“It should not be very much further, Mr. James,” Haider said, turning back and glancing at the MI6 operative with a toothy smile.
James Bond nodded and motioned for them to continue on. His guide returned the nod and moved forward.
Bond was in Northern Pakistan, he and his guide had just crossed the border from the southern Afghan province of Kandahar.
His guide was a man named Haider, the name meant Lion. Haider was a tough bearded man from the Afghan National Army’s Commando battalion. He was an example of their attempt at Special Forces. He was a rough and surly fellow, just a bit shorter than Bond himself. But he had a barrel for a chest, and he laughed often. His face was mostly covered by his bushy beard, and now he was dressed in traditional Afghani clothing. His AK74 and Makarov pistol concealed beneath his garments.
Bond was similarly dressed, and armed nearly the same. Only rather than arming himself with the Russian made Makarov pistol, he carried a Walther P99, a relative of his favored PPK. Bond also masked his face behind a shemagh which Haider had carefully wrapped about his face in order to best hide his obvious Anglo features. His azure colored eyes still shown to the world, but the covering concealed them enough so that from a distance it would be impossible to tell.
The two had been on the march for nearly two days now, and had crossed into Pakistan’s province of Balochistan using the Bolan Pass through the Toba Kakar mountain range. Bond thought it was rather ironic as they made their way, as it was this very pass that the British had used in February of 1839 to invade Afghanistan from Pakistan. Now he was using it to go the opposite direction.
The operation Bond had been assigned was to locate and rescue 008, Adrian Durant. Who had previously been assigned to gather intelligence on a major camp suspected of training and equipping militants that were fighting in Afghanistan, principally the southern province of Helmand.
008 had indeed located the camp, but after reporting the location all communication with him had been lost, and had not been heard from in several weeks. M had been perplexed by the disappearance of Durant, who was seen as a very competent and capable agent. So MI6 sent James Bond to discern what had happened to him, and if possible, to retrieve him.
Bond and his guide marched on through a dismal ravine, pock marked with knee high shrubs, that had long since lost their buds and berries. Winter was beginning, and the narrow valley was wind swept and cold. The higher portions of the chasm saw snow fall, and it wouldn’t be long before the place would be enveloped by heavy blizzards.
Balochistan is Pakistan’s largest province. It stretches all the way from the Arabian sea in the South to Afghanistan in the North, Iran in the West, and the Federally Administered Tribal Areas in the East.
With around 10 million people inside the region it is sparsely populated due to the mountainous terrain and the lack of water in the northern portions.
Bond could tell the area was in store for a wicked winter, even with the layers of clothing he now wore, he could feel the chill down to his bones as powerful gusts of wind swept past. At times he was showered with dust from up the pass and he had remembered hiking through the desert in Libya back when he was operating covertly on several operations with the Special Boat Service. The desert, in his opinion, was the harshest environment of all. With boiling hot temperatures in the day that could then drop to well below freezing at night; it was one of the most difficult places for the body to acclimatize to.
There were serious differences between the desert in Libya, and the high desert he now suffered through in Pakistan. Here in the Bolan Pass, much like Libya, he was victim to heavy winds that brought with them a great amount of dust and dirt to scratch at his skin, irritate his eyes, mouth, and ears. However, now he had to deal with a higher altitude and the possibility of sickness that comes with that.
Hypoxia, a type of altitude sickness caused by the depletion of adequate oxygen to the body, or to specific tissue was of principal concern. This can lead to further complications such as pulmonary edema, or high altitude cerebral edema. Pulmonary edema is the swelling or accumulation of fluids in the lungs, it can lead to death if not properly treated.
The real problem, however, is high altitude cerebral edema, which is the swelling of the brain from fluid leakage. It’s the leading cause of death amongst mountaineers that suffer from any sort of altitude sickness. Although experienced climbers generally don’t need to concern themselves until they are around 1,500 meters above sea level, some mild cases have been reported below that level.
Considering that Bond and Haider were now traveling upward of around 1,650 meters or more, this was certainly a concern. Haider would be more accustomed to the high altitude, and it would more than likely not hinder him. Bond could feel his heart rate racing even from simple tasks, and despite the chilling wind he was still sweating quite heavily. He had received high marks for endurance in most his training, and that endurance was now paying dividends for him, but he was in a hurry to get below 1,500 meters, and didn’t relish the idea of suffering from altitude sickness.
