Ben shook his head cheerfully. ‘No, he’s taken to it much better. I did worry that the time he spent in the hands of the Taliban might have made him tetchy toward Afghans. But so far he’s taking things in his stride.’
‘Glad to hear it, especially since we could be going into action sooner rather than later.’ Charlie leaned closer to Ben as they walked, and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve been told that a video of the secretary-general was just released on the internet. The Taliban are definitely holding him.’
‘Okay. At least that’s settled,’ said Ben.
Charlie nodded. ‘We have a briefing with the Yanks at 2000 hours.’
At eight o’clock that evening the four newly arrived Australian Special Forces soldiers joined the briefing in the Tarin Kowt Special Operations Headquarters. The briefing room was set up as a small theatre, with rows of hard seats facing a low stage. A large LCD screen hung on the back wall. As Ben and his three mates seated themselves at the back of the room, Ben, looking around, noted that there were a number of other Australian and American soldiers present.
‘Attention!’ barked a senior NCO, and everyone jumped to their feet.
The commander of ISAF forces in Uruzgan was the Australian Army’s Brigadier Ken Quiggly. A tall but slight man with short ginger hair and a bony nose, he walked quickly into the room via a side door, followed by the US Army’s Lieutenant General Mitch McAvoy and Australian Major Alex Jinko. As the officers passed Charlie, Brigadier Quiggly and Major Jinko saluted him.
‘What was that about, Quiggly?’ McAvoy asked in a low voice as the officers reached the stage. ‘Officers saluting a sergeant?’
‘Sergeant Grover was awarded the Victoria Cross, sir,’ the brigadier informed him. ‘In our army all officers, generals included, salute a VC.’
‘That so?’ said McAvoy, impressed.
‘Okay, as you were, people,’ Brigadier Quiggly called, and the men in front of them resumed their seats. ‘Lieutenant General McAvoy here is 2IC at US Special Forces Command. He’s just stepped off a plane from Washington DC. The fact that an officer of his high rank has been assigned command of this op should give you an indication of how important it is to our governments that this mission should succeed. So, without further ado, I’ll hand over to him.’
‘Thank you, Brigadier,’ said Lieutenant General McAvoy, stepping to the front of the stage and moving his eyes around the faces in the room, taking in each one. He was well built, blond and handsome. ‘A couple of hours ago,’ he began in a gravelly voice, ‘the Taliban posted a video on the internet. It shows Secretary-General Park talking to camera. I want you guys to take a look.’
Everyone turned to watch a grainy video play on the screen. Shot in poor light, it showed Dr Park sitting in front of a green curtain. He looked pale and shaken. With his eyes aimed at the camera, he said, ‘This is Dr Park Chun Ho, secretary-general of the United Nations. My colleagues and I are safe and in the custody of the Taliban. The Taliban have asked me to read a statement in English.’
He lifted a piece of paper and began to read from it.
‘We have the secretary-general of the United Nations. He and the six infidels with him will be killed unless all occupying foreign forces withdraw from Afghanistan at once. The Americans and their allies have one week to withdraw from our country. For every day that follows, one of the infidels will be killed. On the seventh day, the secretary-general will be killed. You have been warned. Begin your withdrawal at once. You have seven days until the fourteenth of the month, before we start eliminating hostages.’
Dr Park lowered the piece of paper and, looking at the camera, went on. ‘I am assured that if any attempt is made to rescue us a bomb will be detonated without hesitation. I urge my friends and colleagues of the international community not to risk any lives on my account. And I urge you to accede to the wishes of my captors. In the meantime, I will pray that Cheong-Ryong will look after me and those close to me. Thank you.’
The video ended, leaving those in the room in sombre silence. Ben was already replaying the video in his head, looking for clues about the condition and location of Dr Park and his fellow hostages.
‘We got a problem,’ declared General McAvoy. ‘Obviously, our governments are not going to withdraw their forces from this country in a week. Even if they wanted to leave in a hurry it would take months, not days. We don’t doubt that the Taliban will keep their threat to kill these hostages. So, we have a week to find the secretary-general and extract him and his people, despite what he said on the video about not trying to rescue them. We are not going to sit on our butts and let these people be murdered.’
