by Eric Meyer
“I’ve done my best to look at the wound, and the bullet is still in there. That’s why we can’t stop the bleeding, and it’s getting worse.”
“How long does he have?”
A pause. “A few hours, perhaps.”
“Hours!”
“Yes, I’m sorry, but unless we can get that bullet out, he’s finished.”
He was too stunned to even think. Greg, the man he’d been through so much with. He’d saved Stoner’s life on occasion, and he’d done the same for him. The father of three adopted kids, and husband to Faria Blum, the beautiful young Afghan woman Stoner had once fallen in love with, only to lose her to Greg.
“He can’t die.”
She shook her head. “Without surgery to remove that bullet, he can’t last much longer.”
“He can’t die!” he repeated, raising his voice to a shout. Automatically, he looked east, as if the enemy may have heard him, but the ground was empty. The darkness had saved them, and the enemy would be wary about a pursuit in case they stumbled into an ambush. As soon as dawn broke, they’d come after them.
It won’t matter. Greg will be dead, and I’ll have to go to Faria and give her the news. No, I’d rather die fighting the enemy than face her devastation, but that would be cowardly. If it happens, I have to give her the news myself.
He inspected the wound, sickened at the sight Greg’s lifeblood seeping away before his eyes.
Jesus Christ, if there’s any way we can get the bullet out, we could keep him alive long enough to get help. Except the GAZ is u/s, worthless piece of Russian shit.
“What the hell am I going to do? How can I save him?” He wasn’t aware he’d spoken aloud.
“Sir, I can help.”
He gave Ghulam an irritated glance. “Not now, I’m thinking.”
There must be a way. A truck, yeah, the enemy has trucks. They were chasing us with them. I could go back and steal one, drive it here and…what am I thinking. It would take hours, all night, and part of tomorrow. Take the truck, bring it back here, load up Greg, and drive to the nearest hospital in Asadabad. Twelve hours minimum, maybe a lot more. Greg has a few hours to live.
“Sir…”
“Shut up, Ghulam.”
He felt numbed by the terrible loss of a good man, a long-time friend, and a man whose loss would devastate so many people.
What should I do? Revenge, would that help? Go and blast a bunch of Islamists, blow them away before they killed any more fathers and husbands. I’d feel better, but for Faria and the kids nothing would change.
“I can help.”
He glanced at Ghulam again and sighed. “Help us with what, kid?”
The boy seemed to draw a breath. The clouds had disappeared, and in the bright moonlight he could see the youthful enthusiasm shining on his face.
“I could remove the bullet.”
His mind whirled with visions of the kid digging around with the curved Afghan dagger he carried in his belt. “Forget it. He has enough problems without people putting more holes in his belly.”
“No, Sir, I mean it. I can remove the bullet.”
He boy was staring at him, and he didn’t understand. The boy was a goatherd, not a surgeon, but he meant well, and he tried to explain. “Listen, Ghulam, he needs skilled surgery to probe inside his stomach and remove the bullet. It’s not like treating a wounded goat. He doesn’t have long, and butchered surgery could shorten what little time he has left.” He looked over at Sara. “Barring a miracle, does he have any chance?”
She shook her head. “It’ll take more than a miracle to get that bullet out. No, he doesn’t have a chance.”
“I can remove the bullet.” He said it again with such confidence that Stoner began to doubt the kid’s sanity, “I understand very well what is needed.”
He decided to let him ramble on.
Why not, we have nothing to lose.
“How come you know all this?”
He paused and took a breath. “I always wanted to be a doctor.”
“Sure, lots of people want to be a doctor. It doesn’t explain how you think you can get the bullet out.”
“I have been studying.”
“Studying what?”
A shrug. “General medicine, basic surgery, principles of OR procedure, that kind of thing.”
Is it possible?
“Where did you study?”
A pause. “I had my books. During the long days and nights while I watched the herd, I studied my books.”
As gently as he could he said, “Ghulam, I asked where did you study? Was it a college, a clinic, a hospital, or what?”
