by Will Jordan
He reckoned the wind speed at not more than a couple of knots, blowing almost directly away from him. The air was warm and thin; they were nearly 1,500 metres above sea level in this part of the world. In short, these were perfect sniping conditions, and he had an excellent weapon to work with.
Now all he needed was a target.
‘Vermaak, I need one of your boys to stand up for a few seconds.’
At this, the stocky South African actually laughed. ‘You want to use my men as bait? Forget it. We’re not here for target practice.’
‘I need to draw the sniper out. He ain’t gonna move until he has a target to shoot at. All I need is a couple of seconds.’
Vermaak pondered it for a moment. ‘Then I tell you what, my friend. Any man here who wants to volunteer to be your bait is free to do it now. I won’t stop him.’ He raised his voice so everyone nearby could hear. ‘Anyone?’
Silence prevailed, broken only by the faint sigh of the wind.
Vermaak shrugged. ‘The people have spoken, Mr Keegan.’
Then, suddenly, a lone voice called out. ‘I’ll do it.’
It was McKnight, still lying behind cover further down the slope. Keegan couldn’t see her from where he was, but he remembered exactly where she was waiting.
The veteran sniper chewed his lip, reluctant to put her in harm’s way. He was, after all, here to protect her.
‘You sure you want to do this, Sam?’ he called out.
‘You mean, do I want to stand up and get shot at by a mad Taliban sniper? Not really, but since no “men” are willing to volunteer, we don’t have much choice, do we?’
Keegan glanced at Vermaak for a moment, but said nothing to that. Instead he gripped the heavy sniper rifle tight and flicked the fire selector from safe to semi-automatic.
‘Okay. On my mark, I want you to get up and start running up the slope towards us. Run for no more than three seconds, then hit the deck. I’ll take care of the rest. Understand?’
‘Unfortunately I do.’ There was a slight waver in her voice now. She hesitated before speaking again. ‘Tell me you’re good at this.’
‘I’m better than our boy out there. Believe that,’ he promised her, fervently hoping it was true.
‘Good enough.’
Pushing strands of sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, Keegan took a deep breath, trying to still his racing heart. ‘On my mark, Sam. Three, two, one … go!’
He heard the scuffle of boots on gravel as the woman rose to her feet and took off at a run.
One second. The sniper would have seen the movement. He was bringing the weapon to bear.
Hefting the bulky, heavy rifle up to his shoulder, Keegan rose up into a crouch, immediately training his scope on the open plains beyond their ridge.
He had seen and recognised the telltale muzzle flash when the Dragunov first fired, alerting him that a round was incoming. That was the reason he’d been able to push McKnight to the ground, saving her life. It had been luck as much as anything.
Now her life was once again in his hands, and it was going to take more than luck to save it. He swept the weapon left, finding the area where he’d first seen the muzzle flash. Seeing it now through the scope, it looked as though the sniper had been crouched against the bank of a dried-up river bed. A perfect place to fire from. Plenty of cover, and a natural depression allowing him to move unseen.
Two seconds. The sniper would have found a sight picture of McKnight. His finger would be tightening on the trigger right now, taking first pressure.
The sniper would have relocated after each shot to avoid counter-sniping. The river bed ran from north to south at right angles to the ridge, following the line of the broad valley through which it had once flowed. The sniper could have gone in either direction. Which way? Left or right? North or south? He had a fifty-fifty chance, and less than a second to make his decision.
He chose right, on the basis that most people were right-handed and had a tendency to favour their good side when changing direction.
His sight picture became a blur of movement as he adjusted his aim, frantically searching for a target. The weapon was a leaden weight in his arms, burning his muscles with the strain of holding it level. The sun was shining straight in his eyes, casting long shadows, blinding him.
No target.
Three seconds. The sniper would have his target, his body would be relaxed, his aim true, his weapon ready. The perfect shot.
Suddenly Keegan’s weapon stopped moving as his eyes at last found what they had been looking for.
