Ben shouted. “Time to evac.” Connor had covered his men’s withdrawal, but was now staring into the grey-brown dust clouds filling the gulley. He could hear something odd. And it was coming towards him — fast. Snatching his rifle to his shoulder he took aim. “Get going, Ben, I’ll be right behind you.” Connor’s finger caressed the trigger and then began to squeeze it as the shape emerged from the swirling blur and he recalled one of the best pieces of advice he’d ever been given — never, ever, trust an Afghan donkey. The Taliban had many tricks, most learned during the mujahedin’s victory against the Russians back in the 1980s. A donkey laden with explosives was a favourite. Send it among the enemy and detonate it by remote control. Connor didn’t need to think twice. He drilled the beast with bullets. As the donkey fell and rolled onto its back, the string broke and a goatskin filled with water burst. The rolled-up blanket unfurled and its contents spilled out. Connor saw a glint of something and was puzzled.
