Asadi translated, and Nazar nodded. “Yes,” the old man said in perfectly good English. “You are.”

  ***

  Darkness had fallen. The red hats were waiting for the Allies to attack. And the Strike Team was waiting for Asadi and his friends to enter the fort through a storm drain, climb up through the many branchings of pipe, and plant their custom-made charges.

  It was a difficult task. But the headlamps the Americans had given the boys, plus a supply of candy bars, contributed to good morale.

  If that wasn’t stressful enough however, Finn had something else to worry about as well. President Wali knew his ancestral home was under siege by that time.

  So, what would he do? Send a brigade of Afghan regulars to annihilate the infidels? Or, trust his mercenaries, and the strength of Qila Kom’s walls, to keep the foreigners at bay? For a while at least as he took care of business elsewhere.

  Finn figured it was a tossup. But thanks to the latest Reaper operator, and her UAV, he would have plenty of warning if a military convoy headed his way.

  And that’s how reinforcements would be forced to arrive, since the Afghans didn’t have enough helicopters to transport large numbers of soldiers.

  Minutes passed with agonizing slowness and eventually morphed into an hour. Then the call Finn and his staff had been waiting for came in. It consisted of four words: “We’re coming out.”

  At that point Finn was standing next to the Bradley named HELL BENT. It was in line behind the tanks slated to take part in the assault. Brake lights lit the scene as Finn thumbed his radio. “This is Six actual. “Detonate the charges. Over.”

  Finn couldn’t hear the explosions or see flashes of light as they went off. But it was safe to assume that the red hats could, and would send men to investigate, thus weakening the castle’s defenses. Finn spoke again. “This is Six actual for all units. You have your orders. Execute them. Out.”

  Lieutenant Scott and his tanks were ready. AXIS ACE, MAMA’S BOY, and ROLLING THUNDER, nicknamed “the three amigos,” were positioned to the east, north, and west of the fortress. A seasonal swamp bordered the fort on the south, making that approach impractical. The darkness of night meant nothing. A ghostly green image of Qila Kom was centered in their sights and they were ready to fire.

  Before attacking the corner towers, the amigos had orders to suppress fire from any heavy weapons that might be concealed behind the curtain walls. That was important. Otherwise, the red hat snipers and machine gunners could annihilate the first wave of soldiers as they left their Bradleys.

  By that time Finn was crammed into HELL BENT with a squad of soldiers. Rifle fire began to ping the vic’s armor, followed by a persistent rattle, as machine gun bullets splattered against the hull. That was when the truck commander began to play Two Steps from Hell-At the Wall over the intercom. The ominous beat was perfect for the moment and the soldiers grinned. A private said, “Go army!” and his buddies laughed.

  Finn was about to respond when something hit the Bradley and exploded. The force of the blast pushed the front of the vehicle around. “That was an RPG!” the truck commander announced. “We lost a track … Everyone out.”

  It was a bad situation, a very bad situation, and Finn was worried. “Check your night eyes,” he told them. “Use the Bradley for cover.”

  Finn’s surroundings looked green. Bullets snapped past his head as he led the soldiers out, turned to the right, and crouched next to the hulking machine.

  The crew was still aboard and the Bradley’s gunner wanted revenge. The truck’s M242 Bushmaster chain gun was firing carefully aimed bursts, as the three amigos fired their cannons, and the corner towers took hits.

  Chunks of rock and masonry exploded away from the castle, fell free, and tumbled down the slopes as the tanks fired. That was good. But, when Finn took a look back over his left shoulder, he saw that the Bradley named SWORD OF ALLAH was right behind them and wouldn’t have room to pass.

  Finn thumbed his radio. “This is Six. HELL BENT’s crew will deass their vic. SWORD will push BENT off the road. Troops will advance. Follow me!”

  Finn felt something nip his shoulder as he stood, circled the stalled Bradley, and led the squad across the road to the cliff face. The red hats would have to expose themselves in order to fire straight down. And it would be difficult to do where crew-served weapons were concerned. Any small advantages would help. “We need more fire on the towers!” Finn yelled into his radio, as bullets kicked up geysers of dirt all around him.

