Sacrifice (5 page)

Drake was starting to see the implications. ‘So if they get him to talk …’

‘He could compromise the entire network,’ Franklin finished for him. ‘As you can see, their methods aren’t exactly sophisticated, but they’re effective. Mitchell might crack, in which case we’ve lost a year’s worth of intel. Needless to say, we can’t let that happen.’

Drake knew what was coming, but he wanted to hear Franklin say it.

‘You know what I’m going to ask of you, Ryan. I need you to take your team out there, find out what happened to Mitchell and bring him home. And you need to work fast. As our friend on the video made clear, time is of the essence.’ He paused a few moments, leaning forward a little, his hands resting on the polished table. ‘That’s all I’ve got. The rest is up to you.’

Frost wasted no time voicing her thoughts. ‘Sir, we just spent the last three weeks hunting pirates in Somalia. Don’t you have another Shepherd team who can handle this?’

‘None with Ryan’s experience and knowledge of the target,’ Franklin admitted. ‘Anyone else I sent would be at an immediate disadvantage.’

There could be no more stalling, Drake knew. Franklin needed a decision now. He wouldn’t order Drake and his team to go, wouldn’t order anyone in fact, because he needed to know that whoever took this operation on was totally committed to its success.

You can walk away if you want.

‘All right. I’m in.’

No, you can’t. You never could.

He glanced at Frost. ‘It’s your call, Keira. I won’t force you to go.’

He knew what she was going to say, but he had to ask anyway, had to give her the chance to back out.

The young specialist returned his searching look for a long moment before rolling her eyes. ‘Shit, Ryan. You know I’ve never left you hanging,’ she said irritably. ‘Despite my better judgement.’

He would take that as a yes. It was about as close to a caring sentiment as she was likely to get.

Last of all he turned his eyes to Keegan. ‘John, what about you?’

With wide open spaces, scant cover and plenty of high ground, Afghanistan was a sniper’s paradise. Keegan’s skills might well prove invaluable.

The veteran sniper raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Somebody’s got to keep you two under control. Of course I’m in.’

Drake nodded. As Frost had reminded him, neither of them had let him down before, and he hadn’t expected them to start today. Still, he had to know for sure.

‘We’re going to need some kind of forensics expert to go over the chopper wreck,’ he said, already compiling a mental list of requirements. ‘Preferably someone who knows about surface-to-air missiles. Anything we can learn from the crash site might help us track down Mitchell.’

He couldn’t think of anyone off the top of his head who would fit that particular bill. They had weapons specialists and forensics experts, but no one with an intimate knowledge of missile systems.

‘Already covered,’ Franklin assured him, sliding a personnel folder across the table to him. ‘We’ve got an explosives expert named McKnight seconded to your team for the duration of this op. She’s not part of the Shepherd programme, but what she doesn’t know about modern infantry weapons, isn’t worth knowing.’

Drake glanced down at the folder, studying the file picture. The face staring back at him was early thirties, evenly proportioned, with pale skin, dark shoulder-length hair and hazel-coloured eyes. He wouldn’t have called her beautiful, but there was a certain gleam in those eyes that caught his attention. Her lips were upturned a little at the corners, as if something amusing had just come to mind as the picture was taken.

‘She’s been in-country defusing IEDs for the past few months, but she’s been briefed on the situation. She’ll rendezvous with you when you arrive.’

Drake regarded him with a raised eyebrow. ‘You told her we were coming?’

He saw a glimmer of a smile. ‘Anticipation, Ryan. I knew you wouldn’t turn this down.’

Drake said nothing to that. Just as he’d known Frost and Keegan wouldn’t refuse the mission, Franklin no doubt expected the same of him.

‘That still leaves us light on firepower,’ he pointed out, switching back to more practical matters. ‘If we find Mitchell, we’ll need a heavy assault team to get him out.’

‘It’s Afghanistan, Drake. There are Special Forces units on station who can handle assault and rescue ops,’ Breckenridge reminded him. ‘And I’m sure they’d be spoiling for some payback on the guys who shot down one of their choppers.’

‘Agreed,’ Franklin said, which prompted a smile from his subordinate. ‘Your goal is to track down Mitchell. Let the military do the rest.’

