by Eric Meyer
“They like to make it realistic, but there’s realistic and realistic. That went too far.”
“Two less for us to deal with,” Blum replied.
The rookies stayed on top of the hill for another hour. Most took out food from their packs and sat down to eat. A few men glanced around the nearby hills, but failed to spot them. The camouflage netting was protection from a distant gaze, and they could watch and wait without fear of detection. Until one of the squad leaders gave an order to two men, and they climbed to their feet and started walking toward them.
“What you think they’re doing?” Sara said from right behind him.
He felt her warm breath on his face; she was inches away. As close as she’d been to him since she’d returned to Afghanistan. “My guess is they’ve been sent out to patrol the area, probably a punishment for something they did, or didn’t do. Either way, it presents us with a problem.”
“A problem?”
He stared back at her, and for once she didn’t respond with a hostile glare. “You were an infantry officer, and you served in Afghanistan. You know the deal; when the enemy sends out scouts who may stumble on your position, you have a single option. I’ll deal with them.”
“You? You mean you’re going out there to kill them?”
“Damn right, I am. Greg, if things go wrong get out of here fast. Forget about killing Mohammed Tarzi. Forget Ivan. Forget all of it. Stay alive, get Sara out, and get home to Faria and the kids.”
Blum stared at him, and then at the ground he’d have to cross to intercept the patrol before they were near enough to spot the jeep. He shook his head. “You won’t make it.”
“Either I will or I won’t, but just be ready to leave.”
By way of a reply, he lifted the Dragunov he’d been carrying in his arms and sighted down the scope. “I can take them from here. You know the suppressor will kill any noise before it reaches the main group.”
“If one of them has his finger on the trigger, and you hit the other guy first, he’ll fire a shot to warn the others.”
Greg looked chastened. “Maybe you’ve got a point, but still, I can keep you covered. If anything goes wrong, I’ll hold them until you get back here. Then we head out together. If one gets out, we all get out.”
He didn’t like it. Despite her cold hostility, he wanted to see Sara safe. He also wanted Faria to have a husband and the kids to have a father, not a bullet riddled corpse outside Tora Bora. But Greg was adamant, and in the end he agreed. He edged out from beneath the camouflage netting, sliding along the ground, twisting between rocks and stunted bushes, working his way toward the two-man patrol. His intention was to hit them as far away from the jeep as possible, so if things went awry, his friends would have a chance. He was going well, making good time, and staying out of sight. Until the cover ran out, and almost one hundred meters of open ground lay before him, as flat as a billiard table.
He searched, looking for a possible route he could take to get closer. He found nothing and began to think he’d have to risk the open terrain, also risk the exposure of his friends if they saw him. He jolted when Ghulam tapped him on the shoulder. He hadn’t seen or heard the boy approach.
“What the…”
“Don’t shoot. It’s me. Sir, I know this place, and I could see you were stuck. There is a way we can get across.”
He made sense. Fifty meters to the south lay a shallow drainage trench. The gully was hidden by bushes along its edge, no doubt watered during the wet season by the torrent of water that would rush down the gully. Now it was dry, and he nodded his thanks.
“That’s good thinking, but now get back to the jeep.”
He crawled toward the tiny gully, dropped into it, and began moving along the tight, narrow space. Behind him, he heard breathing, Ghulam, the Afghan boy. He looked around.
“I told you to go back!” He kept his voice low, but the savage whisper would have left the boy in no doubt what he meant. It made no difference.
“I come with you, Sir. I owe you a debt, and I will repay it with my life if necessary.”
Stoner sighed.
What the hell can I say to make this kid see sense?
He wanted to argue, but decided it was neither the time nor the place.
“You don’t have a weapon.”
“I have this.” Ghulam produced a wicked looking knife, an Afghan dagger with a curved blade of about ten inches in length. He grinned, “It is quieter than a gun.”
“You think you can kill a man?”
