by Eric Meyer
The bullet whined past his head, and he ducked back. They hadn’t come from the west. They were below him, less than ten meters away, creeping through a narrow funnel in the rocks, and if he poked his head out to return fire, they’d put a bullet in him. At least one man stayed back, spraying bullets all around him, and chips of stone slashed at his face. The others continued climbing toward him. There was nothing he could do to stop them, nothing.
Chapter Eight
Mohammed Tarzi sipped at an ornate glass of rich, spicy coffee prepared just the way he liked it. Although he didn’t appreciate the heady aroma like he normally did. His second-in-command, Mahmud Mahboob, was listening to a report on the two-way radio. The walkie-talkie kept them in contact with the men who’d gone up the slope after the escaped prisoners, and Mahboob’s face was tense. He’d reported the loss of ten men, and then informed him the rest were still under fire from somewhere on the mountain. A machine gun, they’d said, and a sniper rifle.
Both Tarzi and Mahboob had puzzled over where they’d managed to find such weapons, without arriving at any answer. Save one. The madman, the wild American who’d lived for so long on the slopes of the mountain. He’d appeared before Tarzi late one night when he was walking outside the caves, alone. But he hadn’t wanted to kill him. He’d just wanted to talk. So they talked, and he pledged his allegiance to Allah, and to Tarzi. Eventually, the man disappeared into the shadows. Tarzi dismissed him as a suspect. It couldn’t be him. He was a true believer, like new converts always are.
It couldn’t be the armory. What they’d stolen were the assault rifles from the men they’d killed. Not enough for such heavy machine gun and sniper fire. Perhaps one of his men had sold them extra weapons? If that were true, Tarzi vowed to torture the culprit until he screamed for mercy, and keep torturing him. Although that would be for later, right now, they had to kill these escaped prisoners, before they got off the mountain and reported the full extent of his operations to Kabul.
Mahboob, listening to the radio, became excited. “Sir, they’ve sighted a man ten meters above them. He’s the man with the machine gun. They weren’t sure what you wanted to do.”
He thought for a few seconds.
If they make another foolish frontal attack, I could lose even more of my men, men vital to my future plans. On the other hand, I can afford to lose one or two. Yes, two should be enough.
“Deploy the mortar team, and have them coordinate with the men on the mountain to find the range to the target.”
“Yes, Sir, but if he’s deep inside the rocks, a mortar shell may not reach him.”
“I have an idea to draw him out into the open.” He spoke at length to Mahboob, who nodded and passed on the instructions to the local commander on the slope. All they could do then was wait.
* * *
He heard a faint noise. Two men, and they were taking a long detour around to try to flank him about five or six meters to the east. Two men shouldn’t be a problem, although he wondered about the sanity of the man who led them. They were amateurs, making far too much noise, and even a fool should know he’d hear them coming and blast them before they got close. He decided to meet them half way before they reached his position. He eased out from the cover of his cleft in the rocks, and advanced three meters toward where they’d soon show. Then he waited.
They came at a run, screaming hatred and defiance, and they nearly had him. Each man carried two grenades fastened to a webbing belt wrapped around his body, and a quick glance established they’d pulled the pins to arm them before they made their final run. Shouts of Allah Akbar! and a torrent of Pashto curses as they hurtled toward him. He opened fire with the PK, a long, slashing burst that ripped through them, but their dying momentum carried them close enough to kill him.
He couldn’t go back, couldn’t fight the grenades. What lay in front was the long slope, where he would tumble to his death on the hard rocks guarding the entrance to the Black Cave, Tora Bora. Nowhere to go, so he went nowhere, remembering his basic training. Something about fragmentation parameters, the radius of the blast, and the effect on a human body. Took the single option open to him, and ran at the suicide bombers, passed them, diving for the ground a fraction of a second before they detonated. The bodies of the men seeking Paradise acted as blast shields to protect him, just like he’d planned. It was almost enough.