Drake rubbed his jaw. His mandate as a Shepherd team leader allowed him to requisition military resources if the situation demanded it, though it was far from an ideal working arrangement for either party.

‘Fine, as long as we have overall control. I don’t want a turf war.’

‘It won’t be,’ Franklin promised him, arching his back a little to relieve the stiff muscles. ‘Now I suggest you grab your gear and whatever else you need. We’ve got you a spot on the next flight out from Andrews, which leaves in …’ He checked his watch – an expensive Breitling model, Drake noted. ‘Just over four hours. Briefings and intel will have to be handled en route.’

That was fine as far as Drake was concerned. The sooner they got out there, the sooner he could begin his hunt for Kourash.

Franklin saw the look in his eyes and guessed his thoughts well enough.

‘Remember, this isn’t a search-and-destroy mission, Ryan. Your goal is to find Mitchell and bring him home. Don’t make this personal.’

Too late, Drake thought.

In 1878, British troops once again invade Afghanistan. Again they succeed in capturing Kabul, but rebellions and casualties continue. The war concludes with the Treaty of Gandamak, signalling the withdrawal of British forces from the country.

Total Casualties:

10,000 British soldiers killed

5,000 Afghan soldiers killed
Number of civilian deaths unknown

Afghan airspace, 10 August

Drake gritted his teeth as the aircraft rocked and shuddered like an ancient sailing ship caught in a gale, jarring his spine against the exposed aluminium airframe. Outside, the engines whined and roared as the pilots adjusted their power output, trying to compensate for the vicious high-altitude winds which hammered them without remorse.

The C-17 Globemaster that had been their home for the past fourteen hours was one of the biggest aircraft in the USAF’s inventory. Each was capable of carrying nearly 80,000 kilos of equipment, and by the looks of things, this one was filled to capacity.

Boxes, crates of all shapes and sizes, steel drums and machinery he couldn’t begin to identify were all crammed in there, all shrink-wrapped, painstakingly labelled and catalogued, fitted on rolling pallets and lashed to the deck. It reminded him more of a warehouse than a plane.

The flight across the Atlantic had taken a good eight hours, with a refuelling layover at Ramstein in Germany followed by another hop to Turkey. He had no idea what time zone they were in, or indeed what time of day or night it was out there.

All he knew was that he was cold, tired, uncomfortable, and by now thoroughly sick of air travel. He was almost looking forward to disembarking into a war zone.

Still, his enforced inactivity had at least afforded him some time to review Mitchell’s personnel file.

Harrison Mitchell, born 6 June 1952, enlisted US Marine Corps in 1970 before mustering out ten years later. He’d joined the Agency shortly thereafter, working first as a paramilitary operative and then as a case officer in the Middle East. As far as Drake could make out, his service record was impeccable, and he’d been recommended for promotion several times, finally retiring from field ops in 2001.

Then, six months ago he’d requested a transfer to the Afghan field office. Drake couldn’t help but wonder why a man in his late fifties would throw in a comfortable job at Langley to get his hands dirty once more. Was it simply itchy feet, or a desire to prove he could still cut it against the younger crop of operatives? Or was it something else?

His thoughts were interrupted when the plane’s load-master wandered over to join him. The tag on his flight suit identified him as Walcott. ‘Hey, man. How you holding up?’

Drake stifled a groan. A stocky young man of perhaps twenty-five years, with a beaming grin and a never-ending supply of stories, Walcott approached life with the kind of manic enthusiasm that made Born Again Christians look positively subdued. There was just no shutting the guy up.

‘Looking forward to being on the ground again,’ Drake said, pasting on a weary smile. ‘No offence.’

Walcott threw back his head and laughed. ‘Fuck, man, that’s all part of the service! Doesn’t matter how nervous
guys are about going to Afghanistan – by the end of a sixteen-hour flight, they’re fucking desperate to get on the ground!’

‘How much longer do you think it’ll be?’ Drake couldn’t help asking. What he really meant was, ‘How much longer do I have to put up with you?’

Walcott checked his watch. ‘We’re almost there, my man. Should be on the ground in twenty minutes, tops.’

Drake frowned. ‘We haven’t started descending.’