“Books,” he said lamely, “Just books.”
“No college or hospital?”
“None.”
“Shit. Thanks anyway, but we’ll pass.”
Sara was staring at him, and her expression was strange. He looked at her. “What is it?”
“We can’t pass. Don’t you get it? Greg is dying, and you’re worried about an untrained person killing him. If we do nothing, he’s dead anyway.”
“But, he just read this stuff in books, that’s all.”
“So? What do you want to do? Sit around doing nothing while he bleeds out, or take a chance with Ghulam? Do nothing and he dies. Give Ghulam a chance, and who knows, he could just pull it off.”
He thought for precious seconds, knowing every single instant in time was bringing his friend nearer to death.
What should I do? Is it possible?
He fixed Ghulam with a hard stare and saw him flinch.
“You think you can do it?”
“I think...yes. Although I can’t guarantee…”
“No one can.” He looked at Sara. “What do you say? You’re for this crazy plan?”
“We don’t have anything else.”
“No, we don’t.” He looked at Ghulam. “Do it. What do you need?”
“Your knife, some water, alcohol would be useful to sterilize the knife.”
“Alcohol!” He opened the locker and took out the black-labeled bottle. “This suit you?”
“Yes. And I will need the flashlight. Anything else, I will ask Miss Sara. But when I have finished, we still need to get him to a hospital.”
She looked at him. “We need transport, Stoner. Can you fix the GAZ?”
“Negative, we need another vehicle, and I know who has plenty of trucks.”
“Who would that be?”
“Mohammed Tarzi. I’ll convince him to part with one.”
“Unless they kill you first.”
He nodded. “In which case we’re no worse off.”
“Except you’ll be dead.”
His gaze was wintry. “I’d sooner be dead, Sara. It’s been a long time coming. I’ll see you later.”
“Stoner, one more thing. We’ve missed our shot at Tarzi. You should let Ivan know, so he can consider another option. The Agency would want to know.”
Still the intelligence professional.
“I’ll handle it.” He was already jogging back down the track and waved an acknowledgment. First, he’d head back to Tora Bora, and find a truck that could take Greg to the nearest hospital, assuming a goatherder’s primitive surgery didn’t finish him first. He’d call Ivan when he had time and give him the bad news.
Too bad, but these things happen. He’ll have to live with it.
* * *
The two men detailed to guard the trucks sucked hungrily on the opium pipes they’d lit to keep out the cold. They shuffled around, trying to stay awake, knowing if one of Tarzi’s lieutenants caught them sleeping he’d shoot them. They fought a battle between the soporific effects of the drug and the need to stay alive, and so far, staying alive was winning. They paced up and down, growing more tired as the opium took effect, until the inevitable happened. Farhad, the older of the sentries at eighteen told the younger man, Khaled, who was fifteen, to continue his sentry duty.
“I’ll take a rest for a couple of hours, and then it
’s your turn. But call me if anyone comes. If they catch us sleeping, you know what they’ll do.”
“And if it’s an enemy?”
He scoffed. “You cannot be serious. We chased those people away, and they’ll have scuttled back to Kabul by now, to their American puppet masters. I’ll sleep in the cab of the first truck, out of sight.”
“If you say so, Farhad.”
“I do. Two hours, and then you call me.”
“Unless the enemy…”
He sighed. “There are no enemies. We’re on our own. Keep patrolling, and stay awake.”
“Yes, Farhad.”
He watched with envy as he made himself comfortable in the passenger seat of the truck and closed the door. Khaled kept walking, battling harder to stay awake, and every few minutes checking the time on his wristwatch. Two hours seemed like an eternity.
* * *
He’d been running for two hours and covered eight kilometers to the outskirts of the vehicle park, a natural canyon some distance from the main Tora Bora caves. It made sense. They wouldn’t want to park their trucks too close to their base, in case of air attack. He nearly ran into them in the darkness. Perspiration had almost blinded him as he ran flat out in desperation, but the stink of gasoline and rubber, and then the sweet odor of opium made him stop. They were there, four trucks, and strolling past the nearest one, a sentry sucking on an opium pipe.
