Khost

by Vincent Hobbes

  Ignoring him, York continued, “We’d been pushing for days. Pushing hard. We’d finally dug in, got real comfortable right outside Baghdad. Right out there in the sand with the fleas and blistering sun, sand blowing in your eyes . . . So we settled in. I’m exhausted, everyone is. My turn to get a few hours rest. It turned into thirteen minutes.”

  “What happened?” Clements asked.

  “The Iraqis helping us don’t know shit about soldiering. They get spooked easy. They shoot at shadows. Either way, I was so tired, I’d have no problem sleeping. Went into a damn near coma until I was woken up by a strange feeling, a pain I’d felt before, though not this bad. Fucking ants, man. Fucking ants. They pretty much crawled all over my body and bit the dog-shit outta me. Ha! Imagine that, taking a nap and waking up by those bastards like that.”

  “Yeah, that would suck,” Clements responded, still wondering where the story was going.

  “It did. But you see, here’s the thing. Here’s what makes it wild. Those little bastards waited—they took their time—they acted as one. I would have felt the first bite or two, would have woken up real quick. But they waited, coming from who knows where, crawling up my pants, down my shirt, into my sleeves, into my socks. Then, all at once, they began biting. Sure as fuck they worked as a cohesive unit. These monsters—they’re like ants, in a way. Stronger, faster, brutal in their tactics,” York finished explaining. “Think of them that way, and you’ll fare better.”

  91

  “They seem to get along, for the most part. When they feel a threat, they come together, that’s for sure. They split up, attack you from multiple sides. The fucks can blend in, too. They move like a flock of birds when they’re in the open. Ever wonder how a flock of birds just knows when to turn? These things are no different. They act in a collective manner. They attack with no mercy,” York said.

  “I’ll never understand why they didn’t send more of us in,” Clements said. He was allowing York’s insane talk to get to his head.

  “The region is infested. They’re outgrowing that valley. Soon, they’ll cross the countryside, and make trouble. Pakistan is not far, major cities beyond that. Russia to the north. It’d be a mess. We’re here to do the dirty work. We’re here to prevent them from spreading,” York said.

  He continued, “They have oval shaped heads, the crowns protruding up like giant deformities, their chins and jaw lines extended. Their teeth are more like a shark’s now, their mouths are wide, stretched nearly ear to ear. The first generation, those in the cave when it happened, they turned red. Some morphed into other things. Combined with reptiles. It wasn’t all instant. You can almost tell they’re evolving. Not sure how. The other generations are different. Mostly white, they see little to no light. Their jaws are likes vices, though. They can crush a man’s head, rip open your gut. Then, once they have you down, they suck out your insides. That’s what happened to Ramirez. Saw him get his guts sucked out. The things were eating his intestines like we would slop up spaghetti.”

  “That’s fucking sick,” Clements exclaimed, anxiety starting to set in.

  “Be ready. These other generations are as fast as an Olympic runner. Shit, I’d say more like a thoroughbred,” York warned. He looked hard at Clements, adding, “Know what’s strange about ants? Know what they do after a massacre?”

  “No, what’s that?” Clements asked.

  “They try to hide it, to cover it up.”

  “Why? They’re just ants.”

  “Don’t know, but it’s true. It’s as if their actions embarrass them.”

  “Bullshit,” Clements exclaimed.

  “It’s true. When you near ’em, they seem to become aware. They crouch, cower and flail their antennae. It’s as if they’re trying to stop you from stepping on ’em,” York explained.

  “Probably natural. Self-defense mechanism,” Comstock interjected, attempting to ground the subject, attempting to stop York’s rambling. Dale Comstock was a realist, a man who only understood what he could see and hear and touch. He didn’t ponder the mysteries of the universe, he didn’t ask questions that had no answers. He was a man of fact, of direct action to solve a specific problem.

  As luck would have it, the cabin lights flickered. The normal lighting shut down, bright green lights filling the space. They heard a chime, and knew it was time to ready themselves for the jump.

