Empire of Gold

than they are now. A smoker like you would have dropped dead before finishing the first one.’

‘I only smoke off duty. And I didn’t know the SAS even existed in the nineteenth century!’

‘Keep your mouth shut, Chase,’ growled Stikes from behind them. ‘They’ll be able to hear you half a mile away, bellowing like that.’

Chase’s voice had been barely above a conversational level, but he lowered it still further to mutter, ‘See if you can hear this, you fucking bell-end.’

‘What was that, sergeant?’

‘Nothing, Alexander,’ Mac called back to Stikes, suppressing a laugh. ‘That’s enough of that, Eddie. Catch up with Will before he reaches the top of the hill. We’re getting close.’

‘On it, sir,’ said Chase, giving Mac a grin before increasing his pace up the slope. By the time he drew level with Green, his levity had been replaced by caution, senses now on full alert. Both men dropped and crawled the last few feet to peer over the summit.

Ahead was a rough plain about half a mile across, a great humped sandstone ridge rising steeply at the far side. A narrow pass split the ridge from the mountains, a large rock near its entrance poking from the ground like a spearhead. The obvious route to the isolated farm was by travelling up the pass.

So obvious that it had to be a trap.

Unless the Taliban were complete idiots, which whatever his other opinions about them Chase thought was unlikely, there would almost certainly be guards watching the ravine’s far end. It was a natural choke point, easy for a few men to cover, and almost impossible to pass through undetected. And if the team were detected, that would be the end for the hostages. One gunshot, even one shout, would warn that a rescue was being attempted.

Which meant the guards had to be removed. But first . . . they had to be found.

Chase shrugged off his pack and extracted his night vision goggles. He switched them on, waited for the display’s initial flare to fade, then donned them. The vista ahead became several times brighter, picked out in ghostly shades of green. He searched for any sign of movement. Nothing.

‘See anything, Eddie?’ Green asked quietly.

‘Nothing on the ground . . . just checking that ridge.’ Chase raised his head. The top of the rise would be a good place to station a lookout, giving a clear view of the plain, but it would also be a lot of effort to scale.

Too much effort, apparently. There was nobody there. He closed his eyes to ease the transition back to normal sight, then removed the goggles and waved to the waiting soldiers. By the time Mac joined him, his vision had mostly recovered. ‘Anything?’ his commanding officer asked.

‘Nope. Thought they might have put someone on the ridge, but it’s empty.’

Mac surveyed the scene, then took out the map. ‘We’ll go over the ridge, come at anybody watching the pass from the southeast. It’s a closed canyon; they won’t be expecting anyone from that direction.’

Starkman examined the closely packed contour lines. ‘Steep climb.’

Bluey regarded his bulky Minimi machine gun – and its 200-round ammo box – disconsolately. ‘Aw, that’s great. I’m hardly going to spring up there like a mountain goat with this lot.’

‘Starkman, Chase, Castille,’ said Stikes impatiently, ‘get to the top and see if you can snipe them, otherwise go down the other side and take them from the canyon. The rest of us will wait by that large rock for your signal.’ He gave Mac a brief glance, waiting for affirmation; the Scot nodded. ‘Okay, move it.’

After checking their radios, the trio made their way across the plain. Chase looked up at the moonlit ridge. ‘Should be able to get up there without ropes,’ he said, indicating a likely path. ‘We— What the bloody hell are you doing?’

Castille had peeled a banana, wolfing down half of it in a single bite. ‘For energy,’ he mumbled as he chewed. ‘We have a big climb.’

Chase shook his head. ‘Hugo, you’re weird.’

‘Literally bananas,’ Starkman added. He and Chase laughed, prompting a snort from Castille, who polished off the fruit before bagging and pocketing its skin.

‘So, we all ready?’ Chase asked. ‘Or have you got a bunch of grapes an’ all?’

‘You may laugh,’ said Castille, starting up the ridge, ‘but you British should eat more fruit. It is why you are all so pale!’

Grinning, Chase followed, Starkman taking up the rear. The climb proved a little more tricky than it looked, the three men having to help each other scale a couple of particularly steep sections, but before long it flattened out.

By now, the trio were again all business. They advanced along the top of the ridge. About two hundred metres from the pass, Castille let out a sharp hiss. All three immediately dropped into wary crouches, weapons ready. ‘What?’ Chase whispered.

The Belgian pointed. ‘I see smoke.’

Chase narrowed his eyes, picking out a faint line wafting into the night sky. Its source was near the far end of the pass.

No need for further discussion; they already knew what they had to do. They quietly headed across the ridge. Below was the closed canyon – and at its head a small patch of glowing orange amidst the darkness. A campfire.

Chase raised his C8 and peered through its scope. As expected, the Taliban had left guards to watch the pass, positioned amongst broken boulders for cover. Two men in dusty robes and turbans sat near the fire. One had an AK-47 propped against a rock beside him; another rifle lay on a flat rock not far away. Of more concern, though, was a different weapon – the long tube of an RPG-7, a Russian rocket launcher with its pointed warhead loaded.