Time was critical, but he made himself wait for a few minutes in case of another sentry. There was no one, just the one man. Ghulam had borrowed his combat knife, and he drew a Desert Eagle with his right hand and crept nearer. The man turned away to continue his patrol, and Stoner leapt on him. Smashed the gun down on his head and snatched the assault rifle, an ancient AK-47, before it could crash to the ground. He hadn’t seen another sentry, but that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t sleeping nearby.
The man he’d hit started to move and tried to get up. Stoner hit him again. The blow was hard and fierce, and he wasn’t about to get up again. He kept hold of the rifle and clambered into the driver’s seat of the first truck. The smell alerted him to another presence. More opium, together with unwashed clothes, the stench of body odor, and a man in the passenger seat starting to wake up. A second sentry, and he cursed himself for not being more alert. He aimed a clubbing blow with the big automatic, but the man was awake, and he flung open the passenger door and tumbled out. Stoner went after him, scrambling over the seats and leaping down to the ground. He saw him in the moonlight, a dark shadow racing away toward the next truck. He slid underneath and wormed his way around to the opposite side.
Stoner ran to the outside of the truck, reached him as he was getting to his feet, and aimed a blow with the borrowed rifle. The man ducked away, and as he swung again, he’d drawn a pistol. He drew back his teeth in a snarl of triumph as he pulled the trigger. The Soviet era Makarov is a solid, reliable weapon, but like most guns, will not fire when the safety is on. He looked down in panic when nothing happened. Stoner dropped the rifle and tackled him to the ground. He twisted away and landed a punch on Stoner’s head, then he tried for the safety on the gun.
Big mistake, and he hit him hard with the Desert Eagle, but still he dodged and took the blow on the ear. Backed away and fumbled again with the Makarov, and he did the one thing possible, threw the Desert Eagle, a desperate throw of the dice. The heavy steel collided with his head, stunning him for a precious second, enough for Stoner to step in and use his fists. Slammed a hard left into his belly, and when he bent over in agony, hooked a right into his chin, and a follow-up into the belly again. He was teetering, but still on his feet, despite the heavy blows. He swung a final pile-driving kick into the side of his head, and the man went down, unconscious. Stoner picked up his dropped pistol and finished him off with several clubbing blows to the skull. When he stopped to check, the pulse had gone.
But it had taken too long, and other Islamists were sure to have been alerted by the noise. He raced back to the first truck, climbed inside, started the engine, and drove away at speed. Ignoring the dangers of the debris-strewn track, he kept his foot pressed to the floor. The engine roared, and he began the long climb up the slope to where Ghulam and Sara waited with Greg. Behind him, he could see flashlights coming on as men came awake. He knew there’d be a pursuit, but surprisingly, so far there was nothing. He resolved to keep watching the mirror. They’d come. They had to come.
The two-ton Chinese-built Dongfeng was slow, and the engine a dull, uneven beat, almost as if it resented being awoken during the night. He grinned to himself at the thought, and then sobered. There was little humor to be had this night. His best friend was dying. He’d been two hours reaching the trucks and fighting the sentries, and he still had to get back. Say three hours in all, and if the bush surgery had failed, which it almost certainly had, he’d be returning to Greg’s bloody corpse.
Greg has to live, has to. No matter what, I’ll stop at nothing; do anything to get him home. I’ll make a pact with the devil himself if that’s what it takes. You must live, Greg. Keep breathing, buddy, I’m on the way.
Despite the primitive Chinese motor, the truck slogged up the slope. By the light of the moon's rays, he saw the saddle ahead, beyond which lay the GAZ, with Greg, Sara, and Ghulam. In a few minutes, he’d know the truth. Whether he lived, or whether he’d died. The Dongfeng crested the last rise, and when he looked behind, his back trail was still clear. He decided it was time to make the call, and he steered one-handed, using the other hand to work the satphone. A few minutes, and the connection went through.
