by Eric Meyer
She chuckled. “It’s nothing like that. They don’t expect me to sleep with him.” She smiled, “Maybe flirt a little, but nothing more.”
She got closer, snuggling in tight as the temperature fell in the early dawn, and he put his arm around her. Enjoying the soft warmth of her body, and to his embarrassment a slight arousal, recalling what they’d had before. And what maybe could be again.
The dawn began to light up the sky, and Greg called over to him. “It’s time. If you can untangle yourself from Sara Carver, we can start looking for the target.”
He went to the edge and looked across the intervening ground. As the light brightened, he could make out the dark entrance to the cave without problem, and men moving around. The smoke from cooking fires trailed lazy patterns in the sky, and a half hour later, the first shots rang out as the day’s training began. Greg was watching through the high-power scope fitted to the Barrett. Stoner used a spotting scope he’d found packed with the M60.
The precision optics allowed him a good view of the area. He was confident he would spot Mohammed Tarzi the moment he put his turbaned head up. Even if the face weren’t distinct, he’d stand apart from his men. Haranguing them from a higher position, where they could all see him and listen to his words. So far, there was no sign of him.
Ghulam woke up and crawled away to return to the jeep. He returned with a pack containing food for their breakfast. Stoner ate while he kept watch, convinced the target would appear sooner or later. But as the day passed, there was still no sign of the Islamist leader, just his men milling around, carrying out training exercises, and occasionally assembling for prayers. He recalled that devout Muslims prayed five times each day, and when they knelt, he expected Tarzi to appear. He never did.
The day was almost over, and they’d drawn a blank. They’d just have to spend another day, maybe two, before they caught a glimpse of Tarzi. Then again the guy had a reputation as a cave dwelling mystic, so it would be no surprise if he didn’t appear for some time. He was reminding himself of the need to be patient, when the men outside the cave suddenly stirred and parted into two separate groups. All movement ceased, and they watched and waited. Seconds later, he appeared. It had to be him.
A tall, thin, emaciated man, with a long beard and a turban, he had a presence that singled him out from the others, and it wasn’t just the fact he was taller. This was a man with charisma, and Stoner recalled other evil men with a similar quality. Adolf Hitler for one, bin Laden another. They shouted and cheered as he walked through the gap between the two groups, raising his hands high in the air in what appeared to be a benediction. Greg had gripped the stock of the Barrett and was following the target through the optics. He gave Stoner a quick glance.
“I have him in the crosshairs. I can take him any time, you want me to do it now?”
Stoner felt uneasy. It should have been an easy decision. They’d come here to shoot the bastard, and he was right in front of them, two kilometers in front of them. Greg could pull the trigger, and it would all be over. The suppressor fitted to the Barrett wouldn’t silence the shot entirely, but enough to prevent the enemy from pinpointing their location; giving them time to get away, return to the jeep, and head out. And yet something was at the back of his consciousness.
“Stoner…” Greg murmured. His voice had gone quiet, almost as if he were in a church and about to carry out some religious rite, “You hear anything?”
“What’s up?” Sara snapped. She had her camera out and was clicking the shutter almost like a machine gun. She stopped and looked at him, “You have the shot lined up, what’s stopping you?”
“We should wait,” Stoner said into the almost-silence. It was something he couldn’t identify, a faint noise in the background, like the buzzing of a swarm of insects, and he looked at Ghulam.
“You hear anything?”
He looked puzzled. “I hear something, yes, but I’ve no idea what it is.”
She gave them an exasperated stare. “Stoner! It’s now or never! Greg, get on with it.”
He looked at Greg. “Do it.”
Greg adopted the attitude of the professional marksman. His body at once tensed and relaxed, his breathing shallow and even, and he followed the target, his finger curved over the trigger. Waiting for that exact moment when Tarzi would be facing him, presenting him with the maximum target area. When the wind had stilled, when the movement of the target had ceased, and not until then, would he take the incredibly difficult shot. Two kilometers wasn’t impossible, but even for a marksman it was a magnificent achievement. Very few men were capable of pulling it off, and they were all experts. Greg had trained himself to within a hair’s breadth of being an expert. All he could do was hope it would be enough.