If he were to be affected, it would be very difficult to receive any sort of medical attention, given the circumstances of his presence in Pakistan.
While the government of Pakistan was more or less friendly to the west (at least officially), his covert incursion beyond their border would not be welcomed. He wouldn’t stand much hope of getting to any friendly units either. Given that it was many miles back to Afghanistan, and even farther to any friendly embassies or consulates in Islamabad or Karachi.
He could feel his lungs and throat burn as he straggled on behind Haider, who seemed to be unaffected by the hike. He raised his hands up and rubbed them together as fast as he could, trying to return some blood flow to them, and warm them up.
He wore thick wool gloves, yet it seemed as though this destructive wind cut through everything.
His legs strained under his own weight as he moved along. The straps on the pack he carried tugged on his shoulders, and after so long he had pain in his shoulders, and scapula. He cast a sardonic grin beneath his shemagh. It was such a strange contrast to go from the Casino Royale in Monte Negro, to the desert of Bolivia, and now to the mountains of Pakistan. But that was the lifestyle he led as a ‘00.
It wasn’t altogether different from his life in 030 Special Forces Unit in the SBS. He had operated clandestinely in Libya, Iraq, the Balkans, Iran, and Somalia. The only difference was after participating in an operation there, he didn’t go to a black tie dinner. That’s how he was able to perform this job so well, he kept things in perspective. Perhaps after he returned from this mission M would have something a little more distinguished and closer to home.
In the end it didn’t really matter for 007, because he thrived in both environments. Even though he struggled at this elevation, he would get through it, as he always did, and he’d be a stronger man for it.
“There,” Haider stated, pointing.
The steep pass opened up into a narrow valley, which Bond could see further down dropped greatly in elevation and opened wider as the pass seemed to slope ever downward. They continued on, elation peaking in Bond’s mind as he could feel the downward slope, and it seemed almost instantly his lungs and muscles seemed to labor slightly less every step he took.
When they finally broke from the narrow portion of the Bolan pass Bond could see down into the valley below. It was cracked, mountainous terrain void of any serious vegetation. Not surprising given the time of year. Bond supposed the featureless valley surrounded by high mountain walls had it’s own unique beauty.
Something perhaps lost on him, or any other westerner. But he knew the Baloch people loved their land, why else would they have stayed here for so long. Even Haider seemed more jovial in this far off place.
No soul stirred, be it a human or animal one. At least none that Bond could see.
“This is nature at it’s greatest, Mr. James,” Haider exclaimed with a smile. “The more rugged, the more precious and beautiful. It takes a strong man to make this journey, and you have impressed me,” the Afghan commando let out a hearty laugh and patted James on the back.
“How much longer till we reach the camp?” Bond asked.
“I would say no more than a couple of hours. Perhaps by this evening. Don’t worry, the elevation will drop rapidly from here. I expect the camp to be around 800 meters,” Haider told him.
Bond nodded. “Let’s keep moving.”
Haider brought his knuckle to his forehead and smiled again. He liked the British agent. Even though his country had a past that was usually at odds with the British Empire, he respected the toughness of this man. It wasn’t often any man, Afghan or other, could be dropped behind Haider and then expect to keep up. He walked at a brisk pace, and even though Bond had fallen back at times, he never stopped, he had only continued as if nothing was wrong, following Haider as closely as he could.
But then the shemagh did well to hide the grimace on Bond’s face when Haider walked his speedy pace. Or when they had to lumber up saddle after saddle on the rock ridden road they came in. Goat paths would probably be a more appropriate description of the route they traveled.
Bond labored on and on. His guide never paying much attention to him. As they followed the downward slope, it became steeper and steeper and their pace quickened.
At last the road leveled out, and Bond could feel the difference. With each breath he seemed to be taking in much more oxygen. They must’ve come down at a great speed. He was slightly dizzy for a moment, and he stopped to gather himself. Haider paused just ahead and glanced back at the wavering ‘00.
“Are you all right?” he asked, still smiling. It wasn’t often Haider got to show off his talents to a Western secret agent.
“I’m fine,” Bond replied without hesitation. He adjusted the pack on his back and walked past Haider. The Afghan commando smiled broadly and continued forward.