“Ivan.”
“This is Stoner. It didn’t work out.”
A pause. “You missed him.”
“We missed him.” He didn’t bother going into details. Ivan wouldn’t be interested.
“Is there any chance of a second try?”
“None, you’ll need to explore your other options. We’re running, and if we’re not clear by dawn, they’ll find us. Greg took a bullet. He’s badly wounded, may not even survive. We’re bringing him back in.”
“A pity. Useful guy to have around.”
“You’re all heart, Ivan. I have to go.”
“Sure.”
Ivan hung up abruptly, and Stoner was left listening to a disconnected line. He’d arrived in the saddle between the two hills, and he came on the GAZ, right where he’d left it. Sara was kneeling beside a body, and as he drew nearer, he saw Greg’s prostrate form lying on the ground. He jammed on the brakes and leapt out.
“Is he dead?”
Her expression was strange, and he couldn’t fathom it. “No, he’s not dead.”
“It worked?”
“The surgery worked, at least to the extent the bullet was removed, and he’s still breathing. I managed to stop the blood loss, and if he gets treatment, he may survive.”
He felt a tremendous relief. “That’s fantastic. I owe Ghulam everything. Where is he? We can put Greg into the truck and drive on down to the hospital at Asadabad.”
“Stoner, I don’t know.”
Her voice was flat, toneless, and he had the first hint of trouble. “What is it, Sara?”
“Behind you. Take a look.”
He turned, and they were there, standing between the rocks. Insurgents, robes, turbans, AKs, and they weren’t smiling, apart from the man who stepped into the open.
“I believe you are Mr. Stoner. You are the American who thought he could kill me with a long-range rifle shot.”
He’d seen him the day before through the spotting scope. Mohammed Tarzi, and now he was here. He didn’t reply, didn’t know what to say. They’d lost. He’d lost.
“Why did you come here, Mr. Stoner? Do you have a death wish? Did you really think you could kill me? Mohammed Tarzi, the chosen one of Allah, the man who will lead this great nation into freedom, freedom from the liars and infidels in Kabul?” He chuckled, “You were very much mistaken. I cannot be killed. God has ordained me to carry out his mission on Ear
th, and I am under his protection.”
He heard the murmur of the fighters standing behind Tarzi, but he ignored their idiotic adulation of another in a long line of Islamic shitheads. Finally, he found his voice.
“My friend here needs medical attention. Last I heard, Allah was merciful. Why don’t you take me, and help him get to a hospital? I took the shot. The wounded man was just along for the ride.”
The chuckle came again, an almost metallic noise, like scrap metal falling into a dumpster. “Your wounded friend was part of the group who came here to kill me, along with this woman.” He peered at Sara through the gloom, “You will all suffer the same fate, and your deaths will not be easy.”
He raised his voice, “Bind them, and make sure they cannot escape. We will take them with us, and later I will decide the manner of their deaths.”
They tied Stoner first, wrapping baling wire around his wrists that cut deep into the flesh. They took Sara next, and her face betrayed the pain as the thin wire tortured her arms. She looked at Tarzi, and then at Greg.
“This man is dying. There is no need to tie him,” Sara said quickly, “He doesn’t have long.”
Tarzi shrugged. “Then let him die. Put them all in the truck, and we will return to the caves. We must be inside before daylight, in case they have an accursed drone in the sky. Hurry, we have much to do before the new day.” He looked back at Stoner and his smile was cruel. “Your deaths will be long and hard, believe me. Do you have anything you wish to say to me? A plea for mercy, perhaps?”
Stoner stared back at him. “Just one thing, Tarzi. You say you’re unkillable, is that right?”
A slight nod. “It is the word of God.”
“Really? Hear this, pal, the word of Stoner. You’re gonna die, and real soon.”
A sneer spread across his face. “And who will kill me? You?”
He met his gaze, and their eyes locked. “Me, someone else, what difference does it make? You’re a dead man walking, and when your men see you go down, they’ll know what kind of bullshit line you’ve been feeding them.”