Afghanistan
February 14, 2013
Lying in the frozen waste overlooking the mountain where the diggers worked so diligently, Mafouz Abu Walid took aim again through the telescopic sight of the Dragunov sniper rifle that was his pride and joy. He’d carried a lot of black tar opium through the mountains to purchase the Russian long gun, and he had never been more enthusiastic in using it than right now.
He ignored the searing cold of the packed snow against his left cheek as well as the hard ground and winter’s chill embrace that tried to leach the warmth from his body. Instead, he let his desire for vengeance and his bloodthirstiness run rampant.
The Dragunov was capable of delivering its 7.62mm rounds out to thirteen hundred meters and still kill a man. At eight hundred yards it was extremely lethal. Most of his men carried AK-47s, which only had an effective range out to four hundred yards.
Below Mafouz’s sniping position, his scattered men squeezed off concentrated fire at the group of Westerners in front of the cave.
Mafouz didn’t know or care what the dirt diggers had found that was so important. All that mattered to him was avenging his brother’s death by killing the man who had murdered him. Ghairat had died back in June, in another cave not far from here. At the time, Mafouz had learned of the Russian professor Boris Glukov and the American professor Thomas Lourds, but going after his brother’s killer hadn’t been possible then because the ANP had locked down the area.
Now, though, there were too many people for the ANP to protect. In fact, they couldn’t even protect themselves.
Mafouz peered through the telescopic sights, caught sight of an ANP policeman taking cover behind an SUV, and focused on the man. When the policeman popped up again to fire a volley of rounds at the ridge where the Taliban warriors lay, Mafouz stroked the trigger and felt the Dragunov bang against his shoulder with the force of a camel kick.
He managed to keep the sniper scope locked on his target and saw the man’s head turn into a raging mist of flying blood and broken bone. He searched again for another target and found one. This was a woman, one of the Westerners who worked with the dirt diggers. She ran from one of the vehicles, obviously frightened at being alone, and headed back to the cave.
Mafouz led her slightly, practiced at his skill from years of using the sniper rifle against fleeing victims. He squeezed the trigger again, and this time the bullet caught the target in the side at heart level. The bullet’s velocity and mass knocked the woman aside like she was a doll.
The cacophony of rifle shots cracked again and again. Mafouz had brought in forty-three warriors during the night, and they’d lain there all day, waiting for the reporters to cluster. He’d planned to attack at dawn, while the Westerners were still in their tents and unprepared for the death that would come for them. Then one of his men had overheard that Thomas Lourds was coming to the site as well.
Giving in to his desire for revenge against both of the men responsible for Ghairat’s death, Mafouz had told his men to wait, that there would be even more Westerners for them to kill soon. And so they had waited.
Twenty-two of his warriors remained with him on this ridge to the west where the sun was now starting to drop. The ANP policemen below were partially blinded, staring into the sun as they tried to return fire.
The other twenty-one men were making their way around to the south side of the mountain and would be in place any moment. Then they would have the dig site trapped in a lethal crossfire.
Herat was thirty minutes away even by the fastest military Jeep. Unless the ANA or the ISAF arrived in force, they would only be targets awaiting Taliban vengeance as well.
One of the vehicles suddenly raced from the pack.
Mafouz took aim and put a round through its left front tire. Out of control in the snow, the truck jerked hard to the right and careened into a ditch. Unable to handle the steep grade, it rolled over onto its side.
Patiently, Mafouz waited, knowing the driver was probably not badly injured. A moment later, the man clambered from the truck. Mafouz took aim again, then squeezed the trigger, and another dead man joined those already lying on the blood-drenched snow.
Bullets chopped into the icy ridge, but they didn’t get close enough to Mafouz to drive him into hiding. He searched for new targets, found yet another journalist, and grinned with glee.
Ghairat would be avenged several times over today.
***
Taking cover behind a cargo van filled with television equipment, Colonel Sergay Linko knew he was a lucky man. He hadn’t been one of the first people targeted when their unseen attackers had launched their offensive. If he had been, he would have been among the first casualties.
He’d been drinking hot coffee from one of the media trucks, crouched down out of the wind, and thinking furiously about how he was supposed to get close to Boris Glukov while the professor was still inside the cave. Now he wanted a gun, something with more range than the 9mm pistol he’d set up in the video camera shell he’d been given by the crew aboard the airplane that had brought him to Herat.
He’d planned on using the handgun to kill Boris once he’d found out what the professor knew. That plan hadn’t come even close to fruition yet. Now, it looked as though it never would.
Calmly, he watched as the journalists and media people foolishly got themselves killed by abandoning their positions in search of another one. If they hadn’t gotten killed in the first onslaught, chances were good that their attackers wouldn’t see them on a second pass through.
Linko crept to the front of the vehicle and peered around the bumper. Scanning the western ridge of the mountain, he counted at least eight men. A dead ANP policeman lay in the snow four meters away. The man was on his back, face and chest bloody and his rifle practically resting in his hand.
The itch to dart out for the weapon was almost too strong to resist, but Linko did. He’d been in bad circumstances before. With the way the ANP police were dying around him, there’d probably be a closer weapon before long.
