First Strike Read online

  www.franklinwatts.co.uk

  This ebook edition published in 2012

  Franklin Watts

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  Franklin Watts Australia

  Level 17/207 Kent Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000

  The author has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  Task Force Delta is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintended and all statements purporting to be facts are not necessarily true.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978 1 4451 1343 2

  Franklin Watts is a division of Hachette Children’s Books,

  an Hachette UK company.

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.franklinwatts.co.uk

  www.orchardbooks.co.uk

  www.hodderchildrens.co.uk

  www.waylandbooks.co.uk

  The Real Delta Force

  Task Force Delta is inspired by one

  of the United States’ top-level secret

  military units, the 1st Special Forces

  Operational Detachment — Delta (1SFOD-D)

  also known as

  Delta Force

  Delta Force’s main missions are direct, counter-terrorism action. They also carry out many secret assignments including hostage rescues and raids behind enemy lines.

  Delta Force (also called “The Unit”) is based at Fort Bragg, Carolina, USA.

  Delta Force’s motto is:

  “Surprise, Speed, Success”

  CONTENTS

  ONE: First strike

  TWO: Spring offensive

  THREE: HALO drop

  FOUR: On the trail

  FIVE: Meeting Hamid

  SIX: Bradley’s fate

  SEVEN: Night strike

  EIGHT: Hamid’s village

  NINE: Questions for Hamid

  TEN: Double crossed?

  ELEVEN: Connor’s plan

  TWELVE: Neat flying

  Weapons and gear

  Glossary

  Sneak Peek

  If you liked this, you’ll love…

  CHAPTER ONE

  First strike

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  Tariq’s big day had arrived. He’d never felt so nervous. Outside Kabul’s Pul-e-Khishti mosque, he paused to wrap a blanket around his shoulders against the bitter wind. He hurried to the bus depot, taking a short cut past the bustling stalls and colourful booths of the ancient Ka Faroshi bird market. In his rush along the narrow street, he bumped into several large domed wicker cages. The fighting kowks perched inside flapped their wings and squawked at him. Angry stall owners threw up their arms and cursed as he vanished into the crowd.

  At the bus depot, Tariq boarded his battered old school bus. He slid onto the driver’s seat, reached forward and started the engine. He gripped the steering wheel tightly to stop his hands from shaking.

  Out in the city’s tightly packed traffic, Tariq edged the bus forward towards the Afghan National Army checkpoint ahead. Checkpoints did not worry him, though. He saw them every day, and the soldiers and policemen waved him through. To them he was just a friendly school-bus driver.

  Mushi waited at the bus stop with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, kicking stones into the gutter. He was still half asleep and he couldn’t stop yawning. School was such a pain, he thought. There was a kite fighting festival the following weekend and his kite still needed its finishing touches; an extra coating of ground glass on the strings so, when he battled with other competitors, his string would cut theirs and he’d win. The bus pulled up and Mushi clambered aboard. As usual, his friend Kemal had saved a seat for him in the third row.

  Tariq crunched the gearbox and pulled off. It was almost time. The bus was full now, crammed with boys dressed in their smart school uniforms. Tariq despised them and their privileged backgrounds. Their fathers could afford to pay the school fees. Tariq knew a few had grown rich through work paid for by the American infidel, and that fact alone was enough for him to hate them. Tariq shut out all the jabbering young voices and focused hard on the road ahead. The traffic was flowing freely now.

  Tariq reached a junction and turned left, heading for the city centre. Startled, Mushi blinked and shot bolt upright. He knew something was wrong. He called out to the driver, “Why are we going the wrong way?”

  Tariq had prepared for this. “There are road closures. We must go this way,” he lied. His heart pounded in his chest, but he tried to remain calm. Voices inside the bus trailed off and Tariq sensed the growing unease behind him.

  “No there aren’t. I want to get off!”

  Tariq ignored Mushi. Instead, he pressed the accelerator pedal and increased speed.