They held their breath, and then exhaled when they heard the ‘boom’ echo out as the rifle fired. At first nothing happened. A .50 caliber round takes considerable time to travel two kilometers. Too long. While the bullet was in the air, disaster struck. Tarzi shouted something, and men leapt to their feet. One stood immediately before him, and the heavy bullet smashed into his back. He went down like he’d been hit with a truck.
Instead of a simple hit, leaving them a leaderless rabble, Tarzi was very much alive and in command. His men closed around him, making an accurate follow-up shot impossible.
They watched the chaos unfold in the distance. Several men gazed up at the distant hill, their eyes casting around, searching for the location of the shooter who’d come so close to killing their revered leader.
Greg murmured, "You want me to take a second shot?"
He opened his mouth to answer in the negative. Before he got the word out, the hum they'd heard in the distance became clearer, and a line of vehicles appeared, heading into Tora Bora from the east.
Sara said, “They’re using the same route as my infantry unit when we arrived here. Is it possible they’re friendlies?"
He squinted through the scope. "Nope, they’re not Afghan or American military, they’re the wrong color."
"But, they’re green. I can tell from this distance," she objected.
"They’re green sure enough, but the wrong green. Pakistani military green."
"Pakistani! What are they doing in this neck of the woods?"
"They’re not doing anything." They turned to look at Greg. "I can see civilians in the driving seats. They’re military trucks for sure, but they’re not soldiers driving them. Stolen, or maybe they sold them to them. You know how the Paks feel about the insurgents. Half the time they’re supporting them, and the other half trying to kill them after they’ve bombed their towns and cities." He squinted again through the scope, "I wonder what they’re carrying? More fighters?"
"It could be supplies," Sara suggested.
They continued watching the activity outside the cave; confident the enemy hadn’t worked out their position. And then several arms pointed upward. Toward them, and although they couldn’t hear, they saw the mouths open and close as men shouted. Seconds later, the first of the newly arrived trucks started moving and sped toward them. They followed a narrow track toward the hill, close to the place from where they watched. Only a fraction wider than the goat track they’d used to come in on, but wide enough.
The rear cargo areas were covered by canvas, but men inside released the ties and the heavy tarpaulins blew away in the slipstream, and now they saw what they carried. No ordinary machine gun, but a Soviet built 12.7mm DShK. the venerable .50 caliber equivalent. The mountings were bolted to the truck beds, and men rushed to prepare the guns to open fire. They were outnumbered and outgunned, and all hell was about to break loose. The trucks were halfway toward their position, and their options had come down to one.
"Run!"
* * *
Ivan smiled as the girl handed him a mug of fresh coffee. She was new, and she’d already proved herself a pearl beyond price. A faithful servant, a beautiful ornament to have around, and in bed, she was dynamite. He sipped his coffee, puzzl
ing over the operation they’d given him to carry out at Tora Bora. The job he’d handed on so neatly to Stoner and his idiot pal, Greg. They wouldn’t come back. There was no question. They were chasing fool’s gold, and after they’d carried out the hit, Mohammed Tarzi’s legions would tear them into little pieces. A pity about Sara, but what could a guy do? Well connected or not, this was a violent country. If she didn’t like the heat, she should have stayed out of the kitchen. The Agency had given him the task, and the enormous sum of money on offer was too tempting to ignore. Provided they didn’t come back. And they wouldn’t come back. No way. Impossible.
He still didn’t understand why Sara had come. The story she’d given about writing a front line article describing a black operation targeting the militants sounded like bullshit. He had suspicions that Miss Carver may be engaged in some secret activity. If she had been sent to monitor his activities and report back, it could have caused him severe embarrassment. Just as well she wasn’t coming back.
