Rogue Predator

by Craig Simpson

  “Is your grandfather here, Mushtaq?” Connor asked.

  Mushtaq stared at Connor like he’d seen a ghost, then cursed him at length before finally nodding and gesturing to an open doorway covered by a striped cloth. Connor pushed past him and entered the dusty brick building. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the gloom and observed Mushtaq’s grandfather, Abdul, sitting cross-legged on a mattress and dribbling chewed tobacco into a spittoon. Most of it ended up on his long grey beard. They exchanged greetings and Abdul beckoned Connor to sit.

  “Mushtaq!” the old man yelled. “Bring us tea!” He turned his attention to Connor. “So, the rumours are all lies. You’re still alive, Major Connor. Last I heard you’d got into a spot of bother at Lashkar-Gah. It was reported that one of the local warlords stuck your head on a pole outside his tent.” Abdul chuckled. “Is this an official visit because I know nothing about those stolen rocket-propelled grenades?”

  “Nice to see you too, you old rogue,” Connor replied. “Relax. I’m just after some intel. We lost one of our birds.”

  Abdul grinned. “So I heard.”

  “Thought you might have. You know everything that goes on within a hundred mile radius of this dump. You and I are the same, Abdul, we’re both fixers. It’s our job to keep our fingers on the pulse.”

  Mushtaq breezed in carrying a tray. He set it down on a rug and, in silence, poured two cups of steaming tea. Abdul waited for him to leave before announcing, “I can be of no assistance, I’m afraid, Major Connor.”

  “But you know what happened to our drone.”

  “Of course.”

  Connor drew a wad of greenbacks from his pocket. “There’s five K. Another five if it’s where you say it is.”

  Abdul shrugged and remained silent.

  Connor easily read the old man like a cheap comic. Abdul’s silence meant only one thing. Death by a thousand cuts might come in the night to the person who gave up such a secret freely. Connor cranked up the pressure. “Sorry, Abdul, but this is serious. Here, keep the five.” He tossed the cash into the old man’s lap. “Now, tell me everything otherwise I’ll have this dump bulldozed. And I know where you hide your stash of AK-47s, and I have no doubt half those car radios you sell get broken up and the bits used to wire up IEDs. I’ll have you arrested and you’ll spend the next twenty years behind bars. That village idiot grandson of yours, Mushtaq, too.”

  Abdul’s watery black eyes met Connor’s unblinking stare. “You have changed, Major Connor. A year ago you would have left here empty-handed. I see that will not happen this time. You are growing more like me with every sunrise.” He began to shake with laughter.

  Connor sipped his sugared tea as the old man revealed what he knew in whispers so quiet they had Connor leaning forward and straining to hear.

  “Masud, the local Taliban leader here, and his men have gained access to technology matching yours, Major Connor. It is said they can block your satellite transmissions and hack all of your encryption codes. They took over control of your Predator and used it against your own men. They are your equals. You must be very afraid.”

  “Masud! Should’ve guessed.” Connor slumped back. Masud was top of their Most Wanted list. In truth, he felt startled at hearing his worst fears confirmed but he hid his concern well. His superiors had clung on to the vain hope that Predator Alpha One had simply malfunctioned, loosed a wayward missile that had the misfortune to kill the marines in Halo Forward Patrol, and then flown until it ran out of fuel and crashed. No such luck. The reality was terrifying. The Taliban had an operational drone armed with Hellfire missiles. And it was going to be Delta Force’s job to sort it.

  Abdul sighed. “Special Forces will soon have more blood on their hands, I fear, inshallah… Head for the hills, Major Connor. To the north. To where the sun never shines. Look for the scorpion’s tail. There you will find what you seek.”

  “Can’t you be more precise?” Connor snapped. Abdul always spoke in riddles.

  Abdul shrugged. “That is all I know. You have a brain, Major Connor. Figure it out.”

  The chirping ring of Abdul’s mobile phone interrupted the meeting. Abdul picked it up and listened without saying a word. Eventually he placed the phone back down and called out, “Mushtaq, pack everything away. We’re closing early today.”