  92

  Green light and they gathered their gear, strapped it tight. Checked it three times, checking out one another’s as well. Then, they attached their parachutes, and side compartments for their air supply. They would need to move rapidly, down to fourteen thousand feet before they could disregard the respirators. This didn’t leave them much time.

  Yellow light. They stood in a row, facing the rear of the plane. Rivers and Svetlana were at the front of the line. This didn’t make sense to her. She was beyond nervous as Rivers attached his harness to hers, double checking the lock, cinching her tight into his body. This calmed her—somewhat.

  Red light. It was time. A loud noise filled the cabin, and slowly, on the belly of the plane, near its tail, a large door opened downward. It was hydraulic, and steadily opened, revealing the dark sky below them.

  Distinct hisses were heard, each man giving a thumbs up their oxygen was working. Rivers pushed at Svetlana’s arm, and she remembered. Thumbs up, she could breath.

  Then, the countdown . . .

  *

  The team of nine jumped from the Gulfstream.

  Svetlana kept her eyes closed the entire way down, strapped to Rivers, hanging on for dear life.

  *

  Finally, after drifting for what felt like forever, they found their LZ, each setting down gracefully. Nearby was the hidden cache of weapons as promised, and the team began to ready themselves. They had a long hike ahead of them, up a mountain and to the other side. It took most of the day, and they reached the valley of darkness just as the sun began to lower on the horizon.

  93

  “Let’s check COMMS, then we’ll recon the valley,” Dale said.

  “Roger that, One. This is Delta Two,” Jefferson replied into his mic.

  “Delta Three,” Clements said.

  “Delta Four,” Thompson said.

  “Delta Five,” Hernandez said.

  “Delta Six,” Marcus said.

  “Delta Seven,” York said, a wide grin on his face.

  “Check, this is Hollywood One,” Rivers said into his small mic.

  They each had one, each attached high on their chest, earpieces in their ears, for the moment they could hear clearly.

  Comstock looked at Svetlana. “Test your mic, ma’am.”

  “Oh, okay . . . hello. This is Hollywood Two.”

  “Roger that,” Comstock said, his hand to his earpiece, nodding his head.

  A flicker of static.

  A pop, a hiss of empty air waves.

  “Delta One, this is Hotel Bravo. I can hear you fine,” Elizabeth said from the comfort of her control room miles away.

  “Roger, Hotel Bravo,” Comstock acknowledged.

  Another wave of emptiness and another voice came over the airwaves.

  “Delta One, this is Sierra Bravo Four,” the voice said in their ears.

  “Is that—?” Clements began.

  “Um, Hotel Bravo . . . this is Hollywood One,” Rivers began, “. . . we have an unknown.”

  “That’s a roger on what you’re about to ask,” Elizabeth said. “Sierra Bravo Four is your eyes today. Now good luck. Update me at second waypoint. I’ll be listening in. Good luck, gentlemen and lady.”

  Clements turned to Comstock, saying, “Shit, the Colonel’s here?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “Why don’t you ask him,” Comstock replied.

  But Clements paused, unsure of what to say. He couldn’t imagine a man of such rank, of such influence, would be on the ground on such a mission.

  Rivers was the one who spoke u
p, saying, “Sierra Bravo Four, what’s your location, over?”

  “Once you get up in this valley, I’m at your two o’clock. I’ll move in tighter once you near, but for the moment, I have eyes on,” Reynolds replied over the radio.

  “Good to have you looking out for us,” Rivers said.

  “Roger,” Colonel Reynolds responded. “Couldn’t let you boys have all the fun. Besides, someone had to represent my team.”

  They all knew what he was talking about: The United States Marine Corps.

  Semper Fi, Reynolds thought.

  He then continued, saying, “Have a good angle of fire, a few alleys, eyes on and all clear at present. Village is quiet. I see four dozen potential tangos, though none armed. Seems quiet right now.”

  “Roger that,” Rivers responded, looking to Comstock.

  “All right, so we’ve got one of the best snipers in the world on our side watching our backs,” Dale said. “Now let’s get moving.” He looked to Clements and Thompson, saying, “Delta Three and Four, you’ll go with Rivers and Svetlana. Up that hill,” he said, pointing to the massive peak. “Get up there quick, we’ll be doing the same.”

