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And that we must inform them should any Taliban pass through. But by sunset the soldiers are gone. Left alone, we are defenceless. Then in the night the Taliban come and make demands too. Like you, they threaten us. They punish us if we don’t grow poppies for their opium. They punish us if we talk to you. It’s the complete opposite and we cannot win.” He threw up his arms in surrender.
    Connor understood the awful dilemma he’d brought to the village and to his old friend’s home. All over Afghanistan thousands of farmers like Assif were chained to poverty and stuck in the middle of a land that had only known war for hundreds of years. They were always in the wrong place at the wrong time, but had nowhere else to go. Connor knew he had some persuading to do.
     
    Outside in the fields, Hassan saw the American soldiers watching him from the rocky outcrop. Nervously, the barefoot boy pushed his heavy wooden handcart along the rutted path between the poppy fields, picking up fist-sized stones as he went. He wanted to leave the cart and run, but there was nowhere to hide. Hassan didn’t want to catch their attention — they might scramble down to talk to him. Maybe they’d yell and point their rifles. Or chew him out for being uncooperative. Would they shoot him? “ Inshallah ,” he muttered aloud — if Allah wills it. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to get shot, and wondered whether it was better if a bullet passed right through him rather than it getting lodged inside his belly. On the other hand, they might give him a bar of chocolate. The infidels always had lots of tempting bars of delicious chocolate. Hassan knelt down, picked up another stone, and dropped it into his cart. The distant roar of engines made Hassan turn and shield his eyes. He spotted a rising trail of dust amid the shimmering heat. Three red Toyota pickups sped past on the main road, heading south. He watched them until they were out of view. Taliban, he suspected. He was curious as to why the Americans hadn’t opened fire.
    Hassan began wheeling his cart full of stones back to his village. Had the Americans come to blow up his house? he fretted. He also knew that the Taliban sometimes blew up houses; but mostly they slit throats or cut off heads. Anyone who didn’t do as they were told, or who made friends with the American infidels, would suffer. They’re all crazy, Hassan decided. All of them.
    He heard a strange noise, and looked up into the sky. It was a drone. He’d never seen one so close, and this one was heading his way. It was flying as if it was out of control, like it was being flown by a drunken pilot. Then he saw the missile spark into life and accelerate away, leaving a trail across the sky. Hassan gulped. Was he the target? He dropped to his knees, crawled behind his cart and prayed. The missile flashed overhead and a moment later smacked into the outcrop.
    A blinding flash. A deafening, earth-shaking crump. The pressure wave toppled Hassan’s cart, knocking him flat and scattering the stones. A mushroom cloud of black smoke rose hundreds of metres into the air. Rubble, dirt and debris rained down. A set of dog tags and a severed arm landed close to where Hassan lay.
    Shaken, he stood up and dusted himself down. He stared at the arm; the fingers were still twitching. Somehow, it didn’t look real. Slightly dazed, he picked up the dog tags. The name on them read: Brad Somersby. It doesn’t make sense, Hassan thought. Why would the Americans bomb their own patrol? Without thinking, he put the dog tags into his pocket.

CHAPTER THREE
Connor’s promise
    The explosion from the Hellfire missile shook Assif’s house. Dust fell from the ceiling. Startled, Assif leaped to his feet. Connor snatched his radio from his trouser cargo pocket. “Sparks, what the hell is going on out there, over?”
    Silence.
    â€œSparks? Do you read me, over?”
    Eventually, Connor’s radio crackled into life.