Between two rocks, partially hidden by shadow, he saw a shape that didn’t belong. Something that didn’t conform to the reassuring randomness of nature. Something man-made. The long eager barrel of a Dragunov. And just behind, its owner.
Keegan’s grip tightened. His heartbeat slowed as years of training and experience took over. He was working by instinct and intuition now as he turned the weapon a fraction left to compensate for a shifting wind.
He exhaled, allowing the tension to leave his body, then pulled the trigger.
The recoil of a single 50-calibre round slammed the weapon back into his shoulder with bruising force, almost knocking him off balance. The blast from the muzzle caused a shockwave to spread across the ground in front of him, raising tiny clouds of dust. Unlike the sharp crack of most weapons, the Barrett’s report was dull, heavy and ponderous, sounding more like an artillery piece than an infantry weapon.
With his ears ringing, he worked to steady the weapon, to catch another glimpse of his target.
It took him a second or so to line up his sights. Just enough time for the bullet to travel the 1,000 yards to its target.
Designed as it was to blast straight through the engine blocks of enemy vehicles, the heavy-calibre projectile made short work of a human skull. Keegan saw the sudden plume of red mist behind his target, saw the shadowy figure crumple and disappear from view, saw the long barrel of the Dragunov tilt skywards as its owner lost his grip on the weapon.
‘Good kill,’ he announced, taking a breath for the first time in several seconds.
‘Well, fuck me,’ Vermaak said, impressed by his shooting. ‘Not a bad shot.’
‘It’s all in the reflexes, son,’ Keegan replied, engaging the safety on the Barrett and laying the weapon down, grateful to be free of its cumbersome weight. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he rose up slowly and waited a few anxious seconds. He was quite certain he’d scored a fatal hit, but it never hurt to be sure.
When nothing happened, he at last allowed himself to relax a little.
‘How you doing down there, Sam?’ he called out.
Further down the slope, McKnight was lying in a shallow depression. Obeying his instructions, she had thrown herself to the ground after running for a few heart-stopping seconds, certain that every step would be her last, certain she would feel the crushing impact as a bullet tore through her body.
It had never happened. She was alive. She was tired, dirty, cut and bruised, but she was very much alive.
‘I’m good,’ she called out, making to stand up.
As she did so, she noticed something lying half-hidden in a bush to her right. Something that gleamed in the harsh sunlight. Something metallic.
Curious, she reached out and picked it up.
The object in her hand was cylindrical in shape, a little smaller than a soda can, with a nozzle at one end and some kind of base plate at the other. Its purpose was instantly familiar, though it took her conscious mind a moment to identify its origin.
Then, in a flash, the pieces fell into place and she understood.
‘You can get up now,’ Keegan called, mistaking her hesitation for fear. ‘Our friend out there is history.’
McKnight knew she didn’t have time to ponder the full implications of her find. That would have to come later. Stuffing the object into the pack she’d been using to carry her forensics gear, she rose to her feet and managed to summon up a smile for the ma
n who might well have saved her life.
‘Like you said, you were better than him.’
‘This is very touching, but I think it’s time we got out of here,’ Vermaak interjected before hitting the transmit button on his short-range radio. ‘Unit Two, the sniper’s taken care of. Are your charges set?’
‘That’s affirm,’ the unit crackled in response.
‘Good. Blow it. We’re pulling out.’
McKnight’s eyes opened wide. ‘No! Wait.’
But it was too late. The sudden flash followed by a concussive boom loud enough to rattle the windows on the nearby armoured personnel carrier told her they had just set off the demolition charges inside the wrecked chopper. Whatever secrets it might have held had just been obliterated.
She rounded on the South African, her hazel eyes smouldering with anger. ‘You just blew up a crime scene, you asshole. We could have found out more from that wreck.’
Vermaak, however, was unmoved by her recriminations as he lit up a cigarette. ‘We’ve wasted enough time here, Ms McKnight.’ Turning away, he raised his voice to address the rest of his team. ‘All right, guys. Pack everything up. We’re leaving.’
