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This ebook edition published in 2012
Franklin Watts
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
Franklin Watts Australia
Level 17/207 Kent Street
Sydney, NSW 2000
The author has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved.
Task Force Delta is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintended and all statements purporting to be facts are not necessarily true.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 4451 1342 5
Franklin Watts is a division of Hachette Children’s Books,
an Hachette UK company.
www.hachette.co.uk
www.franklinwatts.co.uk
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www.hodderchildrens.co.uk
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The Real Delta Force
Task Force Delta is inspired by one
of the United States’ top-level secret
military units, the 1st Special Forces
Operational Detachment — Delta (1SFOD-D)
also known as
Delta Force
Delta Force’s main missions are direct, counter-terrorism action. They also carry out many secret assignments including hostage rescues and raids behind enemy lines.
Delta Force (also called “The Unit”) is based at Fort Bragg, Carolina, USA.
Delta Force’s motto is:
“Surprise, Speed, Success”
CONTENTS
ONE Hostage grab
TWO Taliban trap
THREE Mountain path
FOUR GPs tracking
FIVE Masud’s injury
SIX Connor has a plan
SEVEN Kate saves Masud
EIGHT Amin’s story
NINE The mission
TEN Fate of the hostage
ELEVEN Riding into action
TWELVE Hassan’s gun
THIRTEEN in the Taliban camp
FOURTEEN Connor finds Hassan
FIFTEEN Zero hour
SIXTEEN Helicopter evac
Weapons and gear
Glossary
Sneak Peek
If you liked this, you’ll love…
CHAPTER ONE
Hostage grab
Central Afghanistan
The mobile medical station was little more than a sun-baked tent that reeked of antiseptic. Dr Tom Ford said goodbye to his last patient and stepped outside for some air. Within moments he was arguing with a short Afghan soldier called Hajji.
“My orders are to protect you,” Hajji insisted. “We must leave.”
“There are Taliban all over this goddamn country,” Tom snapped angrily. “So what if they might be watching us. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if half the elders here are Taliban informants. We knew this trip wasn’t going to be easy, but the locals need us. We’re the only source of medical help for hundreds of miles.”
The young Afghan sergeant pointed his rifle towards the steep mountains framing the valley. “Up there are hidden trails to the border with Pakistan. The Taliban use them. They will come in the night and slit our throats.”
“Not if you do your job and shoot them first,” Tom responded bluntly. “We’ve only been here a week. We’re staying, and that’s the end of it.”
Dr Kate Shawcross paused to wipe the sweat from her brow and adjust her headscarf. “Everything all right, Tom?” she called out across the dusty, mud-walled village compound.
Tom walked over, pursued by the group of unruly children who seemed to follow him everywhere. “Nothing to worry about. Hajji reckons the Taliban are up in the hills. He probably saw a couple of old goatherders. Told him we’re staying. I think he’s looking for any excuse to get back to Kandahar.” He jerked a thumb towards the Afghan National Army truck where Hajji’s two comrades were sitting cross-legged, smoking and sipping tea.
Kate slammed their Land Rover door shut and leaned her back against it. The sun was sinking behind a mountain ridge, turning the barren hillsides a hard blue colour.
“So, how’s your first week been?” asked Tom.
“Amazing!” Kate felt exhausted but bursting with pride. “We’ve reset four broken limbs, amputated a foot, handed out countless antibiotic pills and immunised eighty children against polio. I’d say we’ve made a difference.” She paused thoughtfully. “I don’t like the way the locals gawp at me, though. And they didn’t exactly welcome me when we arrived.”
“It’s not that they’re ungrateful, Kate. They just don’t think women should do this work.”
“I know, but even so—”
A sudden shout for help made both Tom and Kate turn in alarm. They saw a tall, skinny man hurrying along the village track. It was littered with stones and potholes. He was carrying a boy in his arms. The boy’s shirt was soaked with blood.
“Quick, Tom,” said Kate, reaching for the vehicle’s door handle. “Give him a hand. I’ll grab the medical bag.”
Hajji’s men rose slowly to their feet.
“Komak! Dakter!” the man carrying the boy called out breathlessly. “Help…Doctor. Please.”
Kate swung the bag over her shoulder and shouted, “Hajji, come on. We may need you to interpret for us.”
Tom reached the boy first. His body was lifeless. Tom helped to gently lower the boy to the ground. “Who are you? What happened to him?” he asked the tall, bearded man dressed in pale baggy trousers and a loose-fitting shirt.
“Assalam u alaikum — peace be upon you. His name is Hassan. He fell down a mountain. I am Amin and brought him to you so you can save him, inshallah.”
Kate arrived with Hajji close behind.
“Pass the surgical scissors, Kate.”
Carefully, Tom began cutting away the boy’s shirt. “He’s lost a hell of a lot of blood. Grab some pressure pads. We need to slow down the bleeding.”
Gently, Tom peeled back Hassan’s shirt. “What the hell?” He froze in astonishment. There was no wound.