‘Sir,’ Charlie spoke up, ‘have we any clues as to where the secretary-general is being held?’
‘To answer that, Sergeant, I’ll ask Major Jinko from the Australian SAS to brief us on all available intel. Major?’
Alex Jinko, a senior intelligence officer with the SAS Regiment – a ‘bear’ in military slang – now took centre stage. ‘Bring the video up again,’ Jinko directed, ‘with the audio muted.’ The major continued as the video of Dr Park was re-run. ‘We’ve analysed this video from every possible angle. We can say it was shot indoors in a place without natural light. The audio boys say the sound quality suggests it was recorded in a cave.’
‘A cave?’ said Charlie, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Are they in the mountains, sir? In the Hindu Kush?’
‘That’s our best bet, Sergeant,’ the major replied. ‘They didn’t have enough time to move the hostages far before shooting that video. Dr Park was probably taken by a Uruzgan brigade of the Taliban, so they’d be keeping him in or near Uruzgan. Make no mistake, capturing the secretary-general of the UN is a big deal for these people.’
‘In baseball terminology, the bad guys have hit a home run,’ McAvoy interrupted. ‘And they know it!’
‘Where exactly are we looking for the sec-gen, sir?’ asked one of the American servicemen.
Major Jinko swept his hand across the Hindu Kush on the map. ‘We have satellites and drones looking at every nook and cranny of those mountains.’
‘But the Taliban will know that,’ said Lieutenant General McAvoy, ‘and they’ll be lying low. If we’re gonna find the secretary-general, we’re gonna have to get lucky. And in the next seven days! Meanwhile, I want the extraction team ready to roll. They will be led by Sergeant Hazard, one of the most experienced Special Ops people we have. Sergeant, tell us about your team.’
The bearded Sergeant ‘Duke’ Hazard came to his feet and turned to face the other Special Forces men in the room. Ben, Charlie, Lucky and Baz all knew Hazard from their previous tour of Afghanistan. A Green Beret, Sergeant Hazard had been in command of their Special Ops mission when they were ambushed by the Taliban.
‘We got ourselves a complication,’ Hazard began, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘The extraction team was supposed to be exclusively comprised of Americans and Aussies. But the sec-gen’s got other nationals in his party – British, Danish, French, Japanese and German. All their governments are insisting they have at least one man on the extraction team so they can tell their media back home they participated in the rescue of their own people. So, we’re trying to get those governments to supply specialists to the team, which will be headed up by four US and four Australian Special Forces operatives, including two EDD handlers.’
‘Somehow, Sergeant Hazard,’ Lieutenant General McAvoy interjected unhappily, ‘you and your people gotta meld a unit overnight from all these foreigners and make it work.’ He screwed up his face. McAvoy clearly didn’t like the idea of using such a multinational force. But his orders came from above.
‘Will these foreigners all speak English, sir?’ asked a worried US Ranger, Sergeant Tim McHenry, from the front row.
‘They will all speak fluent English,’ McAvoy assured him. ‘That is the first requirement we set. The other is that they be the best in the business at what they do. It’s not an ideal arrangement, but this is all about
international diplomacy and cooperation. So, let’s get to work, people. Major Jinko, find the secretary-general – fast! And extraction team, you go in and get those people out. You got seven days. Don’t mess up! Lives are depending on you men. And one very important life in particular!’
In another room, Ben and his three Australian colleagues met with their American Special Forces counterparts for the first time. One of the Americans included in the op was Sergeant Tim McHenry – the same Tim McHenry who had identified and retrieved Caesar in Uruzgan Province after he’d been missing for months. Ben had met McHenry when Caesar was officially returned to him here at Tarin Kowt, and they now shared a hearty handshake.
The other two Americans were both corporals – EDD handler Mars Lazar and signaller Brian Cisco. Lazar, a cheerful New Yorker with a perpetual smile on his face, told Ben that his dog, Alabama, was a Belgian sheepdog, a breed popular with the US military.
‘Grover,’ said Hazard, ‘you will be my second-in-command on this op.’