‘We don’t until the last minute – standard precaution right now. Some poor bastards got their Black Hawk shot out from under them the other day,’ he added, looking serious for perhaps the first time. ‘When it’s time to go in, trust me, you’ll know about it. Gets a little bumpy but it’s a hell of a fucking ride. Better than a roller coaster, that’s for damn sure.’

Perhaps so, but at least on roller coasters you don’t have to worry about people launching surface-to-air missiles at you, Drake thought. As if sensing his disquiet, the aircraft lurched upward, followed by a sickening drop that left his stomach several feet higher than his body.

Seeing his unhappy expression, Walcott grinned. ‘Hey, you think this is rough? Trust me, this is nothing! Couple of months back, we were hauling a Marine Corps rifle platoon and we hit a big motherfucker ice storm over Turkmenistan. Or was it Tajikistan? Fuck it, all the Stans are the same to me. All shitholes. Anyway, the pilots were damn near breaking their arms trying to keep us in the air, and even I was starting to shit myself, then all of a sudden one of the jarheads blows chunks everywhere. Straight away the two guys next to him started throwing up too. Before I knew what was happening, we had a whole cargo hold full of puking Marines.’

Despite himself, Drake couldn’t help smiling. ‘So what did you do?’

‘I bailed the fuck out of there and let them get on with it – no use messin’ with stuff like that. Poor bastards had to spend the rest of the flight ankle-deep in puke. Most of ’em looked like the living dead by the time they got off. Made for a fuckin’ awesome YouTube video though.’

Before Drake could reply, Walcott cocked his head as his radio headset sparked up. Hitting the transmit button at his throat, he said, ‘Roger that, flight.’

Glancing at Drake, he pointed to the cockpit and gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Gotta go, dude. Keep it real.’

With that, he departed, making for the ladder leading to the deck above. The aircraft’s wild lurches didn’t seem to bother him one bit.

Alone once more, Drake surveyed the other two members of his team.

Keegan was lying stretched out on a bench on the opposite side of the cavernous hold, hands behind his head, his tatty Carolina Panthers cap pulled down low over his face. He hadn’t stirred for some time, and the slow rise and fall of his chest suggested he was fast asleep despite the uncomfortable situation.

The man had the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, any time he wanted. He’d explained it once by saying that while soldiers learned to eat whenever food was available, snipers learned to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself because they never knew when they’d find themselves on another 48-hour stint with nothing but a rifle for company.

Frost was sitting cross-legged by the forward bulkhead, listening to music as she worked away on her laptop.

Drake had tolerated Walcott with a degree of patience, but Frost was of another sort. The first and only time
Walcott had tried to hit on her, she had put a friendly arm around his shoulder and told him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to reach Afghanistan with his balls intact, he should leave her well alone.

That had been about the only time Drake had seen him lost for words.

Sensing his eyes on her, she glanced up and flashed an impudent grin that could have been seen as friendly or mocking – knowing her, it was probably a little of both – before resuming her work.

Wishing to stretch his legs, he rose from his bench and crossed the cargo hold to join her, having to brace himself against a stack of packing boxes as the plane took another lurch.

‘How’s it going, Keira?’

She glanced up from her laptop. ‘Huh?’

Reaching out, he yanked her headphones off. ‘I said the plane’s about to crash and I hope you’ve got your insurance forms filled out.’

‘Very funny.’ He saw a flash of annoyance in her eyes at being disturbed from what had clearly been an absorbing task. ‘I’ll be better when I’m off this thing.’

‘I know the feeling.’ He looked down at her computer screen. It was Mitchell’s hostage tape. ‘Not much of an in-flight movie.’

She gave him a disapproving look. ‘I’m not doing this for pleasure. I’m trying to learn more about Anwari.’

‘Anything so far?’

‘Maybe.’ She removed her headphones from the laptop and hit the play button.

The video came to life, right after Kourash had put a round through Mitchell’s leg. Once more Drake found himself listening to the man’s deep, accented voice.

‘If you do not comply … we will execute this spy and—’

Frost hit the pause button and looked up at him. ‘He called Mitchell a spy. How did he know Mitchell works for the Agency?’

Drake shrugged. ‘He was on a military flight. He was too old to be a soldier and he wasn’t in uniform. It wouldn’t be hard to work out.’