The money was too much to ignore, and he’d figured out a plan that was nothing less than a masterpiece. Recruit Stoner, Blum, and Evers to do the job, knowing he wouldn’t see them again. He could even argue he’d paid them the money upfront. After all, they expected him to subcontract. The White House would shed tears over the loss of Sara Carver. He’d ring his hands in despair and say he’d done his best to protect her; paid for and recruited the best men in Afghanistan.
His thoughts shifted to his two lieutenants, Akram and Gorgy. They’d acted strangely since the encounter at Torkham, when he’d given Stoner and Blum their instructions and handed over the Barrett and the M60. They’d been with him for a long time and had a deep understanding of the situation in Afghanistan. They’d have no illusions that Ivan was sending those two men and Sara Carver to their deaths. They’d also know why. The size of the bounty was no secret.
Maybe they harbored some stupid quixotic notions about behaving honorably. Especially toward Sara Carver. They'd been involved with her before, been under fire with her, and come to respect her obvious bravery and decency. The fact she was also pretty was something of a bonus.
Did it mean they were about to double-cross him? That was something he had to think about. No one was indispensable. If they made themselves a nuisance, it could be he'd have to let them go. A permanent retirement, two bullets apiece to make sure they didn’t come back later seeking revenge. When it was all over, several million dollars would enable him to retire sooner rather than later. Live a life of luxury and ease. What were a couple of mercenaries against six million dollars? Not worth spit.
He wondered who he should use to deal with Akram and Gorgy. A few names came to mind, and he put is aside for later. It might not be necessary, and he could be wrong about them.
Then the girl knelt beside him, and her hand slid inside his pants. He surrendered himself to the bliss, putting the problem aside for later. For now, he had something else on his mind.
Chapter Six
They couldn’t run fast enough. Burdened by the weight of the weapons, they struggled to keep going on the rock and debris-strewn track. With every step, they heard the trucks coming nearer. It was touch and go whether they’d get to the jeep in time to make a getaway, and he shouted at them to run faster. The lead vehicle hit a patch of loose scree, and the wheels skidded and whined to get a purchase. They ran on, and the anonymous shape of the camouflage netting covering the jeep was no more than two hundred meters away.
Sara stumbled. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her feet. “Keep going. We’re nearly there, just another few meters. Where’s Greg?”
He’d taken a swift look around. Ghulam was running with an ammunition box under each arm.
Good lad, he’d had the presence of mind to bring the ammunition.
Greg wasn’t there, and then he saw him. The mad, brave fool had dropped behind a low chunk of rock and was aiming the Barrett, preparing to slow the enemy down. A crazy gesture that could get him killed. He wanted to shout, but the roaring of the trucks was too loud for him to hear. He was tempted to go back and support him with the machine gun, but he had Sara and Ghulam to consider.
What to do?
He measured distances and shouted, “We’ll get to the jeep, and then I want you to drive her out of here. I’ll go back for Greg.”
She was gasping, out of breath. “You’ll die if you go back.”
“I’m not leaving him.”
They reached the jeep, and she and Ghulam were ripping off the camouflage netting.
He shouted, “I’ll just be a few seconds.”
He sprinted back the way they’d come, holding the M60 like an assault rifle, with the belt hanging down and almost touching the ground. Greg’s single shots were a series of loud ‘cracks’ as he forced the enemy trucks to a halt, but the respite was short. They had the DShK ready to fire, and seconds later, while Stoner was still running, he saw the barrel traverse. Frantically, he pulled the trigger of the M60 and fought to keep the muzzle on the target. The weapon shook and juddered, unleashing a stream of 7.62mm slugs at the enemy trucks. His aim was good, and the first burst slashed into the second vehicle, tearing the men on board into bloody ruin. But the first gun had opened fire, and he watched in agony as a long burst crept toward his friend. At least one bullet hit its target, flinging Greg aside as the heavy round tore into him.