By the time they heard the incoming rocket-propelled grenade it was too late. Hajji’s army truck exploded into a ball of flames. Shrapnel cut down Hajji’s men, hot fragments slicing through their uniforms. Tom sprawled flat on his stomach, covering his head with his hands. Kate shielded the boy as debris fell around them, peppering the ground. Cracks of rifle fire echoed around the houses, each shot making Kate flinch with fright. She thought she heard Hajji shout something but didn’t dare raise her head.
Silence. “Tom, are you OK?” Kate couldn’t conceal the tremble in her voice.
“Yes. Are you?”
“Uh-huh.” Kate turned her head. Her ears rang from the blast. She gazed at the burning remains of the truck. Bodies littered the ground.
From doorways and rooftops, and from gaps in the compound’s mud-brick walls, Taliban fighters emerged. Kate sat up and saw Hajji lying next to her, his throat cut. She shrieked and looked up at the figure standing over her. Amin — the man who had carried the boy to them — held a knife in his hand, its blade was covered in blood. Confused, she looked down at the boy.
Hassan opened his eyes and leaped to his feet.
As Tom tried to stand, Amin grabbed him around his neck and held the knife against his throat. “Don’t move, infidel.”
In seconds, Kate and Tom were surrounded by Taliban fighters. Some carried heavy machine guns and ammo belts, others were just wearing trainers and dressed in dusty pirhan tonban. A man pressed through the circle and grinned toothlessly. He was the Taliban leader, Masud. “Well done, young Ha
ssan.”
Hassan tore off his tattered shirt in disgust. It smelled horrible, and felt cold and clammy against his skin; Masud had used goat’s blood.
Amid chants of Allahu Akbar Masud issued orders to his men. “Gather weapons and strip the jeep of anything useful.” He pointed at Kate. “You will come with us. Amin, tie her hands.” He then turned to Tom. “You, infidel, will return to Kandahar with a message. Here, give this to the American general.” He pressed a piece of paper into Tom’s hand. “These are my demands. One million dollars if you want to see the woman again, alive.”
“Take me instead,” Tom pleaded. “Let her go.”
Masud shook his head. “She is worth ten times more than you. We know she is the daughter of an American senator. Tell the general he has one week, or she will die.”
CHAPTER TWO
Taliban trap
Central Afghanistan
The following day and several hundred miles further north, Major Nathan Connor and his Delta Force team were on a reconnaissance mission. They were driving to a new hydroelectric plant and dam. A mile behind them was the main convoy, which included a small party of American politicians and the head of Central Command, General Patterson.
Taking point duty, Delta Force opted for their Ranger Ground Mobility Vehicle. The GMV was a version of the Humvee stripped of its doors to enable instant access and use of small arms from inside. Connor had a grenade launcher mounted on top, as well as a heavy machine gun. He was confident they would be able to handle Taliban resistance. Plus there were two Black Hawk helicopters circling above the main convoy. Just as long as the track is clear of IEDs, we should be OK, Connor thought.
The road was dusty and heavily rutted. Sergeant Sam Wilson was at the wheel of the GMV next to Connor. Sam pulled the GMV off the main track, up a steep climb. The road wound in a series of tight bends towards the dam. Connor felt a tap on his shoulder. “What’s up, Sparks?”
“CENTCOM says they’ve lost contact with the dam construction site, sir. Visual feeds from high altitude drones have detected suspicious movement on the mountainside above us.”
“Right. Try to call the site staff yourself, and inform General Patterson. In the meantime, I guess we’d better check it out. Sam, put your foot down.”
As they approached, Connor ordered Sam to pull over. Dozens of temporary buildings — home to the construction workers and their families — had created a small town. They overlooked the half-built dam on both sides of the road. The site office was located at the far end of the street.
“Sparks, any luck raising the site staff?”
“No, sir.”
“OK, we’ll do a recce on foot. Sam, you stay here and establish a line of fire to the rocks above us. Ben, you’re up top. Danny and Jacko, come with me.”
Connor grabbed his M4 rifle and jumped out. Lieutenants Danny Crow and Jacko Alvarez ran to take up tactical positions on either side of the road. Connor walked, his eyes darting from doorway to doorway. He checked the flat rooftops and alleyways, but the place appeared to be deserted. The only thing he could hear was the thud and hammering of construction traffic in the valley beyond. After twenty metres he stopped and knelt down. He waved Jacko forward, and signalled for Danny to move up.
“It seems OK, sir. Sounds like everyone’s at work on the dam.”
“Perhaps.” Hearing an approaching Black Hawk, Connor realised the VIPs would soon arrive. “Let’s get a move on and check out the site office.”
The site office was a grey Portakabin at the entrance to a large, wire-fenced compound protecting heavy machinery and materials. The door was open. As Connor approached he called out. There was no reply.
He pressed up against the wall next to the door, counted to three and then spun round into the doorway, M4 raised and finger on the trigger. A fan whirred noisily, fluttering piles of paperwork. Connor saw a body on the floor behind the desk. Blood was splattered on the wall. Then he saw the large package and a mass of coloured wires. He turned quickly. “Fall back to the GMV, now! This place is rigged to blow.”
They hurried along the street towards their GMV. Connor spoke into his helmet mic, telling Sparks to warn the convoy to abort the visit. The sergeant’s reply made Connor’s guts tighten.