The two of them passed other goat passes that branched off into the mountains which surrounded the entire valley. They rose at least another four or five hundred meters above where they now stood. Haider told James that they were more than likely close to reaching the eight hundred meter mark. Bond gave thanks in his mind, he was fatigued, and the more oxygen he could breathe in to his body would be very welcomed.
He pulled a canteen from the belt on his back, and took a healthy swig of water. He took a moment to study the surroundings. Before him lay a flat valley with large dusty boulders and rocks strewn about. The lack of vegetation persisted, just the skeletal remains of shrubs that may have thrived in the spring or summer. Bond didn’t like the idea of proceeding through open valleys with high ground on either side. He knew this movement would offer little cover should the pair of them come under attack. But it couldn’t be helped. For them to traverse the higher mountains surrounding the valley would be very difficult, and it would set them back several hours.
So with no other choice, he replaced his canteen on his belt and pushed on with Haider beside him.
After walking in the valley for an hour or so a group of men came into focus on the distant side of the dale. They were standing outside of an old Scorpion light Jeep. They immediately saw the two approaching figures, and piled into their vehicle and began driving towards them.
Bond could tell they were armed, it had to be a group of Pakistani border patrol. The Jeep kicked up dust and debris as it maneuvered it’s way toward them. Bond halted in place, and Haider walked forward several steps ahead.
What luck. The border between Afghanistan and Pakistan had always been considered porous, with militants filtering in and out of both countries, confounding ISAF forces that fought them in the South of Afghanistan. Nevertheless there were soldiers patrolling continuously and most of them took their job very seriously. It was bad timing for Bond and Haider to cross them now.
“I will get rid of them,” Haider assured Bond.
Bond was quiet, he didn’t want to run into any problems with these troops. They were technically friendly, but if they discovered Bond making his way into the country in this manner they would more than likely detain him, which he had to avoid at all costs.
The Scorpion jeep finally reached them and all of the men piled out as quickly as they had gotten in. There were indeed Pakistani border guards. They wore camouflaged utilities, and berets. They were all armed with the aging HK G3. A 7.62 automatic rifle. Bond noticed they were early versions of the rifle, rather than the newer A3 or A4. He assumed these weapons had been in service for quite some time, but it appeared these border guards kept the weapons in good condition.
A few bandoliers of ammunition, and additional magazines hung from their web gear. Their uniforms were dirty and tattered, indicating they had probably been out patrolling for quite some time. The back of their jeep was piled with water and extra food. Each of them wore mittens, and scarves across their faces in an attempt to fight the cold.
The condition of their clothing in contrast with the cleanliness of their weapons was a clear indication of their professionalism. The fact that they took better care of their weapons, then they did the clothes on their backs, showed that they were trained well enough to understand the importance of a clean weapon. They took pride in the rifles they carried, and were content with appearing shabby while employing a pristine and perfectly maintained service rifle.
Haider approached them and began speaking in Urdu, the official language in Pakistan. The man in charge of the group was a Havildar (Sergeant) according to the chevrons on his sleeves. The Sergeant and Haider chattered back and forth. Bond stood stoically with his eyes narrowed on the group of soldiers. One hand was tucked up underneath his baggy garments. It gripped his Walther P99, ready to draw with safety off and fire upon these men if need be. He didn’t wish for an altercation. After all, these men were just doing their jobs. But the alternative for the MI6 agent was unacceptable, and at times violence was the only answer.
They didn’t pay him much mind as they continued to talk with Haider. It didn’t seem any suspicion was yet cast upon them. Their voices were all loud, and they seemed to speak a mile a minute. Even if Bond had been proficient at the language, he thought it would have been difficult to keep up with the speed at which they spoke.
The Sergeant glared past Haider and finally noticed Bond. He shouted something at him in Urdu, Bond did not respond, only pretended not to hear him. The Sergeant shouted again, and Bond gripped the Walther tighter, ready for what may come next.
The Sergeant pushed passed Haider and got closer to Bond, ordering something once again. Bond still didn’t respond, again only pretending not to hear, and motioning up to his ears with his one free hand.
The Sergeant took another step forward, aggravated by Bond’s noncompliance and increasingly suspicious as he noticed the hand tucked underneath the garments. He placed his hand on his own sidearm on his belt, and made another order in Urdu.
