Sons of Valor Page 3

  “Hell no,” Chunk said, thinking about the unmarked tactical uniforms the dead tangos were wearing. “No insignia on these guys.”

  “Yeah, noticed that. Think they’re contractors?”

  “No idea.” Irritated, Chunk prompted Aveda for an update on enemy thermals. “Mother, Neptune—talk to us?”

  “We’ve got lots of interference from the superstructure. Satellite can’t make out anything below decks, Neptune, but I hold your team’s eight heat sigs topside and six cold tangos. Also, I’ve got five warm bodies on the bridge.”

  “Copy, Mother.”

  “One, Five,” Trip radioed, “the stern is secure. Want us to stay put?”

  “No, fall in on me,” Chunk said. “Two, hold the deck while my element takes the bridge as briefed.”

  “Check,” came the reply from Juarez.

  “Oh, and Two, stay frosty because that grenade-lobbing sonuvabitch below decks could still be alive and probably has friends,” Chunk added.

  “Copy, One.”

  Trip and a SEAL called Ethan from Juarez’s fire team came sprinting along the gunwale and fell in beside him and Riker. The forward superstructure, or bridge tower, had two access hatches—one port and one starboard. Using hand signals, Chunk sent Riker and Ethan around to the port hatch, and he stayed behind with Trip. He stayed tight against the wall beside the starboard hatch and waited for the call from Riker.

  “One, Four—set,” Riker said in his ear.

  Trip gave Chunk’s shoulder a confirming squeeze and Chunk counted them down from three. On zero he pivoted, ducked low, and entered. Once through the hatch, he immediately slid left. While he cleared the crawlspace under the stairwell, Trip cleared his corner and took the lead, quickly advancing up the stairs to the next landing. Chunk followed, adrenaline pumping, pulse pounding in his ears, checking their six down the stairs as he ascended. They repeated the drill, reversing roles at each landing until they’d reached the O-5 level, which housed the bridge.

  Within seconds Riker’s amplified whisper was in Chunk’s headset, “Four is set.” Riker and Ethan had advanced up the por side of the pilot house with mirror-image precision.

  Chunk nodded to Trip, repositioned to the opposite side of the hatch, then whispered, “Go.”

  They moved down the passage a short distance until they reached the bridge access door. But as they approached the door, Aveda spoke in Chunk’s ear.

  “Neptune, Mother—you have two insurgent fire teams advancing in pairs from the aft tower, main deck level.”

  The news did not surprise Chunk; he’d predicted more shooters were hanging out below decks.

  “Copy, Mother,” Juarez replied.

  “I see them,” Saw said calmly. “Make that one fire team,” he added a beat later, having dealt death from his perch.

  Automatic rifle fire erupted outside, but with Juarez’s team covering the bridge tower access doors and Saw as overwatch, Chunk was confident they had things under control. He couldn’t let himself get distracted from the task at hand, which was taking the bridge. With a nod to Trip, he yanked open the door. Trip tossed a flash-bang grenade through the gap, and Chunk held the door closed until he heard the dull whump. He reopened the door and followed Trip inside, sighting over his MK18 in a tactical crouch. He squeezed twice on his trigger, dropping a bearded man in shorts and flip-flops sighting over a pistol. Chunk pivoted and surged forward, aware that Riker and Ethan were clearing from the opposite side. His brain identified their kit-clad shapes as friendlies, and his rifle sights drifted past them.

  Two muzzle flares flashed in his peripheral vision, and it was over.

  Three men were dead at their feet, two others kneeling on the floor with hands up in surrender. Trip and Ethan held sentry positions, sighting on the port and starboard doors from the corners of the navigation table, just aft of the empty workstations flanking an elevated captain’s chair.

  “Bridge secure,” Chunk called, hoping for a SITREP from Juarez and his team. This was the hardest part for him—when the initial shooting lulled and he didn’t know if all the men he led were okay.