“These people wanted to kill me. As long as they are here, this region will be dangerous for every Afghan who comes here.” He smiled, “Especially for goatherds. Yes, I can kill a man. These men.”
He nodded and crawled on, aware of Ghulam sliding along behind him. They reached the flat ground and slid out behind a thicket of stunted vegetation. His plan was to use the butt of the Desert Eagles to knock each man unconscious, but it wouldn’t be easy dealing with them both. The danger was if one of them shouted aloud or fired a warning shot. He also carried a knife, a big combat knife in the belt that held up his pants, but silencing both men at once would be difficult. Better to use the pistols as clubs. He discounted Ghulam.
The kid means well, but he’s still a kid. I don’t want him to repay anything. He's a young boy with the guts of a lion, but I want him to stay safe.
The two men came nearer, relaxed, chatting to each other in Pashto. From the tone of their voices, they obviously felt they’d been handed a raw deal.
It’s about to get a lot worse, my friends, as bad as it can get.
He picked the spot, a narrow gap between boulders and vegetation. They’d have to walk past it. He gripped the barrels of the big automatics and tensed. Then they were there, less than a meter away. He sprang up, arms outstretched, using the power, speed, and weight of his lunge to grab and drag them to the ground. He was already bringing down a pistol butt on the head of the first man, hearing the distinctive crunch of bone breaking as the skull gave way.
But the second man was fast, although so far he hadn’t shouted to warn his pals. He swung the assault rifle to slam the butt down on Stoner’s head. The hardwood stock missed his head but slammed into his shoulder, and he winced from the blow. He went at him again, hands reaching out for his neck. He may have been a stranger to military tactics. He was a brawler.
The Afghan feinted, moved one way, and dodged to the opposite side, the hardwood stock whistling toward the same place he’d struck before. Too late to get clear, Stoner tensed for the blow. It never landed. Ghulam was there, and he’d snatched up the assault rifle dropped by the first man to go down. He parried the blow like a trained expert at quarterstaff fighting.
The two rifles met with a crack that Stoner was convinced heard by the distant warband. The boy stepped back to avoid a retaliatory blow from the Islamist, stepped in again, and brought the stock of his rifle into the belly of the other man. The hostile’s breath hissed out from his lungs, and Ghulam swung the stock down again. This time the ‘crack’ was an echo of the sound when Stoner hit the first man. The blow had been powerful, and the insurgent was unmoving. Blood and brains leaked from his head and pooled on the ground.
Stoner knew there was no need to check him for signs of life, so he went to the first man he’d hit. He was still alive, groaning, and he hit him again, three times until he was still. A gruesome, grisly business, and he hated doing it. Both men were young, barely in their twenties, but they would kill him in an instant if he gave them the chance to recover.
So far, the distant warband showed no sign of knowing they were there, or that they’d killed two of their number. Stoner and Ghulam dragged the bodies away and hid them between the rocks. They used their combat knives to cut clumps of foliage and lay it over the bodies to hide them. When they got back to the jeep, Greg and Sara had seen everything. Her gaze was withering.
“Did you have to do that? They were so young.”
“They tried to
kill us.” His answer was terse; he was finding her attitude more than tiresome, “When your boyfriend turns up, ask him what he’d do. If I know Wayne, he’d do the same.”
She flared. “He’s not my boyfriend, whatever gave you that idea?”
He was taken aback, the way she said it suggested she found the idea offensive.
So why has she been so much closer to Wayne than to me? Especially after what went between us the last time she was in Afghanistan. Women! I’ll never understand them.
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
They watched and waited for the Islamists to leave the area. Two more patrols went out, one to the south and one to the north, but no hostiles came in their direction. When the area was clear, they took down the camouflage netting, stowed it in the jeep, and climbed aboard. Greg started the engine, and they continued their slow, tortuous journey to Tora Bora. Ghulam proved invaluable, his knowledge of the terrain almost encyclopedic.