Running footsteps came up behind him. He turned and watched as a woman ran toward the cargo van. Snow flew in all directions as she sprinted, trying to stay low to the ground. She grabbed the door to the van and levered herself inside, snatching the radio mic and switching on the engine.
“Hello! This is an emergency! The archeology dig thirty-five miles south of Herat is under attack! I repeat, this is an emergency!”
Linko gazed up at the woman and saw that she was sitting up in the seat. He was just about to call up and advise her that such a course of action was foolish.
Before he could do more than open his mouth, a bullet cored through the windshield and exploded the woman’s head. Pummeled by the heavy-caliber, high-velocity round, the woman’s corpse fell back out of the cargo van and on top of Linko, showering him with blood and brain matter.
“Hello? Hello? Caller, this is Foxtrot Leader of the United States Army Airborne. Can you hear me?”
Linko reached up for the mic and pulled it down to him. He tasted the dead woman’s blood in his mouth. “I can hear you.” He spoke in an American accent.
“Okay, you people just keep your heads down. We’ve got planes in the area on recon missions. We can get there in seven minutes.”
Linko didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything he needed to say. All he had to do was stay alive—and find Boris Glukov.
And he only had seven minutes to do that.
Once that window of opportunity was over, he felt certain getting information from Glukov was going to be even more difficult. He gazed back at the cave where Glukov had disappeared with the American, Thomas Lourds.
Cursing, Linko returned to the front of the van and peered at the cave mouth. He kept expecting Glukov to appear there like a cuckoo bird popping out of an alarm clock, then get shot down.
If that happened, there might be no promotion. Even worse, Linko was certain he would secure the enmity of the Russian president.<
br />
Forcing himself up, he lunged from the cargo van and raced for the cave seventy meters away. He counted his steps, hit ten, and threw himself into the nearest pile of snow. He leaped in like a swimmer, hands thrust forward to break the surface before him, then he was kicking to get in more deeply.
Bullets zipped through the snow and slapped into the earth around him. He forced himself to be still, to allow the gunners to think they’d killed him and move on to other targets.
Then he pushed himself up and ran again, knowing that the playing dead trick wouldn’t work again on any of the attackers that had fallen for it before.
Luck was with him, and he made it to the incline leading up to the cave. His breath came in ragged gasps, throwing out gray clouds in front of him. He shoved a sawhorse aside, noting the dead ANP guard draped over another sawhorse only a short distance away.
Linko ran hard, digging his boots into the frozen ground and staying bent over as he ran, using his hands and arms as another set of legs and feet to keep himself balanced and on course. He had a better sense of their attackers now and knew there were a lot more of them than he’d originally thought.
When he reached the same level where the cave was, he flattened against the mountain two meters away. The mountain had a natural crevice there that just fit him and kept him out of the field of fire.
Almost at his feet, a wounded ANP officer lay choking in his own blood. He looked to be about twenty-two or twenty-three, and Linko knew he wouldn’t be growing any older. Part of his neck had been ripped away, and even if Linko had wanted to help him, there was no way to stem the flow.
The young ANP officer reached out toward Linko. He was clearly unable to speak, but there was no mistaking his plea for help.
Linko ignored him, looking around for anything he could use. Almost immediately, he saw that the officer had dropped his service pistol in the snow nearby.
Linko squatted down and picked up the weapon, taking some confidence just from having it in his hand. He popped the magazine out and found that there were still nine rounds in it. Shoving the magazine back into the pistol, he scanned the man for spare ammo, ingoring his rasping, bubbling breath. Moments later, the ANP officer went silent.
Rocks tumbled down across his shoulders, and he knew things had gone from bad to worse. The attackers had set up a secondary force to catch them in a crossfire.
At that same moment, Anna Cherkshan ran out of the cave and froze, staring at the bodies spread out all around her. Gazing at the young woman, Linko knew she was moments away from being shot dead.
20
Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation
Lubyanka Square
Moscow, Russian Federation
February 14, 2013
Mastering the fear that vibrated through him as he watched the news camera sweeping across the carnage at the dig, Cherkshan reached for his phone. Helplessly, he watched the cameraman panicking and swinging the camcorder wildly. The dead man vanished from sight, but he was replaced by more than a dozen bodies lying haphazardly on the snow-covered ground.
The camcorder operator’s irrationality vented itself in a litany in English. “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod!”
Cherkshan tuned the man out and punched the number for his attaché’s line.
“Yes, General.”
“Get me someone in the United States Army Base covering Herat.” The intel the FSB had access to would have that knowledge. Cherkshan waited, forcing himself to breathe, but he thought of Anna and how—only moments ago—he’d been glad she was there and not in Moscow while President Nevsky gave his speech.
Three intolerable minutes passed. The casualties on the television monitor continued to mount. Obviously shocked but trying to remain professional, an anchorwoman at the news station in the United States tried to bring order to the chaos erupting across the channel.
The anchor was young and had a reddish tint to her fair hair. She reminded Cherkshan of Anna.
The phone clicked in Cherkshan’s ear. “This is General Mitchell Clark’s attaché. To whom am I speaking?”