‘What about the sniper?’ Keegan asked.
‘What about him?’
‘He might have intel on him. Documents, cellphones … something that might tell us who he was working for. We can’t just leave him out here, for Christ’s sake.’
Vermaak took a long draw on his cigarette. ‘We won’t. We’ll radio ISAF to send a team out. We’re here for security, not intelligence gathering. Our job’s done.’
His gaze switched to McKnight as the vehicle’s big diesel engine roared into life. ‘Now, either you come with us, or you can find your own way home, Ms McKnight. Which will it be?’
Chapter 10
Many of the Agency’s operations in Afghanistan were coordinated from a compound inside the larger military facility of Bagram Air Base. It was to all intents and purposes a base within a base, housed inside its own security perimeter constructed of Bremer walls – 12-foot-high sections of steel-reinforced concrete.
After passing through the security checkpoint, during which he was dismounted and the Explorer thoroughly searched by sniffer dogs and armed guards, Drake was permitted to drive 50 yards to a nearby parking lot.
A man, presumably from the Agency’s staff, was waiting for him.
Whoever he was, nature hadn’t been kind to him: 5 foot 8, skinny, with bristly red hair and a lined, careworn face that made him seem a lot older than his fifty-odd years, he didn’t win any points for appearance. The sweat-stained shirt and faded jeans he was wearing didn’t do him any favours either.
His eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. ‘You’re Drake, I assume?’ he said by way of greeting.
Clearly the man wasn’t one for pleasantries. ‘That’s right.’
‘My name’s Crawford. I’m your official liaison out here.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Drake said, extending a hand.
The older man neglected to shake it. ‘Don’t be. I’m a section leader in a CIA field unit, which officially makes me a pain in the ass for guys like you.’
Drake frowned. He had no interest in getting into some kind of turf war with this man, and didn’t understand why he was being so confrontational. ‘I don’t think you understand why I’m here. One of your men has been taken hostage –’
‘I know all about Hal Mitchell,’ Crawford interrupted. ‘The loss of a man like him is a tragedy, but I’ve got hundreds more men and women like him to worry about. They’re my priority now. Langley sends a Shepherd team out to find Mitchell – that’s great, I hope you do. And I’ll cooperate with you as long as you respect our operational security. But if you jeopardise our ongoing operations or put my personnel at risk, I will not hesitate to make it my life’s work to destroy yours. Clear?’
Drake understood where Crawford was coming from now. There were still a lot of men like him in the Agency; guys who had been out in the field a little too long, who had become a little too hardened to the realities of their profession. They weren’t necessarily bad people, but as Crawford himself had said, they could be a pain in the arse to deal with.
‘Clear.’ It was obvious Crawford would accept no other answer.
‘Outstanding. Now that we know where we stand, come with me.’ With that, he turned and started walking towards a two-storey grey concrete office block near the centre of the compound.
Drake had little choice but to follow him.
‘One of your teammates has already set up shop here,’ Crawford explained. ‘Quite a little firecracker. She didn’t take that speech as well as you did.’
Drake wasn’t surprised. ‘I need to speak to her.’
True to his instructions, Frost had appropriated a small conference room within the building’s labyrinth of corridors. Low-ceilinged, windowless and lit by fluorescent strip lights, the small meeting space had an oppressive, claustrophobic feel to it.
The young woman was seated at the modest table. Her laptop, several folders and countless sheets of paper were strewn across its surface.
She looked up only briefly, giving him a none-too-welcoming look. Clearly she was far from pleased at being lumbered with such a tedious job.
‘Find anything on Mitchell’s computer?’ Drake asked, helping himself to coffee from an urn in the corner.
‘Yeah, Jack Shit. You heard of him?’
‘We’ve met a few times.’ He took a sip of the coffee. It tasted bitter and nasty, but that didn’t stop him downing a mouthful. He looked at Crawford, who had come in behind him and closed the door. ‘I assume Mitchell wasn’t based anywhere else? He didn’t have any other offices to work from?’