‘Okay,’ Charlie returned. He wasn’t thrilled to be working with Hazard again. As far as Charlie was con- cerned, Sergeant Hazard had been partly responsible for them being ambushed by the Taliban the day he lost his legs. In Charlie’s mind, Hazard was too inclined to rush into things. But he had to accept that the US Army was leading this op and had put Hazard in charge. Charlie would have to make the best of it.
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ said Hazard, looking intently at Charlie. ‘As far as I’m concerned, us eight guys will be handling this extraction. Those foreign “specialists”, they’re just window-dressing. Got that, Grover?’
‘You’re the boss,’ Charlie responded.
‘Sure as heck I am,’ Hazard said firmly.
‘Chances are,’ said Sergeant McHenry, ‘we might not even get the chance to go looking for the sec-gen. The bears need to find him first. And that, my friends, will not be easy. It’ll be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.’
‘The guy should have tried to tip us off about where the Taliban are holding him,’ said Hazard unhappily.
‘How?’ Lucky Mertz countered. ‘He couldn’t exactly say, “By the way, the grid reference for where they’re holding us is such-and-such”. Give me a break, mate!’
Hazard scowled at Lucky. ‘This Park guy is supposed to be clever, pal.’
‘If he was clever,’ Bendigo Baz chimed in, ‘he wouldn’t have been flying around Afghan back country in a heelo. It was no place for the head of the UN.’
‘I have a lot of respect for Dr Park,’ said Ben. ‘He came here to try to end this war instead of sitting on his backside in an office in New York. That takes guts. He’s one brave bloke, if you ask me.’
Baz shrugged. ‘He’ll soon be one dead bloke if the bears don’t hurry up and track him down for us.’
The gates to the Tarin Kowt base swung open. Ben, in full combat gear and sunglasses, and with an automatic rifle on his shoulder, led Caesar out through the open gateway as guards in the towers either side of the gate covered them with heavy machineguns.
Australian and Afghan infantrymen were walking along both sides of the narrow street ahead of Ben and Caesar, their rifles at the ready. Even though Tarin Kowt was home to a huge ISAF military base, there was always the risk of the Taliban and other insurgents lurking in the nearby town. It paid to always be on the alert. Caesar was on the alert, too, sniffing the early morning air as he trotted alongside Ben, assessing the many new aromas that flooded his nostrils.
As part of the plan to re-familiarise Caesar with the conditions in Afghanistan as quickly as possible, Ben had decided that the two of them should join the security operation covering Tarin Kowt’s biggest bazaar of the year. Tarin Kowt held a market every week, with farmers from kilometres around bringing their locally grown produce in to sell. Once a year, a super-sized bazaar was held. This giant bazaar attracted farmers from all over the province, and also brought sellers of new and second-hand trucks and tractors, farming equipment and mobile phones – one of the few pieces of modern technology that has been widely adopted in Afghanistan.
It wasn’t long after sunrise when Ben and Caesar arrived, yet hundreds of Afghan men were already crowding around the bazaar’s temporary stalls. Groups of women were occasionally seen among the crowd, their heads and faces covered with the burka, the traditional Muslim headdress and veil that only permitted the wearer’s eyes to be seen. None of the Afghans in the market paid any attention to the patrolling soldiers or the brown labrador. None of the locals gave the Australian dog a second glance, let alone stopped to give him a friendly pat. Very few Afghans kept dogs as pets, and most had no affection for the guard dogs seen at many kals, or farm compounds, in the countryside.
‘Seek on, Caesar,’ said Ben in a low voice, lengthening his leash.
Caesar walked slowly by Ben’s side, sniffing the legs and belongings of men he passed, looking for traces of explosives. But as they walked, Ben noticed that Caesar’s tail was not wagging as it frequently did when they were working together. Caesar’s tail was low, indicating he was tense, and his eyes flashed suspiciously from one Afghan man to another. To dogs, each person has a distinct smell, and that smell is based on what they eat. The diet of most Afghans differs from the diets of Westerners, so, for example, Afghans give off a very different scent to Australians. That difference had surprised and disconcerted Caesar when he had first arrived, but he quickly grew accustomed to it after spending over a year in Afghanistan.
