Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Then with the pack on his back, and his M4 carbine in hand, Falco left for the mess tent. It was open 24/7. And Falco ordered his favorite pre-op meal, which consisted of a double cheese burger and chili fries.

  Various people said “Hello,” but left it at that, since they could tell that Falco was outbound. Some people were gregarious prior to departing on a mission, but many weren’t. So it was SOP to give operators like Falco plenty of space.

  After finishing his meal Falco stopped by Operations to make sure that the weather forecast and the overall strategic situation were the same as they had been earlier in the day. Then he left for the motor pool where Mohammadi was waiting. If the Afghan was nervous Falco couldn’t detect any signs of it. Mohammadi was dressed in the same outfit Falco had seen earlier, plus a nondescript pack, and a night vision headset. The device was new to Mohammadi and he was fiddling with it. “You look green, Major … But I can see you quite clearly.”

  “Good,” Falco said. “Let’s mount up.”

  The Taliban didn’t like to fight at night. But they could. So the Americans were forced to choose. They could cede the night to the enemy, which would allow the hadji to plant IEDs, move supplies and intimidate the locals—or they could conduct patrols. Unpredictable patrols that left the base at all hours, followed random routes, and were targeted to different objectives.

  One element was predictable however—and that was the choice of vehicles used for nighttime operations. In spite of their efforts to change things up the Americans knew they’d come under fire occasionally, and be targeted with IEDs. So the Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected trucks called MRAPs were the best way to go.

  The boxy trucks came in a variety of configurations. The one looming over them had a fifty mounted up top, and firing ports along both sides. And to give the patrol even more firepower Ops was sending a Stryker vehicle along.

  The MRAP’s engine was running and a squad of soldiers was seated inside. A staff sergeant nodded to Falco. “Good evening, sir. Where’s the rest of your team?”

  “They’re goofing off,” Falco replied. “It’s just the two of us tonight. We need to stop at the gate on the way out. ”

  “Roger that,” the sergeant said. “Okay, Morris … You heard the major, let’s roll.”

  There was a slight jerk as Morris put his foot down. A series of turns took them to Hollywood Boulevard which led to the gate. An MP stepped up to the driver’s side window as the MRAP came to a halt. “Tell him that Mr. Mohammadi is aboard,” Falco instructed.

  The driver relayed the message and the MP disappeared. When the soldier returned he was carrying an AK-47 and a canvas bag full of spare magazines. Mohammadi accepted both without comment. “Don’t load your weapon,” the sergeant cautioned. “Not until you’re clear of the vehicle.” The gate swung open.

  Maybe Mohammadi’s feelings were hurt, and maybe they weren’t. But the Afghan understood. In the wake of various green-on-blue shootings Afghan nationals weren’t permitted to carry weapons inside the wire. And the sergeant was determined to protect his soldiers. Falco stood next to the driver. “You know where the drop point is?”

  Morris nodded. “Yes, sir. It was in the briefing.”

  “Good. Make it quick,” Falco said.

  “I will,” Morris promised. Both of them knew that what appeared to be empty farmland frequently wasn’t and, if the men were spotted, that could be disastrous.

  The MRAP’s armor was superior to the Stryker’s, so it took the lead. The route had been allowed to cool for a week. The road passed between two fields of wheat, through the small village of Hadit , and across a swiftly flowing river. There was a bridge. But that was a natural place to place an IED, so Morris drove the MRAP through the waist high water, and up onto the opposite bank.

  After fifteen minutes of uneventful driving the vehicles arrived at an intersection where the MRAP paused. That too was a likely place for an IED, and Falco waited for an explosion that didn’t come. “This is where we get out,” Mohammadi informed him.

  Falco thanked Morris prior to exiting the vehicle into the cool night air. Mohammadi followed him. The first thing the Afghan did was to load his AK-47. Falco was ready to fire if the AK’s barrel began to swing his way. It didn’t. The assault rifle had a sling which Mohammadi hooked over his shoulder.