  “Stop!” other boys were calling out. Tariq began to pray, his lips moving silently… “Allahu Akbar…” He pulled out to overtake a car slowing down for an army checkpoint.

  Mushi watched in horror as the bus roared on, busting through the plastic barriers and scattering the armed men in uniform. He turned to look back. The soldiers should have tried to stop the bus. They should have raised their guns. Now it was too late.

  Tariq saw the coffee house at the end of the street. It was no secret that many local Afghan interpreters employed by the Americans visited it. To him, these men were traitors, worse than dogs.

  “Where are we going? Let us off!” Mushi demanded.

  Without warning, a donkey and cart piled high with vegetables trotted from a side street. Tariq saw them but kept on course. The bus rocked as it struck the donkey and the boys screamed. In desperation, Mushi leapt forward, grabbed hold of Tariq and wrestled with him, trying to make him stop.

  Tariq was too strong. He pushed the accelator pedal to the floor and the engine groaned. Buildings flashed by in a blur. Mushi tried punching Tariq, and then yanked his beard. He tore out a handful of hair, but fell backwards onto the floor.

  Tariq didn’t flinch. He reached for a switch on the dashboard. Behind the panel wires coiled under the bus to a bomb fixed on the fuel tank. With his other hand he yanked the steering wheel and the bus veered sharply right. The bus mounted the pavement.

  Tariq had been promised Paradise. No longer would he a humble bus driver. He was to be fedayeen — a martyr. His was the first strike.

  Mushi screamed as the bus ploughed into the front of the coffee shop. Tariq pressed the switch.

  A tall plume of black smoke rose over the city.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Spring offensive

  Camp Delta

  Connor had been eating some spicy chicken wings when the text came through. It had ordered him to report to the Ops Room immediately.

  Grim faces greeted Connor and his men when they got there five minutes later. General Patterson, head of CENTCOM — Central Command — wasted no time in introducing them to Colonel Rogers, Chief of Combined Black Ops, and his team of intelligence officers.

  “You’ve seen the news feeds,” Rogers began.

  Connor nodded. “Yes, the bus bomb in Kabul.”

  “You can imagine what the media back home are saying. The Taliban have begun their spring offensive early this year and caught us on the hop. It’s just the beginning, too. We have good reason to believe they’re planning a major campaign of attacks, abductions, assassinations and suicide bombings. Gentlemen, a decision’s been made at the highest level. Innocent lives are at stake. We’re going on the offensive.”

  Connor fidgeted uneasily in his chair as Colonel Rogers hooked up his laptop, projecting the files onto a large screen. The first was a detailed map. “OK, this is what we know
,” Rogers continued. “Intel is sparse. Bad weather has restricted our use of drones, and the Taliban have been wise enough to limit their phone use and radio transmissions. However, interrogations of recently captured insurgents near to Doshi and Jabal Saraj have yielded a few pieces of the jigsaw. We believe armed insurgents are on the move and gathering in small groups in the Hindu Kush mountains. The leaders are going to meet with this man…” Rogers paused while he switched files. “Mullah Khan. This guy’s as bad as they come. He’s the one pulling the strings. Deal with him and the insurgents will be leaderless and in disarray.”

  Connor leaned forward and studied the photo of a tall, bearded man. He had scarring down the left side of his face. “Do we know where and when the meet will take place, sir?”

  “No. If we did there’d be no need for me to talk to you, major. Instead, I’d be arranging an air strike.” Rogers returned to the map of the Hindu Kush mountains and pointed vaguely. “Most likely, they’ll get together somewhere around here. There are lots of old silver mines. Perfect for hiding out.”

  “So, just let me get this straight, sir,” Connor interrupted. “You want Delta Force to locate Mullah Khan and find out when and where the meeting will take place, so you can then arrange a targeted air strike.”

  Colonel Rogers nodded. “Got it in one, major. Radio us the co-ordinates and let our F-16s do the rest. Naturally, if the opportunity arises, feel free to take out Khan yourselves.”