The shockwave was enormous. Yet the very proximity to the blast saved him, and a monstrous pressure punched into his back, forcing the breath from his body and showering it with stone chippings and debris. But not steel fragments. The hailstorm of broken rock lacerated his injured back, but the deadly steel fragments missed him. He led on the ground, fighting to regain his breath. When he managed to get up, the bodies were mangled remnants of what they had once been.
He’d done more than survive, albeit with more wet blood pouring down his back. One bomber had been wearing an embroidered, thick hide coat, with a sheep’s wool liner. The blast had in some peculiar way snatched the coat off his back, hurled it into the air, and it floated back to earth a few meters away. He walked over, picked it up, and inspected it. A few tears from the grenade fragments, but nothing serious. The biggest problem was it stank like a goat had been sleeping in it for several months. Then again, when he shrugged into it, the cold didn’t seem quite so bad, and he resolved to put up with the stink.
There was nothing else to salvage from the two bombers, and he started back to where Wayne was waiting. He was crouched over his rifle, staring down the slope, and he nodded to Stoner as he slid beside him.
“You okay?”
“I’ll be better when we get out of here.”
“Right. It’s just ‘cos you’re bleeding. I can see it dripping onto the ground. I like the coat, by the way.” He grinned, “This season’s fashion for the well-dressed insurgent?”
“Something like that. The blood shouldn’t be a problem. It’ll congeal quickly in these low temperatures. I’ll be fine.”
He grimaced. “I wasn’t thinking about you. I was thinking about you leaving a blood trail.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. Can you hold them off?”
“For now, yeah, until someone works out the easiest way to hit us. And there ain’t a damn thing we can do about it.”
“Hit us how, what’s the easy way?”
At that moment, they heard the dull thud of a mortar. The shell arced high in the sky, sailed above them, and exploded two hundred meters further up the mountain.
Wayne nodded. “Like that. You know how it goes, fire a few ranging shots, and then they’ll have us. We can’t stop ‘em. All we can do is pray for a miracle. And I can tell you, miracles are mighty rare in this neck of the woods.”
“We must do something. Otherwise those bastards will roll all over us. It’s time to move out.”
“Only way is up,” he grinned, “Clear over the top of the mountain. You’ve done it before.”
“Last time we didn’t have a badly wounded man to carry.”
He shrugged. “Those’re the choices. Stay and wait for them to zero in that mortar and kill us, or climb the mountain.”
“I’ll give Sara the good news. Tell her to get Greg ready for the move.”
“Get going while you’re still alive. I’m staying out here. See if I can’t get a bead on that mortar crew.”
Another shell exploded on the slope, but it was lousy shooting, and the detonation was still two hundred meters away. He slid away, keeping low because of the machine gun that sent a hail of bullets over his head. He made it to the cave entrance, and inside, Sara was aiming a pistol at his belly. She saw his glance at the weapon. “It’s the one I took it from one of those guards you killed. He dropped it when you set fire to him. I thought they’d come.” She lowered the weapon.
“Not yet.” He explained about getting out over the mountain, and how she needed to prepare to move Greg. “There’s no other way. We’ll leave while it’s still dark. Wayne will be here soon.”
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br /> She was shaking her head. “You’re not serous. It will kill Greg taking him up there. The air is thinner, the cold is intense, and…” She shivered, recalling the last time they’d been in this Godforsaken place, “He can’t make it.”
“If he stays here, he’ll die when the insurgents arrive. The choice is maybe dying up there, or definitely dying if he stays.”
She stared at him in indecision. “How long before Wayne gets here?”
“Not long. He’s trying to deal with the mortar.”
“I’ll do what I can with Greg.” She’d come to a decision, “Get him ready to move.”
She busied herself making him as comfortable she could, and Stoner held the drip bag while she filled it with the remainder of the antibiotic, a double shot. A final readjustment of his dressing, and there was nothing more she could do. They sat on the rock floor of the cave, waiting for Wayne. A moment later she came to him and hugged him. He put his arms around her. She was trembling, wracked with dry sobs. He tried to ease her fears.