There was silence between the two, only the wind bellowed through. Bond was unnerved, and unsure what to do next. The answer was simple, fire on them, and eliminate the problem. But he didn’t want it to come to that. He didn’t want to kill men that were innocent.
Finally Haider broke the silence and began prattling away in Urdu to the Sergeant. He put his hand on the Sergeant’s shoulder. The soldier whirled around and knocked away the Afghan commando’s hand. The two of them seemed to argue incessantly and Haider finally removed his backpack and opened up the small satchel.
He rifled through it and after several seconds pulled out several objects of interests to the Pakistani soldiers..
The soldiers stared at the Afghan Commando. Haider had just crossed a line. He was attempting to bribe the men into letting the two of them pass. This would either ingratiate him with the soldiers, they would accept the bribe and leave, or they would get angry and arrest them. Of course there was also the chance that they would take what he offered and arrest them anyway. Bond was worried, there was no telling if these men were corrupt or not.
There was silence as the Sergeant looked to his men to see how they reacted to the offered bribe. Their faces were expressionless, and it seemed the entire group was confused and unsure what to do. Perhaps they had never been presented with a situation like this. The chances were that they all came from poor, rural families, and that perhaps whatever Haider had offered them would come in handy.
Still, no decision was made and Haider bent down to his pack and rifled through it once more. This time his hands came out bearing magazines. The men’s eyes brightened and the Sergeant stepped forward and grabbed one of the magazines. He hurriedly sifted through the pages, his eyes gazing down at each page with delight. He smiled broadly and nodded continuously. He looked over at Haider and laughed.
They spoke once more in their native language. Haider handed him two logs of summer sausage, two cartons of cigarettes, a flask of Johnny Walker whiskey, and a pair of gold rimmed aviator sunglasses. The Sergeant snatched the gold rimmed glasses and placed them on his face, despite the overcast weather. Then he gathered up the treats Haider had offered, as well as the coveted magazines, and walked over to the other three men. They eagerly grabbed at the magazines and looked through them. Bond lightened his grip on his pistol.
The border guards placed their new items into the back of their vehicle, their demeanor now relaxed and happy. Bond let out a small sigh of relief as he watched the soldier get back into their dilapidated Scorpion light jeep, start the engine and tear off the way they had come, two of the men waving happily at Bond and Haider as they drove off, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.
Bond walked up to Haider and looked at him, finally releasing his grip on his P99 completely.
“What were those magazines you gave them?” Bond questioned.
“Ah, you British with your glamour models and Page 3 girls,” Haider replied laughing. “All men love these women.”
Haider was talking about the men’s magazines published in the UK, magazines like FHM or Nuts. Popular for their Page 3 models who generally posed topless. No doubt that was a happy sight for those Pakistani men who had been out patrolling this barren border for who knows how long.
“Keeley Hazell, yes?” Haider added with a laugh, mentioning one of the more famous Page 3 girls.
Bond smiled behind his shemagh. “Good work.”
Haider took the compliment with great pride. It wasn’t everyday a venerable British spy congratulated you for thinking so well on your feet. Haider was very happy with his performance, despite the loss of his cherished magazines. He had received them from British soldiers he had served with over a year ago near Sangin.
As the sun lowered below the high cliffs around the valley Bond and Haider had found a decent position that provided a good vantage point of the camp below.
They had followed a rift that branched off the main valley they had been traveling. This rift brought them several kilometers further down in elevation, and to their target.
The camp itself sat at the very end of the gulch, in a rounded bowl of sorts, utilizing the high mountains around it as it’s barriers to keep the world outside, and anyone they wanted to stay on the inside. As Bond studied the surroundings, the hills around the camp seemed steep and rugged enough to prevent anyone from going up or down.
The base was laid out in a very basic manner. An assortment of wooden sheds created an outer perimeter all the way around the bowl. Several small vehicles were parked within the square they shaped. Old, rusty concertina wire surrounded the South East portion of the camp, which was open to the rift that led them there. There were old oil drums everywhere. Bond could see a portion of the camp with an obstacle course, a place where a man may have to low crawl below barbed wire. It certainly matched the look of a basic training camp.
More than that, through his binoculars he could see many crates that were traditionally used for weapons.
