Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Read online

  Terrorist Boxed Set

  The Haberman Virus

  The Vane-Martin Conundrum

  Hostage of Islam

  Phillip Strang

  Dedication

  For Elli and Tais, who both had the perseverance to make me sit down and write.

  Copyright Page

  Copyright © 2015 Phillip Strang

  Cover Design by Phillip Strang

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service.

  Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.com

  The Haberman Virus

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 1

  Nazem regarded the day the same as the day before and the day before that. Whatever changes? he thought, reflecting on the futility, the struggle to feed his three children, two of whom were male, and a wife who, if he had thought about it, was his uncle’s daughter and his first cousin.

  The previous winter had been cold and long, and the summer was rapidly drawing to a close, hot and dry. The weather had been unusual, even for the Hindu Kush in the Northeast of Afghanistan. It had not rained in the three months of the critical growing season, and the snow was already sitting low on the surrounding hills. The crops he had attempted to grow had withered and died. There were some emaciated goats and a few sheep, but they barely gave any milk now. He did not know how they were going to survive another winter, but he need not have worried. He and his family, indeed his village, were destined for martyrdom in a cause that was not their own and which they would not have understood.

  There had been some income in the past, selling his crops in the market town to the west, a two-day walk over the mountainous hills that kept them in isolation, but there were no crops. The village, about four hundred inhabitants, had not seen any outsiders for the last few weeks, and there was no reason to believe any others would be coming.

  The only change for weeks had been the strange flying contraption that had passed low over the men at Friday prayers. It looked like a spider and, as they looked up, it had sprayed them in the face with an odourless liquid. It had kept their conversation alive for a couple of hours before they turned back to their usual subject of survival, and what they had done that had caused Allah to neglect them.

  ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ Nazem greeted his friend, Abdullah, as he walked passed his house on a crisp, cold morning ten days later. The ten goats that were with him, all that remained out of the twenty that he had two months earlier. They had eaten three of them, the rest he had to exchange for some wheat flour to make bread.

  ‘Waalaikum as-salaam,’ Abdullah replied. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I am told there is green grass up on the hill. I must take my animals there before they die.’

  ‘Then I will come with you.’

  Nazem coughed slightly, his head throbbing as they strolled along the winding path. ‘What can we do? Why is Allah punishing us?’

  ‘I do not know,’ his friend replied. ‘We have always prayed five times a day. We have led good lives.’ Both men, illiterate, had never been further than a hundred kilometres from the village where they were born and where they now lived.

  ‘There will be heavy snow tonight,’ Abdullah remarked as he looked up at the clouds.

  ‘You are right. I can feel the cold in the air. The route over the hills will be blocked by tomorrow.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Abdullah said. ‘We have nothing to sell and no money to buy.’

  ‘I am not sure if we will survive another winter if it is as bad as the last.’

  ‘Allah will protect us.’ Abdullah still maintained his faith in a benevolent God, as did Nazem.

  By the fourth day, after they had walked the animals up the hill, and fifteen days after the flying spider had come and gone, Nazem’s cough worsened and his head ached. He was wracked between nausea and vomiting, with a malaise that held him to his bed in the two-room, mud-brick hut he called home. Abdullah had failed to come to see him for a couple of days. The last time, he also felt unwell and was complaining of a backache.

  Nazem’s malaise did not improve and, within two days after taking to his bed, a rash appeared in his throat. At that point, he ceased to care, and he prayed to Allah for help. His wife attempted to soothe his discomfort with water and some local remedy, but to no avail.

  It was the worst thing she could have done. Her husband was now highly contagious, and she had been infected. Another twelve days and she would be lying in the same bed, and there would be no one to tend to her ailments. She would be second generation infection, as would their three children. She would put her illness down to the unusually cold weather. She had no idea what troubled her husband and, even if she did, there was nothing she could do.

  Nazem’s rash turned to sores. Within a day, they covered his body. Three days later, the sores became pus-filled. Seven days later, and three weeks after the flying spider had flown over, he was dead. He would have said it was a punishment from Allah. He would not know it was as a result of genetic engineering and that his village had been chosen purely because of its isolation and unimportance.

  No one would bury him – no one had the energy – and his wife and children, as well as the whole village, would be dead within another four weeks. It was on the seventh week after the spider that a helicopter landed, two hundred metres from the village, on the patch of ground where Nazem had attempted to grow his crops.

  A lone figure exited, clad in a space suit – or, more correctly, a positive pressure personnel suit. He walked to the village and entered several of the houses. He then walked back to the helicopter and left. He then made a phone call.

  ‘The field trial has been successful. Implementation of Phase Two can commence.’

