The infidels’ overconfidence would be their downfall.
The scout vehicles deployed in front of the column were Russian BTR-40 and larger BTR-60 wheeled reconnaissance vehicles, fast and nimble and very well armed. They turned and scattered as soon as the first BMP exploded. Zarazi’s men started lobbing smoke grenades from all over the area — it took dozens of the things to create enough of a screen in the ever-increasing, swirling winds, but within moments visibility had been cut to just a few yards. The gunports were already open, the soldiers inside looking for targets.
That was exactly what Zarazi was waiting for. His men dashed out from their hiding places under cover of the smoke, jumped aboard the BTRs, and stuffed tear-gas grenades into the open gunports. Within moments the drivers were forced to stop their vehicles to evacuate the soldiers inside before they were asphyxiated by the noxious gas. Soon all of the vehicles in the convoy were stopped, billowing with tear gas. The hatches and doors opened, and terrified and nearly suffocating United Nations soldiers and workers dashed out, their eyes swollen and burning. The battle took less than five minutes. Zarazi’s men had destroyed one BMP and one BTR and captured one BMP, four BTR scouts, and four five-ton trucks loaded with supplies. No casualties. Perfect.
“We hit the mother lode, Captain,” Zarazi’s lieutenant, Jalaluddin Turabi, said a few moments later as the crews and workers were being herded together. “Looks like they were going to set up a semipermanent outpost. They have two weeks’ worth of food for about fifty men, plus boxes labeled ‘Communications Equipment.’ I see power generators, fuel tanks, cold-weather tents and clothing, and fencing material. This stuff will sell for millions on the black market!”
“Stop gawking and start unloading those supply trucks, Jala,” Zarazi snapped. “If this detail has air support nearby, they’ll be on us any minute. We need to be out of here as soon as possible.”
The United Nations soldiers were lined up kneeling in the snow, hands on their heads. Captain Zarazi paced back and forth in front of them, studying each man and woman carefully. Many nations were represented, mostly from the Northern Hemisphere: Canada, Northern Ireland, Norway, South Korea. Zarazi allowed his men to strip off the peacekeepers’ gloves, scarves, and parkas — many of his men had perished in the Turkestan and Selseleh’ye Mountains due to exposure, and keeping warm was more important than eating to most of them.
“I am Captain Wakil Mohammad Zarazi, servant of God and commander of the Balkh Armed Resistance Regiment,” Zarazi said in Pashtun. He noticed the uncomprehending stares, then said in halting English, “Who is interpreter?” There was no reply. Zarazi continued to examine the captives, finally coming across one soldier in the robin’s-egg blue helmet, but with a beard, who appeared to be Afghan. Zarazi dragged him to his feet. “Do you understand me?” The man nodded. “Who is the commanding officer?” He did not respond. Zarazi pulled a long knife from his belt, turned the interpreter, and raised the blade to his throat.
“Stop,” a voice said. Zarazi looked around as one of the officers kneeling right beside the interpreter got to his feet, his bare hands still on top of his helmet. “I am Major Dermot O’Rourke, Republic of Ireland, commander of this detachment. We are on a peaceful mission on behalf of the United Nations Afghan Relief and Rehabilitation Council.”
After the interpreter translated, Zarazi said, “You are spies for the Northern Alliance and their wild dogs from the United States of America, invading territory claimed by his holiness Mullah Mohammad Omar and his sword of vengeance, General Takhir Yoldashev.”
“We are not spies,” O’Rourke said. “We are here to set up a cellular phone and radio-relay site, that’s all.”
“You are spies, and you will all be executed according to the laws of Islam and under the orders of General Yoldashev,” Zarazi said. “You—”
Just then Zarazi’s lieutenant came running up to him. “Wakil, there’s trouble,” Turabi said. He ran past Zarazi and over to O’Rourke, yanked his beret from his head and stripped off his jacket, searching him. Moments later he pulled a small black box on a wire out of the back of the man’s battle-dress uniform jacket.
“What is it, Jala?” Zarazi asked.