  Without warning, the portside access door burst open and a fighter charged onto the bridge. His wide-eyed expression showed he realized his mistake a millisecond before he took a 5.56 round to the forehead. The man’s assault rifle clattered to the floor, and his body hit the deck.

  “Good boy,” Trip said, a tendril of smoke curling from the muzzle of his weapon. He held the target on the door in case the party-crasher had a friend.

  Riker moved swiftly, checking the two kneeling prisoners for suicide vests and weapons before flex-cuffing them.

  “One, Two—main deck is secure,” came the timely report from Juarez. “You want me to sweep below decks?”

  “Roger, Two, and stay frosty. There could be more shooters.” Chunk scanned their two crows. Picking the older and more grizzled of the duo, he said, “Are you the captain of this ship?”

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “You speak English?” he said, approaching the bearded Pakistani.

  “Yes.”

  “Why is your vessel at sea anchor?”

  “We don’t have authorization to enter port yet.”

  “Which port?” Chunk pressed.

  “Gwadar,” the man said, his gaze downcast.

  “That’s in western Pakistan, close to the Iranian border, correct?”

  The captain nodded.

  “How many contract fighters like this guy do you have on board?” he asked, pointing to the dead fighter in the doorway. Like the others who’d been wearing unmarked uniforms, he looked to be of East Asian descent.

  Chinese . . . maybe North Korean? Chunk thought.

  “Ten,” the captain said.

  Riker shot Chunk a wary look, but Chunk held his stone-faced expression.

  “What about these guys?” Chunk swept the muzzle of his rifle across the other dead. None were in uniform, and they all looked to be Pakistani or Arab.

  “Not contractors. Ship’s personnel.”

  “Why are the contractors here?”

  “Security.”

  “Security for what?” Chunk pressed.

  The captain looked away and didn’t answer.

  “I said security for what?” Chunk grabbed the man under the jaw and turned his chin until he made eye contact.

  “I don’t know,” the man answered, his voice weary and defeated. “And I don’t want to know.”

  Riker tugged at Chunk’s sleeve. “This ain’t our job, bro. Leave it to the spooks when we get to port.”

  “Yeah, except I think the Head Shed screwed up,” Chunk said in a hushed tone. He pointed his rifle barrel at the dead contract shooter. “That ain’t no AK-47. The mag’s behind the pistol grip. Look at it—that’s a QBZ-95.”

  Riker ran his tongue between his lower lip and his bottom teeth and walked over to the doorway. With the toe of his boot, he nudged the dead man’s rifle for a good look. “Yeah, yeah . . . you’re right. It’s actually a 97. This variant takes NATO 5.56 rounds.”

  “All these shooters we killed, I’m pretty sure they’re Chinese.”

  Riker looked at him. “Yeah, so?”

  “So you were at the same intel brief I was. I don’t think these guys were supposed to be here,” Chunk said. “If we just took out a regiment of Chinese special forces . . .”

  “Shit.” Riker winced. “I’ll start moving the bodies below decks, and we better get the spooks here ASAFP to figure it out.”

  Chunk nodded, and an unfamiliar lump began to form in his throat as he keyed his mike to give the Head Shed the bad news.

  CHAPTER 2

  british aero defense systems

  aeronautical dynamics division

  new malden, england

  1918 local time

  Qasim frowned at his computer as the next-generation Valkyrie combat drone on his monitor went into an uncontrolled spin and crashed into the ground. It didn’t really crash—this was just a simulation—but if he didn’t figure out the problem, his career would mirror the pixelated wreckage on the screen. He aborted the trial and reset the parameters to tweak the design change and try again.

  “Qasim,” a voice ripe with accusatory irritation said from behind him. “It’s after seven o’clock and I’m still waiting. What’s the problem, precisely?”

  He turned to find his boss, Oliver Payne, arms crossed and invading his personal space. Several possible retorts popped into his head: The problem is that the simulator software is shit and full of bugs. Or how about: Valkyrie is an engine masquerading as a control surface and we need to stop pretending otherwise. Or best yet: The problem, oh wise and powerful boss, is that you tasked me with eighty hours of work and gave me ten hours to do it.

