by Jim Eldridge
‘I’m sorry,’ said Omari. ‘It seems my uncle …’
‘We got the picture,’ Nelson told him.
Arun gave another order and the armed Taliban pushed them out of the meeting area and along the tunnel towards a door. The men were thrown roughly inside. It took a while for their eyes to adjust to the dim light, then each sank down to the ground.
Omari groaned and hung his head in despair. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. His tone was bitter and despairing. ‘I was certain my uncle had a strong hold on the situation. I had no idea that my cousins were planning this! When I met them with my uncle they seemed to be under his control!’
‘Families, eh!’ sighed Gaz.
‘At least now we know why Al Haq’s forces have stepped up their actions against the Coalition lately,’ said Mitch.
‘So what happens now?’ asked Nelson. ‘According to Arun, we choose,’ said Tug. All the others looked at him, puzzled. ‘Choose what?’ asked Gaz.
‘Which one of us dies first,’ explained Tug. ‘Isn’t that right, Mr Omari?’
23
Omari bowed his head even lower, and then nodded. ‘It’s his sick idea of a game,’ he said. ‘They plan to film you being executed, along with a demand to the Coalition.’
‘And the demand is that the Coalition gets out of Afghanistan?’ asked Gaz.
Omari nodded. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. Then he looked up at the others, his expression defiant. ‘But I will tell them to take me first, of course. I volunteer.’
‘Are you nuts?’ exploded Two Moons.
‘It has to be me,’ insisted Omari. ‘I’m the one who brought you here. This is my fault.’
‘That’s very noble of you, but there’s one problem,’ pointed out Mitch. ‘To them, you’re not a Westerner. They don’t want you, they want one of us.’
‘Forget it, we’re not choosing anyone,’ said Nelson firmly. ‘Doing that will only give this Arun guy a kick of pleasure. If they want to kill one of us, let them choose.’
‘Maybe we can take them down when they come for us,’ suggested Two Moons.
‘We could try, but they’ll be holding automatic rifles on us as they open that door,’ Nelson pointed out. ‘One of us makes a move and we’re all dead.’
‘But they want to keep at least some of you alive so they can show you off,’ said Omari hopefully.
Mitch shook his head. ‘All they need is to show one of us on camera being shot in the head,’ he told Omari. ‘They tell the world the rest of us are being held prisoner: they prop our dead bodies up against a wall and claim we’re unconscious or something.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Omari.
Nelson shrugged. ‘We play it by ear,’ he said. ‘If we see an opportunity to make a break for it, we grab it. We’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Yeah, right,’ scoffed Two Moons. ‘We’re about half a mile underground in a Taliban stronghold, locked in a dark room, with no weapons, and with a whole army of heavily armed Taliban warriors all over the place.’
‘You got a better plan, Two Moons?’ demanded Nelson.
Two Moons shook his head. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘I guess it sounds as good a plan as any.’
‘Actually, we’re not completely without weapons,’ said Tug.
As the others looked at him questioningly, Tug reached down to his boot and pulled out a very small handgun.
‘How did you slip that past the metal detector at the army base?’ demanded Gaz.
Mitch let out a laugh as he realised. ‘Because it’s not metal,’ he said. ‘Ceramic. Right?’
Tug nodded. ‘Absolutely. I thought it might come in handy.’ He hefted it in his hand. ‘This is a small version so it doesn’t pack much of a punch. But it’s easy to hide and it’s certainly better than nothing.’
‘What about bullets?’ asked Gaz.
Tug grinned and tapped the skin on the back of his knee. A large plaster had been stuck there. The others had thought it was to cover up a bad wound that was still healing. Tug tore off the plaster and showed it to the others. There were four small bullets inside.
‘So that’s what set the metal detector off!’ laughed Mitch. ‘Tug, I’ve got to hand it to you! If the sergeant at the base had looked any closer at your injuries he’d have found those. You are one smooth guy!’
Two Moons and Gaz watched in admiration as Tug loaded the four bullets into the small ceramic pistol. ‘That is neat!’ said Two Moons. ‘I’m gonna get me one of those for our next mission just as soon as we get out of here.’