  “I will lead the way,” he announced, and that was logical, since the Afghan was what Brits would call a farmerbarma. Meaning a local guide. And if there were traps ahead Mohammadi would trigger them. Falco had to watch his six however … That meant glancing back over his shoulder at regular intervals.

  Mohammadi led Falco across the road to a path that wound up along the side of a hill. Falco could see quite well thanks to his vision gear, but there wasn’t much to look at. Their surroundings consisted of boulders, scrub, and the occasional wind-twisted tree. There were stars however … Thousands of them. They twinkled and were a good source of ambient light.

  Falco was in good shape, so the climb was easy at first. But he was breathing heavily by the time they arrived at the village of Em Bal . Mohammadi was unfazed. “This is where the wedding will take place,” he whispered. “We will be up there.” Mohammadi pointed up into the darkness. “You will see everything.”

  Falco knew that. And the fact that his surroundings matched his expectations was a source of comfort. The egress route was on the opposite side of the hill. If everything went well the Taliban fighters would be disorganized during the minutes immediately after Hashemi’s death. That would help them escape. But if things went badly? He’d call for help. “Okay,” Falco said. “Lead the way.”

  The second trail was less worn than the first, and likely to be the province of goats and the boys who were in charge of them. It zigzagged back and forth for a while, circled around a pinnacle of rock, and petered out. “This is it,” Mohammadi said, as he came to a halt. “Wait until the sun rises! Everything will be visible. Including the road into Em Bal .”

  Falco nodded. “That’s good, Jawan. But people will see us.”

  “Not so,” Mohammadi replied. “Come. I will show you.”

  After turning their night vision gear off, and their headlamps on, the men entered a jumble of rocks. Falco followed Mohammadi through a narrow passageway and into the cave beyond. It was large enough to stand in, but far from secret, judging from the litter that covered the ground. “Look!” Mohammadi said proudly. “Water! I brought it here two days ago.”

  Falco looked, and sure enough, two one-gallon containers of water were hidden behind some rocks. “Well done,” Falco said, even though the previous visit was a source of concern. Had the Taliban been tracking Mohammadi’s movements? Bad things would happen if so.

  “Alright,” Falco said. “Let’s take five.” Mohammadi hadn’t seen a Jetboil before, and was amazed by the speed with which the device could boil water. The Afghani made green tea while Falco poured his half of the hot liquid over two packets of instant coffee. Then, with a power bar each, they settled in.

  Mohammadi told a story about staying in the cave as a child, while Falco listened to a report from a drone operator, via the earbuds hooked to the 117G. There were no heat signatures in the immediate area, other than those generated by goats, and Falco let Mohammadi’s words wash over him.

  When the sun rose the men went outside to greet it. The sound was faint, but Falco could hear the pre-dawn call to prayer or Salat al-Fajr being broadcast from the village mosque, and knew the faithful were up and about.

  The men lay flat on their stomachs as the sun continued to rise behind them and they glassed the village with binoculars. Falco was using a GPS enabled portable range finder (PLRF), which provided coordinates for whatever he looked at. “Start on the left,” Falco said, “and give me a tour. I want to know what each building is used for.”

  Falco took notes as Mohammadi ran through the list. There was a shoe store, a barber shop, a fabric store, what had once been a movie theatre, an outdoor restaurant, the
wedding hall where the nuptials would take place, a hole-in-the-wall pharmacy, a school and the mosque.

  Once the review was complete Falco read his notes back to Mohammadi and confirmed that they were correct before uploading them via the tablet and an uplink. Falco was putting the computer away when Mohammadi spoke. “Two men left the village and are climbing the hill. They’re hidden now … But they will reappear soon.”

  Falco swore. “Are they armed?”

  “Yes,” Mohammadi replied. “Most men are.”

  That was true. And Falco felt sure they were Taliban. Why? Because if the hill was a natural vantage point for him , it was a natural vantage point for the hadji too, and Hashemi was coming to town. Falco hadn’t given any thought to the possibility of an enemy overlook and felt stupid. The realization was humbling. But, thanks to Mohammadi, there was time to prepare. “Okay,” Falco said. “We’ll kill them. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  The better part of twenty minutes passed before the Taliban fighters arrived on the hilltop. Mohammadi was there to greet them. He was seated on a boulder drinking tea. A scene so innocent that the hadji didn’t bother to unsling their weapons. “Jawan,” one of them said in Pashto. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be kissing some crusader’s ass?”