  “Six Pack,” Finn said. “This is Alpha Six … Open the gate. Over.”

  “Roger that,” the drone pilot replied. “Reaper, in from the north with Hellfire missiles. Standby. Over.”

  Shells and Javelin missiles were hitting the towers with devastating regularity by then. And Finn thought that the defensive fire had slackened a bit as the SWORD OF ALLAH pushed HELL BENT off the road. The twenty-seven-ton Bradley tumbled end-over-end and somersaulted down slope to land greasy side up.

  “Good evening, sir,” Howard said, as he arrived on the scene. “There’s nothing like storming a castle to make the lads feel at home!”

  “I’m glad someone’s having a good time,” Finn said, as British soldiers streamed past them. “Keep your men back … Hellfire missiles are about to hit the gate.”

  “I will,” Howard said, as a bullet snatched the beret off his head. “Discretion is, as they say, the better part of valor.”

  ***

  The sounds of fighting were loud enough to penetrate thick castle walls. And Doctor Susan Okada was determined to help Strike Team 3 win.

  Could Wali have Yusuf, or someone else, remove the bombs from the castle under the cover of the fighting? That didn’t seem likely. But she was determined to foreclose any such possibility.

  That’s why the scientist was standing on a chair next to the door to her apartment with a brass candlestick clenched in her right fist. A single guard was posted outside the locked door. She knew that because a tiny hole had been drilled in the door so that the apartment’s occupant could screen his or her visitors. And that gave Okada a view of the hall.

  Normally there were two guards. But one had been called away to help defend the castle. Or so Okada assumed. Not that it mattered. She made use of the candlestick to pound on the door. “Quick! Come inside! A shell smashed through the wall!”

  Okada knew that her guard, like all the South African red hats, spoke English. She heard the key rattle in the ancient lock and waited for the door to open.

  It wasn’t fair. Okada was standing on a chair and the mercenary was looking straight ahead. The scientist brought the brass candlestick down with all her might, felt the man’s skull give, and heard a grunt as he fell. Okada jumped off the chair and stooped to take the guard’s pulse. There was none.

  She waited for the flood of remorse, didn’t feel any, and was disappointed in herself. You’re evil now, Okada thought. You’ve lost your way.

  But that didn’t stop the physicist from appropriating the merc’s pistol and the key ring attached to his belt.

  Okada could hear the muffled thud of incoming tank rounds and the distant rattle of machine gun fire as she made her way through the castle’s corridors. They were intentionally narrow in order to slow invaders down and force them to fight Qila Kom’s defenders one at a time.

  The pistol’s safety was off as Okada paused to peek around a corner. Only one guard was on duty and he was turned sideways to her. The physicist stepped out of hiding, raised the pistol, and said, “Hey! What’s up?”

  The red hat turned toward the sound, exposing his entire torso. Okada fired three times. Two bullets struck their target. The mercenary took an involuntary step backwards and fell.

  Okada made her way forward. The man was fumbling for his pistol. She shot him in the head.

  A key ring was attached to the dead man’s belt. But Okada didn’t need it. She already had the necessary keys. And knew which one would open the door. The castle’s generator was still operational and the lights were on. The bombs were where she’d left them, sitting on their cradles. Okada breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then Okada towed the dead man into the room, locked the door from the inside, and went to work. Assuming Major Finn and the team were the ones attacking the castle, they would want to take the bombs and leave. So, it was her job to put Bomb 3 back together. Work began.

  ***

  The Reaper fired two laser guided AGM-114 Hellfire missiles. Both were armed with blast fragmentation warheads. And both struck the castle’s gate. It was originally made of wood. But, as rifled cannons came into use, the barrier had been upgraded to iron.

  It made no difference. The overlapping explosions killed a dozen red hats and blew the door off its hinges. “Six-Pack, this is Alpha-Six. Nice shooting! Save the rest of your loadout. There’s no telling what may come our way.”