  Connor had been deep in thought. “They must have some sort of landing strip and somewhere to hide both the drone and their equipment. They’d need a pretty powerful transmitter too. And where the sun never shines probably means a very deep valley always in shadow.” The bit about the scorpion’s tail had him stumped — for now.

  Abdul rose to his feet. “I congratulate you, Major Connor. Now, I think it best if you leave here quickly. Avoid the bazaar. Best if you take the backstreets. Mushtaq can show you the way if you like.”

  Connor got up too but hesitated. “There’s something else. A different matter. I’m looking for someone. A boy called Hassan. He’s twelve. I think he might be living with his uncle somewhere around here, a man called Emil Aziz. I made a promise to an old friend.”

  Abdul grew impatient. “Yes, yes, very well.” Abdul took Connor’s arm and ushered him towards the doorway. “You really must leave now.”

  “OK, but the boy, Hassan. Will you make enquiries? I’ll throw in an extra couple of grand.”

  “I’ll ask around, Major Connor. Give me your cell phone number and I’ll text you if I find out anything.”

  Outside Connor shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight. From the top of the local mosque’s tall minaret the voice of a muezzin called the faithful to afternoon prayer. Connor quickly realised Mushtaq had already cleared the stall and was nowhere to be seen. At the far end of the street he spotted an ISAF patrol, ten soldiers in desert combat fatigues, MICHs (Modular Integrated Communications Helmets), SPEAR (Special Operations Forces Equipment Advanced Requirements) protective vests, and armed with standard issue M4 carbines. One was crouching at the corner offering covering fire. The others walked slowly forward in distinctly relaxed mode — a friendly presence aimed at winning hearts and minds. Gangs of unruly kids swarmed about them demanding gifts with outstretched hands that quickly filled with bars of chocolate.

  Connor had this weird feeling — something wasn’t right. The phone call. The hurried closing of the stall. Abdul’s sense of urgency. The appearance of an ISAF patrol. Connor added them all up and was filled with alarm. His heart began racing as he frantically searched the crowd with his eyes. Innocent people were about to die. He had to do something — fast.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bomber in the bazaar

  Connor moved into the crowd, looking for a particular face — someone nervous, or sweating, or with a glazed stare. His focus locked on to a young man walking slowly and deliberately towards the ISAF patrol. It was his eyes that gave him away; they were the eyes of a suicide bomber. The target was keeping to the gap between the market stalls and the buildings. Connor had to act with precision. The slightest error and he’d be blown up along with everyone else. He overtook the bomber and dipped into the dark shadow of a doorway. Ideally, he’d prefer to take the bomber alive. But the man could have several kilos of plastic explosive strapped to his belly. Connor couldn’t risk giving him the chance to detonate it. The man passed the door and Connor struck, reaching out, one arm wrapping around his neck, his other hand gripping his chin — a quick, forceful twist, a snap of vertebrae, and job done. Connor let the body slump against him and he pulled it inside. Under the man’s shirt was a vest packed with explosives. He pulled the detonator out. “No martyrdom for you, son, not today, not ever.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Search for the Predator

  Camp Delta

  Returning to Camp Delta, situated thirty miles from Kandahar, Connor arrived at the same moment a Chinook touched down, its twin sets of rotors kicking up a sandstorm. Head of Central Command, General Patterson, emerged from the helo flanked by senior intelligence staff and several CIA operati
ves.

  Busy fixing a new swivel mounting for a large calibre machine gun to one of their vehicles, Ben looked up and whistled. “Hey, there you are Major Connor, sir. Sergeant Sparks is looking for you. Our orders are to assemble in the Ops Room as soon as they arrive. Looks like you got back just in time.” Wiping the grease from his hands with an oil rag, he jumped down and gazed at the general and his men and whistled. “Judging by the number of stars on show something distinctly brown, wet and smelly has hit the fan.”

  “I think you’re right, Ben. Round up the others.”