  It sounded so simple, but Connor knew nothing could be further from the truth. “I foresee one or two problems, sir.”

  “Thought you might, major. Fire away.”

  “Firstly, how do we get even close to them? Blocked by snow, most of the mountain roads are still impassable by vehicle, and it would take days on foot. Also, the only ground entry point is via the Panjshir valley. And that means going through the gorge at Dalan Sang. We’d be spotted and picked off like sitting ducks, just like the Russians were back in the 1980s. Alternatively, if we helicopter in they’re bound to hear us coming, especially as the region is supposed to be crawling with Taliban.”

  “There is a way, major.”

  Danny groaned. “I think Colonel Rogers has a HALO jump in mind, sir. It’s the only way in.”

  Connor shuddered. HALO, or high-altitude-low-opening, parachute jumps were extremely hazardous at the best of times. The lengthy freefall phase could carry you way off target, and if you left it a second too late to open your chute you’d hit the ground with such force that two broken legs were almost guaranteed. But Connor knew Danny was right. It was the only way in.

  “Then what?” Connor countered.

  “We’re going to insert you on the trail to the Khawak Pass, major,” Rogers explained. “There’s a small village that’s been largely deserted for the last fifteen years. There, you’ll rendezvous with our local contact. His name is Hamid. He should be able to assist you.” The colonel introduced one of his team. “This is Lieutenant Bradley. He’s an ex-navy SEAL and is Hamid’s liaison officer. He will accompany you on your mission. Like you, Major Connor, he speaks the lingo.”

  Connor exchanged nods with Bradley, but couldn’t resist asking the obvious question. “If you’re in contact with this Hamid guy, can’t he find out the location of Khan?”

  “I lost contact with him a week ago,” Bradley responded. “But that’s not unusual. I left him a coded message about our rendezvous. If he can make it, I’m sure he will.”

  “When do we go in?” Connor asked.

  “In four days, major.”

  “And tactical support? Can we call in reinforcements? What if we have a man down? Evac by helo may be difficult.”

  “Almost impossible, I’d say,” Colonel Rogers replied. “I’m afraid you’ll be on your own. My advice to you is to not get shot.”

  The initial briefing was wrapped up. Connor went to find Lieutenant Bradley with a question that needed an answer.

  “Are you sure you can trust Hamid?”

  Bradley shrugged. “As far as you can trust any of them.” It was not the response Connor was hoping for. Bradley saw his concern and added, “Hamid comes from a family who have worked the silver mines up there for years. Most mines aren’t even marked on our maps, so having someone who can point us to them will save a lot of time. And, anyway, I’m useful to Hamid. It’s in his best interests to keep in my good books.”

  “Explain,” said Connor, frowning.

  “Hamid’s branched out. Silver isn’t the only precious thing up there. Years back when the Russians bombed the hell out of the region, they revealed seams of emeralds in the rock. Hamid’s family stockpiled munitions left behind when the Russians went home, and ever since they’ve used the explosives to blast the emeralds out. Their problem, however, was smuggling the gems out and getting a decent price for them.”

  “And that’s where you come in?”

  Bradley nodded. “I pay Hamid ten times what he could get from the usual unscrupulous middlemen willing to smuggle them into Pakistan. We’re overdue a deal, too. I’ve got the cash stashed ready. In return he feeds me intel.”

  “Then we’d better pray nobody’s made him a better offer.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HALO drop

  Four days later

  The Hercules C-130 climbed to 33,000 feet over the mountains of the Hindu Kush and levelled out. Connor sat alonside his men, still running the mission over in his head. Even after four days there were big gaps in the intel, and no contact from Bradley’s man, Hamid. Bradley remained unconcerned, but Connor had to consider the possibility that either something had happened to Hamid or, worse, that his collaboration with US intelligence had been rumbled by the Taliban. If so, Delta Force might be walking into a trap.