  Qasim, of course, said none of these things. “I’m sorry, Mr. Payne. The latest design change has had rather significant aerodynamic repercussions, and I’m still trying to evaluate the impact across hundreds of flight permutations. There’s an instability in certain conditions that—”

  “I don’t see why this should be so difficult,” Payne cut him off. “Your job is to plug the change into the model and let the computer do all the work.”

  Qasim suppressed the reflex to laugh aloud at this moronic statement and said, “I wish it were as simple as that.”

  The subtle condescension was apparently not lost on Payne, because his cheeks turned red. “How much longer do you need? I don’t know if you are aware, but I’m under immense pressure from senior management to finalize the design so we can commence aviation tri
als. This stealth aircraft is the future of British air defense and combat operations abroad. Getting the Valkyrie into production is the PM’s number one defense priority. He personally called the CEO last week for a status update.”

  “Stealth UCAV,” Qasim said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said stealth aircraft, but technically Valkyrie is a UCAV—unmanned combat aerial vehicle, sir.”

  “Are you trying to pick a bloody fight with me?”

  “No sir.”

  “You think I don’t know it’s a bloody drone?”

  “No, sir, it’s just that semantics matter, particularly . . . with this program.”

  Payne took a theatrically deep breath and said, “Will you be getting the work done tonight or not?”

  “No,” Qasim said. “I need another day.”

  “Bloody hell,” Payne snapped. Then, as he walked away, “You have until tomorrow, Nadar, but after that, no more excuses.”

  “Yes sir. Good night, sir.” He turned around in his chair to face his computer, and when Payne was out of earshot, murmured, “Asshole.” These simulations were helpful, to be sure, but they were still just a simulation.

  If only they’d let me pilot a Valkyrie, he lamented. For just one day. I could learn so much . . .

  But they would never let that happen. He wasn’t an RAF pilot with “golden hands.” He was just a lowly Afghan engineer with dual degrees in aeronautical engineering and avionics software integration. He was just the immigrant who’d designed a third of the Valkyrie’s systems, debugged all the avionics software, and ran all the model simulations. They wouldn’t even let Qasim see the prototype in person. He knew the closest he’d ever get to Valkyrie was on this computer screen, and that infuriated him.

  “Hey, Qasim,” said a cheerful male voice behind him. “Some of us are going to the pub. Want to join us, mate?”

  “I’ve got too much work to do,” he said without turning around. “But thank you anyway, Trevor.”

  “We’ll be at Glasshouse if you change your mind,” the young software engineer from Surry replied.

  “If I finish, maybe I’ll do that,” he said, but they both knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  After five years he still felt like a visitor in his adopted home. No, not a visitor—a foreigner. There was a difference. His coworkers were generally nice to him and tried to include him in their social outings, but he was never going to be one of them. Not really. London had nothing for him but the job—a job that was more an addiction than profession. The irony that designing combat drones had become his life’s work was not lost on him. There was a dark and twisted part inside him—a part he never talked about—that had festered and mutated ever since the deaths of his father and sister and pushed him to design the same weapons of war that had murdered them. It was disgusting what he was doing, and yet he could not help himself. Working at British Aero was his personal form of spiritual self-mortification. Like a moth to a flame . . .

  He wanted to be burned.

  He worked until eye fatigue forced him to quit, which turned out to be after 10:00 p.m. After logging out of his terminal, he took the elevator down to the ground floor and exited the building onto the wide sidewalk that ran along High Street. A red double-decker bus along the curb belched out a cloud of exhaust that made him momentarily hold his breath. As the bus rumbled away to the north, Qasim’s gaze followed it. The Glasshouse was literally a stone’s throw away, just a block past the overpass. He was certain a few of his coworkers would still be there . . . but their commonality ended with being young engineers. He was a brown-skinned Afghan Muslim. They were pale British Protestants. They were happy, hopeful sheep, foolishly naive about the company they worked for and the world they lived in. They lived their lives like oversized children . . . programming advanced military aviation software by day, ordering drafts at the pub by night.