They followed the narrow track between two ranges of hills and encountered no further enemy patrols. They were all weary; exhausted from the bone shaking, grindingly slow journey, and it was almost a surprise when Ghulam said, “Tora Bora.”
He’d been dozing, and his eyes flicked open. He was looking at the familiar mountains that bordered Southern Afghanistan. The rocky slopes that swept down to the maze of tunnels known locally as the Black Caves. Tora Bora. Greg halted the GAZ just as they were about to emerge from a narrow saddle in the hills, and he reversed a few meters to keep the vehicle out of sight of the enemy.
There was no shortage of hostiles. About five kilometers away, outside the black hole that was the entrance to the main cave; men were sitting on the ground. Listening to a man standing on a rock and haranguing them, his arms moving in wild gestures to punctuate his speech. Every few minutes the listeners jumped to their feet and waved their rifles. A couple even fired shots in the air, and it could be nothing other than a morale boosting talk. No doubt persuading them to throw away their lives for some useless purpose. It went on for an hour, and darkness was falling when the men began to disperse. He looked at Greg.
“It’s time for us to move in and find a shooting stand. Ghulam, we need a position within two kilometers of the cave entrance. Do know of anything?”
The boy grinned. “I know the perfect place, Sir. We can remain hidden there until the deed is done, and then make our escape.”
There wasn’t going to be any ‘we.’ As soon as they’d identified a suitable place, he’d send Ghulam back to wait with Sara at the jeep. Right now, it was time to use the hours of darkness to maneuver into position. He picked up the M60, and Greg reluctantly stowed his Dragunov and uncrated the Barrett Light 50. The weapon was heavy. With a twenty-nine-inch barrel it weighed more than thirty pounds. In addition, he carried spare magazines loaded with .50 caliber rounds.
The M60 machine gun was a little lighter at twenty-four pounds, but the belts of 7.62mm ammunition made it considerably heavier. They were ready to leave, and he looked at Sara. “You’ll be okay here with the jeep? Ghulam will be back just as soon as he’s shown us this place we can hole up.”
She didn’t look happy. “Why would I have a problem? Did you forget I was an infantry officer, so I’m no stranger to operating inside enemy territory. As I recall, my unit was sent to clear out insurgents in this very region. I’m not a rookie.”
I remember. I also remember they captured you last time, and you nearly died.
He gestured for them to move out. Ghulam led the way, and the darkness was almost pitch black, with dense cloud cover shrouding the moon. They slipped and stumbled over every stone and pothole, and it took them three hours to cover the three kilometers. When they reached the place Ghulam had selected, it was almost midnight. The stand could have been purpose-designed for the job. They reached the top of a low hill. A few meters on the other side earth and rock had fallen and wedged over several large boulders to form a roof. They climbed inside what was almost a narrow cave, about two meters deep and three meters wide. A fine sniper stand, and if they were careful, the enemy would find it impossible to spot them.
Greg set to work with the Barrett, extending the bipod and making a platform of flat rocks he could rest the weapon on during the long period of waiting. Stoner did the same to work out where Greg’s shot came from. They’d come at them from the front, and he could cut them down with continuous fire from the machine gun. He climbed back out and surveyed the surrounding area. One thing was missing; they had no one to guard against a surprise attack from the rear. They’d have to chance it.
He returned to the cave, and Ghulam was keeping watch on the dark, distant slope. He gave him a friendly smile. The kid had done well. “It’s time to go back, my friend. Sara will be waiting for you at the jeep.”
“I could be more useful here.”
“I hear you, buddy, but now you need to go back and wait with Sara. Tell her we’re all set here. When Tarzi shows his face, it’ll all be over. We can go home, and she can write up her story.”
He nodded. “You can tell her yourself.”
He glanced around quickly, and she was there. She’d approached silently, so he hadn’t heard a thing. In the gloom, all he saw was a shadow and a row of fine, white teeth.
Dammit, she’s smiling at me.
He made his voice cold. “I told you to stay with the GAZ. You shouldn’t be here.”