  There hadn’t been any other use for airpower up to that point. The last thing Finn wanted was to bury the nuclear bombs in rubble or damage them.

  With First Sergeant Dyson and Lieutenant Pinnick at his side Finn topped the slope and followed a group of Captain al-Awan’s soldiers through the badly damaged gate.

  Utter chaos reigned within the castle’s walls. Half a dozen red hats were face down on the ground—hands clasped behind their necks. Whether they had surrendered, or been captured, wasn’t clear. Others had retreated into the labyrinth of passageways within Qila Kom where members of the 53rd were hunting them down one-by-one.

  Finn was about to join the fighting when Platoon Sergeant Roy Revell and two of his soldiers appeared. A tall man was walking in front of them, hands raised. “This is Mr. Yusef,” Revell announced. “He speaks English, and claims to be in charge here.”

  Yusef sniffed. “I am in charge here. Or was. I would like to surrender. And, more than that, provide whatever assistance you may require.”

  Finn eyed the man. “You’re worried about what President Wali might do to you?”

  “Yes,” Yusef replied. “He’s quite cruel.”

  “Okay,” Finn said. “Take us to the bombs.”

  “Of course,” Yusef said. As if taking an order for coffee. “Can I lower my hands?”

  Finn turned to Revell. “You searched him?”

  The noncom nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Finn turned to Yusef. “Go ahead and lower your hands. If you lead us into a trap, you’ll die first.”

  “Understood,” the Nigerian replied. “Please follow me.”

  The Americans followed Yusef into the castle and through a maze of corridors. A flight of well-worn steps took them up to the floor above. The sounds of fighting had dwindled by then. A sure sign that Strike Team 3 was taking control. “The bombs are stored in a room directly ahead,” Yusef said. “There was a guard, but it looks as though he fled.”

  Finn saw the pool of drying blood, as well as the trail that led under the door, and decided that Yusuf was full of shit. He exchanged looks with Dyson and both men readied their weapons.

  Yusef produced a key which he inserted into the lock and turned. The door gave slightly but refused to budge. “Who’s there?” A female voice demanded.

  “That’s Little Doc!” Pinnick exclaimed. “Susan! It’s me! Lieutenant Pinnick.”

  Finn heard the rattle of a bolt being withdrawn, the door opened, and there was Okada with hands on hips. The bombs were visible beyond. As was a dead body. “Hello, Major Finn,” the physicist said. “What took you so long?”

  ***

  South of Kandahar, Afghanistan

  The sun was up. And as it continued to rise a steady stream of people arrived. The playing field consisted of a natural amphitheater which had been improved with the use of earthmoving equipment. Raised berms provided thousands of spectators with places to sit as men on horses competed to land a goat carcass inside a goal.

  The sport was called Buzkashi, or “goat pulling,” and was popular in a number of countries including Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, and Kyrgyzstan. Each nation had slightly different rules, but the essence of the sport was the same.

  The horseback riders, or Chapandaz, were typically men in their early forties. A time of life when a combination of experience and physical strength merged to produce the best players.

  All of the Chapandaz wore heavy clothing to protect themselves from other players who were free to wield whips and use their boots as weapons during the madcap frenzy of thundering hooves, determined riders, and screaming fans.

  The best horses were from Uzbekistan. It generally took six or seven years of training to produce a good mount, which was not only highly prized, but very expensive. That’s where rich men like Akhtar Wali came in. Without them, and their money, there would be no prizes and no well-trained horses.

  In this case the event was going to be televised nationwide, and would go a long way toward unifying the country behind Wali, despite Abdullah Ghani’s mysterious disappearance the previous day.

  Wali was lounging inside a well-guarded tent sipping tea and chatting with one of his two vice presidents. The conversation was awkward—since the men barely knew each other—and made even more so by the fact that Wali’s thoughts were on Qila Kom. What was taking place there?

  Wali’s calls to Yusef had gone unanswered. So, the only information he had was what the officer in charge of the red hats told him. And, according to him, heavy fighting was underway. That conversation had taken place hours earlier and there’d been no updates since.