  “I have to take Hollywood?” Clements asked.

  “You sure do. Do some recon,” Comstock continued, ignoring Clements’ complaint. “We’ll gather the rest of the gear and hump it up behind you.” Dale looked to Rivers, adding in a low voice, “Hollywood One, eyes on Svetlana. Watch her, brother. Things might get hot.”

  “Roger, Delta One. Eyes on Hollywood Two.”

  Everyone went to work, the teams beginning their ascent.

  *

  “Seventh floor,” Elizabeth said into her phone. It was perhaps one of the most secure lines in the world, direct to the head of this operation, a man with a heavy dialect and temper to boot.

  The line clicked.

  No dial tone, only silence.

  “Password?”

  “Alpha, Kilo, one-one-nine,” Elizabeth said. “Zulu Seven Clearance.”

  “Hold,” the voice replied.

  The line clicked again.

  Silence once more.

  “Yes,” a man’s voice said. It was gruff, short, as if too busy to take calls at the moment.

  “Drop is complete,” Elizabeth reported.

  “We know,” the man’s voice replied.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said. She was startled, for that was impossible. She didn’t question it, though, instead saying, “Task Force Zulu Seven is nearing the first waypoint. Should have an update within the hour.”

  “All right. We’ve detected movements on recent satellite scans.”

  “Aren’t they blurry?” she asked.

  “We’re using another method. It’s proving difficult, but clearer images.”

  “Why wasn’t I notified?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It’s of no help. The satellite feed isn’t live.”

  “Where’s the movement? The village? The cave?”

  “The entire valley. Outside, too.”

  “Say again?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “So they’re out?”

  “As of the last transmission, we counted two or three.”

  Elizabeth sighed, eased by the words. “Oh, good. We can handle two or three.”

  “Hundred,” the voice finished. “Two or three hundred. And seismic reports say there’s more in the cave.”

  “My God!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “That’s impossible odds. Sir, may I suggest we pull out until—”

  “Negative,” came the husky response. “You’ll proceed as the operation calls for. Send your men in.”

  “I’ll have to tell them.”

  “They’ll figure it out soon enough,” the voice said.

  Elizabeth understood what that meant. She wasn’t to tell them, not yet. She didn’t like this, not one bit. Whomever was linked to the other side of the world wasn’t playing fair to her team. Elizabeth had figured Langley would leave something out from the official files, but the tone of the man’s voice was unsettling. It felt as if they were being sold out.

  “So . . . we’re to continue as planned? Nothing new we need to know so we might change our plans?”

  “Nothing new. Continue them to waypoint one and report.”

  Click.

  The line was dead.

  Whomever was on the other end, the man with the rough voice, was now gone.

  Elizabeth gulped, looking back to the monitors in front of her, taking a quick glance over to Michael, before looking back. She was nervous, and fought to conceal her shaking hands.

  94

  “Delta One, this is Sierra Bravo Four,” Reynolds said. He was mounted halfway up the southern canyon wall, hidden in a crevice between two giant boulders, concealed within a ragged bit of plants.

  “This is Delta One,” Comstock replied.

  “I’ve got eyes on village,” Reynolds reported. “Distance . . . four hundred and fifty meters. Elevation, seventy-five meters.”

  “What do you see?” Comstock asked, looking through a pair of binoculars himself.

  “A village full of possible tangos,” Reynolds said. “Don’t see any arms yet, but will keep an eye out for you boys. I have three lanes of fire, good visual.”

  “Roger that,” Comstock replied.

  “I’ll keep eyes on and cover you. I’ll move closer once your team passes through the village.”

  Dale Comstock then turned to his team, his voice gruff, ready for business. “It’s time.”

  They had entered the valley, moved to the canyon floor. Dusk was near.

  “Once we get the green light, we’ll move in,” Dale said. “Three teams. We’ll take the village from three angles. Keep COMMS open unless you need something. Move fast, report any hostiles.”