  Falco was hiding in the jumble of rocks. The special issue .22 was in his hand. So long as he did the job correctly the Mujahedeen wouldn’t have a chance. Nor did the murderous bastards deserve one. Falco stepped out into the open, took aim, and shot a man in the back of the head. The .22 made no more than a clicking sound as two bullets struck home. The second hadji was turning as the body fell, and fumbling with his assault rifle.

  Falco shot him in the temple. Twice. The man collapsed. Mohammadi went over to spit on the body. “I know them … These pigs eat from Hashemi’s trough.”

  “The second one has a radio,” Falco observed. “I want you to monitor it.”

  “And if someone calls?”

  “Try to make it sound as if the lookouts are trying to respond but can’t,” Falco told him. “Press a lot of buttons, but don’t say anything. That’s the best we can do.”

  Most Afghan weddings began at roughly 1700 and, according to Mohammadi, this one would as well. That meant hours would pass before they could expect to see Hashemi. But what if he arrived early? Assumptions are bad , Falco reminded himself, and vigilance is good.

  So they took turns scanning the village square as the minutes crept by. There was some traffic on the Mujahedeen radio, but no calls to the dead men, for which Falco was grateful. People came and went. A dog dozed in the sun. An elaborately decorated bus arrived and five well-dressed passengers got off. They were carrying packages. Wedding guests? Probably. Boys were dismissed from school. Men entered the mosque for Asr , or the midafternoon prayer, and filtered out half an hour later.

  Then Falco heard it. A laconic message from a drone pilot who was sitting in front of a screen at Creech Air Force Base back in the U.S. of A. “We have five vehicles approaching Em Bal from the west.”

  Falco turned his binoculars to the road, and was watching when the first vehicle appeared. It was an ancient Mercedes convertible. The top was down and a passenger could be seen in back. As Falco focused his glasses he expected to see Hashemi .

  But the man in the Mercedes wasn’t Hashemi. Falco didn’t think so anyway, although the photos he’d seen were two years old. “Jawan … The man in the Mercedes … Is that Hashemi?”

  Mohammadi looked, and shook his head. “No. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Falco’s mind was racing. What the hell was going on? Had Hashemi been replaced? Was the man in the car an envoy? Sent to represent the Taliban leader? Or was Hashemi playing games? To fool him? No, Hashemi didn’t know about the trap. He was worried about predator drones. And trying to confuse the people who flew them.

  “There he is!” Mohammadi exclaimed. “Right there! Standing in front of the wedding hall.”

  Falco shifted the range finder to the left, and sure enough, Hashemi was there surrounded by a half dozen fighters. Hashemi had arrived under the cover of darkness. And now he was making his presence known. Not just anywhere … But at the center of Em Bal where a UAV operator would be hesitant to strike without a positive ID. And faces were difficult to make out from drone footage.

  So Hashemi believed himself to be safe. But was he? Falco figured that a carefully targeted missile could take the bastard and his entourage out while causing minimal damage to the village. The first step was to pass the targeting data to a pilot who was circling an area north of them. Falco felt a terrible tightness in his chest as he eyed the prospective blast area. Maybe the locals were afraid of the Taliban, or maybe it was happenstance, but the area around Hashemi was clear. Falco made the call. “Bring it.”

  Falco heard a burp of static followed by a laconic, “In from the north.”

  “Cleared hot.”

  The fighter entered a steep dive. A missile flashed off the plane’s starboard wing. The pilot said, “Rifle,” which indicated that he had released a missile rather than a bomb .

  Falco was waiting for the explosion when the door to the wedding hall opened, and three burqa clad women emerged. Falco yelled, “Shift cold! Shift cold!” Hoping there was enough time for the pilot to direct the missile away.

