Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  The American nodded. He knew who the Russian was referring to: Atash Mohammed.

  ‘I want to kill him,’ he confessed. ‘But …’ he gestured helplessly. ‘You think he means it? Releasing my men.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bykov said reassuringly, even though he didn’t believe it. ‘Once we capture Sher, I will ask him to hand over your operatives.’

  ‘What is he planning?’

  Again, the Russian knew what he was referring to.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘He’s coming along. Has been vague. Has spoken about London.’

  Tucker’s fist knotted. ‘Is he …’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a bit late to get a conscience, isn’t it?’ Bykov said curtly and left.

  The colonel brooded, staring unseeingly at the empty village.

  It was his second tour to ’Stan. He was experienced, very well-respected. People said he was going places. The generals in the Pentagon held him in high regard.

  How did I get here?

  It had happened one night, when he was driving from Keshem toward Faizabad. He was alone and had stopped to relieve himself when he heard shots.

  Had cursed himself for not having men with him.

  Had driven in the direction of the firing and had come across Atash Mohammed, executing farmers, deep in the countryside.

  The terrorist was with his men, several of them holding flashlights. Two bodies at his feet. A third kneeling in front of him.

  ‘Stop,’ Tucker had shouted, his handgun coming up, to cover the terrorist.

  He realized his predicament too late. He was one man against several terrorists.

  Mohammed turned in his direction lazily.

  Shot the farmer, while holding the colonel’s eyes.

  ‘You’ll capture me? Get medals?’

  Tucker had been struck by his English. It was good.

  ‘Or maybe I’ll kill you,’ the terrorist said, with a smile. ‘The Taliban leaders will promote me.’

  Sacks at Mohammed’s feet caught Tucker’s attention. A couple of them were half-open. Glinting. Not heroin.

  ‘Gems. These men,’ the terrorist waved carelessly at the bodies, ‘were stealing from my mine.’

  My mine. As if he owned the government property in the mountains.

  Mohammed raised his weapon.

  Tucker cocked his Beretta M9, aware of the warlord’s men pointing their AKs at him.

  He knew he would die but at the least he would take out Atash Mohammed, the terrorist everyone was hunting.

  Mohammed didn’t fire. A calculating look crossed his face.

  ‘I don’t need to kill you. I can capture you and hold you hostage. Like those Delta operatives I have.’

  ‘Or you can help me.’

  He kicked a sack. Stones spilled out. Tucker looked at them, involuntarily.

  The warlord laughed.

  ‘Yes. That third option. You help me. We all get rich. No one knows. You like money, right? All Americans love money.’

  Lizzie.

  Tucker thought of his daughter. Of what lay ahead of her.

  His gun arm lowered a fraction. Shame and self-loathing filled him.

  A part of him wished Mohammed would kill him.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ he heard himself speak.

  Colonel Jesse Tucker made a deal with the Devil that night.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Zeb went to Raghi the evening after holding up Kalan’s truck.

  He dressed in his Sher disguise, a black and white shemagh over his face, shades over his eyes. An AK over his shoulder.

  Villagers didn’t look at him. They stepped out of the way as he roughly shouldered through them.

  An old woman stumbled.

  He winced inwardly.

  Have to stick to my role. A buyer wouldn’t stop to apologize.

  His shades had mirrored surfaces on the inside, at the ends. It gave him a partial view of what was behind him. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing. He could spot anyone following him.

  So far, no one was.

  He knew he had to be quick. Mohammed’s informers would be around.

  He went to Humayun’s store.

  Now mine.

  Bidar stopped serving a customer, who said something and faded away.

  ‘I have a message for Mohammed,’ Zeb roughened his voice.

  His shades pinned the storekeeper.

  ‘Tell him he has to meet—’

  ‘Are you Sher?’

  Zeb radiated menace. His face hard.

  Bidar paled. ‘There’s a message for you, if you are.’ He whispered rapidly. ‘Mohammed is ready to meet. He wants to know where. And how much.’