  ***

  Bob Smith had been stationed in Kabul for ten years as a doctor with the International Red Cross, the ICRC. Their annual visit up into the Hindu Kush, dispensing medicines, giving vaccines, and attempting to instil the need for safe health practices curtailed due to the early snows, and the deteriorating security situation.

  He was determined to speak to his boss regarding the need to visit before it became impossible to consider.

  Elena Dubarova, the head of the ICRC delegation in Kabul was sympathetic to his request. ‘What can we do? It’s too dangerous to drive up there in a truck.’ Originally from Bulgaria, she was as dedicated to Afghanistan as he was. A clear directive from head office in Geneva had made it
clear – any more deaths of aid workers and the ICRC would pull out immediately. She could not accede to his request, no matter how important and vital.

  ‘We can always use a helicopter,’ he said.

  ‘The cost will be excessive, and where would we get one?’ Budgetary constraints weighed heavily on her mind.

  ‘They have one in Pakistan. Couldn’t we borrow it for a couple of weeks?’

  ‘It is possible, but they are helping out with an outbreak of cholera in Northern Pakistan. I’ll check and let you know in a few days.’ She would deal with the accountants back at headquarters and their inevitable criticism over excessive spending at a later date.

  ‘Thanks,’ Bob said.

  A fit man in his late fifties and a bachelor, he had never found much attraction in women, although men offered no appeal either. He was a loner, and it suited him fine. Originally from a small fishing village in Cornwall in England, he felt an affinity for the Afghan people and, apart from the security and escalating violence, he could have seen himself staying indefinitely.

  ***

  It was to be more than a few days, closer to six when Elena contacted him. An outbreak of dysentery in the west of Kabul had caused him to forget to remind her for an answer.

  ‘The trip is on,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be ready in three days. We will need to take another doctor, female, and some nurses. The local men we trained will be suitable. We may as well fill up the helicopter with as much wheat and local supplies as we can.’

  As pleased as he was to hear the news, Bob Smith was distracted by the current situation. The local well was drawing faecal matter from a cesspit located twenty metres away, and the people were still drinking the water. Until they stopped using the well, dysentery would only flourish and continue.

  ‘I’ll get Najib onto it,’ Elena said. ‘He’ll ensure the helicopter is ready.’

  Najib, a local Afghan, a Pashtun in his thirties and a bright individual, showed the hope and the promise of his homeland. His English language skills had been acquired in a refugee camp in Pakistan, just outside of Peshawar. Invariably cheerful, with a bright and inquisitive mind, he was the future of his troubled country. Whether he would be afforded the opportunity was unclear given the debilitating decline in security and the resurgent Taliban.

  He had proved himself to be an excellent organiser, and she knew that, if given the essential details of the visit to the Hindu Kush, he would organise the rest.

  ***

  Five days later, Najib had the helicopter, the personnel and the supplies. All they needed was Bob, and he was due within the next thirty minutes. He had failed to convince the people to use a different well, although he had to agree with their decision. Besides, there wasn’t another well that could be regarded as safe, and water was at a premium in the city.

  Even if the women had walked two kilometres with buckets on their heads, there was no guarantee of them being able to draw water. In fact, it was more than likely that their reception would have been hostile.

  The on-going drought, coupled with the burgeoning population, had taken the water table to its lowest level in living memory. At least twenty to thirty percent of the wells in the city were now receiving faecal contamination. If someone with dysentery defecated in the vicinity of any well, it was only a matter of time before the local community was infected.

  Most people were willing to trust Bob’s expertise, but few were willing or able to heed his warning – clean, untainted water was costly. In the end, he resorted to the old method and paid some locals to be lowered into the well to strengthen the weakened areas, the visible signs of ingress and to reinforce with additional concrete. He told them all to boil the water before using it in the preparation of food, but heating gas was expensive. Most would not follow his instructions. He knew he would be back within the next few weeks to treat the sick.

  ***

  ‘Doctor Bob, we’ve been waiting for you,’ Najib said. ‘The weather’s not great. It’s important you leave now.’

  It was 7 o’clock in the morning when the team boarded the ubiquitous Russian-made Mi-8 helicopter. The majority of these helicopters had come to Afghanistan by way of a previous invader, although this one was ex-Pakistan Air Force. They were the ideal machine for missions in the country. No longer carrying guns and troops, it now carried medical teams and stretchers.

  Jill Hampshire, a bright and pleasant thirty-two-year-old from Chicago, Illinois, was the female doctor that Bob had requested. It had not been necessary for him to mention the need for a woman. There was no way that a man would be able to examine a woman in those remote communities. A doctorate from the University of Chicago and a thirst for adventure had found her as far removed from her hometown as was possible. She had found the United Nations Deputy Director for Strategic Communications, the smooth-talking Irishman Liam O’Flannery, an ideal companion and they had been sharing a bed for the last nine months.