“Greg!” he shouted, running with the M60 still blazing from his hip. He emptied the belt and saw the gunner go down, and then he reached Greg. The huge bullet had torn a bloody hole in his belly, and blood was pouring out. He was already unconscious, and Stoner didn’t think twice. Shouldered the M60, scooped him up, and began running back toward the jeep. His sole hope of getting Greg away from the bloody slaughter and finding medical attention.
He reached the GAZ, but they’d found a replacement gunner, and the DShK began firing again. He put Greg on the ground and covered him with his body as a hail of heavy lead parted the air above him. The weight of the bullets was like a tidal wave pressing over him. He shouted to Sara, “Get the engine started. We’re getting out of here. Greg’s hurt bad!”
She leapt into the driving seat and tried to start the engine. Turned the key, and managed no more than a series of misfires. She tried again. On the sixth attempt, the engine roared into life, and she backed up and turned around. He placed Greg on the back seat and sat next to him. Ghulam took the passenger seat, and Sara kicked down on the gas. The ungainly GAZ spluttered and roared, heading away from the hostiles.
As best as he could in the bumping, lurching vehicle, he looked at Greg’s wound. Every instinct told him it was worse than he’d realized. The 12.7mm bullet had torn a huge hole in his stomach. Blood continued to ooze out at a rate that would kill him unless he could staunch it. He put his hand inside his coat and ripped off part of his shirt in a single, tearing movement, and stuffed it into the wound. The blood flow slowed, but he was still losing too much, and the lurching of the jeep made it worse every time they hit a pothole.
Sara was driving as fast as she could on the uneven track, but he knew it was too slow to reach help in time. He glanced behind, and there was no sign of a pursuit, at least, not yet. The GAZ was not running well, and the engine continually misfired. Sara glanced at him, her face strained.
“We have a problem, Stoner. It feels like water in the gas tank, or maybe moisture on the electrics. I don’t think we can keep going for much longer. How’s Greg?”
“He’s not good. Keep going. We need distance between the enemy and us. Every kilometer you make is a kilometer nearer a hospital where we can get him treated.”
“How far to the nearest hospital?”
“About eighty kilometers.”
She kept on driving while he kept pressure on the dressing. The GAZ slowed even more, and in front of them they had a long slope to climb. They reached the top, drove through a narrow saddle…and stopped. She pressed the starter button again and again, and nothing. He felt an overw
helming frustration. They were stuck in the middle of bandit country. With a vicious, savage band of hostiles behind them, and the hospital Greg needed so desperately still seventy klicks away. He looked down at the wound again, and blood still oozed through his temporary dressing. He glanced at Sara.
“Take over. See if you can do anything to help him. You must have had first aid training in the infantry.”
“I did. What are you planning to do?”
“Get the engine started.”
She moved into the back, and he climbed out and opened the hood. After several minutes searching, he’d made no progress. No obvious signs of water on the electrics, and if water had managed to get into the gas tank, he had no way of knowing how to fix it. Save removing the tank, draining the system, and filling her up with fresh fuel. None of which he could do without getting her into a shop.
“Could I have a look, Sir?”
Ghulam was peering over his shoulder, and he nodded. “Knock yourself out. Where did you learn about vehicle mechanics?”
“In a book I studied last year.”
“You never did any formal training?”
“No, Sir.” He grimaced, “The Taliban closed the schools, except for the religious ones, the madrassas.”
“I get it. Let’s see how good that book was, Ghulam. Do what you can, but understand we’re running out of time. Greg is badly wounded. I mean seriously bad.”
“Yes, I know that, Sir. I will do my best.”
The light had almost gone, and he borrowed Stoner’s flashlight and bent into the engine compartment. It seemed like he worked for hours while Stoner paced up and down with frustration. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, when he emerged from under the hood, looking worried.
“It is definitely water in the fuel, Sir. We must get the vehicle to a repair shop. The nearest would be in Asadabad.”
“You may as well say the dark side of the moon,” he cursed. “Sara, how’s Greg doing?”