  ‘Fifty kilos. It has to be the best. And cheap,’ he rumbled. ‘No tricks. He knows what I can do.’

  ‘He wants cash.’

  Zeb reached inside his shirt. Bidar shrank.

  His eyes rounded when Zeb came out with dollar bills.

  ‘That’s five thousand. An advance. Make sure it gets to Mohammed,’ he warned. ‘Tomorrow. Midday. In the valley next to where the mine is.’

  He whirled and walked swiftly away.

  ‘He throws around so much money, agha,’ a shooter fingered the bills in wonder.

  ‘Hmm,’ Mohammed replied absently. It was evening. He was back in Sori. The gunman from the village had relayed Humayun’s message and had brought the roll of money.

  ‘We will take ten men. They should be enough. Go early in the morning. Capture him. He will be alone.’

  ‘It may not be that easy, agha. He is a fox.’

  ‘Pah. He says he’s from London. This is our country. We know our mountains.’

  Mohammed snapped his fingers and dismissed his men.

  He would finish Sher, but only after getting his money .

  I will execute him in Raghi. In front of everyone. A message to all that they shouldn’t mess with the Taliban.

  Zeb went to the valley that night. The four small hills were visible from a distance. They were well known because they didn’t have much vegetation, but for a few sparse trees and bushes.

  Sori was on the first, towards the northeast. The second hill had the mine. The rendezvous would be between the second and the third hill.

  He had heard of the valleys at the coffee shop in Raghi. They were all similar. Barren, prone to rock- and mudslides, deeply inhospitable, no living beings in them.

  That particular valley was a three-hour drive, followed by a four-hour hike.

  It was just past midnight when he climbed to high ground. It wasn’t ideal. He would have preferred to survey the area in daylight, pick out infil and exfil points, but there just wasn’t time. Hence the night approach.

  The Jeep was safely hidden two miles away, on even ground. Raghi was thirteen miles away. Sori was eleven. Not that far, but the terrain made a mockery of distance. Eleven miles felt like fifty.

  He made a cold camp in the shelter of a rock and rose early the next day.

  Six days to the coalition attack.

  Cold, crisp morning. Breath misting. He surveyed the valley without moving and knew he had made a good choice.

  Sheer, dumb luck was playing his way. He couldn’t take any credit in picking the spot.

  There was a dried river bed at the bottom. Narrow exits at each side of the valley.

  He surveyed them through his binoculars. Yeah, a sturdy vehicle could navigate the uneven ground and go past the boulders.

  He was located on one side of the valley, a hundred feet above its floor, a shooting distance of two hundred yards.

  Behind him was a steep rise. Loose rock and soil.

  No one could come down it stealthily.

  He looked about him. Nope, he was in a good spot. He had a good shooting window from beneath the rocks. Well protected by them.

  He had enough mags with him to take out a small army.

  He’ll come with fifteen or twenty people. Lay a trap for me.

 
; The Taliban came at ten am.

  Four men slithered down the opposite cliff. Three men down his slope. None of them spotted him.

  All of them were armed. All of them embedded themselves way down. Almost at the bottom of the valley.

  He marked their locations. He could take out four of them easily. The others were hidden from his view.

  They’ll show themselves once the shooting starts.

  They waited.

  So did Zeb.

  They’ll be in radio contact with Mohammed.

  Tell him that they haven’t seen anyone .

  A black Toyota four-by-four growled its way from his right at eleven thirty am.

  Light reflected off its windshield.

  It juddered as it navigated the river bed.

  He spotted six men in it, four of whom jumped out when it stopped.

  To his left. Away from the seven Taliban.

  Clear from their firing lines .

  He took a closer look at the driver through the binoculars.

  Nope.

  He focused on the other man in the vehicle.

  Waited for him to turn.

  His breath caught when he recognized the unmistakable profile.

  Atash Mohammed.