He studied them carefully, looking to see what kind of weapons may be contained within. They were all sealed and the sides were too dirty or worn away for him to get any practical identification off of. Of particular notice however, was that these crates seemed new, rather than old Soviet crates stacked with Soviet era weapons, these were connex boxes more commonly used by Western forces. He could barely make out the seal of a manufacturer, or distributor on the side of one of them. But because of the conditions of the container it seemed impossible. Instead he took out a digital camera, zoomed in as much as he could and snapped a photograph. Perhaps the imaging boys back at MI6 could do something to clean up the picture and figure out where those boxes were coming from.
Within the square perimeter laid out by the surrounding huts armed men walked to and fro, en-route to a training area, or somewhere they could eat. Or perhaps back to their huts to sleep. Several men stood about, pacing back and forth, no doubt sentries posted to protect the integrity of the makeshift base.
There were an assortment of buildings in the back corner of the bowled out rift that Bond believed would be where Durant was being held. It was a large hut surrounded by additional c-wire, with another guard posted at the door. It was positioned in the North West corner of the camp, farthest away from the open end of the ravine that Bond would have to use to escape.
He thought about the situation, he would have to wait until night fall. The likelihood that Durant was hurt and incapable of moving under his own power might present a serious problem. Given the distance they had to travel to safety. It would be best for them to make their escape under cover of darkness.
He glanced at the sun as the last remnants of it’s warming light could be seen above the horizon. It wouldn’t be long now. Time to call M.
He drew a satellite phone from his pack and dialed a number which was routed through a UK communications satellite orbiting the planet and then relayed to MI6 headquarters in London.
“What’s your status, Bond?” M asked interestedly.
“I’ve found the camp. I’m making my move tonight.” Bond responded.
“007, this is Colonel Blateney of the British Army. Can you hear me?” a voice with a heavy Sheffield accent broke in.
“Yes.”
“You’re on conference call, Bond.” M informed him.
“Listen, 007. You’ve been given a laser designator for one specific task. Once you’ve rescued 008 you are to lace the camp. Once you do so, our boys from the RAF will sweep in and send that place back to the stone age, got it?” Colonel Blateney asked.
Bond looked down at the camp’s makeshift design. “I don’t think they’ll have far to go,” he commented, in regards to their already significant lack of technology.
“Obviously 008 is your primary objective, Bond. But your secondary is just as important. Make sure this happens, whether you can locate Durant or not. Good luck, 007.” M offered, then the line went dead.
Bond replaced the phone in his pack, then he carefully pulled out the laser designator and it’s tripod.
The TIALD, or the Thermal Imaging Airborne Laser Designator pod, manufactured by SELEX Galileo is the UK’s official laser designator for laser guided bombs. The RAF utilizes the Paveway series of laser guided bombs to do their heavy work.
Haider watched with interest as Bond deftly and quickly set the designator and tripod up to be ready to activate. He looked at Haider.
“I’m going in at night fall. Once I do, I need half an hour, do you understand?” he told his guide.
Haider narrowed his eyes and seemed confused.
“Whether I’m back or not, you activate this and get the hell out of here, got it?” Bond asked again.
Haider slowly nodded. “But you will be back, Mr. James?” he asked, concerned.
“Hopefully.”
The pair sat in silence as the last vestiges of the sunlight crept below the mountain surroundings. Bond patiently watched the camp through a pair of binoculars, while Haider ate a handful of sunflower seeds. He was restless, and not happy about the decision to wait idly while Bond attempted the rescue alone.
Haider was a man of action, not one that was keen on sitting on the sidelines of any fight. He had believed himself to be very useful to the MI6 agent, and that no doubt his skills would come in handy during the infiltration of the camp. Not ten minutes prior he had argued with Bond regarding his accompanying the British operative down to the camp.
Bond cut his arguments short, simply stating that someone had to be near the laser designator to activate it when the time came. Bond related to Haider how important this was, and that it was a task the Afghan commando would be proud of having. But Haider did not see it that way, he had to be where the rubber met the road, right in the place of friction. He spit out some shells of the seeds he nibbled on. He let out a heavy exhale, and watched as James Bond slowly moved away from his perch near the edge of their hide.
Bond handed the binoculars over to Haider.
“It’s time.” he stated simply.
“And if you get in trouble, Mr. James? I am to come to help?” Haider asked hopefully.