“Sara, we stand a good chance of getting over that mountain.”
“If you think I’m scared, you’re wrong. I’m not frightened, not for me. I just feel so desperately unable to help Greg. He’s a great guy, with a family back in Jalalabad, and he could just die here up on the mountain because I couldn’t help him.”
“He’s not dead yet.”
“No.” She was quiet for a few minutes, and he enjoyed feeling the warmth of her against him. She broke the silence abruptly, “There’s something else.”
“Uh, huh, what’s that?”
“Us.”
“Us?”
“You and me. I never gave you a chance, Stoner. When I came back, I mean.”
“I’d guessed some of it. Not about Wayne.”
“Stoner, I wish it had been different. I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know that now. Are you serious about there being a chance to get out of here?”
He forced his expression into a smile and told her they had every chance. He didn’t believe it. With the insurgents coming after them in strength, they’d be up against extreme cold, machine guns, the mortar, and burdened by Greg. He gave them about one chance in fifty of getting out. Maybe one chance in ten, given it would be dark. He thought about the state of the moon and recalled it was almost full. No rain or snow cloud, the moonlight made them a clear target as they battled up the slope, maybe one chance in a hundred.
“Sure we have a chance, a good chance. Relax, and try to rest. Save your strength for later.”
He felt her body slump a little, and she was quiet for a time. He was thinking about how things could have been when she turned her face up to his and kissed him, long and hard, the one good thing to come his way from this crazy operation. Her skin was soft and smooth, and he could smell the odor of her shampoo, her scent, and even the faint, musk of healthy young woman.
Steady, Stoner. Don’t get carried away.
With a twinge of regret, he returned his mind to the problem of getting away. Even though he couldn’t help but think about how things could have been different. He wanted someone to blame, and one name kept coming up. Afghanistan.
The insurgents made life hell for everyone, including their own people. Then there was the Agency, perfidious, a shadowy entity, and you never knew whether it was on your side or not. And when CIA became your enemy it was time to run for the hills.
Then there was Ivan. A CIA sponsored warlord, a man as slippery as a barrel of eels. Who does he really work for, and what’s his agenda? To end the insurgency, supply information to CIA, and help the Coalition effort rid Afghanistan of the terrorists that blight it?
The real answer’s none of the above. Ivan works for Ivan, period. He’s ruthless and mercenary, and I still made a deal with him. I should have put a bullet in the bastard’s head and saved us all the trouble. Left him to sort out his own mess with Mohammed Tarzi.
Except he hadn’t. They were here, and Greg was dying. If by some chance they got him back alive, what then? A future with Sara Carver, is that what she had hinted at? It would mean getting out of Afghanistan and starting over. What would happen to Greg, Faria, and the kids? Even that dog of theirs, Archer, was part of the family. And Ma Kelly and the girls working in the brothel, without him, they wouldn’t survive. The competition was heating up, and they were playing by Afghan rules. Shoot first and negotiate later. Inwardly, he sighed. All he could do was his damndest to get them out.
If there is any afterward, which is unlikely, I’ll think about it later. What was that famous line from the movie Gone with the Wind? ‘Tomorrow is another day. I’ll worry about it tomorrow.’
He felt Sara stir. “It’s time to start moving.”
She nodded and went to Greg. Listened to his breathing and looked at Stoner.
“There’s no change.”
“Is that good?”
“No. The drug is taking too long to bring the infection down.”
He didn’t reply, had nothing to say. Minutes later, Wayne returned, sliding through the cave entrance. “It’s time to go. We’re leaving.”
“What about the enemy, what are they doing? I haven’t heard the mortar for some time. I was wondering why it stopped.”
He shrugged. “Maybe they ran low on ammunition, but they’re on their way up. They’re several hundred meters away. It won’t be long before they reach this place, so let’s move.”
They squeezed Greg back out through the narrow cave entrance, and Sara told them it was lucky he was unconscious. The pain would have been unimaginable if he was aware of what was going on. They had no gurney, no way of fashioning a litter to carry him, and they did it the hard way. Wayne took him under the arms, Stoner the legs, and they began the long, slow, upward climb.