Ben stopped beside parked vehicles and let Caesar circle them. All the while, Caesar sought the scent of the chemicals that were associated with IEDs. But today, he found no bombs, and the bazaar took place without any threats to the security of the people in attendance.
When it was approaching midday, and the crowd in the bazaar was beginning to thin, Caesar suddenly froze in his tracks. He let out a low, menacing growl, quite unlike anything Ben had heard from Caesar before. Ben quickly brought his rifle down from his shoulder and cradled it, at the ready.
‘What is it, mate?’ Ben asked, following Caesar’s gaze.
Caesar continued to growl, his stare unwavering.
One Afghan man in particular had caught Caesar’s attention. Ben signalled to the lieutenant in charge of the Australian platoon, then pointed to Caesar and the Afghan who was the object of his EDD’s attention. The lieutenant nodded, then, clicking his fingers and pointing Ben’s way, detailed four of his men and an Afghan interpreter to join the EDD team at the jog.
‘Okay, Caesar,’ said Ben, ‘let’s take a look at this bloke.’
With the interpreter and four infantrymen on their heels, Ben and Caesar strode toward a group of men and boys who were walking away from them.
Ben looked around to the interpreter. ‘Tell them to stop right there.’
The interpreter, a short, dark and clean-shaven Afghan man in his thirties called loudly in Pashto, the local language, for the group to stop. The men and boys halted in their tracks, then turned, looking suddenly fearful at the sight of the soldiers and their guns at the ready. Other Afghans nearby anxiously scooted away.
‘Which one of them is it, Caesar?’ said Ben, bending and unclipping the leash. ‘Seek on, boy!’
Caesar trotted forward then came to a stop in front of a young man with a wispy beard and who was wearing a long white robe. There the labrador stood, looking up at the youth with a penetrating gaze, a growl gurgling deep in his throat.
The Australian lieutenant came hurrying up to Ben. ‘Has your dog found explosives on this man, Fulton?’
‘Well, to be honest, sir, I’m not sure,’ Ben confessed. ‘That’s not Caesar’s usual explosives signature. I’m a little baffled by what he’s trying to tell us, Lieutenant.’
‘Well, the dog is clearly disturbed by this bloke,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Knowing Caesar’s reputation, that’s enough for me. We’ll take the man back to the base for questioning.’
The lieutenant ordered
his men to arrest the young man, and they hauled him away to be searched for weapons and explosives. Although they came up empty-handed, they still bound his hands behind his back. All the while, an older Afghan with a thick black beard and greying hair was speaking heatedly with the interpreter.
‘What’s the old man saying?’ the lieutenant asked impatiently.
The interpreter shrugged. ‘He says that this is his son Nasir, sir. He claims that Nasir has done nothing wrong.’
‘We’ll be the judge of that,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Hold on,’ Ben called. He had noticed that Caesar’s demeanour had suddenly changed. His tail was wagging and he was no longer looking at Nasir. A young boy at the back of the group who was calling out to Caesar in Pashto seemed to have his attention. In response, Caesar nosed through the Afghan men and began jumping up at the boy, trying to lick his face. The boy laughed with delight and hugged him. Meanwhile, the men in the group were all talking at once and pointing at Caesar.
‘Sergeant Fulton, would you like to tell me what the heck is going on here?’ the exasperated lieutenant asked. ‘One minute your dog is growling, the next he’s these people’s best friend. Has your EDD gone nuts?’
‘I hope not, sir,’ Ben returned. Perplexed, he turned to the interpreter. ‘What are these people saying?’
‘The boy is calling your animal “Soldier Dog”, Sergeant,’ said the interpreter. ‘He seems to know your dog, and it looks like your dog knows him.’
‘How could he …?’ Ben began. Then, suddenly, it dawned on him. ‘Unless he got to know that kid while he was lost here in Afghanistan.’ Ben whistled his usual ‘return’ summons to Caesar, and Caesar instantly turned away from the boy, trotted back to his master and obediently sat beside him. But Caesar’s tail wagged in the dust as he sat. ‘You and that kid are old mates, are you, boy?’ said Ben, ruffling his EDD’s ears.
In reply, Caesar let out a whine of acknowledgement.
The man claiming to be Nasir’s father began to plead with the interpreter again.
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