‘If we get out of here,’ said Omari miserably.
‘At least we’ve got a gun,’ pointed out Gaz enthusiastically.
‘You have one tiny little handgun with just four bullets,’ replied Omari. ‘Arun’s men are armed to the teeth with some very heavy weapons.’
‘Yes, but now we have the element of surprise on our side,’ said Nelson. ‘That’s sometimes the best weapon you can have. With a bit of luck, this one small gun will get us some bigger weapons. But first, we need a plan.’
‘We need Omari’s uncle,’ said Mitch.
‘Right,’ agreed Nelson. He turned to Omari and asked, ‘Any idea where he might be?’
Omari shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, sighing.
‘Maybe he’s dead?’ suggested Gaz, looking concerned.
‘No,’ said Omari shaking his head. ‘Arun would not do anything that stupid. Overthrowing his father and taking control is one thing. But killing a respected warlord. A Taliban hero …’
‘But in Arun’s eyes he’s a traitor,’ Tug pointed out. ‘He was ready to do a deal with the enemy.’
Omari shook his head again. ‘Even with that, Arun would not kill his father,’ he said firmly. ‘My uncle has many loyal followers in his tribe. If Arun killed him there would be danger of a divide. He cannot afford that. The Taliban will be looking to Arun to make this tribe stronger by his actions, not weaker.’
‘So if we can get out of here, get to Al Haq and spring him, maybe we can turn the tables on your cousin,’ suggested Mitch. ‘You know, get your uncle to rouse his followers. Attack Arun’s people. Take back control.’
Omari sat, thinking about it. ‘It is possible,’ he said. ‘But we would need to neutralise Arun and Majid. Preferably without killing them. Their deaths could lead to an inter-tribal battle, and Al Haq’s power as a warlord would be greatly reduced,’ he said. ‘The point of this whole mission was to get Al Haq to start a peace process that will spread among other moderate Taliban. That won’t happen if his power is cut in half.’
‘How strong is your uncle?’ asked Nelson. ‘Not physically, but as a leader.’
‘Very,’ said Omari. ‘He has led this tribe for decades.’ He shook his head. ‘Arun and Majid must have played some sort of trick to catch him out and imprison him.’
‘Then I’m pretty sure that if we can release him to deal with Arun and Majid, he’ll unite the tribe again,’ said Tug.
‘The thing is, if we don’t even try, we’re all dead for sure and so’s this mission,’ added Nelson firmly.
Omari hesitated, then nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We have to try.’
‘Good,’ said Nelson.
The door opened and three armed tribesmen entered, pointing their rifles at the men. One of them barked out an order in Pushtu.
‘He says we are to stand against the far wall,’ translated Omari. ‘Except for the one we have chosen to be the first victim. He will go with them.’
‘I guess that’s me,’ said Tug, getting to his feet. He grinned. ‘After all, I have something the rest of you don’t.’
The gun, thought Mitch. He must have a plan.
Tug said something in Pushtu to the men, confirming that he would be going with them.
The three tribesmen gestured with their rifles for the others to move away from the door, then stepped back to let Tug walk. One of the men kept his rifle pointed at Tug, while the other two trained theirs on the rest o
f the prisoners.
Tug headed for the door, his head bowed in surrender. He limped as he walked, wincing with each step. The Taliban showed no sympathy. Instead, one of them barked at him to speed up. Tug nodded wearily.
He’s acting, thought Mitch. Lulling them into thinking he doesn’t pose a threat.
As Tug reached the door he suddenly swung round, the ceramic pistol appearing in his hand as if by magic. There was a small Phut! and the man by the door staggered back, the rifle spinning away from his hand as the bullet tore into his arm. In one fluid movement Tug continued swinging his gun arm and a second bullet took another of the tribesmen through his shoulder.
Mitch was already moving and he kicked out at the third tribesman’s rifle, knocking it from his grip. Two Moons came from the other side and hit the tribesman, sending him spinning across the room to crash against the rock wall.