  Turbulence caused the plane to jolt, rattle and shudder. Lit by a single dim red lamp, everyone sat in silence, the engines droning in their ears. Connor studied Lieutenant Bradley, who was clearly relishing the mission. At least he had something to be grateful for. Rogers could have lumbered him with someone without the necessary combat experience.

  The jumpmaster tapped Connor on the shoulder. “Five minutes, major,” he shouted through his oxygen mask. “Get ready.”

  Connor indicated for his team to carry out final checks.

  Everything they needed had to be carried: body armour, weapons and ammunition, comms equipment, ration packs, first-aid field kits and sleeping bags, plus the breathing gear they were wearing to survive at this altitude. Together with their parachutes, each man could barely stand under the weight and, despite the cold, they were sweating in their grey-white alpine-style camouflage uniforms.

  “One minute!”

  The jumpmaster pushed the button to lower the rear cargo door. The howling rush of ice-cold air nearly knocked Connor off his feet. He steadied himself and looked out into the night, hoping to see moonlit, snow-covered peaks, ridges and valleys of the Hindu Kush spread out below. Instead, all he saw was cloud.

  “Drop zone ahead! Thirty seconds!”

  Connor looked back along the line. Each one of the team gave him a thumbs-up signal in turn, speaking into their throat mics to confirm their checks were complete. In the cockpit the navigator monitored the plane’s position closely, waiting for the GPS co-ordinates to match those chosen for the drop. The moment they coincided he flicked a switch and the red light next to the open door changed to green.

  “Go… Go… Go…”

  Connor hurried down the ramp, launched himself out, and used his arms and legs to control his free fall. Air roared in his ears and rushed past his face. It was so cold it felt like being in a blast freezer. Suddenly, he broke through the cloud base and saw the ground rushing towards him. He reached for his chute’s release cord, but didn’t pull it until he was as low as he dared.

  The chute snatched Connor from certain death just two hundred metres from impact. He peered down, looking for a decent spot to land. He tugged on the lines to adjust his position. Seconds later his boots sun
k into a two-foot drift. Knees bent, he rolled and got a face full of crisp snow.

  Dragging in and folding his chute, Connor knew the first task was to find somewhere to bury it. While hastily unclipping his webbing straps he looked around, keen to see where the others landed. Despite the ice and snow casting an eerie paleness in the dark, he could barely make out a thing. “Everyone down OK? Check in, over.”

  “Sparks here, sir. I’m with Jacko and Sam. We saw you land. We’ll be with you in five, over.”

  “Danny here, sir. I can see Ben. Where are you, over?”

  Connor studied his wrist-mounted GPS device and read out his location.

  “We’ll be with you in ten, sir, over.”

  Connor waited, listening intently.

  Nothing.

  “Bradley, do you read me, over?”

  Silence.

  “Come in, Bradley, over… Listen up, guys, I’m not getting a response from Lieutenant Bradley, so keep your eyes peeled, over.”

  As his Delta Force team made their way to his position, Connor repeated his calls to Bradley. Grabbing his thermal-imaging binoculars, he scanned the steep valley floor, hoping to detect the lieutenant’s heat signature.

  “Still nothing?” asked Sparks as he arrived with Jacko and Sam.

  Connor shook his head. “Where the hell is he?”

  As they waited for Danny and Ben, Connor feared the worst, picturing Bradley unconscious or dead, or maybe crippled on landing. Equally worryingly, Connor knew that a river ran through the valley. He could hear it. It was fast flowing with notorious rapids. Although some parts were covered in thick ice, elsewhere it would be too thin to support a man’s weight at this time of year. If Bradley had landed there, he would have punched a hole through it and got swept away. Carrying such heavy kit, he’d stand no chance.

  Danny and Ben arrived. Ben was limping heavily. “You OK?” Connor asked.

  Ben desperately tried to ignore the shooting pains. “Yes, sir. Twisted my ankle but I reckon I can walk it off.”