“No. Trouble or not, you activate this designator and you get out immediately after.” Bond was blunt, resolving himself to complete his difficult task in the time he allotted. If Bond got into trouble down in the valley then they would certainly comb the hills looking for his comrades, believing it was more likely for a team to be there than just a single operative. If that happened then it was better that the birds were already on the way to destroy the encampment, rather than Haider having to defend the designator while the RAF was en route.
“Good luck, Mr. James.” Haider said sincerely.
Bond gave him only a single glance back as he deftly, and quietly scrambled down the hill side.
He moved swiftly, and as silently as a cat. He had learned the useful techniques of stealth in the Special Boat Service. There the motto was by Strength and Guile, and it had been very useful in his career as a ‘00 so far. That same training had been reinforced when he joined MI6, and since his promotion he’d had the opportunity to practice in more real life situations than he cared to think about.
Now he groped his way a long the base of the hill side he had just quietly crept down. He moved deliberately, but slow enough not to raise suspicion to his whereabouts. Lest he make a noise that may draw unwanted attention.
As the evening became darker, the sound of generators filled the quiet night sky. The wind had died down, or now Bond was adequately shielded from it in this small escarpment. This was welcomed only in that Bond was more comfortable, the benefit of the wind had a tactical advantage. It added to the noise outside, masking his movement all the better. One had to be very careful with noise discipline in the darkness, as sound carried far greater distances in the dead of night.
The generators now helped mask his movement somewhat, but it was still crucial that he be as wary as possible. He low crawled his way to the nearest portion of the concertina wire that surrounded the open ended portion of the camp. He skillfully maneuvered his way through, being tangled in it for just a few precious seconds. He quietly thanked the Lord that these men hadn’t decided to add something to the c-wire, like empty cans, to alert them to the presence of some foe that may try and infiltrate their mountain hideaway. But then they must’ve been complacent with the sense of security they undoubtedly felt.
Fortunately the camp was dimly lit, most of the areas behind each hut was as dark as the surrounding hinterland. This made it easier for Bond to move with some semblance of speed, still taking all due care not to make too much noise.
Sentries walked aimlessly about the small camp. Bond had picked up no particular pattern in their ‘patrols’ as he had studied the camp earlier that evening. It was completely random, and thus more dangerous. If he could not predict the best time to make his move he could easily be seen by a guard that just happened upon him. It was this kind of knife’s edge chance you had to deal with, fortunately Bond was the best at mitigating the tension and carrying on with the mission as if there was no threat to be had.
Despite the fact that he now found himself in the midst of a very hostile camp, he seemed as calm as ever. He moved slyly through the shadows, relishing the fact that he moved unseen behind these foes. The militants moving about the camp had no idea of his presence, and Bond loved that exhilarating feeling.
At one point as he had maneuvered along the back side of the huts, there was a large break between the buildings. At least fifteen feet between where he now crouched and the next building that could cover his movement. Open ground that he would have to make his way across, potentially exposing himself to the enemy. It was still very dark in this open section, but the sentries eyes would be adjusted more to the dim light now.
Now he laid flat on his stomach, positioning each of his hands out to his side, just above his shoulders, palms facing down. He slowly reached forward with both palms, and then rested them ahead of him so that he now lay perfectly flat with outreached arms above his head.
Slowly he pulled his body in the same path, his chest dragging quietly along the ground, his feet propelling him forward. His behind raised slightly in the sky, as he seemed to snake his way along, making slow and steady progress unseen to onlookers.
This technique, known as skull dragging, was a monotonous task best suited for when even the slightest of movement may alert others to your presence. It was much slower than the low crawl, and is often employed by snipers as a means of getting closer to a target already alert to a possible threat.
Bond had the pleasure of not having to have used this technique in many years, and now as sweat ran down his face, mixing with dirt and dust, he labored forward cursing it. However effective it was, it was a nuisance and a difficult task to perform.
It slowed him down greatly, and he knew he’d have to make up the time once he was behind the huts on the far side. If he didn’t hurry he risked the chance of being completely destroyed whenever the RAF fighters showed up to bomb the camp.
After several agonizing minutes Bond finally reached the opposite side of the open flat ground. He forced himself up to one knee and glanced around the corner at the two men who had been on watch not far from the ground he had just traversed. They prattled away with one another, ignorant of Bond’s passage. His face remained stoic and he quickly made his way onward.
