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.
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