  But it was too late. Falco watched in horror as the missile struck. There was a flash of light, a loud BOOM, and an upwelling of smoke. Mohammadi shouted: “Praise be to Allah!”

  There was nothing Falco could do except deliver a formulaic report. “Good bombs, target down, mission successful.” Even though it hadn’t been entirely successful. The target was dead all right, but so were three civilians, and that sucked. Falco stood and shouldered his pack. “It’s time to go. Lead the way.”

  Falco could have led the way himself, but it made sense to put Mohammadi out front, rather than expose his back to the Afghan. The second trail was steep, and treacherous in spots. Falco did his best to avoid thinking about the women including who they were, why they’d been there, or anything else about them. His job was to focus on the exfil. Check the back trail. Call for a helo. Run, and run some more. And, when Falco fell, he got back up. His ankle hurt. He ran anyway.

  The process was automatic and seemed to take care of itself. A Blackhawk helicopter swooped in to pick the men up as they arrived on the flat ground at the foot of the slope. The rotors blew dust in every direction and a door gunner was eyeing the hill behind them.

  Mohammadi boarded first followed by Falco. The JTAC fell into a seat and stared at the floor as the helo lifted off. It took fifteen minutes to reach Forward Operating Base Hope. Colonel Campo was waiting next to the pad as Falco dropped to the ground and winced. The ankle hurt like hell. The men shook hands. They had to yell in order to be heard over the racket. “Congratulations!” Campo said. “You nailed the bastard.”

  “I also killed some civilians,” Falco replied darkly .

  “There was some collateral damage,” Campo admitted. “But it couldn’t be helped. The missile was on the way when the civilians entered the kill zone. And that, Major, is what you will tell the investigation board.”

  “I’m being grounded?”

  “It’s SOP. You know that.”

  “Yeah,” Falco agreed. “I know that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Campo assured him. “You’ll be fine. Hell, I’m putting you in for a medal! Come on … There’s a bottle of Jack in my desk. We’re going to have a drink.”

  “Thank you, sir … I’ll meet you there.”

  Falco turned, saw that Mohammadi was standing by himself, and went over to shake hands. “Thank you, Jawan. You’re a brave man. And a good brother. We’re pulling out … You know that. Go away from here. Far, far away.”

  “I will,” Mohammadi replied. “As for the women, do not worry, they are in Jannah (paradise) with my sister.”

  After parting ways with Mohammadi, Falco crossed the camp to the headqua
rters bunker, and followed the ramp down into the murk. If there had been a worse day in his life he couldn’t remember it. People stared, radios murmured, and the air force swallowed him up.

  Chapter Three

  Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska, USA

  E ielson Air Force Base was located 26 miles southeast of Fairbanks, Alaska. The primary purpose of the base was to host an allied forces training exercise called “Red Flag Alaska.” And, because of the war, such efforts were even more important than they’d been before.

  So when Red Flag pilot Kathy Parker requested permission to go home for her grandmother’s funeral, she’d been granted three days rather than the five she’d requested. And as the SUV entered the base, Parker felt lucky to get that.

  After thanking a fellow Red Flag pilot for the ride, Parker made her way into the terminal, and went to check in. “Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant behind the desk said, as he eyed her paperwork. “Your Mighty Mouse will board in 15 minutes. Have a nice flight.”

  Parker knew there wouldn’t be any amenities on the plane. So she went to get a Grande coffee and some candy bars. She was eating one of them, and sipping coffee, when a captain sidled up to her. He was in uniform and wearing a Judge Advocate badge. That meant he was a lawyer. Here we go , Parker thought. Maybe I should put the ring back on . “Hi,” the JAG said brightly. “Are you on the flight to Fairchild?”

  “Yes,” Parker replied. “I am. ”

  “Work or pleasure?”

  “Neither one. My grandmother died. I’m going to her funeral.”

  Parker knew some men would hit on her anyway. Fortunately the lawyer wasn’t one of them. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” he said. And, after chatting about how difficult such times were, he drifted away. And that was fine, because Parker wasn’t ready for another man yet.