sir … The pindos are coming.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Borin said. “I assumed they would either pull out or come this way. Roll out of the way, boy … And let me take a look.”

  Grekov obeyed and Borin took his place. The scene on the far side of the canyon seemed to leap forward. The rifle felt good in Borin’s hands and, as he panned the barrel to the left, a military vehicle appeared. An American with sandy brown hair was standing on the front deck, peering at the village through a pair of binoculars. That’s him, Borin thought. He came forward to examine the crossing. He’s no fool, that one.

  Well, he won’t see much. Nor will the eyes in the sky. We turned every engine off more than twenty-four hours ago so they’d have time to cool. That, combined with all the heat stored in the mud buildings, will mask our presence.

  The crosshairs came to rest on the American’s head. I could pot him myself, Borin thought. Up a hair to allow for gravity, and a little to the right because of the wind. But, if I do that, the element of surprise will be lost.