“Good.” Click.

  Finn handed the phone back to the radio operator. Howard was still there, and Owens had arrived. “Captain Howard, this is Captain Owens, my XO. We were a combined arms company prior to your arrival, and now we’re more like a battalion.

  “I suggest that the two of you put your heads together and create a new table of organization. Let’s meet to discuss your recommendations at 1700.

  “In the meantime, I don’t think it’s realistic or necessary to defend the entire base. So, I suggest that you fortify an area with a good overlook, and a 360-degree, free-fire zone.

  “Are we loading the wounded onto the last C-17?”

  Owens nodded. “They’re aboard, and about to depart.”

  “Good. And one more thing,” Finn added. “We could use some vehicles for Captain Howard’s troops. See what you can find. And let’s refuel from the tanks here on the base. We’ll save the fuel in the tanker trucks for later on.

  “We have orders to proceed to the city of Rudbar in Afghanistan. Some sort of guide will meet us there. Questions? No? Let’s get to work.”

  The officers left. And that was when Finn saw Keaton, who had been waiting just beyond earshot. “Hey, Molly are you waiting to speak with me?”

  “I am,” Keaton replied, as she came forward.

  Keaton looked pretty in her usual, “I don’t give a shit what you think,” kind of way. That’s what Finn thought. And, he realized, at odds with his first impression.

  Unfortunately, there had been scant opportunity to speak with Keaton, except to approve her story, and say “Hi” whenever they passed each other. “Did the censors approve your submission?”

  “They did,” Keaton said. “It’s a lot easier to put something through, now that the Iranians are claiming we stole their bombs and took them out of the country.”

  “That’s what they’re saying?”

  Keaton nodded. “Yup. They decided to go public so they could brag about their nuclear capabilities, and tell the Iranian people how wonderful they are.”

  Finn nodded. “That figures. Well, I’m glad you were able to post a story. Now I want you to get on the last C-17 and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  Keaton made a face. “To keep me safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because the brass would be unhappy if I get killed?”

  “No. Because I would be unhappy.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Keaton’s mouth. “Look at this way, Sean. If I wasn’t here with you, I’d be in Europe. And it’s no safer there. By the way, Strike Team 3 is famous. Millions of people are tracking our progress.”

  Finn made a face. “Oh, goody. So, if we fail millions of people will know.”

  “But you won’t fail,” Keaton countered. “Because I know where the bombs are.”

  Finn’s eyebrows rose. “You do?”

  “Yes. Remember the messages Okada left for us? Well, if they brought her here, I figured she might do the same thing. So, I went looking, and here’s what I found. It was scratched into the mirror in one of the female restrooms.”

  Keaton offered a slip of paper and Finn accepted it. The words “Kila Com” were written on it. And under the words, there were two letters, “S” and “O.”

  “There is no ‘Kila Com,’ as far as I can tell,” Keaton told him. “But with help from one of our interpreters, and the maps that we found in operations center, I managed to figure out that what Doctor Okada meant was ‘Qila Kom.’ Which means ‘Fort Kom.’ And ‘S-O’ stands for ‘Susan Okada.’”

  “So, you think she heard the name, and spelled it phonetically,” Finn said.

  “Exactly,” Keaton replied. “Qila Kom is the ancestral home of an Afghan warlord named Akhtar Wali. And, according to New York Times staff in New York, he’s in the running to be the next president of Afghanistan.”

  Finn stared at her. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  Keaton smiled. “Good.”

  “So, what happened to Okada?”

  “I examined every one of the bodies that were strapped to the fence,” Keaton replied. “And Susan wasn’t there. I think they took her into Afghanistan.”

  “You looked at every body strapped to the fence.”

  Keaton glanced away. Her eyes came back again. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Someone has to look,” Keaton explained. “Someone has to see. I took pictures of each one. This is hard to look at,” she added. “But you might recognize him.”

