PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (7 page)

Chapter 8

Valencia, Spain

On the outskirts of Valencia, thunderous gray clouds loomed over the small township of Montemayor. The storm had rolled in off the ocean and blocked out the late-afternoon sun. Torrential rain was lashing the countryside.

A small crowd had gathered at a desolate hilltop cemetery, a single olive tree offering negligible protection from the wind as it howled between ancient gray headstones.

The funeral of Mark and Estela Bishop was underway. It was a modest but solemn ceremony. Five generations of Estela’s family had been buried here and the short service was steeped in tradition.

The local Catholic priest’s cassock whipped back in the wind as rain dripped from his headdress, but he pushed on valiantly despite his rain-soaked vestments. The wind tore at the printed eulogies in the hands of the congregation. A few ripped away and gusted above the heads of mourners before colliding with the branches of the olive tree.

Aden stood apart from his distant relatives and his parents’ friends. He watched; silent, cold, and isolated. Inside, however, he was a raging maelstrom of anger, loss and fear. The freezing rain did little to temper him.

The icy wind brought whispered comments to him as mourners turned to leave the stark setting.

“Is that Aden?”

“Yes, the soldier…poor boy…”

Mourners conveyed their condolences to Mark and Estela’s only son. He barely acknowledged them. Their faces were hazy childhood memories.

“So emotionless…”

“He was always such a quiet boy…”

“I heard he was court-martialed for war crimes…”

As Bishop stood silently by the muddied grave, he looked around, hoping to find a familiar face amongst the dwindling group. He realized he didn’t actually know any of these people and for a moment he regretted not telling his close friends of the loss.

Bishop stood by his parents’ final resting place long after the funeral was over. He looked on as laborers threw the last shovelfuls of mud on the grave, and watched as the last traces of light disappeared from the sky. Drenched by the unrelenting rain he stood immobile, his only company the cold granite angels guarding the tombs of Valencia’s dead. Guilt wracked his thoughts and rage numbed his mind.

Shivering, Bishop finally tore his eyes from the headstone engraved with his parents’ names. His hair was soaked flat and streaming rivulets of water ran down into his raincoat. He needed to feel; the cold, the rain, the wind, anything. His body and his mind, all of it was numb. He turned stiffly, walking back through the downpour towards the wrought iron gates.

As he approached the entrance he noticed a large black car parked just outside. Beside it stood a tall figure in a long dark overcoat holding an umbrella.

A booming American voice cut through, “I’m sorry for your loss, LT.”

He shielded his eyes from the rain, squinting to identify the man. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t make out his features. “Who…who is that?”

“Come on, buddy, it hasn’t been that long.” The man stepped forward, lifting the big umbrella to cover them both, whilst his other hand grasped Bishop’s shoulder.

“Sierra Leone, 2000—you saved a lotta lives, remember?”

“Vance, holy shit!” Bishop whispered.

“That’s right, buddy, the one and only.”

“You came all the way out here?” Bishop stared up at the tall African-American. The man’s face was hard and tired. “How did you find me?”

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while, LT.”

For a split second Bishop’s grief was replaced with a spark of interest. “Me? Why would you be keeping tabs on me? And I’m not LT, I’m not a soldier anymore.”

Vance raised his eyebrows.

Then it clicked. “It was you, wasn’t it? The card, the bookstore,
Susurro
!”

Vance laughed deeply, gripping Bishop’s shoulder with his huge hand. “You got it, buddy. You might not be a soldier anymore, but you’ll always be a warrior. Now how’s about we jump in this fine automobile of mine and out of this fucking rain.” Vance gestured towards the black sedan. “And I’ll tell you a little more about that book.”

Bishop’s body was riddled with pain; hours of immobility in the driving wind and freezing rain had taken their toll. He was so exhausted he could barely move and just stared at Vance blankly.

The years had not been kind to the American. His face was weathered, the dark skin drooping slightly under his neck and eyes. The man bore a passing resemblance to the actor Laurence Fishburne, in the movie The Matrix.
Bishop thought
,
are you playing the same game, Vance. Do you want me to take the blue pill?

“Is this where you give me the pitch?” Bishop’s voice was so flat it was barely human. “Is this where you sell the CIA to me? Give me the whole ‘you can avenge your parents’ spiel—is that it?”

“No—” Vance tried to respond.

“I just put my parents in the ground and you’re using it as an opportunity to try and recruit me into the fucking CIA.” Tears of anger welled in Bishop’s eyes. “I just left one political puppet show, Vance, and I am not joining another, ever.”

Bishop stepped out from under the umbrella and back into the torrential rain. He continued his bleak walk down the hill.

“BISHOP! BISHOP!” Vance yelled after him.

Bishop lifted the collar of his jacket and didn’t stop. Behind him he could hear the American’s heavy footfalls.

“BISHOP! This isn’t about your parents. This is about you!”

Vance slapped a vast hand on Bishop’s shoulder and stepped round to face him. The big man abandoned the umbrella and ignored the rain as it dripped off his bald head and down his collar.

“I’ve been watching you, Bishop. Since you left the Army, in Madrid and in Barcelona. I wanted you to read that book. To understand before I asked you to join.”

Vance’s tone softened. “Look, I’m sorry about your parents but this is bigger than them. It’s bigger than you and me. It’s about bringing a little justice into the world.”

Bishop turned away, staring silently into the darkness.

“Listen, I don’t work for the CIA anymore.”

The Australian’s eyes were glazed.

“Bishop.”

“I’m not interested in private contracting.” The rain had finally penetrated every layer of Bishop’s clothing from his head to his toes. Thin streams of rain poured off his eyebrows and down his nose. He shivered.