Shortly after he reached the second string of C-wire that encompassed the hut where he believed Durant was being held. The guard that was posted near the door had since gone inside. Bond quickly navigated the obstacle and crept up on the building. He was sweaty, and his face was covered in the moon dust that was all over the tiny valley. His azure colored eyes seemed to glow in the dark behind the mask of dirt he now wore.
He glanced around the camp, no one seemed concerned with any penetration, and there wasn’t a single soul near the hut.
With serious concentration he pulled open the door as slowly and quietly as he possibly could. He peeked inside to see Durant in a make shift chicken wire cage, sitting slumped over in a poorly constructed chair. It was obvious he had been beaten. His head hung low but there was apparent signs of a thrashing. His hands were strapped behind the chair and he appeared to be malnourished.
Bond’s eyes darted around the rest of the room but there was no one else inside. Where had the guard gone?
Bond noticed then, a second room in the far back corner of the hut, it had to be a small one, and the only place the guard could possibly be.
He pushed his way into the hut and with careful steps he approached the room in the far end of the hut. Just as he arrived at the open door a surprised man turned the corner. The look of complete astonishment in his eyes didn’t phase Bond for a moment. He leapt into action, the man brought his weapon up to fire.
Instead he used it to block the lunging British agent. Bond slammed into him with all his might, yanked the barrel down toward the ground and pounded the man’s face with an open palm strike-- shattering the man’s nose. He fell back into the wall and slumped over, his face muddled in blood. He coughed and choked as his mouth filled with the blood that poured from his nose. He was dazed, but not unconscious.
However, Bond felt he was focused enough on the pain in his face than the attacker who had caused that pain. The MI6 agent opted not to finish the man off, the impending air-strike would take care of that.
Bond rushed to the chicken wire cage and wrenched the rickety door off it’s hinges. Durant was lucid, and as surprised as the man Bond had attacked.
“James Bond… bollocks, I’ve really screwed things up if they sent you, mate,” he said his dirtied teeth showing through a cracked and bloodied lip. He winced as his face was quite bruised and battered. His short brown hair was matted with blood and dirt. A nasty gash ran down the side of his scruffy, unshaven face, but there was happiness in his swollen brown eyes.
“Don’t let it bother you, Adrian. It’s time to get you out of here,” Bond said with a tender tone as he helped his bruised and injured friend from the crummy chair he had been strapped to.
Durant clearly showed the signs of having been tortured. No doubt the men who had captured him had exhausted all the means they had known to get him to tell them why he was there. He didn’t break, Bond could see that. Durant was a tough man, as tough as any in the service. He paid the price for his silence, but what mattered was that he was still alive and with any luck Bond would keep him that way.
“Can you move on your own?” Bond asked.
“Yeah, I should be good,” 008 replied as he staggered and limped his way out of the chicken wire fence that had been the walls of his home for the last several weeks.
“We don’t have much time. The RAF is sanitizing the area shortly,” Bond told him.
Durant glanced at him and smiled, then motioned towards the door, indicating that he would follow after Bond’s lead. He grabbed the AK-47 that the injured guard had been carrying. He took a glance at the guard, who now clutched at his throbbing face, trying in what poor way he could to alleviate the pain. Durant thought about how bad the man had been to him in the previous days, intentionally dumping out the meager amount of water he was to be served daily, or spitting in his small portion of food. He had even entered the cage and prodded at Durant endlessly with his rifle.
Durant swung hard and caught the man across the temple with the butt stock of the AK-47, knocking him unconscious.
Bond shot him a glance.
“Just helping an old friend ease some pain.”
The two of them eased their way out of the hut and quietly negotiated their way through the C-wire heading back the way that Bond had come. Durant stumbled a moment through the concertina wire, but recovered himself hastily enough to avert any notice from the other members in the camp. His muscles were stiff and weak from lack of use, but because of intense physical training they were resilient and he was able to move competently enough.
The camp was quiet, save for the sound of the generators, and the noise emanating from one of the larger huts in the makeshift compound. It was lit more brightly, and Bond assumed it to be where they ate their meals. Perhaps now was dinner time; which would explain the lack of men moving from place to place.