Gaz snatched the rifle from the floor, while Mitch and Two Moons hauled the dazed tribesman to his feet.
Nelson and Tug gathered up the rifles from the two wounded Taliban.
‘I thought they might be more valuable to us alive,’ explained Tug, pointing at the two men, who were clutching their bleeding arms.
‘Indeed,’ said Omari, nodding. ‘This is, after all, a peace mission.’
‘Tell that to Arun,’ grunted Mitch sarcastically.
‘We will,’ said Nelson, hefting the rifle.
24
They tied up the two wounded tribesmen with some of their own clothing. Then Omari fired questions at the third man. At first the tribesman just glared back, but Omari raised his voice, hammering home the fact that he was Al Haq’s nephew and that to defy him would be a serious mistake. The anger in Omari’s voice was clear for everyone to hear, and the tribesman buckled. Soon they knew where Al Haq was being held.
‘OK,’ said Nelson. ‘Tie him up with the other two. And make sure they’re well and truly gagged.’
While Two Moons and Gaz set to work securing the tribesmen, Nelson addressed the unit.
‘OK, let’s get a plan together! Two teams. Each one will need a Pushtu speaker. So, Omari, you go with Mitch and find your uncle. Me, Tug, Gaz and Two Moons will deal with Arun and Majid.’
Gaz handed Mitch the rifle he was holding. ‘Here you are, pal,’ he grinned. ‘Your need is greater than mine. I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting my hands on one of my own pretty soon.’
To give them a better chance of getting to Al Haq, Mitch and Omari took the clothes from the captured Taliban and put them on over their own. It might buy them a few seconds when confronting the men guarding Al Haq. In situations like this, even a moment could make the difference between life and death. When they were ready, the rest of Delta Unit slipped off one way through the tunnels to confront Arun and Majid, while Mitch and Omari headed in the other direction in search of Al Haq.
‘According to the man I questioned, my uncle is being kept in a cell on the next level down,’ Omari told Mitch. He pointed to a hole in the rock wall and Mitch saw that a stairway had been cut in the rocks.
‘How many levels are there here?’ he asked.
Omari shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to tell. These tunnels are not new. They were carved out by the tribes many years ago as a defence against attackers and invaders. Don’t forget, the British were here before, over a hundred years ago, during the reign of your Queen Victoria. They tried to subdue the Afghan people, and failed. Then the Russians tried for ten long years during the 1980s, and they failed. And now the Coalition.’ He looked around at the tunnels and sighed. ‘My people have had a long time to build and develop these tunnels as protection. Every time there is a new invader, the tunnels are extended.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t get lost in them,’ said Mitch.
They crept carefully down the rock stairs to the level below. Mitch stayed alert and kept his finger on the trigger of the rifle just in case. As they stepped out from the stairs two armed men came hurrying towards them, and Mitch nearly swung the gun up, but Omari gently pushed the barrel back down. When the two men had passed, Omari whispered, ‘There is a whole army down here. If you start firing at the first person you see with a gun, we won’t get far. Most of them are just going about their business. Keep your head down and covered and we should be OK.’
‘Which way to the cell?’ asked Mitch.
Omari gestured along the tunnel. ‘If our man was telling us the truth, about 150 feet from here we will come to a T-junction. My uncle is in a cell just round to the right, about another sixty-five feet. There are armed guards outside the door. Arun is taking no chances on Al Haq’s supporters freeing him.’
‘OK.’ Mitch nodded. ‘Let’s get there and see how many guards we have to deal with.’
They hurried along until they came to the T-junction. Mitch peered round the corner; then he ducked back to join Omari. ‘Two guards,’ he said. ‘The problem we have is that the sound of gunfire is going to bring more people running. If possible we have to deal with them silently. You up to taking one of them out?’
Omari frowned, concerned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m not a man of action like you. I was never any good at fighting, even in the playground at school.’
Mitch nodded thoughtfully. ‘OK,’ he said. He offered the rifle to Omari. ‘If we’re going to do this silently, you take this.’
