Ted Bell - Warlord

"And now the warlords have decided to act with impunity because they no longer fear retribution from the Pakistani Army."

"Exactly. They are putting us to the test, awaiting our reaction. We need to show a forceful response immediately. I called President McCloskey and informed him of MI6's plan to send a team to Islamabad. He backed it fully and offered the cooperation of the U.S. Air Force and units of the Marines operating nearby in Afghanistan."

"I'm prepared to go, sir, tonight if necessary."

"I knew you'd say that. I'm booking military transport for you, Sahira Karim, and Abdul Dakkon. You'll land at Shamsi, a top-secret U.S. Air Force base in Pakistan, thirty miles from the Afghan border. It's used primarily for launching the Predator drone missiles that observe and attack al Qaeda and Taliban militants on the Pakistan side of the border with Afghanistan. South Waziristan. Your operation will be based at Shamsi Air Force Base with the full cooperation of the USAF, the CIA, and the Marine Corps."

"I'd no idea the Yanks even had a base in Pakistan."

"No one does. That's why this whole operation must be conducted with absolute secrecy throughout its execution. The idea that Washington, or London, are running military operations, covert or otherwise, from Pakistani territory is, well, a hugely sensitive issue in that predominantly Muslim country. Both U.S. and Pakistani governments deny Shamsi's very existence."

"I understand, sir."

"You'll be fully briefed tomorrow. Identification of the location and identity of the warlord in possession of that weapon is mission critical. You leave for Pakistan in forty-eight hours. Are you completely comfortable with your team?"

"I'd like to add two men, sir, both of whom would be invaluable to me in this operation."

"Who are they?"

"Both Americans. Stokely Jones, former U.S. SEAL, and a man named Harry Brock, CIA field agent."

"I've seen both names in your past reports. I wholly agree. I want you to have them and absolutely anything else you need to find this weapon, neutralize it, and bring whoever was responsible for this lapse in security to light."

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will. And that, Alex, has always been good enough for me."

THE MAMMOTH C-130 HERCULES TRANSPORT TOUCHED down at 3:15 in the morning, local time, its four huge engines howling as the reverse thrusters kicked in. The pilot braked hard enough to make the smoking tires screech like wounded banshees. The C-130 normally requires five thousand feet of runway to operate. The short Shamsi landing strip, used primarily for launching Predator drones, didn't even come close. The USAF pilot, Captain Alex Hufty, had strained against his harness as the end of the tarmac hove into view.

Hufty had been dealing with a 25-mph crosswind, which certainly added to the excitement in the cockpit. He was rapidly running out of runway.

"Shit," Hufty said, stopping just one word shy of the universal word every pilot used when they realized they'd run out of luck and altitude at the same moment.

"Next stop, sand," he heard his copilot mutter while he struggled to land the behemoth with about five hundred feet of paved surface remaining. The airplane slammed down hard, bounced once or twice, rocked, shuddered, and, finally, was still.

In the frigid belly of the beast, Alex Hawke stood up, stretched, and gathered his gear as the ramp was lowered to the runway. He'd popped a couple of Ambien shortly after takeoff and, surprisingly, they'd worked. Surprising because he'd been sleeping on a thin foam sleeping mat, the only thing between him and the ice-cold aluminum floor at thirty thousand feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Hawke looked around at his team and said, "welcome to Pakistan. Please be careful removing items from the overhead bins, as items may have shifted in flight."

"Nice landing," Harry Brock grumbled, getting to his feet. "Sweet."

Hawke looked at him and forced a grin. "Harry, if that landing is the worst thing that happens to you or any of us in this godforsaken place, I will personally kiss your arse in the department store window of your choosing."

"What the fuck, Alex? I was just saying."

"And one more thing, Harry. I know your fondness for the thoroughly exhausted F-word knows no bounds. So here's the deal. You don't say it in front of the lady here, right? Find another four-letter word for the duration of this mission."

"Like what?"

"Cuss would work. Four letters. Means cursing."

"Cuss?"

"Yeah. Like 'What the cuss?'" Hawke said.

"Or, like, 'Cuss you, mothercusser,'" Stoke said, laughing.

"Exactly. Try that, okay, Harry?" Hawke said.

Harry, no slouch when it came to taking Alex Hawke's temperature, wisely decided to keep his mouth shut after that little exchange. Instead, he helped Sahira with her gear and then slung his own backpack over his shoulder. Brock and Sahira were the first to make their way down the wide ramp at the plane's tail, followed by Stokely Jones, Abdul Dakkon, and Hawke himself.

It was bone cold in the desert and the white stars in the blackness above the mountain range looked sharp enough to prick your finger. There was a convoy waiting for them, six Pakistani army vehicles, including three troop carriers full of soldiers and an armored personnel carrier. All parked in formation about a hundred feet away. Heavily armed Pakistani Army soldiers had already formed a perimeter around the C-130, and others were guarding the convoy.

Indian territory, Hawke thought, gazing out at the distant mountain range.

A burly American officer, a colonel, and another officer, Pakistani, strode across the tarmac from the operations building standing next to a large hangar. Inside the brilliantly lit interior, Hawke saw two sleek F-16 Fighting Falcons. Pilots called them "Vipers" because they resembled viper snakes. But also in honor of the Battlestar Galactica starfighters. Techs were mounting various missiles, bombs, and pods under the fighter jet's wings. And another crew was rolling out a Predator missile drone for launch.

"Commander Hawke?" the American officer said, making it a question.

"I'm Hawke," Alex said, walking toward him.

"Welcome, Commander. I'm Colonel Kevin Balfe, United States Air Force. I'm the nonexistent CO here at this nonexistent air force base. This gentleman is Captain Mahmood Shah of the Pakistan Army, who will be in charge of getting you and your team safely to the quarters in Islamabad arranged by Mr. Dakkon."

"A pleasure, sir," Shah said, and Hawke shook hands with both men.

"Judging by our method of transportation, Captain Shah, we should be safe enough," Hawke said, looking at the convoy. He'd expected a couple of Toyota Land Cruisers or something similar. Apparently not.

"We will make every effort to convey you safely to your destination, Commander. All of the comms equipment, food, water, and weapons MI6 requested are in the last truck. My men and I are happy to see you. We deeply appreciate your presence here. Under the present circumstances, of course."

"Of course."

"As you will soon see, this is no longer a stop-start battle of wavering ideals, Commander Hawke. It is now, without any doubt, a battle to the death for the very soul of Pakistan. You understand this?"

"I understand completely, Captain," Hawke said.

"You'll be traveling through Zazi territory en route, Commander," Captain Balfe said. "These are the guys responsible for 80 percent of the terrorist attacks in this region. Zazi's desert commandos have been on the offensive ever since we took out their leader, a warlord named Baitullah Mehsud with a Predator drone at the end of last summer."

Hawke turned to Captain Shah. "Captain, when Baitullah Mehsud was killed, who seized ultimate control of his armies and operations? I'm going to say a name. Sheik Abu al-Rashad."