  The men nodded.

  Svetlana had a cold look about her, pale face, tight lips.

  “You okay, ma’am? I can send you back,” Comstock suggested.

  “I’m okay,” Svetlana replied.

  Comstock took a moment, looking deep into her eyes. He wanted something, needed anything to keep her from going. Thing is, bravery was in her nature, and she hid whatever fears she had well. She was ready to prove herself to this warrior class of men, and Comstock immediately had more respect for the woman.

  “All right,” he said, then turned to his men. “Delta Two and Seven with me,” Comstock said to Jefferson and York. “Delta Three and Four, you’ll be with Rivers and the girl. South side.”

  “Fucking shit, Dale,” Clements said. “You’re sending two women with Thompson and I?”

  “Fuck you!” Rivers said, his eyes wild, ready for business.

  Clements grinned wide, and Comstock barked at him, “Knock that shit off right now! Sweep to the south. We’ll stay along the perimeter and just make sure there are no tangos. Once past, we’ll regroup on the northern side of the canyon and approach the cave together.”

  “Got it,” Clements and Thompson said in unison.

  Comstock turned, looking at Marcus and Hernandez. “Delta Five and Six, hit the northern perimeter of the village. Move quick and stay ahead. We have the official green light. Code word: Electric Saints. Task Force Zulu Seven, let’s move in.”

  “Hooah!” they both said.

  “Jefferson, York and I will sweep behind, watch your backs. We’ll enter the village, though we’ll stay close to the southern edge. Watch your fire, there’s women and children there.”

  “Hooah!” all the Delta men said once more.

  “Let’s get moving,” Comstock ordered. Then, he spoke into his mic, alerting Colonel Reynolds, who in turn relayed to Elizabeth back at base. “We’re going in,” Delta One stated.

  *

  The three teams scattered, creeping down the rocky hillside, watching their angles and moving forward. They did so with ease, each man accustomed to such terrain. Even the Russian woman kept pace; Svetlana was obviously in good shape.

  Comstock, Jefferson, and York took up the rear, thirty meters beh
ind. They kept a careful eye on the village in the distance. The sun was behind them, lowering fast on the horizon. It would spotlight them, but thus far, nobody had noticed. The pair took turns scanning the valley floor, the canyon walls, looking for any hiding Taliban.

  There were none.

  Comstock and Jefferson were each well-armed.

  Jefferson carried two rifles—his primary was also an M4. It was currently on single shot, safety off, for there was no time for safeties in Afghanistan. Not here. Slung across his shoulder was an AA-12 automatic twelve gauge shotgun. It held cylinders of twenty rounds, and could fire up to three hundred rounds per minute. The load was buckshot, for maximum effect. He carried a few drums of three inch slugs in his pack as well.

  Strapped across his chest were rows of magazines for his M4. It shot a 5.46 millimeter round, and he carried thirty extra mags. It was heavy, but the nine-hundred and thirty rounds made him feel better about being alone out here.

  Dale also carried an M4, a .45 caliber pistol on his right thigh, no secondary rifle. He had a half dozen magazines for his pistol, and dozens of magazines for his M4 as well.

  Comstock carried seventy pounds of gear with relative ease. Adrenaline and the thrill of the hunt caused him to hardly notice the weight. Dale was a big man, worked hard to remain in top shape, and bore the burden with ease.

  As did his partner—Sergeant Jefferson.

  The man was bigger than Comstock, muscles rippling under his shirt. He was tall, wide, his face mean and chiseled. He had fought alongside Comstock for many years, the two quite close. They trusted one another, they respected one another, and if it meant dying for one another, so be it.

  York was the outsider. He kept pace, though, keeping a sharp eye, knowing that Comstock was watching him. He, too, carried an M4 select fire. He carried a .45 like the others, and an MP-5 machine gun across his back. The rifle was light, small and compact. It shot a .9 mm round, could empty a thirty round magazine in seconds. The rounds were hollow point, maximum grain for maximum effect. Though the bullet size was small, the German rifle had long since proven its worth in close quarters combat.