  As a result, Wali wanted to leave the Buzkashi and hurry home. But that was impossible. It would look weak and leave an important task undone.

  Time crawled by, the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the crowd continued to grow larger. All forms of gambling were haram (forbidden) by the Muslim religion except for horse racing, camel racing, and archery. All of which were warrior sports encouraged by the Prophet Mohammad.

  But the local Mullahs reckoned, since Buzkashi was a form of horse racing and combat, then gambling could be allowed. And the betting was fierce. The smart money was on a famous Chapandaz named Tela Afridi and his team, rather than the slightly less popular Fazel Sarban and his riders. The latter hailed from Kabul. A city the locals viewed with suspicion.

  The other factor, that made Afridi look like the probable winner, was the fact that newly elected President Wali was his sponsor, and had been for years. A relationship which could influence the referee.

  The Mayor of Kandahar was a man named Hayat. And it was his privilege to serve as the Master of Ceremonies. He stepped into the tent. “Excuse me Mr. President … The time has come.”

  “Everything is ready?”

  “Yes, sir. Exactly as you described it.”

  “Excellent. Remember, timing is important.”

  The mayor placed his hand over his heart and offered a small bow. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Wali stood and made his way out onto a walkway that led to a wooden tower, and a platform where the spectators could see him. And that included any assassins who might be waiting to shoot him. But it was a risk Wali would have to take. And, barring a head shot, the ballistic vest Wali was wearing would protect him.

  The roar that greeted Wali had the deep basso quality of a beast unleashed, which in some ways it was, since the new president was seen as a hard man in a nation of hard men.

  And the fact that Wali had chosen to make his first appearance at a Buzkashi, rather than a press conference, served to reinforce Wali’s image as a strong ruler.

  A platform on the opposite side of the playing field was loaded with TV cameras. As Wali stepped up to the mike, they zoomed in. “Good morning,” Wali said. “Are you ready to witness a world class Buzkashi?”

  The crowd roared its approval. Wali smiled. “I thought so. And making this competition even more special, is our guest of honor, none other than presidential candidate Abdullah Ghani!”

  That was when Mayor Hayat stepped forward carrying a human head mounted on a spear. And, as the TV cameras went tight, Ghani’s face appeared on giant screens for everyone to see. There were no cheers. Just silence.

  “Yes,” Wali said, “shocking, isn’t it? But let it be known that the country of Afghanistan does not tolerate traitors. After conducting its investigation, the National Directorate of Security is now ready to announce that it was Abdullah Ghani who, working with the Americans, had Jalaal al-Molla assassinated!”

  That wasn’t true of course. The Russians were the ones who had worked hand-in-hand with Wali to assassinate al-Molla. But the crowd believed it. Thanks to wall-to-wall television coverage, they’d seen the American markings on the drone wreckage with their own eyes, and the fact that an Afghan politician was partially to blame came as no shock in a country accustomed to chicanery. A roar of approval went up.

  Wali was pleased. His original goal was to kill al-Qazi in order to capture the presidency. The opportunity to blame the assassination on Ghani occurred to him later on.

  Now, with the crowd in his hand, Wali took the moment to what he saw as its logical conclusion. “Buzkashi is normally played using a headless-disemboweled goat carcass. Then, in order to reduce weight, while still offering our riders something to grab, two legs are removed.

  “Since we already have a goat in the form of Mr. Ghani, why kill another? As I speak, his headless, gutless, dismembered carcass is being delivered to the field. Even so, he’s a little heavier than a similarly prepared goat.

  “But it’s my belief that our teams, led by Tela Afridi and Fazel Sarban, will prove themselves up to the task. Please cheer for Mr. Abdullah Ghani who, in death, found a way to entertain us!” Cheers combined with laughter filled the amphitheater.

  Wali waved to the crowd, and made his way back to the tent, where a tall glass of iced tea was waiting. History had not only been made, but in a fashion that Genghis Kahn might approve of, and would never be forgotten.

  Wali wanted to leave, needed to leave, but couldn’t. Not until he could announce a winner. Fortunately, the game proved to be quite entertaining.