Ted Bell - Warlord

Minutes later, the twin engines at the tail roared and the sleek black airplane surged ahead at full power, pressing the Englishman deeply into his seat, and suddenly lifted off into the nighttime sky. After a steep climb, it banked hard left.

It was headed west.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, THE ENGLISHMAN made a satellite telephone call to Sheik al-Rashad. "Hello, my brother," Smith said. "I just wanted you to know that I arrived safely."

"Brother, are you calling on a secure line?"

Smith laughed. "Yes, I certainly am. It is perhaps the most secure line in the entire world."

"Good. How may I be of further service to you?"

"It is I who wishes to be of service. I am calling you with a warning. First, is your Islamabad luggage still in your possession?"

"It is. I am expecting a courier in the next few days. He will then smuggle it directly into the belly of the Great Satan, as we discussed. The weapon will be detonated in the center of the designated American metropolis to maximum effect. And I anticipate it will come as something of a shock to the laughable nation of infidels who have grown so complacent, so pitifully weak."

Smith laughed. "A wake-up call so to speak."

"Yes, brother. But tell me. You mentioned a warning."

"Yes. I am calling to warn you about the man who forced your hasty departure from the hospital at Islamabad. As of this moment he is crossing the northern desert with a small army of heavily armed fighters, headed for the mountains mounted on horseback. Perhaps thirty or so. He is coming after you."

"Does he know where I am?"

"I'm afraid that he does."

"Precisely?"

"Yes."

"Then I must hurry and prepare a welcoming committee for this troublesome pest. We will ensure that he receives a very warm reception at Wazizabad."

"Brother, listen carefully to me. Do not take this man lightly. His name is Alex Hawke. MI6. He is one of the most effective and most lethal counterterrorists in the Western world. The Russians, the Chinese, the Cubans, all have confronted him, and all have regretted it. I would go so far as to say he is perhaps the most dangerous man alive. Many have underestimated him over the years, and all paid dearly, most of them with their lives."

"Ah, I see. So, I will heighten my security and use extra caution. I am capable of surprises of my own. I deeply appreciate this warning, my brother. Peace be with you."

"And also with you."

THE RAT PATROL RODE OUT at dawn; the desert air was frigid but bracing. Hawke rode a chestnut stallion standing fifteen hands at the head of his ragtag army. His weapon was in a leather scabbard mounted on the right side of his saddle. For some reason, during the night, Patoo had braided a scarlet pom-pom into the coarse hair at his animal's forehead, giving his steed a more warlike appearance. Hawke had named the stallion "Copenhagen" after the magnificent chestnut warhorse that carried Wellington to victory at Waterloo.

Hawke was followed by his now deeply trusted aide-de-camp, Abdul "Absolutely!" Dakkon, followed by Sahira. Behind her rode Stokely Jones on a huge white horse he had now taken to calling "Snowball," even though the horse's proclivity for biting humans and other horses made this innocuous name ill-fitting.

The previous night Hawke had ordered Sahira to keep her mount between his and Stokely's at all times as they crossed a desert valley. This high desert valley was still considered one of the most dangerous places on earth. But U.S. drones had made it a deadly place for Taliban or al Qaeda enemy fighters as well.

One hoped.

One thing, religious fervor aside, kept the insurgents fighting. Vengeance. Nearly all Taliban were ethnic Pashtuns who subscribed to an age-old code of conduct called Pashtunwali. One of its strictest rules was eye-for-an-eye revenge. Most Taliban had had many kinsmen killed in the war. Or imprisoned, or humiliated by Coalition searches of their family compounds. Most sought payback against those who had inflicted pain and dishonor upon their relatives.

"I want to die in the jihad," a fighter once told Hawke in Iraq, "not as a sick old man under a blanket at home."

Behind Stokely rode the bulk of the thirty leather-tough militia fighters under the command of Patoo. Next were the numerous camels and pack mules heavily laden with great leather satchels containing weapons, bottles of water, ammunition, comms gear, food, and other necessary provisions.

Bringing up the rear was Harry Brock, riding with five of the most seasoned desert fighters he'd handpicked from the whole crew. All of them had radios with orders from Hawke to immediately report anything even remotely suspicious. Harry was behaving himself, thank God. Stoke said, "Just you wait, boss. Sooner or later, he'll cop an attitude. Extreme pissed-off-ness or extreme bored-ness, one or the other." But so far, Brock had been a model citizen, if not a model soldier.

Hawke had assigned Harry and his five-man squad to act as skirmishers. It would be their responsibility to ride out and repel any attack by a small contingent of Taliban or al Qaeda warriors, keeping them away from the main body of the expedition. "Outriders" Harry had dubbed them.

Hawke was well aware that there were many warring factions under the command of various warlords in the Pakistan-Afghanistan border region. They constantly switched sides whenever their team appeared to be losing. But the skirmishes in these valleys were usually internecine, battles between the Taliban leaders themselves-or when the enemy was occupied countering attacks by the Pakistani army or the ferocious anti-Taliban militia armies.

The deliberately ragtag group he was leading would not normally generate much excitement among Taliban forces. Hawke's men and sole woman were all dressed like Bedouins over their flak vests. He hoped that was the image they presented, at any rate. Thanks to the commanding officer at the U.S. base at Shamsi, the assault team was blessed with enormous firepower in the event of an attack. Each and every one of Hawke's men was equipped with an M4A1 assault rifle within easy reach from the scabbards attached to their saddles.

These state-of-the-art weapons had a rate of fire of 700-950 rounds per minute. Accessories included an M203 grenade launcher, a laser system, reflex sight, and night-vision optics. Since sand penetrates everything, they had even been provided with baby wipes to clean their bullets with, making sure they were free from grit that could cause a rifle to jam.

About an hour into the journey, soon after the long caravan forded a wide and swollen river without incident, Patoo treated everyone to a bit of spontaneous poetry, using his radio to transmit it. For such a small man, he had a big, deep, sonorous voice.

"Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them, volley'd and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell…rode the six hundred," Patoo intoned.

There was a long moment of silence on the radio.

"Thanks, Patoo, 'jaws of death,' yeah, that was motivating, very inspirational," Brock finally said over the radio, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"You scared, Harry?" Stoke asked right back.

"Just cranky. Give me a chance to kill some Talib assholes who seriously deserve it and I'll be all better."

"So, scared or semi-scared?"

"Lemme tell you something, pal. Right now you couldn't shove a hot buttered pin up my sphincter."

"Yeah, you're scared. Heebie-jeebies, that's what-"

"From now on," Hawke interrupted, "everybody shuts the hell up. Radio silence unless there's a threat or a hostile I need to know about. You'd think that was understood."

They rode on in silence, duly chastened.