‘If he did, he never told anyone about it.’
That was all Drake needed to hear. For the time being at least, Mitchell was a dead end. ‘Then we focus on Kourash,’ he decided. ‘What do you know about him?’
Crawford folded his arms. ‘Anwari? Nasty piece of work. He and his group have been linked to at least a dozen attacks in the past six months. Car bombings, sniper attacks, ambushes, you name it. This is the first time they’ve shot down an aircraft, though.’
‘I’ll need everything you have on the previous attacks. Targets, locations, forensics reports, everything. Provided that’s okay with you?’ he added with a hint of sarcasm.
‘I can have someone bring that up.’ He certainly wasn’t going to do it himself. ‘What are you expecting to find?’
‘A pattern. Mitchell’s chopper wasn’t a random hit, so maybe the others weren’t either. If we can figure out his intentions we might know what he’s planning.’
‘Now why didn’t we think of that?’ Crawford snorted. ‘We’ve been on his trail for months, Drake. He’s a ghost.’
‘No. He’s a gambler,’ Drake corrected him. ‘I know how he operates. He doesn’t just want to hear a news report about his latest attack – he wants to see it with his own eyes. I’d bet my life he was there when they shot down that chopper, and wherever his next attack comes, he’ll be around.’
While he was undoubtedly a cunning and tenacious guerrilla fighter, Kourash’s weakness had been his vanity. Lingering near the sites of bombings and ambushes, believing himself safe behind disguises and false identities, he would watch his carefully laid plans unfold like some eighteenth-century general surveying the battlefield.
‘And you know all of this … how?’ Crawford was watching him closely now.
Drake fixed him with a hard look. ‘Because I captured him five years ago.’
The field agent said nothing to that. Doubtless he was now pondering the same question Drake had been asking himself since this thing began – why didn’t he kill him when he’d had the chance?
‘This is all great, but Mitchell will probably be dead by the time Anwari makes another attack. We need to find him first,’ Frost reminded them.
Drake nodded, realising he wa
s losing perspective. ‘I’ve been thinking about that hostage tape. The yellow stains on the wall behind Mitchell,’ he said, recalling the cracked brickwork with what looked like mould growing on it. ‘They looked like sulphur deposits. My guess is they’re holding him in some kind of industrial area – maybe a chemical plant or a factory. That’s our starting point. We need a list of all abandoned facilities in Afghanistan.’
‘That could be a hell of a long list,’ Crawford remarked. Afghanistan’s fledgling industrial base had been largely destroyed after the Soviets pulled out. There were abandoned factories and plants dotted all over the country.
‘Assuming they’re not moving him from place to place,’ Frost added.
Drake shrugged. ‘It’s a start. Worst-case scenario, we eliminate some of the places he isn’t hiding. In the meantime I suggest we—’
He paused, interrupted by the buzzing of the cellphone in his pocket. It was Keegan. Maybe he and McKnight had had some luck after all.
‘John, how’s it going?’
‘Could be better,’ the older man remarked. ‘We had ourselves some trouble out at the crash site.’
Drake felt a knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘We were hit at the crash site. Got a little tricky but we’re okay,’ the sniper assured him, much to his relief. ‘We’re at the base hospital right now.’
That was all he needed to hear. ‘We’re on our way.’
Chapter 11
The Heathe N. Craig Joint Theater Hospital, named after a staff sergeant killed trying to rescue injured comrades two years earlier, was a fifty-bed medical facility located on the west side of Bagram Air Base. It was the first port of call for many casualties brought in from the front line.
The smell of medical disinfectant as he hurried in through the main entrance stirred deep feelings of foreboding in Drake, despite Keegan’s assurance that neither he nor McKnight was seriously hurt.
A quick consultation with the corporal on duty at the front desk told him that both his teammates were in treatment room 3. Drake was there in under a minute, with Frost right behind as he threw open the door and strode into the room.