  Three local Afghans, adequately trained as nursing assistants, and two Afghans armed with Kalashnikovs completed the team. Najib had managed to fit in an inordinate amount of wheat flour, twelve pounds for each family that visited their mobile clinic, a tent, and nearly two hundred live chickens.

  A refuelling stop at Kunduz in the north of the country, the German military had looked after them well. From there a direct flight to Fayzabad, the provincial capital of Badakhshan province. It was a pleasant town of fifty thousand, with the Kokcha River flowing to the west of the city, providing clean, pure water from the mountains. It was to be their base for the next five days. Accommodation would be the Pamir Club Hotel on the banks of the river. It was comfortable but basic. Jill would be missing Liam on the cold nights.

  ***

  The following morning Bob was the first to rise. It was cold, and there was ice on the ground outside. Always an early riser, he was anxious to make an early start. ‘We need to be at the airport in thirty minutes. The weather changes quickly. Any later and we may need to cancel for today.’

  He had been in the Hindu Kush before. He knew the treacherous flying conditions. His team had been severely buffeted on a previous trip when they had hitched a lift on an Afghan military chopper late one afternoon. The winds howling off the mountain ranges had caused them some nervous moments.

  ‘Where’s our first stop?’ Jill asked excitedly.

  It was her first time into the more remote areas of the country. The language she could not fathom. She had picked up a smattering of Pashto in Kabul, enough to get by, but here they spoke Tajik. It was good that they had ensured one of the nurses and one of the security guards were from the region.

  ‘We’re heading to the east for about twenty kilometres, keeping close to the river,’ he replied. ‘Just before we reach Baharak, we’ll head up a tributary of the main river in a southerly direction. There are hundreds of communities up there. Those near the river are mainly accessible by road, even in winter. We’ll continue up the tributary for another seventy kilometres, keeping to the valley, and then we’ll head to the west. Our first stop will be Larki village in Yomgan district. Judging by the snow, it has probably been isolated for at least a week. Total flight time should be no more than ninety minutes.’

  ‘How long will we be there?’ She knew the answers as she had been fully briefed, but Jill Hampshire was a talkative person who felt the need to talk when it was not necessary.

  ‘We’ll need to keep it down to three hours, and then move to the next village. Two, maybe three communities are the most we can hope to achieve in a day, and then there’ll be plenty that we’ll miss.’

  ‘Won’t it be dangerous with all the snow?’

  ‘Not if we keep to the valleys.’

  It was at forty-five minutes past seven on a bright but chilly morning when the helicopter finally lifted off, thermal underwear for everyone. The flight up the valley was breathtaking, with snow-covered mountains to either side. Jill, in her element, until a strong crosswind from a valley to t
heir right rocked the old helicopter dramatically. After that, she kept her seat belt fastened tightly and said very little. She looked distinctly off-colour for the remainder of the trip.

  Ninety minutes after lift-off, they landed in the centre of the village of Larki. Immediately, there was a rush of people to greet them and to help themselves to whatever supplies they could – the chickens quickly taken. The team was not sad to see them go. The mess they made was both unpleasant and unhygienic.

  ‘That’s the last time we carry chickens,’ Bob said.

  ‘I agree,’ Jill said. She was not so pale in the face or queasy in the stomach now that the rocking and rattling of the old crate had ceased. Twelve pounds of flour to every family was soon consumed in a village of at least two hundred families.

  ‘We’ll load up with more flour tomorrow before we leave Fayzabad,’ Bob said.

  ‘No room for chickens?’ Jill joked.

  Three hours stretched to four, and they had barely scratched the surface in terms of the needs of the people. Nutritional deficiencies were the cause of most ailments in the village, but Bob and Jill could only give advice and supplements and their time was limited.

  ‘We’ll only make two villages today,’ he said, recognising the ominous snow-bearing clouds further up the valley. ‘The weather doesn’t look good for tomorrow.’

  He had no desire to be caught in a blizzard in a thirty-year-old, poorly maintained helicopter, even though the pilots, both Pakistani Ex-Air Force, were professional and highly competent.

  The flight up to Dasht in the direction of the snow-bearing clouds that Bob had seen earlier took only twenty minutes. It was clearly poorer, more isolated. No longer carrying any supplies, their welcome was not as forthcoming. They persevered and managed to provide at least a few hours caring for the people, with a promise to land the next day and to drop off at least fifty bags of flour.