Free First Strike by Craig Simpson

CHAPTER ONE
First strike
Kabul, Afghanistan
    Tariq’s big day had arrived. He’d never felt so nervous. Outside Kabul’s Pul-e-Khishti mosque, he paused to wrap a blanket around his shoulders against the bitter wind. He hurried to the bus depot, taking a short cut past the bustling stalls and colourful booths of the ancient Ka Faroshi bird market. In his rush along the narrow street, he bumped into several large domed wicker cages. The fighting kowks perched inside flapped their wings and squawked at him. Angry stall owners threw up their arms and cursed as he vanished into the crowd.

    At the bus depot, Tariq boarded his battered old school bus. He slid onto the driver’s seat, reached forward and started the engine. He gripped the steering wheel tightly to stop his hands from shaking.
    Out in the city’s tightly packed traffic, Tariq edged the bus forward towards the Afghan National Army checkpoint ahead. Checkpoints did not worry him, though. He saw them every day, and the soldiers and policemen waved him through. To them he was just a friendly school-bus driver.
    Mushi waited at the bus stop with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, kicking stones into the gutter. He was still half asleep and he couldn’t stop yawning. School was such a pain, he thought. There was a kite fighting festival the following weekend and his kite still needed its finishing touches; an extra coating of ground glass on the strings so, when he battled with other competitors, his string would cut theirs and he’d win. The bus pulled up and Mushi clambered aboard. As usual, his friend Kemal had saved a seat for him in the third row.
    Tariq crunched the gearbox and pulled off. It was almost time. The bus was full now, crammed with boys dressed in their smart school uniforms. Tariq despised them and their privileged backgrounds. Their fathers could afford to pay the school fees. Tariq knew a few had grown rich through work paid for by the American infidel, and that fact alone was enough for him to hate them. Tariq shut out all the jabbering young voices and focused hard on the road ahead. The traffic was flowing freely now.
    Tariq reached a junction and turned left, heading for the city centre. Startled, Mushi blinked and shot bolt upright. He knew something was wrong. He called out to the driver, “Why are we going the wrong way?”
    Tariq had prepared for this. “There are road closures. We must go this way,” he lied. His heart pounded in his chest, but he tried to remain calm. Voices inside the bus trailed off and Tariq sensed the growing unease behind him.
    “No there aren’t. I want to get off!”
    Tariq ignored Mushi. Instead, he pressed the accelerator pedal and increased speed.
    “Stop!” other boys were calling out. Tariq began to pray, his lips moving silently… “ Allahu Akbar …” He pulled out to overtake a car slowing down for an army checkpoint.
    Mushi watched in horror as the bus roared on, busting through the plastic barriers and scattering the armed men in uniform. He turned to look back. The soldiers should have tried to stop the bus. They should have raised their guns. Now it was too late.
    Tariq saw the coffee house at the end of the street. It was no secret that many local Afghan interpreters employed by the Americans visited it. To him, these men were traitors, worse than dogs.
    “Where are we going? Let us off!” Mushi demanded.
    Without warning, a donkey and cart piled high with vegetables trotted from a side street. Tariq saw them but kept on course. The bus rocked as it struck the donkey and the boys screamed. In desperation, Mushi leapt forward, grabbed hold of Tariq and wrestled with him, trying to make him stop.
    Tariq was too strong. He pushed the accelator pedal to the floor and the engine groaned. Buildings flashed by in a blur. Mushi tried punching Tariq, and then yanked his beard. He tore out a handful of hair, but fell backwards onto the floor.
    Tariq didn’t flinch. He reached for a switch on