“They’re already here, sir.”
“Then tell them to take up defensive positions and hold. The bomb might be detonated remotely by Taliban as soon as the VIPs are in range.”
A boy leaned out of a window in one of the temporary houses. He waved and pointed to a house opposite. “Boom! Boom! D kor deneneh!” he yelled, before ducking back inside.
Connor’s instinct kicked in. The boy was telling him that there was another bomb inside the house. They were in the middle of a Taliban trap!
“Prepare for incoming,” he warned his team. Had the convoy reached the site office and the bombs been detonated, there’d be no evac route — no way out.
Gunshots cracked from the hillside above. Danny let out a cry and sank to his knees. Connor grabbed Danny’s webbing and began to drag him back towards the GMV. Jacko covered their backs, laying down a blanket of covering fire.
“Danny is hit,” Connor announced into his helmet mic. “Ben, there’s a second bomb in that house I’ve just passed. Hit it with everything you’ve got. Sparks, there are snipers up on the hillside. Call in our Hawks to take them out.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Connor hauled Danny to the cover of the armoured GMV. Coughing between gasps for breath, he managed to speak, “I’m OK, sir. Body armour did its job. Just winded me.”
Next to them, Sam steadied his aim. He had a target in the crosshairs of his rifle sight: a figure crouching behind a rock some five hundred metres away. Sam exhaled, gently squeezed the trigger, and absorbed the recoil. “That’s two down, sir, but there are at least five more of them up there.”
The pair of Black Hawks screamed overhead, and fired rockets at the hillside, turning it into a dust-laden fireball.
“Not any more, there aren’t,” Sparks added with immense satisfaction.
Grenades pumped from Delta Force’s GMV launcher, blasting the house where the boy had been. “Jesus, cease firing, Ben! Cease fire! That’s the wrong house!” Connor shouted.
He grabbed the trauma kit from the GMV. “Sam, cover me!” he ordered, and then hurried back along the street to the remains of the house. Connor searched through the debris, until he found the body of a woman. He checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.
Jacko arrived in support. “Marines from the convoy are locking this place down, sir. Sparks has called in an anti-IED team to check for other bombs, but they won’t be here for at least an hour.”
“Shut up!” Connor snapped. “Listen.” He could hear faint cries. The boy was there, somewhere, and was still alive. “Over here. Quickly. Give me a hand lifting this wood panel.”
The boy, covered in yellow-grey dust, was in bad shape, his left leg crushed just below the knee. His piercing screams rang in Connor’s ears. After a quick check, Connor knew he had to stop the blood surging from the crushed leg. He applied a tourniquet, while Jacko pushed a fentanyl lollipop into the boy’s mouth to dull the pain. Over his cries, Connor was only vaguely aware of voices and footsteps behind him.
“Senator Shawcross, it really isn’t wise to be out in the open. Please return to your vehicle, where you’ll be safe,” General Patterson called out. “I must insist.”
“Nonsense, that boy needs my help. I was a doctor for twenty years before entering politics.”
Rolling up his shirtsleeves, the senator stooped down beside Connor. “Well done, soldier, but that tourniquet needs to be even tighter. Here, let me do it. We must get this boy to hospital within the hour.”
“Impossible,” General Patterson replied. “It’s over two hours back to Camp Delta by road.”
The senator studied the circling Black Hawks for a moment before searching the local terrain. He pointed, “Over there. Get the pilot to la
nd and take the boy back to Camp Delta.”
The boy cried out for his mother in his native Pashto, “Mor! Mor!” Connor held him and whispered that everything was going to be all right. He thought of his own son back home, and the hit and run accident that had cut his life so short. And he thought of Hassan, the son of his childhood friend, Assif, and the promise he’d made to find him. A promise yet to be fulfilled.
As the Black Hawk took off with the boy on board, General Patterson received an urgent and disturbing message from CENTCOM. Grim-faced, he broke the terrible news to Senator Shawcross.
“Senator, the Taliban have attacked the medical station where your daughter was working. She’s been taken hostage.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mountain path
Southern Afghanistan
Kate pressed her eyes shut tightly. She couldn’t bear to look down. The high mountain path was narrow and the long drop down into the valley below made her feel dizzy. With her hands tied, she found it difficult to balance. One wrong step and she’d fall.
Kate was hungry, thirsty and stank with stale sweat. She was terrified, but determined not to let it show — not to give her captors the satisfaction. Her left foot suddenly slipped and she let out a shriek. Loose stones tumbled down over the edge.
Hassan appeared at her side. “Take my hand. Surely, you’re not more afraid than a stupid goat? See how they climb without a care.”
Kate had noticed the goats dotted about the steep mountain side, grazing quietly. They did little to reassure her. “Your English is very good. But a goat has four legs. I’ve only got two.”
The Taliban leader, Masud, overheard and before Hassan could reply, snapped, “Then crawl on your hands and knees, woman.”
“Damn it, I wish I’d never set foot in this hellhole. I only wanted to help, and this is the thanks I get. My feet are sore and my head hurts. How much further is it?”
Hostage Crisis Page 1