Carrying him up the treacherous mountainside on the narrow, rubble-strewn path was next to impossible, and their progress was agonizingly slow. As they went along, Sara checked him every minute or so. They didn’t need to ask her how he was. He was going downhill fast, and then she asked them to halt. Wayne gave Stoner a significant look, and he didn’t need to say anything. Making it to the top alive didn’t seem likely. Yet they had no alternative but to go on.
Sara glanced at them. “How much longer before we reach the top?”
“I’ll go back a bit and see if I can gauge how far away they are.”
They didn’t argue. They were all in. Exhausted after the harrowing pursuit, and the knowledge they were close to the end. Wayne returned after a few minutes.
“They’re coming up fast. We have to keep going.”
Wearily, they picked Greg up and continued their slow progress up the slope. They made a few hundred meters more and a barrage of shots cracked out, kicking up spurts of snow around their feet.
Wayne ordered them under cover. “They’ll use the mortar again soon. All we can do is keep our heads down, and be ready to shoot back when they come.”
Stoner stared at him. The plan sounded stupid to him. If they stopped and set up a defensive position, the insurgents would roll over them, and they couldn’t hold them off. But he said nothing. This was Wayne’s mountain, his backyard. Sara looked grateful for the stop, and they began to hunt around for a cleft in the rocks big enough to protect them from mortar fragments. Stoner made an inventory of his remaining ammunition and settled back to wait.
We’re going to die here. There’s no way we’ll we ever get out. This is it. Endgame. Goodbye, Afghanistan. Goodbye, Sara, Greg. I know there’s something more I should have done, but I plain don’t know what. Faria, give the kids a hug from me. And don’t forget everything I have is yours and the kids, all of it.
* * *
Under the cosh from the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, Ivan got to work. When they were ready to set out for the drive to Tora Bora, he had a thirty-five men assembled. He couldn’t spare any more. His operation was stretched that th
inly. If he pulled too many men from his various operations, his competition would muscle in within hours. In Afghanistan, shooters were power.
He climbed into the passenger seat of his Toyota Land Cruiser, and Akram took the wheel. They’d spent a comfortable few hours at Ma Kelly’s, waiting for the mercs to arrive. In the rear seat, three of them had crammed across the bench seat. Behind him, a convoy of miscellaneous SUVs followed. Two more Land Cruisers, a Nissan Patrol he’d acquired from a warlord he’d killed during a previous operation, and two Chinese Beijing Jeeps, the American Jeep copy. Three Russian Lada 4x4s trailed behind, and another Land Cruiser brought up the rear. Gorgy Bukharin, his de facto second-in-command, rode in the shotgun seat.
They drove through the late afternoon, and when it got dark, he authorized them to use their headlights, at least until they got close.
“Five kilometers from the caves and we switch off the lights,” he warned Akram.
The Afghan shrugged. “It’s your funeral, Boss.”
“It better not be. If I die, I’m coming back to drag you down to hell, you bastard.”
He grinned as Akram shivered. The stupid bastard was as tough as old leather, but infinitely superstitious, and Ivan had a fearsome reputation. A reputation he did much to build on, fear was a powerful weapon. They switched off the lights five klicks out and drove for three more kilometers. Darkness had fallen, but the moon was up and the sky empty of cloud. They were two klicks from the caves when they stopped and climbed out of the vehicles.
Ivan regarded the mountain looming in the distance and looked at Akram.
“You hear that?”
“There’s a battle going on up there.” He stopped as a louder detonation echoed down the slope, “They’re using a mortar; the bastards mean business.”
“That they do.” He glanced at his watch and thought about those B-52s taking off from Guam at dawn. A long flight to Afghanistan, about ten hours, and then the skies would come crashing down. Time to move in, finish this, and get out, “Akram, I want you to recce the ground between here and the caves. See if it’s clear, and if they do have a sentry, you know what to do.”