Cherkshan answered in English. “This is General Cherkshan with the Defense Ministry of the Russian Federation.” He knew the American army would know who he was at once. He had a widely decorated career.
The man’s laconic tone vanished. “General Cherkshan. How may I help you, sir?”
“I need to speak to your commanding officer.” Cherkshan hurried on, watching the events unfold on the television monitor. If something happened to Anna, he didn’t know how he was going to tell Katrina. “I want to verify that you are responding to the Taliban attack on the archeological dig at Herat.”
“Sir, I’m not at liberty—”
“My daughter is there. I want to know that you’re aware of the situation and taking steps.”
The attaché hesitated only a moment. “Got two girls of my own, General. This is off the record, but rest assured that we’re already en route. We’ve got a team three minutes out. Your daughter’s not out there alone.”
“Thank you.” Cherkshan broke the connection, then took out his personal cell phone. He punched up his address book and found Anna’s name. He pressed the button and listened to the phone at the other end ring and ring.
***
39 Miles Southwest of Herat
Herat Province
Afghanistan
February 14, 2013
At the mouth of the cave, listening to the blistering cracks of the rifles all around him and spotting snow spraying up nearby as bullets whistled through it, Lourds didn’t hesitate. But he did realize full well what he was about to do.
“Thomas!” Boris charged after him, but Lourds was in shape from playing regular soccer and left his friend behind. “Don’t go out there!”
Lourds focused on Anna. She stood frozen in disbelief, staring down at a young ANP officer lying dead at her feet. Moving at full speed, Lourds was grimly aware of a line of bullets chopping across the snow-covered ground toward Anna. He lunged, throwing himself forward and spreading his arms. Trying to yank her back into the cave would only have gotten them both killed.
When he slammed into Anna, her breath whooshed out of her. Petite and little more than half his weight, she left her feet like a wide receiver hit by a linebacker. Pain shot through Lourds as they flew through the air. Her elbow struck him in the face and made his eyes water. Then they landed hard, with him on top.
She lay under him, gasping for air, and he tried to keep from smashing her flat. Desperate, Lourds looked around for cover.
A young ANP officer had taken cover at a nearby generator. The man fired a volley at their opponents, then sprinted over to aid Lourds. Before he could reach Lourds, a bullet plowed into him and took his legs out from under him. The officer spun sideways as blood poured from a wound high on his hip.
Get up! Get up! Lourds pushed himself up but stayed low. Anna still lay stunned, flailing weakly. He caught her hand and dragged her across the ground. The packed snow reduced friction and allowed him to easily pull her. Adrenaline-spiked fear lent him the strength to run with her in tow.
Just as he reached the generator, it felt like a baseball bat slammed into his back. He lost his footing and went sideways, knowing at once that he’d been shot. He and Anna had skidded behind the generator, temporarily out of the line of fire. He lay on his side and waited for the pain to kick in. Panicked, he ran a hand across his side and felt for the wound.
Anna sat up and huddled against the generator. She had to shout to be heard over the noise. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been shot.” Lourds kept trying to reach behind him. He wanted to find the wound, and he didn’t want to at the same time. He kept expecting to feel the warmth of blood, but there was nothing there.
“Where?”
“My back.”
“Can you move?”
“Yes.”
“Then get over here.” Anna reached for him, caught his foot, and dra
gged him closer to the generator.
He wanted to fight her off and tell her that moving him could cause paralysis, depending on the severity of the wound. That’s why you can’t feel anything. You’re paralyzed. Except that he could still feel and move his feet. He came to a stop pressed up against Anna.
Bullets created craters where Lourds had been lying.
“Thank you.”
Anna nodded and seemed on the verge of screaming. She leaned over him and inspected his back. “You weren’t shot. Your backpack was. The bullet passed through and missed you. All you felt was some of the impact.”
“No!“ Lourds shoved himself into a sitting position and shrugged the backpack off. All he could think about were the scrolls. Before he could reach them, Anna slapped his shoulder to get his attention.
She pointed at the ANP officer lying on the ground a short distance away. The man was wounded, evidently dazed, and lay on his back, staring up at the sky. For a moment, Lourds thought he was dead. Then he saw the young man blink.
“We have to help him.” Anna rose to her feet and ran over to the wounded man.
Thinking the young woman was out of her mind, Lourds was nevertheless unable to remain on the sidelines either. Leaving his backpack behind, he dashed over to the victim. He and Anna grabbed the man’s arms and dragged him back to cover behind the generator. Bullets chased them till they got there, then whined off the generator or cored into the metal housing.
“Thomas!” Boris remained within the cave, safe for the moment.
Only a few feet away from the Russian professor, a dark-haired man in a green Russia Today coat took refuge against the mountain in a sheltering indentation. He looked around desperately, and for a brief moment, he focused on Lourds.
There was something predatory in the man’s gaze. Lourds felt it slash into him, and the innate survival instinct hardwired from Neolithic man on came boiling to the forefront.
Then the man looked up the mountain, and the feeling went away, replaced immediately by the threat of gunmen who had taken up positions on a ridge a hundred yards up the mountain from the cave.
The Oracle Code (Thomas Lourds, Book 4) Page 12