Omari looked at the rifle, shocked. ‘You expect me to use this?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘No,’ said Mitch. ‘But one of us has got to be carrying a gun or they’ll get suspicious, and I’d prefer to have both my hands free. All you have to do is the distraction bit.’
Omari looked puzzled.
‘We’ll walk up to them, quite casually, like we’re supposed to be there,’ said Mitch. ‘You start talking to them and get one of them to look away from the other. Maybe drop something. Or point down the tunnel. Anything to get his attention away from me.’
‘And what will you do?’
‘Play it by ear. Right, let’s go. You first in case they start talking.’
The two men stepped into the tunnel and walked towards the cell where Al Haq was being kept prisoner. Omari went first, holding the rifle. He began muttering in Pushtu to Mitch, as if they were having a conversation. Mitch entered into the act and nodded and shrugged, but at the same time he made sure he kept his head down so that his face was partly hidden by the scarf and the turban he wore.
The two armed men outside the cell door didn’t appear particularly perturbed by the arrival of Omari and Mitch. One of them greeted them cheerfully as they drew near. I guess he’s glad of some new company to ease the boredom, thought Mitch.
Omari stepped forward to the nearest guard, smiling and chattering in Pushtu, while Mitch moved past to the second one. Then Omari stopped and bent down, as if he’d spotted something on the floor by the door, exactly as Mitch had asked him to do. Both guards, puzzled and curious, also bent to look.
Mitch acted: he brought the edge of his hand down hard on the back of the neck of the guard nearest to him; and then swung that same hand up fast and hard into the other man’s throat, as he turned round in surprise. The first guard collapsed as soon as Mitch hit him, but the second staggered back, making strangled noises. Despite his pain, he swung his rifle up. Mitch knocked the rifle barrel down with one hand, while he smashed his fist into the man’s jaw.
The second guard collapsed.
‘Right,’ said Mitch. ‘Let’s see how easily this door opens.’ He tried the handle, but the door was locked. ‘One of these guys must have the key,’ he said. ‘If they have to get Al Haq out in an emergency they can’t afford to hang around waiting for someone to turn up to unlock the door.’
Swiftly, Mitch began searching the bodies of the two unconscious men. Omari joined him and, digging around in their pockets, found an old iron key.
‘I guess this is it,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mitch.
Omari passed the gun back to Mitch and tr
ied the key in the lock. They heard the mechanism click and the door opened.
‘Right,’ said Mitch. ‘You go in and talk to your uncle. Tell him the situation. I’d better stay here just in case anyone walks past. We don’t want them spotting that there’s no one on guard here and reporting it.’
‘What are we going to do about them?’ asked Omari, pointing to the two unconscious tribesmen.
‘We’ll dump them inside the cell.’
Omari nodded and pushed the door. Mitch grabbed one of the unconscious guards and moved swiftly backwards into the cell, dragging the man with him. He had barely crossed the threshold when he felt a blow on the back of his neck, and he crashed to the rock floor, his head swimming.
25
Through his pain Mitch heard a warning shout in Pushtu from Omari, followed by another voice responding.
Mitch struggled to sit up. Omari was talking urgently to the man in the cell. This man was older but very large, tall and muscular, with a long beard and matted clothes. His face was bruised and bore the marks of recent beatings. There was no doubt that this was Azma Al Haq. As Mitch shook his head to try to clear the fog from his brain, he saw Al Haq and Omari slip out of the cell, and then reappear a second later dragging the body of the other guard.
‘This is my uncle, Azma Al Haq,’ Omari said.
‘I guessed that,’ muttered Mitch. He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘He packs a hell of a punch.’
‘Usually the guards point their rifles and make him stand against the far wall before they enter the cell,’ explained Omari. ‘When he saw you come in the way you did, he thought it was an opportunity to escape. He is sorry if he hurt you.’
‘Apology accepted,’ grunted Mitch. He pushed himself to his feet and Al Haq came over to Mitch and bowed his head, placing his hand on his heart at the same time in greeting. Mitch did the same, even though bowing his head made his neck hurt even more. Then Al Haq picked up the rifles the guards had dropped. He slung one over his shoulder and hefted the other in his arms, ready for action.