“Our communications officer picked up some kind of high-frequency transponder that was just activated,” Turabi said. “It looks like a sort of radio beacon. He must’ve set it off when the convoy was attacked.”
“A trouble signal?” Zarazi asked. “We’ve detected no other forces in this area. And a helicopter patrol would take hours to come from Andkhvoy or Mazar-e-Sharif. What good would it do…?”
“An air attack — with a jet already in the area, covering the convoy,” Turabi said. “That’s why our intelligence was so detailed and why this convoy was so poorly protected — it’s being covered from the air. It might even be one of those American Predators, the unmanned little aircraft that can fire Maverick missiles. They could be starting their attack
Zarazi looked at the officer in puzzlement — and then his eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. “Get the men ready to get out of this area and take cover.” He stepped over to O’Rourke. “Who is watching us? What is happening?”
“I’d advise you to surrender, Captain,” O’Rourke said. “Just lay down your weapons, put your hands in the air, and kneel down. They won’t attack if you surrender.”
“Who are ‘they’?
“There’s no time for questions, Captain. Surrender right now.”
“Bastard! Unholy bastard!” Zarazi pulled his sidearm and shot O’Rourke in the forehead, killing him instantly.
Several of his men had started unloading crates and removing tarps from pallets in the back of the supply trucks. “
Four hundred miles away, orbiting at twenty-eight thousand feet fifty miles south of the Pakistani coastline over the Arabian Sea, an EB-1C Vampire orbited lazily, watching and listening. The EB-1C was a U.S. Air Force B-1B Lancer long-range bomber, built in the mid-eighties, but it had been upgraded and modified so much since then that its builders would probably never recognize it now. But as incredible as the Vampire was, the aircraft it controlled were even more amazing — in fact, they represented Patrick McLanahan’s future of aerial combat.
“Oh, my God, they killed Major O’Rourke,” U.S. Air Force Major General Patrick McLanahan said in disbelief. He studied the high-resolution digital video display on a large, multifunction “supercockpit” monitor before him. “That bastard! He was unarmed! He surrendered….” He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the image he saw would go away. When it didn’t, his hate bubbled up past the boiling point. “I count about a hundred men, about two dozen Toyota pickups off away from the road. Stand by to attack.”
His aircraft commander, U.S. Air National Guard Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, squirmed restlessly in her seat. “Let’s get busy and nail those suckers, sir,” she spat.
The images Patrick and Rebecca were watching were coming from a StealthHawk Unmanned Combat Air Vehicle, or UCAV. It had been launched several hours earlier from the EB-1C Vampire’s forward bomb bay and had been scanning the area around the United Nations truck convoy with its infrared sensors and high-resolution digital cameras. The StealthHawk resembled a big, wide, fat surfboard, its lifting-body fuselage slightly triangular in profile. There was a large air inlet, mounted atop the fuselage to lower its radar cross-section, for the aircraft’s single turbofan engine. It had no wings — the StealthHawk had a special flight-control system called a “mission-adaptive lifting-body skin” that actually used computers and tiny microhydraulic actuators to change the outer skin on the fuselage to increase or decrease lift as necessary. The EB-1C could carry three StealthHawks in its bomb bays, one in the forward bomb bay and two in the center. Each StealthHawk could carry a payload of five hundred pounds, along with enough fuel for several hours of flight.
Patrick touched a control button and spoke, “StealthHawk, commit attack,” and the fight was under way. Orbiting at ten thousand feet over the truck convoy was a second StealthHawk, launched from the EB-1C’s center bomb bay. Instead of sensors this one carried weapons — six AGM-211 “mini-Mavericks,” hundred-pound, short- range, precision-guided attack missiles.
“Excellent,” Patrick said. “StealthHawk reporting code one so far.”
“Then that would be a first for one of Masters’s gadgets,” Furness said dryly. Rebecca Furness was the wing commander of the one and only EB-1 Vampire squadron in the world, the 111th Bombardment Wing of the Nevada Air National Guard based at Battle Mountain Air National Guard Base. Although the Vampire bomber had been used in several conflicts and skirmishes around the world in recent years, from Korea to Russia to Libya, it was still
