Ted Bell - Warlord

THE FIRST DAY'S JOURNEY WAS relatively uneventful. They rode past many ruins, mud huts, and deserted villages. At one point, traversing through a small copse of fig trees, they disturbed a pair of antelopes who bounded away and were soon lost to sight. But, later, they did encounter one rather troubling demonstration of the truly bizarre quality of desert warfare.

Around five o'clock that afternoon, they came upon a small, bullet-riddled British fort, early nineteenth century by the looks of it, the forlorn outpost looming up just off to the column's right. The fort was star shaped, crumbling, but certainly still standing. Curiously enough, there was a thin wisp of grey smoke rising from a crack in the dome-shaped roof.

Hawke raised a hand, signaling a halt, and grabbed his radio.

"Stoke, you, Brock, and Patoo. Dismount. Let's go have a look inside. Abdul, you stay with the lady. Shoot anyone who threatens either of you."

The first thing they saw was a battered white Toyota Land Cruiser parked at a crazy angle on the far side of the building. There was a nice line of bullet holes stitched above the truck's rear wheel. It was the kind of vehicle the Taliban used in the desert. It didn't mean they necessarily were Talibs inside, but it didn't mean they weren't, either.

"Heads up," Hawke said quietly. "We stack up at the entrance. On me. Stoke, ready a flash-bang. Go."

Weapons at the ready, they silently moved around to the entrance.

There was no door, just an arched opening. They entered with caution, prepared for anything. Except what they found.

In the center of the main chamber of the centuries-old building, the smoldering embers of a cook fire sent smoke curling up to the ceiling. A charred joint of meat was on the spit, still dripping fat.

In each corner was a crumpled man, all of them breathing, but dead to the world. Each had an AK either cradled in his arms or splayed across his lap. The pungent smell of hashish and burned mutton lingered. And there was an empty liter of Johnnie Walker on the stone floor next to a half-eaten leg of roast mutton and a jug of water.

"Sure look like unholy warriors to me, boss," Stoke said, carefully removing their weapons without waking them.

Hawke said, "Wake that big one up, Patoo. Use the water jug."

Patoo picked up the jug and emptied it directly into the face of the largest of the four men. He sputtered, fluttered his eyelids, and stared up in some amazement at the man standing over him with an empty jug in his hand. When he reached for his missing AK, Patoo snatched his own 9mm pistol from the web holster on his thigh and pressed the muzzle against the man's forehead.

"Relax," he said to the man, first in Urdu, then in Punjabi.

"Ask him what he's doing here," Hawke told Patoo.

Patoo asked and the man spat something back.

"He is telling me to go have sex with myself, sir," Patoo told Hawke, his face apologetic for the obscenity.

"What the hell is this?" Stoke asked, picking up a blood-encrusted military shirt from a pile of similar clothing scattered on a stone stairwell. "Looks like British Army uniforms. Three or four of them. And British weapons."

Hawke took the shirt from him and examined the insignia on the sleeve. Then he saw bullet holes below the breast pocket.

"British Royal Marines, 3rd Commando Brigade," Hawke said. "Operating in Helmand Province across the Afghan border. That means these guys are militants who killed and stripped four of our troops of their uniforms and weapons. Bastards."

"Martyrs who fled across the Pakistani border to plan a suicide attack on a British outpost in Afghanistan, I'd say," Brock said, holding a suicide bomb vest aloft. "Hara-kiri. I got me a satchel full of fake British Army IDs over here, boss. Not to mention four more bomb-packed suicide vests. These four assholes were about to go back to Afghanistan on a mission, just a guess. Decided to get wasted before heading back across the border to blow themselves up and kill Brits."

"Make all their dreams come true, Harry," Hawke said, a look of abject disgust for the drunken look of hatred on the big Talib's face as Hawke headed for the door.

"What do you mean?"

"You said they wanted to get wasted, Harry. So waste them."

"Cool," Harry Brock said, as Hawke walked out of the fort, headed for his horse.

Four short bursts of automatic weapon fire reverberated inside the fort. Then Brock, Jones, and Patoo, grim-faced, emerged from the old fort and mounted up.

"Done," Brock said to Hawke before swinging up into his saddle. Hawke kept his eyes straight ahead, gazing into the distance. Shooting unarmed men was not something he approved of. But neither was blowing up unsuspecting British soldiers. It was war. Tough shit.

"Good," Hawke said.

And then they rode on, into the darkness. Into the jaws of death.

THE RAT PATROL SLEPT UNDER THE STARS that night. The three-part military sleeping bags, good to minus forty degrees, kept them all from freezing to death. At least they were bedded down in the lee of a massive curving sand dune. The towering dune provided protection from the howling wind and stinging sand that would have made getting any sleep at all impossible. And protected the horses, camels, and mules as well.

Hawke had assigned Brock and Patoo's skirmishers to form a perimeter around the makeshift camp. The seven men had dug shallow rifle pits in the sand and mounted their automatic weapons on tripods. Once this was done, Hawke walked the perimeter twice before attempting sleep. He checked to see that all the horses, camels, and mules were tethered and secure in one spot. The whole damn thing was far from perfect, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

ALEX HAWKE LAY ON HIS BACK, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the crystal clear constellations, thinking about what lay in front of them and subconsciously calculating their chances of survival. C's words of warning about the danger he faced kept reverberating in his brain no matter how hard he tried to sublimate them. The presence of a civilian woman, especially one he cared for, didn't help matters. He'd faced dangerous situations before, but, somehow, this one felt-A figure swaddled in blankets was approaching him through the darkness.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Sahira."

"I want to be with you tonight, Alex. Do you mind?"

"Climb in this bag with me right now or I'm going to sleep without you."

"I was hoping you would say that."

Hawke pulled down the nylon slider that secured the bag and made room for her. She crawled inside and he resecured the bag against the chill.

"Cozy," she said, embracing him, holding him against her body.

"Very."

"Are you mad at me for doing this?"

"Are you insane?"

"It's very unprofessional of me."

"So kiss me and I won't tell Lord Malmsey."

"Oh, Alex, I have missed you so since-"

"Ssh. More kissing, less talking."

He held her very close. She liked the pressure of his hand, urging her even closer. She cupped his cheeks with her palms, kissing him at last, but in a taunting way that made him want to kiss her brutally, take her now. Some women liked to be taken that way, roughly, and he suspected she was one of them. Lips, open a little in hunger, fed upon each other. His hands were two thieves: one holding her fast while the other made a desperate search; a hurried, clumsy thief pulling at buttons, tearing at openings.

"Do you think we can do this inside this thing?" she whispered.

"You're about to find out."

"You seem very determined."

"You've no idea."

Fingers under her clothes, "Yes…oh, yes."

"Be still a moment," he said, and she complied.

"We're going to make it through this alive, aren't we, Alex?"

"Of course we are," he whispered into her ear as his body slowly slipped deep inside hers. "Of course we are."