  Keaton held her camera up so Finn could see the image displayed on the viewfinder. The man was hanging head down. So, it had been necessary for Keaton to kneel in order to photograph his badly ravaged face. An eye was missing along with the meaty part of the man’s left cheek. But Finn recognized the bastard anyway. “It’s Ahura Jafari,” Finn said.

  “Yes,” Keaton agreed. “I’m no expert, but from what I could see, it appeared that he’d been shot multiple times.”

  “I have orders to proceed to a town called Rudbar. I wonder how close it is to Qila Kom?”

  Keaton produced a map from her shoulder bag. “Here’s the fort,” the reporter told him, as she placed a finger on the spot. “And here’s Rudbar. They’re very close to each other.”

  That seemed to suggest that the people at Centcom had reason to suspect that Wali was involved, but they weren’t certain. Finn nodded. “Thanks. We have a destination. Now all we have to do is invade one of the most violent countries in the world, confront a warlord, and confiscate his collection of nuclear bombs. What could possibly go wrong?”

  ***

  Qila Kom, southwestern Afghanistan

  After a long ride Doctor Susan Okada had been taken to Akhtar Wali’s enormous castle. She was confined to an apartment on the second floor, where the warlord’s wives lived.

  Okada’s quarters included a sitting room, a bedroom, and a luxurious bath. Okada felt as if the rooms had been occupied until recently. But there were no personal belongings to be seen.

  She did find two long black hairs on the bathroom floor however, and a pink lipstick under the bed. Had a guest been staying there? There was no way to know. But the scientist was grateful for the apartment.

  The first thing she did was to take a hot shower. A white robe was waiting on a hook. It was at least one size too large, but felt good when wrapped around her.

  A simple meal was waiting when Okada returned to the sitting room. She ate half of it, felt sleepy, and went to bed. And that’s where she was, sound asleep, when the phone next to her bed rang. She picked it up, “Hello?”

  It was Mr. Yusuf. “I’m sorry to bother you Doctor, but Mr. Wali is going to inspect the bombs, and wants you to be there. Please be ready in fifteen minutes.” Click.

  Okada swore, hurried to don her only set of clothes, and looked into the mirror. The tube of lipstick was sitting there so she put some on.

  No sooner had she finished than she heard a knock on the door. Okada opened it to find that two members of Wali’s private army were waiting. One of them spoke. He had a South African accent. “Please follow me.”

  Okada had no choice. The second soldier was right behind her. Their path led through a maze of ancient corridors, down two flights of stairs, and into a room that was empty except for the bombs. They were resting in cradles and lit from above. Okada assumed they were the same weapons she’d inspected before.

  All the scientist could do was stand there and wait until Wali appeared ten minutes later. He wasn’t a big man. Perhaps five feet ten or eleven in height, with a medium build. His clothes were plain, but made from expensive fabrics, some of which shimmered under the overhead lights.

  Wali’s command of English was stilted but serviceable. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I hope your accommodations are to your liking. Mr. Yusef will arrange for additional clothes and anything else that you may require.”

  “Thank you,” Okada said.

  “I came here to admire the bombs,” Wali said, as he stroked one of them. “And to provide instructions. As Mr. Yusef no doubt told you, I don’t have an air force.

  “So, were I forced to detonate one of these weapons, it would be on the ground, using a remote. Your task is to design and build three manual detonators. Each with code only access. And you are to accomplish that within thirty days. Are we agreed?”

  “I’ll try,” Okada replied. “But I will need a lot of tools and electronic equipment.”

  “You will have whatever you need,” Wali told her. “But remember, failure is not an option. Do you understand?”

  Okada nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Allah will guide you,” Wali assured her. “Listen for his voice.” Then he left.

  ***

  Southeastern Iran

  There was a lot to do. Shifts of soldiers worked through the night and into the following morning so that Strike Team 3 could depart in the afternoon.

  Thanks to Owens and Howard the combined arms company had been transformed overnight into what amounted to a mini-battalion.

  Supply Officer Lieutenant Jim Emery was in charge of Alpha Company, aka the headquarters company, with responsibility for Doctor Parcel and Lieutenant Pinnick—along with the battalion’s supply trucks and fuel tankers.