  In person.

  Zeb didn’t shoot.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said roughly to Bidar.

  It was night, the same day. The street was nearly empty. The storekeeper was sweeping the yard in front of his shop.

  He started at Zeb’s voice.

  He jumped back at his closeness.

  ‘They threatened me,’ he said nervously, looking scared. ‘They said you didn’t show up.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Two men. Taliban.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About four pm.’

  Zeb nodded fractionally. He hadn’t shown himself. Had lain in his hide until Mohammed had gestured angrily, at two pm, and the Toyota had left. The seven concealed shooters had followed.

  He could have taken them all out from a distance, but that wasn’t how he intended to kill Atash Mohammed.

  He didn’t kill the prisoners from a distance. He deserves a similar death.

  ‘Tell him it was a test. Tell him I saw the seven gunmen. I could have shot him. He didn’t step out of the Toyota. Was he scared? I didn’t, however. Tomorrow, same time, in the next valley and this time, no hidden gunmen. I will know.’

  Bidar swallowed and nodded.

  ‘He knows about the seven men?’

  ‘He said that, agha.’ The messenger said respectfully.

  Mohammed got to his feet quickly. His gun appeared in his hand, pointing at one of his men, his most senior commander.

  ‘Who knew?’

  ‘Four people, agha.’ The man didn’t flinch. He had experienced the warlord’s sudden rages before. ‘You, I and those two.’ He nodded at two more men in the room. ‘And of course, the seven men themselves but we told them at the last minute and took their phones from them.’

  ‘There were no leaks, agha,’ another gunman said. ‘He had to be there. That’s the only way he would know.’

  ‘He said he could have shot you, agha. He said you remained in the vehicle all the time,’ the messenger’s voice trembled. He didn’t say that Sher thought Mohammed was scared. The villager wanted to live a long life.

  The Taliban leader slapped him. Once, twice, several times, until his men jumped forward and pulled him back.

  ‘He’s just a messenger, agha.’

  ‘He said tomorrow,’ the villager forced words through split lips. ‘Next valley. Same time. No hidden gunmen.’

  Zeb hurried back to the hills the moment he left Bidar.

  He knew the message would get relayed to Mohammed.

  He’ll work it out. How I knew about the seven men. That he was in the Toyota.

  He may try to send men in the night .

  He drove as fast as he could through the moonlit landscape, which felt lunar in its epic vastness. Just him moving, everything else still. The savage beauty of Badakshan around him.

  He parked even farther away this time.

  Close to the dirt track. He broke several bushes and made a camo for his Jeep and set out at a fast walk, carrying his equipment easily.

  It was eleven pm when he reached the bottom of the hill. He didn’t enter the valley. Climbing the cliff from its rear was a better option. There was no knowing if the Taliban had reached it before him.

  It was two am by the time he navigated around the middle of the cliff and got to the side facing the valley.

  Night vision goggles over his eyes didn’t show any thermal, his side or on the cliff, opposite. Not even a wild animal.

  He breathed easier.

  Looks like it’s just me.

  He hunted for cover. Ideally for several rocks.

  He didn’t find such a spot, but there was a mudslide that had carried a tree with it. Its trunk was immense, rotting and lay diagonally across the face of the mountain.

  He sweated as he rolled a few boulders and positioned them against the trunk to create his hide.

  Good view of the bottom. Similar shooting distance as the previous night. Two hundred and fifty yards.

  Now, to wait, which often was the most difficult for an operative.

  Not for Zeb. Over the years, he had learned to get lost in limbo: his body was relaxed, his mind resting, only his subconscious awake.

  He could go from there to alert in an instant, if his inner radar warned him of danger.

  No danger came in the night.

  It arrived in the morning.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The morning was typical of those in Badakshan. Cold. Clear.

  In the far distance the Hindu Kush range rose majestically, its snow-capped peaks thrusting arrogantly into the sky.

