Sons of Valor Read online

  It was all wrong.

  This was not how it was supposed to be.

  But his subconscious was in control, and the gruesome flashback spooled through his mind: Saida’s smile, running after their father’s car, fire streaking from the sky, then her severed leg, smoldering on the ground while his father’s funeral pyre burned in the distance. Panic, angst, and rage filled him, the likes of which he’d not felt since the night of the drone strike. He stood abruptly, feeling flushed and short of breath. He had to get out of the banquet hall. He needed air. He needed to breathe . . .

  Trying not to draw attention to himself, he slithered through the crowd of guests and made his way outside. Despite it being a dreadfully hot day, the temperature had dropped significantly after sundown. The cool night air immediately whisked the heat from his skin and made it easier to breathe. He bent at the waist, palms pressed against the tops of his thighs.

  This is a happy day . . . a good day. What are you doing, Qasim? he chastised himself.

  He took one final, cleansing breath and straightened. Suddenly feeling eyes on him, he looked right and saw three men standing in a tight cluster, one of them smoking. Presumably, they’d been talking, but now they were silent, staring at him. He’d noticed them earlier, inside the wedding hall, where they’d seemed out of place beside the other guests. They wore understated tunics and trousers, a shabbiness that bordered on the inappropriate. Pakistani weddings were flashy affairs, with the women dressed in ornate and brightly colored dresses and the men frequently opting for European suits with clean lines. When men did wear tunics, they were typically made of silk and elaborately embroidered. These guys, with their heavy beards and black turbans, looked like they’d just wandered in from the Khyber Pass. But it wasn’t how they looked that bothered him; it was the way they looked at him, the way they looked at everyone : with scrutiny, with judgment, with malice. It was the same malevolent stare that every Taliban lieutenant had fixed on him growing up.

  A hand gripped his shoulder. Reflexively, he jerked free and whirled to face his accoster.

  “Qasim?” Eshan said, frowning. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” Qasim said, straightening his necktie and forcing a pleasant smile. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry about that; I didn’t mean to surprise you. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t ill.”

  “No, I’m not ill,” he said through a sigh. “I just . . . never mind. Enough about me. Aleena looks so beautiful; she’s so full of life and energy. I’m happy for you.”

  “She is radiant, isn’t she? But I’m not letting you change the subject so easily. Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

  At first, Qasim’s jaw clenched, but then it all came spilling out. Like a dam break, it was impossible for him to contain the torrent he’d kept at bay all these years. He started by telling Eshan about the flashback and of his mixed emotions about Eshan moving on, how he was jealous and yet overjoyed, bitter but relieved. He talked about the guilt he carried for leaving his ancestral home to start a new life in England. And how a big part of his leaving was driven by fear—fear of the Taliban, fear of the Americans, and mostly fear about his future in a country he felt so disconnected from. The dark irony, of course, was that in his flat in New Malden, he felt more alone, afraid, and isolated than he ever had growing up. He didn’t fit in, and no one loved or understood him there. He blamed the Americans for that, because if they hadn’t murdered his sister and father, then leaving would have been his choice, not something that was done to him. He said this and other things. Many things, almost all of them contradictory and conflicted and childish. When he had finished, he felt better, but he was also too ashamed to look his friend in the eyes.

  “Qasim, there is nothing wrong with you,” Eshan said, his voice calm and steady. “I’ve battled with all the same feelings. I’ve battled with guilt and anger and hopelessness. I loved your sister—more than life itself—but she is gone, and nothing we do can change that. Nothing we do can bring her back. But that doesn’t mean we must accept the atrocity. It doesn’t mean we should forgive the men who murdered her and stole her future . . . our future. With our silence, we sanctify their war crimes. With our inaction, we legitimize their tyranny.”

  “What are you talking about?” Qasim said, sensing a new and unfamiliar tone.

  “I’m talking about reclaiming what is rightfully ours from the apostates who occupy our land and murder our brothers, wives, and children. I’m talking about freedom and recompense. I’m talking about change, Qasim. Most of all, I’m talking about the future.”

  Qasim didn’t reply. Eshan’s words both energized and terrified him to the core.

  “But we’ll talk more about these things later,” Eshan said. “Tonight is a night for celebration, not remorse. Let’s go back inside. Aleena wants to meet you. If you’re lucky, she might even let you dance with her.”

  “All right, but I’m a terrible dancer,” Qasim said.

  The night ebbed, the newlyweds eventually disappeared, and a few hours later, a knock on the hotel room door jolted him awake. It felt like he’d slept for no more than fifteen minutes, but the sunlit room begged to differ. A glance at the clock on the bedside table confirmed it was after noon. The knock came a second time, and with a groan he crawled out of bed. Stooping to use the security peephole, he saw Eshan’s face—distorted by the fish-eye lens—staring back at him.

  “What are you doing here?” Qasim said as he unlocked and opened the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is magnificent,” Eshan said, waltzing into the room, face freshly shaved and beaming. “I have my bride and best friend together in the same city at the same time. The wedding banquet was a huge success, and last night with Aleena was something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”

  Qasim grinned and shook his head. “So that was the howling keeping me up all night.”