  Bravo Company consisted of Howard’s Scots, who were divided into four platoons, each led by a lieutenant.

  Captain Talha al-Awan was commanding officer of Charlie Company, which was made up of two platoons. The first included American Bradleys 2, 3, and 5, plus Saudi units 1 and 3. That totaled five vics in all, each carrying eight soldiers, plus crews.

  The 2nd platoon, or Stryker Platoon, included American Vics 3 and 4, plus the newly arrived machines designated as 5, 6 and 7.

  Lieutenant Tim Scott was in charge of Delta Company, which was comprised of his surviving tanks, plus those which had arrived on the C-17s, for a total of 7 MBTs (main battle tanks).

  It was a large force. But, was it large enough? Finn didn’t know. According to the Intel received so far Wali had a bodyguard of roughly two hundred South African mercenaries.

  And, if Wali was elected president, he would command Afghanistan’s army. A force which, if brought to bear on the team, could crush the battalion despite Allied air support.

  But orders were orders. And there was no point in dwelling on all of the things that might happen. The area Strike Team 3 was traversing wasn’t classified as a desert but it sure as hell looked like one. And, it felt like one too. The wet cloth Finn had draped over the back of his neck was dry after only twenty minutes.

  A Stryker named EIGHT BALL was on point. And, as usual, Finn was standing in the squad leader’s hatch. There was hardpan directly ahead, a hill to the left, and a ridge to the right. Finn saw a flash of light. From a broken bottle? Or a pair of binoculars? And, if the latter, then whose?

  ***

  Qila Kom, southwestern Afghanistan

  The light was fading, and the seven-vehicle convoy was preparing to leave for Kandahar where, if everything went according to plan, Wali would become president.

  Unfortunately, a man named Abdullah Ghani was also about to be named president— during a separate ceremony in Kabul—thereby splitting the country in two.

  A problem that illustrated the deep divide between those who wanted the Taliban to govern, and the more secular elements of Afghan society, who favored Wali. But the Ghani problem could be solved, and efforts to accomplish that were underway.

  Wali’s first task was to reach Kandahar alive. And, while convoys were often necessary, they were vulnerable. Domestic attackers generally went for the largest, most prestigious vehicle in a convoy—based on the assumption that VIPs would ride in them. Foreigners were more selective, and typically relied on intelligence to choose which car or truck to attack, usually with the intention of assassinating a particular person. A person like Wali.

  That forced Wali to implement a number of security measures. The first of which was to travel at night whenever possible. And to screen his movements so that none of the South African red hats knew which vehicle he was in. Or, to let a convoy proceed without him. As was the case on that particular evening.

  Wali watched the heavily armed convoy depart from the battlements above before returning to his apartment to finish dressing. Then with his oldest son at his side, the warlord went down to what had been the fort’s stable a hundred years ago, and entered a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. They departed the fort without fanfare.

  Wali drove while Fayez slept. There was very little traffic at night, especially on secondary roads, but there was some. And, as a truck passed going in the opposite direction, the driver flashed his lights.

  That was a sure sign of a roadblock ahead. It might be a government checkpoint, or a barrier established by kidnappers. A scourge that Wali planned to eliminate once he became president.

  Wali reached over to wake Fayez. “Get ready. There’s a roadblock up ahead.”

  Fayez sat up straight and brought his Russian PPSh-41 papasha (daddy) up off the floor. Though retro, the weapon had a drum magazine, and had proven itself during both WWII and the Korean war. Fayez was quite good with it, but Wali wanted to avoid violence if possible.

  Red flares glowed up ahead and Wali started to brake. An ancient bus was parked across the road. It was flanked by gun trucks.

  Wali stopped and waited as a man dressed in black came out to inspect the car. He aimed a flashlight in through the driver’s side window. He saw the pistol in Wali’s lap, and his son’s papasha, but didn’t object to them. Weapons were a fact of life in Afghanistan. Especially for those who traveled at night. “Good evening. I’m with the volunteer guard. Please open the trunk.”