“I don’t work for any contractors, Bishop, or any government, for that matter. I work for an organization hell bent on bringing justice to the world—and we dance to our own tune.” Vance reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He extended it to Bishop. Rain dripped off the card. Bishop just stared, so Vance held the card up. It read:

PRIORITY MOVEMENTS AIRLIFT

“Bishop?”

“Never heard of them,” Bishop said.

Vance smiled, held him steady and stuffed the card into his pocket. “We don’t exactly advertise what we do, buddy. A lot of very powerful people wouldn’t be particularly happy with what we get up to. Now let’s get you out of the rain.”

Vance motioned to the car and it crept up, stopping beside them. He hauled open one of the passenger doors and guided the exhausted Bishop into the dry interior.

Once they were both seated in the back, the car glided forward. Vance pulled out a hip flask and sloshed a few inches of brandy into a steel tumbler. Bishop looked down at the liquor. Vance pushed it into his hands and with a shrug he threw it down his throat, the amber liquid filling his stomach with warmth. He handed the cup back and looked the older man in the face.

“So what is it you actually do now, Vance?”

“Like I said, we bring a little justice to the world—”

Bishop wiped the rain from his face. “Like the A-Team?”

Vance laughed, “Yeah, buddy, something like that.”

The car gathered speed.

Chapter 9

Stryker Mobile Gun System

Khod Valley, Afghanistan, Present Day

Physically, Ishmael Khalid was not an impressive man. He was of average height with narrow shoulders and hawk-like features. What he lacked in physical presence, he made up for in sheer intensity. Like a bird of prey, his stare was unyielding, cold and distant. Thin lips and a hooked nose compounded the likeness.

The Afghan was a warrior and Commander; his entire adult life had revolved around war. As a teenager his first blood had been Russian, and after his father was killed by the Spetsnaz, Khalid had inherited leadership of his village. With that death came responsibility for a hundred warriors, vast lands, and loyalty to the warlord, Khan.

It was service to Khan that had brought him back to the Khod valley, not ten miles from the site of his father’s death. His orders were to take twenty of his best men and ambush anyone attempting to push north up the valley.

The ground Khalid had chosen was well sited; an open piece of terrain in the valley floor running into a bottleneck, with both sides dominated by the steep, barren slopes of the valley. Vehicles driving along the small track that followed the canyon floor would be forced to bunch together, maximizing the effectiveness of his men’s advanced weaponry.

Khalid smiled as he pictured the carnage the ambush would bring. With the weapons supplied by Khan’s arms dealer, his men would make short work of anyone trying to interfere with the activities further up the valley on the mountain.

The warriors that Khalid commanded were not like the ragtag Taliban who fought the Americans in the South. They were Khan’s own personal army. Trained by Chechen mercenaries and equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry, they were funded by the Warlord’s opium fields. Although they called themselves Taliban, they had long ago abandoned traditional robes for combat fatigues, boots, and chest harnesses. They all wore the distinctive black headscarves of Khan’s Army.

From his camouflaged command pit high up on the rugged cliff-face, Khalid felt the excitement of imminent combat. His forward sentry had reported a US patrol moving directly towards them. He watched the entrance to the valley through the high-powered scope of his Accuracy International sniper rifle. Khan preferred to avoid direct combat, relying on mines and improvised bombs to inflict casualties, and this would be the first time his men had fought head to head with the US Army.

The distant rumble of diesel engines echoed up the valley as the American formation crept into view. Khalid instinctively leaned forward. A standard light armored
Stryker
patrol. He counted five vehicles: three gun cars, two personnel carriers. The lead vehicle moved slightly off the track to avoid any mines on the road, stopping regularly to scan the terrain to its flanks and front. Khalid was familiar with Strykers; information on the eight-wheeled lightly armored vehicles was easy to find on the Internet.

Khalid permitted himself a small grin as he watched the American soldiers employ the same basic tactics that the Russians had used. Avoiding tracks, they halted to the rear of small features, using the terrain for protection. “Different enemy, different tanks, but always they think the same way,” he jibed, turning to the man crouching next to him. “See the first three vehicles? The ones with the turrets?”

“Yes, Khalid.”

“Those three must be destroyed first. They are far more deadly than the others.”

The younger fighter nodded in agreement as Khalid keyed his small field telephone and passed on his instructions to his trusted Lieutenants hidden in their camouflaged bunkers.

 “Omar, you target the second vehicle. Zakir, you target the third. On my command, my brothers.”

The Afghan Commander waited for the two teams to acknowledge his message before looking back through the scope of his weapon. All of the vehicles were now inside the kill zone, with the lead Stryker creeping through the rough terrain. He looked over at the man next to him and smiled. It was the exact path he had predicted they’d take.

Khalid grasped a small firing device in his gloved hand. Flicking off the safety bail, the initiation system armed just as the first vehicle edged into position; almost directly on top of where the first set of anti-tank mines had been placed.

“Allah give victory to the holy warriors,
Allahu-Akbar
,” Khalid whispered, then depressed the firing switch. Three anti-tank mines detonated instantly under the left rear wheels of the Stryker, 30kg of explosives slamming upwards through the hull in a thunderous explosion that reverberated throughout the valley. The crew was killed instantly. The vehicle flipped on its side, fuel and plastics burning fiercely. The intense heat and force of the explosion set off the ammunition and the Stryker was ripped apart with a flash.

As the blast claimed the lead vehicle, Khalid’s men fired their
Spike anti-tank weapons
at the next two Strykers. With a roar the Israeli built missiles leapt from the hidden bunkers, their sensors locking onto the targets below. They streaked towards the armored vehicles, the shape-charged warheads exploding a short distance before impact, spitting molten jets of metal through the thin armor on top of each turret. It took only seconds for the vehicles to ignite, simultaneously suffocating and engulfing the crew in flames.