  “Don’t be surprised when I invite you back in nine months so you can meet little Eshan,” his friend said with a wink.

  “As long as I get to be Uncle Qasim, you have a deal.” Then, after an awkward beat, he said, “Not to be rude, my friend, but why are you here? You should be in your room, enjoying the morning with your new wife.”

  “We already enjoyed the morning,” Eshan said, grinning even wider than before. “Aleena is an early riser. We had some fun together, and now she is off for a day of shopping with her sisters. Which is great, because it gives me time to spend with you. Get dressed. I want to show you around Peshawar. It’s a beautiful and vibrant city. Much to see.”

  Knowing that arguing was pointless, Qasim dutifully changed clothes, and five minutes later the two friends were walking away from the hotel.

  “Eshan, there’s something I need to ask you. Something that’s been bothering me since last night,” Qasim said.

  “Okay, what is on your mind?”

  “Those men last night, at your wedding . . . were they Taliban?”

  Eshan smiled, then pulled his phone from his pocket and powered it down wordlessly in front of Qasim’s face. Shaking his head in disbelief, Qasim did the same. When the deed was done, Eshan said, “Two of the men were Taliban, and one is affiliated with a different group.”

  “You invited fucking terrorists to your wedding!” Qasim gasped. Because of his Islamic upbringing, he rarely swore, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Keep your voice down,” Eshan snapped while keeping his expression pleasant. Then, in a relaxed, conversational tone he added, “They are business associates, Qasim, and they wanted to meet you.”

  “Meet me?” Qasim said, practically choking on his tongue. “What the bloody hell for?”

  “Because of the work you’re doing at British Aero, of course. And because I have spoken very highly of you. They know our story. They know what we have lost.”

  “Eshan . . . I . . . I don’t even know what to say. You know I’m not a believer. You know I don’t support jihad. And neither do you, for that matter. I don’t understand,” Qasim said, stopping in his tracks.

  “Keep walking,” Eshan said, with an uncharacteristic take-charge manner. Qasim found himself falling in step beside Eshan despite himself. “Saida was murdered. Your father was murdered. The people who murdered them have not been held accountable. The American military kills with absolute impunity. They believe themselves gods, like Zeus striking down mortals from the sky without guilt or consequence. But instead of throwing thunderbolts from Mount Olympus, they use Hellfire missiles fired from drones at thirty thousand feet.”

  Qasim resisted the urge to nod in agreement. There was truth in his friend’s words.

  “It is a shame that it takes personal loss and suffering for most men to find their courage . . . to find their principles. I count myself as one of these men. Before Saida’s murder, I told myself that the Americans were not invaders, but rather arbiters of justice. Keepers of the peace. But this is the story a coward tells himself so he can sleep at night. As long as the bad things happen to somebody else’s wife, somebody else’s daughter, then why get involved? Why take the risk of drawing their fury down on your head? It is so much simpler, so much safer, to remain anonymous in the crowd and play the game of numbers.”

  “Like a bait ball,” Qasim murmured.

  “Excuse me?”

  “A bait ball,” he repeated. “Small fish, like sardines, cluster together in a tight sphere when confronted by a predator. They swim close together, at the same speed and in the same direction, each fish trying to get lost in the crowd. I saw it on a documentary.”

  “Exactly my point. When faced
with a powerful threat, we are no smarter or braver than sardines.”

  “Maybe, but if you are a sardine being hunted by a shark, what other option do you have? It is not a choice, it is necessity. The sardine that breaks from the school and charges the shark is sure to be eaten.”

  “Ah. But what if the sardines pooled their resources and hired a shark to protect them and attack any incoming shark before it could strike?”

  Qasim raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “What if I told you that I had acquired a combat drone equipped with air-to-ground missiles, and that I could deploy it in the Afghan skies as a deterrent to the Americans.”

  “I’d say you were crazy.”

  “Crazy like a sardine, right?” Eshan said, his trademark grin returning.

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, then call me crazy.” Eshan pulled his phone out of his pocket and powered it on. He found the image he wanted and passed his phone to Qasim.

  Qasim recognized the object on the screen instantly—an MQ-9 Reaper UCAV armed with a Hellfire missile under each wing. Wait, no. That’s not a Reaper, he thought zooming in with thumb and forefinger. The C-band radio antenna behind the sensor fairing hump was missing, as was the downward-pointing tail control surface.

  “That’s a Wing Loong Pterodactyl,” he said, handing the phone back to Eshan. “A Chinese clone of the American Reaper but with marginally reduced range, payload, and sensor capabilities.”

  “Impressive. You certainly know your drones.” Eshan powered his phone off and returned it to his pocket.

  “Why are you showing me that?”

  “It’s in our possession. Would you like to see it?”

  “What do you mean in our possession? Are you talking about those men from last night? They acquired this drone and you’re working with them?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Eshan said simply. “Would you like to see it in person?”

  A moment passed between old friends before Qasim said, “Of course not! Are you crazy?”

  “You hesitated.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did, and I know you, Qasim. You’re curious. You want to see it.”