Bond glanced at his watch. The half hour had expired, and no doubt Haider had activated the laser designator. The birds would be in the air by now and the two ‘00 agents were rushing to escape before they arrived. Time was running out; they didn’t have much left before those RAF Tornados would be dropping their payload and scorching the Earth they now crawled upon.
Haider sat increasingly upset over not seeing Bond return. He had activated the laser designator as he was ordered to do. But still no one had returned and Haider knew the jets were on their way to completely destroy the valley. He should’ve left the designator alone, given Bond more time. What was he thinking? No man is going to get into a fortified location and get out in less than thirty minutes, helping alone an injured comrade no less. James Bond must have a death wish.
Haider cursed himself, he may have just granted it. He was supposed to leave now, unsure of the effects of the bombs that would be dropped. It was wisest if he escaped just to prevent himself from being a casualty as well. Yet he waited, hoping against all odds that the two British agents would somehow come clamoring up the hillside much to the relief of the Afghan commando.
But as time went on there was no sign of them. In the distance he could hear the sound of jet engines. No doubt roaring high over head, beyond his sight.
The distant sound continued, and Haider’s worrying persisted unabated. He stood up and looked down into the valley with the binoculars. Most of his vision was clouded by the darkness that shrouded the valley. He looked frantically to and fro, searching desperately for any possible sight of the two operatives.
He saw nothing, then his attention was torn to the skies as the sound of the jets became more apparent.
Down below men began to pile out of the huts and shacks that dotted the valley. All of them were staring into the sky, apparently this was a place of great security and one that had since enjoyed no worries from above. The men began to rush about the camp, unsure of whether the jet was a spy plane or worse, a bomber.
Haider watched them scurrying around like ants, but still no sign of Bond or the other MI6 agent. He cursed himself again and just as he put down the binoculars the entire valley and camp ignited in an enormous ball of fire and smoke.
The shockwave from the blast carried Haider backwards into the canyon wall behind him. He collapsed on the ground, his ears ringing and his eyesight hazy from shock of the blast. He’d never felt such a thing and for a moment he thought he’d been carried into the afterlife.
An enormous amount of smoke and dirt raised high into the sky as a mini mushroom cloud formed above the high mountain walls surrounding the valley. Soon debris began to shower down upon the valley. Haider struggled to his feet and looked down at the camp. He had trouble maintaining his balance, it may have been that the blast perforated his eardrums.
From what was not enveloped by smoke he could tell the place had been annihilated. Fires raged on the meager remnants that the explosion had not destroyed outright. Shrubs and brush burned as well, and debris came down everywhere. Planks and fuel drums, rocks, dirt, shattered weapons and even clothing. Haider was in awe of the destruction.
He shook his head, his face charred black from the blast. Disappointment set in moments later when there was still no sign of Bond.
The commando gathered his things and began to head back down the valley in the direction they had originally come. He was distraught over the outcome of the mission and kicked a few pebbles as he slowly walked away from the still burning camp. It was a long trek home now and he’d be making it alone. Of course once he’d returned to Kandahar he’d have to explain why two MI6 agents weren’t accompanying him; which would be difficult to do, especially in this politically charged climate.
Before he got too far from his position he could hear the sound of coughing. He turned around and dashed back over to the place where he and Bond had observed the camp. As he neared the edge of the hillside he could hear the coughing even more pronounced. He drew his weapon into the pocket of his shoulder and carefully looked over it’s sights as he was trained. Hope tugged at his heart, but he was a professional and there was no telling whom these coughs were emitting from.
Carefully he eased his way to verge of the precipice, sweat beading on his forehead and cascading down his bearded jaw line. He looked down, and there MI6 agent 007, James Bond, struggled to assist a limping 008, Adrian Durant.
Haider scrambled down the hillside to meet the two of them ecstatic at the sight of the two battered MI6 agents, elation peaking in the tone of his voice. They too were blackened from the dust and debris kicked up from the colossal blast. Both their faces were marked with cuts and bruises, and blood slowly oozed from these minor wounds.
“You made it, Mr. James!” Haider cried out, as he reached the ‘00 duo. He immediately went about helping them, slinging the more beaten 008‘s arm over his should and helping to bare his weight.
“Just barely.” Bond responded, his tone void of any emotion.
My Bond FanFic
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Originally Posted by Major Darling
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