  General Patterson paced the cramped Ops Room, repeatedly mopping the sweat from the back of his neck with a handkerchief while listening. Connor’s men sat in silence too, as their commander relayed the intel gleaned from Abdul at the bazaar. “What you’ve learned fits in with our latest intercepts, Major,” said one of the CIA operatives. “There’s a lot of excited cell phone chatter going on out there.”

  “Sir, there’s something I don’t understand,” said Sam Wilson. At just nineteen, Sam was the youngest of Connor’s team, but had already seen action in Iraq. His sniper skills were the best Connor had seen. “If the drone was taken, surely we’d have tracked it on radar.”

  General Patterson shook his head. “Nope, son, hills got in the way. Anyway, it was a new stealth version of the Predator.”

  “Oh, great.” Danny folded his arms and looked up at the canvas ceiling. “An invisible needle in the world’s largest haystack.”

  Another of the CIA men interrupted. “The drone was equipped with a precision global satellite positioning device, of course, but whoever took control of it switched it off.”

  Connor’s team started murmuring to one another, assuming someone, somewhere, had messed up big time. General Patterson called them to order. “Major Connor, in a week from now our president is going to make a surprise visit to troops based at Kandahar to provide a much needed boost to morale. With luck, it’ll give the papers something to write about other than body bags being flown home. Naturally, a rogue Predator armed with Hellfire missiles represents a major security threat. That threat must be neutralised. You have one week, Major. Our butts are on the line. Just tell me what you need and you’ll get it.”

  Connor looked at his men. They were a highly skilled team. He’d hand-picked every one of them. With the help of one or two helicopter gunships they could take out the Predator and the Taliban base. All he needed was its location. “Sir, I want satellite imagery of all possible landing sites in the mountains. Old pictures too, if you have them, so we can make comparisons. Plus any phone intercepts or other intel that might narrow the search area. Once we’ve found the base, fly us in and we’ll get the job done.”

  Patterson grimaced. “Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

  “Well, it’s the best on offer.”

  Shielding their eyes, Connor and his men watched the Chinook climb slowly into the air and turn away, carrying General Patterson and his entourage back to Base Command near Kabul. “Sir, what is it? You look worried,” asked Sparks.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Connor replied. “A drone being taken just before a surprise visit by our president? The Taliban know he’s coming. I’m sure of it. But what worries me most is that they won’t cancel his visit — they never do — whatever the threat. There’s too much at stake. And that means we mustn’t fail.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hassan escapes

  A village outside Kandahar

  The Taliban crept silently from the hills and entered the village just after midnight. They knocked on Hassan’s uncle’s door and entered. Woken by the noise, Hassan hid under his blanket and listened.

  Hassan had only been at his uncle’s house for two days, when news of his father’s murder reached him. He had not spoken since, and refused to go to his new school. Instead, he wandered around his uncle’s farm, where he could cry on his own. On one occasion Hassan’s uncle had caught him crying in the house and beaten him for what Emil said was “weakness”. Emil told him coldly that what had happened to his father was merely punishment for working with the Americans. Hassan didn’t understand. His father hadn’t asked the Amercians to come. What if the Taliban in the next room were the same ones who’d slit his father’s throat? Had they come to do the same to him?

  Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. He tiptoed to within earshot. Then, carefully peeking through a hole in a curtain separating the rooms, he saw the infamous Taliban leader, Masud. In the lamplight Hassan could see his richly tanned face beneath a black turban, and skin so wrinkled it looked painful. His dark eyes frightened Hassan. He listened as his uncle pleaded.

  “But that’s not enough money to see me through the winter, Masud. All of my opium harvest and half my food stores for so little. Please, sir, a man must live. And I have an extra mouth to feed.”

  “An extra mouth? Explain,” Masud snapped.

  “My brother’s son, sir. He’s travelled here from the north to go to the school in Kandahar. His father was friendly with the American infidels and the Taliban there killed him, and everyone else in the village for his treachery. I am the only family the poor boy has now.”