  Zeb consumed his rations, buried the remains, checked his TAC and HK and settled down.

  Mohammed will come with more men. If he turns up. He will be desperate to catch me .

  As the sun rose, the rendezvous became clearer. It was an excellent spot, from his perspective. Loose rock on both cliffs would make it difficult for anyone to make a stealthy approach.

  What had once been a stream between the hills was now dry and stony. Difficult to traverse but not impossible for a well-maintained vehicle.

  A different form of transport showed up.

  Zeb heard the sound at just after ten am.

  The beat of rotors.

  He froze.

  Chopper!

  It took a second for him to process, as the sound neared.

  Taliban don’t have choppers. Not that I know of .

  He was wearing brown. Loose shirt and trousers, beneath which were several layers to ward off the cold, as well as to conceal his armor.

  He hadn’t risked wearing camo. That would have blown his cover.

  The problem was, his clothing could be seen from the sky.

  The chopper drew closer. He turned his head slowly to the left.

  There. High above. Four hundred feet from the ground.

  Turning lazily in the air.

  A Kiowa attack helicopter, too far for him to make out any markings.

  The chopper disappeared out of sight as it circled the hills.

  No Taliban in the valley, yet. No ground vehicles, either.

  The bird returned, this time coming from the direction of Sori.

  He knew he could be detected from the air.

  If the chopper was manned by American soldiers, it would have a two-man team. Pilot and gunner.

  It would have Stingers, aerial rockets, thermal imaging, the best optics the military could buy.

  He lay unmoving, face down.

  After what felt like interminable moments, the bird disappeared, its beat fading until silence returned.

  Zeb surveyed the rendezvous spot again. No terrorists.

  He looked behind him.

  No hostile
s.

  Abort , he decided.

  He didn’t know why the Kiowa had appeared. He didn’t like its presence.

  Mohammed won’t come. The bird will drive him away. He’ll suspect a trap.

  He rose swiftly, shouldered his TAC, grabbed his HK and went down the cliff towards the valley. When he reached it, he turned left.

  Progress was slowed by the uneven surface. His eyes were narrowed, watchful, his HK clutched in his right hand, ready for rapid deployment.

  He went to the mouth of the valley where the hill ended.

  Followed the bed out, in the direction of his Jeep, gradually increasing his pace to a jog.

  The slopes on each side began to be gentler as the high ground gave way to low.

  A bend in the valley, and beyond it open ground.

  He raced around the turn and jerked to a halt.

  Five men in front of him.

  Fatigues. American uniforms.

  An older man to his left. Grey buzzcut. Three soldiers pointing their weapons at him.

  A fourth man standing well away. In Afghan clothing.

  ‘Stand down,’ the elder man shouted.

  Zeb recognized the tone. This was a man used to command, to authority.

  Options flashed through his mind. His HK was ready. He could take out some of them if he wished.

  Not an option . They were his people.

  They figure I am a terrorist .

  He relaxed visibly.

  He could talk his way out of it.

  My cover will be blown , but he could deal with that later.

  ‘Who are you?’ the leader yelled.

  The Afghan translated for him.

  Zeb didn’t respond. He was struck by the soldiers’ clothing. No insignia. Nothing to show their rank, their regiment. He looked at the grey-haired man.

  He had a name plate.

  Jesse Tucker.

  And he bore the rank of a colonel.

  Nothing else on his uniform.

  ‘Who are you? Do you understand me?’ Tucker repeated. He looked at his translator, who spoke in Dari, and then in Pashto.

  Zeb didn’t reply.

  He didn’t like what he was seeing.

  The colonel approached him rapidly, keeping out of his men’s firing line.

  Sweat on his upper lip. His eyes blazing.

  ‘You,’ a finger shot out. ‘Talk to me. Look at me.’

  Zeb looked.

  ‘What’s your name? Why were you on the mountain? Why do you have those weapons?’

  That’s how they got me. The bird alerted them .