The smile didn’t leave her face. “That’s tough. The reason I came to Afghanistan was to get the story, unless you’ve forgotten. I brought my camera, and as soon as it gets light, I intend to take some shots. I want to see what’s going on.”
“You still shouldn’t be here.”
“That’s too bad, I’m here now. Have you seen any sign of Wayne Evers?”
He met her eyes, surprised by the question. “Evers? No, why would we see him?”
A shrug. “I just though I’d ask.”
“I’ll let you know, but right now, I want you to take Ghulam and go back to the jeep.”
“No.”
He tried arguing, bullying, and persuading, but she was stubbornly insistent. When he pointed out they needed someone to guard the jeep, she told him she’d covered it with the camouflage netting, so the jeep could take care itself.
“Besides, haven’t you forgotten something?”
“Like what?”
“Someone to cover your six. If anyone comes at you from behind, you’ll be dead.”
“We have to take that chance.”
“Is that right? Listen, Stoner, I’m staying. Ghulam, you know the area like the back of your hand, so you can point out anything of interest to me.”
“Yes, I would be more than happy to help, Miss Sara,” he gushed.
Stoner gave up. More than anything, he wanted to keep her safe. Despite her hostility, she was still a girl he’d once been very close to. There was also Ghulam, little more than a boy. Neither of them should have been so close to the enemy. If things went wrong, they could be exposed to heavy hostile fire. Then again, she’d camouflaged the jeep, and maybe, just maybe he could do with her here. Watching their six, and getting her pictures. But he still didn’t like it.
Stoner took the first watch and spent three hours surveying the area around the caves. Apart from an occasional sentry patrolling the distant slopes, he saw nothing moving. Greg relieved him, and he attempted to doze, conscious of the proximity of Sara Carver. At one time, he was convinced she was awake and watching him, but maybe he was wrong. He fell asleep and came awake suddenly. Someone was tapping him on the shoulder, and when he looked up, he was staring into her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
She put a finger to his lips. “There’s nothing wrong. I just wanted to talk.”
He groaned inwardly. Much as he appreciated her losing some of the hostility she'd shown him, he’d had less than two hours’ sleep. “About what?”
“It’s about Wayne Evers. There was never anything between us.”
&nb
sp; “That’s your business, not mine.”
Why is she telling me this?
“There’s something you should know. I haven’t told you everything, like the real reason I’m here.”
“Go on.”
“This isn’t a freelance journalist assignment. My employer sent me to snoop around. They’re worried we may have a serious leak.”
It dawned on him then, and he stared into her eyes. “You’re CIA.”
“Well, yeah. Kind of.”
She went on to explain that the worsening situation in Afghanistan had prompted people in the intelligence and military circles to ask questions. Like why, after all the billions of dollars and hundreds of lives, was Afghanistan going down the tubes? The Taliban were starting to take back territories lost to them, and the new kids on the block, ISIS, had begun to encroach. Even Al Qaeda, the forgotten, or almost forgotten organization once headed by Osama bin Laden, was again making a nuisance of themselves. It added up to increased attacks on American and coalition targets. Targeted attacks.
“Someone’s passing them information. Initial suspicions fell on Ivan, and we’ve been checking out his activities. Another name that came up in signal intercepts was Wayne Evers. In addition, our intelligence analysts questioned how he could have survived all those years on a barren mountainside above Tora Bora.”
“Wayne, helping the insurgents? No way.”
Or is it? Could he sympathize with their cause, maybe changed his allegiance? When I first encountered him, he was vehemently opposed to the Islamists, but even so, it’s a fair question. Who helped him, maybe even befriended him during his long sojourn on the mountainside? It doesn’t seem likely, but then again…
She went on. “That’s why I was sucking up to him, hoping he would let something slip. To do that, I had to make it clear you and I were finished.”
“You mean you just pretended you’d fallen for him, what are you, some kind of a latter-day Mata Hari?”