  “I work on drones far more advanced than the Pterodactyl every day . . .”

  “On your computer. But have you actually put your hands on one?”

  “No,” he said, not meeting Eshan’s gaze.

  “Have you piloted one?”

  “Only a simulator.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “You’re crazy.” Qasim picked up his pace and walked ahead, despite having no idea where he was going.

  “It’s time to stop lying to yourself,” Eshan said, trotting to catch up with him. “Do you think it was an accident that you went to work for British Aero? An accident that they put you in charge of flight dynamics software integration for their next generation stealth drone? Of course not. This is Allah’s hand at work. He has been laying the groundwork for this moment since the night that Hellfire missile destroyed our lives. Working through your subconscious mind to make the plans and build the foundation of our retribution.”

  A shiver ran down Qasim’s spine, and he halted. “This is your plan, not Allah’s. You’re the one who encouraged me to apply at British Aero. I’d forgot that, but it was you. I bet you knew about their path-to-citizenship intern program, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t make any of this happen,” Eshan said with a shrug. “I just gave you a nudge; the rest you did yourself.”

  “Bollocks. It’s all your handiwork.” Qasim laughed harshly. “You’re not an engineer of machines, you’re an engineer of outcomes. Push a little here, pull a little there, whisper this, lie about that, until you have everyone doing your bidding. Just like this visit. You show up on my doorstep out of the blue, talking about home and family. You invite me to your wedding, knowing I can’t refuse, then you set a recruitment trap for me. But I’m not some poor, naive boy from the village with dreams of glory and no prospects for a better future. These are bad men, Eshan, very bad men you’ve tangled yourself up with. Once they get their hooks into you, you can never escape. I’m sorry, but I’m not throwing away my life, and I’m not going to live the rest of my life in fear wondering if tonight is the night men with guns break down my door and haul me away to some black site, never to be seen or heard from again. I’m not doing it.”

  “Okay,” Eshan said with another shrug. “I understand. We don’t need to speak of this again. Let’s enjoy the walk, get some lunch, then you can enjoy the rest of your holiday. No hard feelings.”

  They walked in silence for a block, Qasim’s mind a mess of contradicting thoughts and emotions.

  “This place has good food,” Eshan said, nodding at a sign. “Not so clean, but very tasty . . . What? What’s that look?”

  “I don’t understand how you can be so casual about this,” Qasim said, standing in the middle of a street crammed with vendors, scooters, and three-wheeled carts. The cloud of dust and mélange of city odors reminded him of Jalalabad.

  “Look, I understand you’re afraid, and it’s okay,” Eshan said as a bearded man on a motorbike zipped by, shooting the narrow gap between them. “There’s no shame in saying no.”

  Qasim could detect no hint of insincerity in his friend’s voice or expression, but the subtext was unmistakable: There was shame in saying no, and in saying no he solidified his cowardice.

  “Why do you do this to me?” Qasim said, an actor repeating his lines as they played out the same old scene.

  “Do what?”

  “Put me in an impossible situation, watch me squirm, then act so noble and understanding when I fail to rise to the occasion?”

  Eshan put a hand on his shoulder. “Because, brother, it’s my job to remind you of what you are capable of.”

  “Then, tell me, brother, what am I capable of?”

  “Great things . . . impossible things. One man can make a difference. All we need you to do is look over the drone’s programming and make sure it’s operational. We need this drone for protection. It levels the playing field and will make the Americans think twice before they launch missiles from the sky at someone else’s wedding.”

  “You’re not going to use it for terrorism?”

  “Of course not. It’s for protection . . . Spend one day with the drone, that’s all I ask. Then you can go back to England and your life.”

  “And Diba?”

  “And Diba, of course,” Eshan said, nodding. “Don’t worry, she knows nothing of this.”

  “That’s all? I look at the drone, check the programming, make sure it can fly without crashing?”

  “That’s all.”

  Qasim felt a lump form in his throat. He swallowed, but it persisted. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” Eshan turned toward the restaurant. “Let’s go get some kebabs, and you can ask anything you want about our Wing Loong Pterodactyl.”

  CHAPTER 7

  united states special operations command (socom)

  macdill air force base

  tampa, florida

  1307 local time

  Whitney Watts combed her fingers through her espresso-brown hair, pushing the tousled sweep of bangs out of her eyes. The very last thing she’d done before leaving DC was to chop twelve inches off. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but a symbolic one—a fresh look for a fresh start. The old Northern Virginia Whitney was over. Say hello to Florida Whitney.

  When Reed Lewis, her boss at the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, had informed her that he’d recommended her for a big promotion, she’d thought he was messing with her. Despite him being two decades older, they got each other’s humor, but it hadn’t been a joke. Apparently, some nameless, secret direct-action activity was being stood up in Florida, and the NCTC Director had been asked to recommend candidates for an analyst to run their intel shop. Out of everyone in the department, Lewis had recommended her—a twenty-seven-year-old tattooed millennial with unicorn professional dreams and a sorry-not-sorry attitude.

  Go figure.

  And now she was here, with absolutely no friggin’ idea what she’d gotten herself into.