  Wali popped the trunk. Odds were that the bandit was hoping to find a load of heroin, exotic weapons, or a comely girl. But the boot was empty.

  That left the man with no choice but to close the lid and return to the driver’s side window. “There is a fee to pass. We have to buy gas for our vehicles.”

  “I understand,” Wali replied. “How much is the fee?”

  “We charge 7,750 Afghan Afghanis,” the outlaw responded.

  That was an amount roughly equivalent to one hundred American. The currency used for most of Wali’s drug deals. Fayez was carrying a large sum of money, and gave the proper amount to Wali, who passed it to the bandit.

  Wali could read the man’s mind. If the travelers had 7,750, they had more. Wali shook his head. “My name is Akhtar Wali. Don’t ask for more.”

  Wali was forced to squint as the light speared his eyes. Seconds passed. “In the name of Allah! It is you! Please forgive me.”

  “Did you vote for me?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then we are one. Tell your family.”

  “I will! I will!” the bandit replied. “May Allah’s blessings be upon you.”

  “And you,” Wali said. “Please move the bus.”

  The bandit shouted orders, a diesel engine rattled, and the bus backed out of the way. Wali drove past and into the darkness beyond. Such was the nature of things in rural Afghanistan. But that sort of thievery would end soon. After replacing the provincial governors with loyalists, and disbanding the national assembly, Wali planned to “pacify” the country for the sake of the civilian population and his own security.

  Criminals, especially the successful ones, would constitute ongoing threats. And threats could not be tolerated. Even minimal ones.

  Fayez took the wheel shortly thereafter. And such was Wali’s confidence in his son that he allowed himself to sleep. Wali awoke as the car entered Kandahar.

  Years earlier Wali had been able to buy a hotel in downtown Kandahar and transform it into a family residence. The three-story building had been built by the Russians during their time in Afghanistan, which ran from 1978 to 1992.

  In order to protect their guests, the owners had poured three-foot-thick concrete walls, installed barriers designed to keep suicide car bombers at bay, and erected a twelve-foot-high security fence. Guard towers marked each corner of the complex, and were manned around the clock. The perfect pied-a-terre for a warlord.

  After driving through mostly deserted streets, the Toyota came to a stop in front of steel gates. Wali got out and stood in the splash of light from the pole mounted fixture above. Then he performed a 360-degree turn and dialed his phone. When a voice answered, Wali said, “Genghis Khan.” The name of his personal hero.

  “Welcome home, sir … The convoy arrived safely.” Click.

  Hinges squealed as the motorized doors opened and Wali reentered the car.

  Fayed pulled forward into the blast box meant to contain an explosion if a car or truck bomb managed to get past the outer doors. Once the outer gate was secure, a second set of doors opened, allowing the Corolla to proceed. Servants hurried out to greet them. Father and son were home.

  ***

  Southeastern Afghanistan

  Rather than travel at night, especially with so many new personnel to deal with, Finn chose to lagger up in a depression where the battalion would have a sheer cliff wall at its back, good fields of fire, and plenty of cover.

  Once the unit was properly settled in, Finn set off to tour all of the battalion’s positions, especially those held by Bravo Company of the 53rd Highland Volunteers. And it didn’t take long to discover that Howard’s platoon leaders and noncoms had everything under control.

  During the walkabout Finn came across First Sergeant Sam Dyson, who was sharing a brew up with Company Sergeant Major (CSM) Fergus McKenzie. Both noncoms stood. “Good evening, sir … This is CSM McKenzie. We’re working on an integrated watch list.”

  Finn extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Company Sergeant Major. Welcome to Strike Team 3.”

  McKenzie’s grip was like a vise. “Thank ye, sir. First Sergeant Dyson took me under his wing sae tae speak.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Finn said. “Carry on.” After walking past a pair of tanks Finn spotted a small gathering of soldiers seated around an improvised campfire. The technology was simple: Put sand in a metal container, add diesel or gas, and light it.