  None of them had seen death up close and personal.

  None of them had experienced the horrors of what the machines of war could unleash.

  Feeling suddenly and passionately resentful, he turned and headed south.

  He walked a block to Cambridge Road, past the Domino’s Pizza, which he hated. Past the Cake & Bingsoo Café, which he also hated—but not quite as much because he still had a sweet tooth—and finally past the New Malden Methodist Church, which he resented but could not articulate why. At the intersection, he turned right and walked two and half blocks to the overpriced two-bedroom flat he rented. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the man seated on his front stoop until he reached down to open the little gate in the fence surrounding his six-square-meter “garden” in front of the redbrick house.

  He started as the man abruptly stood, but his nerves evaporated a heartbeat later. “Eshan?”

  “Hello, brother,” Eshan said with a grin, taking a step forward to greet him.

  “What are you doing here?” Qasim embraced his oldest and dearest friend.

  “It’s good to see you too,” Eshan said with a laugh.

  “I didn’t mean it that way . . . what I meant was, I didn’t know you were in London,” Qasim said, suddenly feeling shabby in his business casual next to the impeccable tailoring of Eshan’s suit.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t give you advanced notice. It was a last-

  minute trip to try to smooth things over with an important client.”

  “I see. Well, no matter, it’s very good to see you. How long has it been, my friend?”

  “Too long,” Eshan said, taking on a remorseful tone.

  “So true,” Qasim said, nodding. “But that’s my fault, I suppose. I never visit home.”

  “Why would you?” Eshan threw an arm around his shoulders. “There’s nothing but rocks, goats, and Taliban at home.”

  Qasim couldn’t think of a proper reply, so he simply nodded. It was true. His nuclear family were all dead, and while he had inherited most of his father’s money, he had no interest in politics, smuggling, or living under the Taliban regime. There was nothing and nobody for him in Afghanistan, nothing and nobody except for Eshan . . . And despite neither man intending it to, Saida’s death had silently pushed them apart rather than bringing them together.

  He retrieved his keys from his pants pocket, unlocked the front door, and invited Eshan inside. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A glass of water, please,” Eshan said, switching from English to Pashto and taking a measure of the place as he spoke.

  “I know it’s not much, but I’m renting and don’t have the time to decorate,” Qasim said. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken his native tongue, but it felt good—like kicking off an uncomfortable pair of shoes after a long day at work. He filled two glasses from a jug of tap water he kept in the refrigerator and walked to the living room.

  “There is beauty in simplicity,” Eshan said from where he stood, perusing the only decor in the flat—a row of framed photographs atop the mantel.

  He watched Eshan pick up his personal favorite of the group, a candid photo of the two of them laughing while Saida, sitting between them, recounted a funny story. Angst—long suppressed but not forgotten—awoke inside him. His throat felt tight, and his knees suddenly unsteady.

  “I remember this day,” Eshan said, his back to Qasim. “Like it was yesterday.”

  After a long pause, he replaced the photo, pulled out his mobile phone, and snapped a picture of it before turning to face Qasim. To Qasim’s surprise, Eshan was not choking back tears like he was. Instead, his friend’s expression was clinical, almost detached. “So tell me, have you met someone yet? A beautiful Afghan expat like yourself here in London?”

  Qasim felt heat in his cheeks. He shook his head.

  “What about a nice English girl? I know you always secretly liked blond women with blue eyes.”

  “No,” he said with a wan smile. “No English girls . . . There is this one girl at work, Veena, who is funny, but I don’t think she’s interested in me. Besides, her parents are Indian, so I don’t think it would work even if she were.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve lived in London for all this time and haven’t gone on a single date,” Eshan said with fraternal condemnation.