  Masud spat a lump of half-chewed naan bread from his mouth and cursed. “The boy must die, too. Otherwise one day he will avenge his father’s death. Where is he?”

  Filled with renewed fright, Hassan cowered.

  “Allah have mercy. Please, sir, let the boy live… Anyway, I’ll need his help to harvest my poppy fields if I’m to have your opium ready in time for your return. Alone, it cannot be done. I’ll keep him off school to work the fields.”

  Masud stared thoughtfully at Emil. “Very well. Keep the boy here. He can help you deliver your harvest. We shall let him live until we return. Then he must die.”

  Hassan crept quickly to his room and gathered up his few possessions in a blanket. One thought occupied his head — to run away in case they changed their minds and decided to kill him now. He climbed out of his window and dropped softly onto the earth outside. Looking round he saw other Taliban on watch; one on the roof of a building opposite, one on the wall, another lurking in the alleyway. Keeping low, he ducked into the poppy fields, using the tall flower stems for cover. There he lay on his belly, trembling. And as he waited for the Taliban to go, a crushing reality dawned on him. He had nowhere to run. There was nobody he could trust. He was alone.

  As he watched the Taliban leave, his fear faded and was replaced by a growing anger. Men like them had ruined his life and murdered those he loved. He knew nothing would ever change while they roamed about spreading terror. Slowly his anger changed to thoughts of revenge. If he knew where the Taliban camp was, he could tell the Americans. They would come and get rid of them. That would be just revenge. Hassan knelt on his kness and offered up prayers; that Allah would protect him, that Allah would show him the way, that Allah would let him succeed. Carefully he got to his feet and began walking, following in the footsteps of the Taliban.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Painful memories

  Camp Delta

  As well as Connor and his team, Camp Delta was temporary home to several hundred soldiers of the renowned 101st US Airborne Division. It was a sun-baked sprawl of tents, cargo containers and temporary structures housing pizza and hamburger outlets, all surrounded by Hesco fortifications; wire structures filled with rocks, sand and concrete. Security was tight. Incoming mortar fire was an almost daily occurrence.

  Connor paused by the makeshift memorial to the fallen in the central parade ground and studied the list of names. The most recent additions were those of Halo Forward Patrol, including Brad Somersby… Connor was in a reflective mood.

  “You wanted to see me, Major Connor.”

  Startled, Connor spun round. “Yes, padre.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Every camp had a padre — or army chaplain — who ran church services. They were often the ones soldiers turned to when they
wanted to talk about personal problems — in confidence. Connor glanced both ways to make sure no one was in earshot. He felt awkward — he hated the idea of appearing weak. “I’ve been having a recurring nightmare, sir. They started about a month ago. Haven’t had nightmares since I was a kid. And they’re getting worse.”

  “I see. Tell you what, let’s go grab a cup of coffee in my quarters.”

  In the privacy of the padre’s hot stuffy tent, Connor spoke of how every night he dreamed of raiding a village. Then he would frantically search house after house, but everyone was lying dead in pools of blood. He always awoke drenched in sweat. The padre listened carefully, but then coaxed out of Connor the trigger for his night terrors: the death of his friend, Assif.

  “You blame yourself for his death,” the padre declared with conviction. “Such guilt is a normal reaction. It wasn’t your fault and you know it, but sometimes that’s not enough.”

  “But will the nightmares go away?”

  “Time is a great healer, Major. They will fade. I’m sure of it. And you mustn’t see it as a weakness. You may be a highly trained soldier and taught to act instinctively, to kill the enemy without a second’s thought, but never forget the most important thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You’re still human, Major.”

  “But what can I do to stop them?”

  The padre shrugged. “Hard to say. Finding that boy Hassan might do it.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a great help, sir.” Connor got up from his canvas chair and shook the padre’s hand.

  The padre grasped Connor’s hand tightly and stared into his face. “You had a son, didn’t you, Major? If my memory is correct he was killed in a hit and run back home. Must be two years ago now?” He waited to see how Connor would react.