The Mullah's Storm

by Young, Tom

  “Marwan’s up there somewhere,” Parson said.

  “No shit.” Cantrell bled from a graze wound on his neck. Parson looked beyond the courtyard to the fort’s opposite wall and the angles of stone that made up its stairways and passages. A hundred hiding places for a sniper.

  “I’ll look for Najib,” Parson said.

  Parson ran down a hallway lit only by dim daylight where the outer wall had crumbled, either from some battle ages ago or from age itself. He wasn’t sure where to go, and he was starting to feel useless as he searched randomly. Gold followed close behind. He paused at the opening in the wall and looked out. Dark clouds still spitting snow. Crest of a white hill. Bloody tracks. More ruins a few hundred yards beyond the hill.

  He wanted to run and follow the tracks, but he knew that would make him a target even the poorest marksman could hit, especially now that it was light outside. He continued several feet down the hallway until it ended in a jumble of bricks that opened to the fort’s interior, onto the courtyard. Parson crouched behind the rubble. Two SF troops ran across the courtyard. Maybe they’re getting the upper hand, Parson thought.

  He and Gold charged across the quadrangle and up another set of steps. Climbed up to the parapets for a better view outside the fort.

  “There he is,” Gold said.

  Two insurgents were dragging Najib by the arms toward the other ruins. He did not resist. Either unconscious or too weak to fight, thought Parson. Or maybe he knows it’s actually harder to drag someone who’s not struggling.

  The insurgents tugged at him like pulling a sled. Parson slid the M-40 off his shoulder. Steadied his forearm on a parapet. Now he saw through the scope pretty well.

  No time for the range-finder, but it looked like a good seven hundred yards. Some breeze. No time to adjust the scope for wind, either. Back to basics, then. Parson held the crosshairs a little left and high. Kentucky windage and Tennessee elevation. He exhaled, held his breath. Pressed the trigger.

  The insurgent twisted to his right and fell. Parson couldn’t tell exactly where the bullet had struck, but he saw red spatter on the snow. The insurgent lay still. His partner let go of Najib and took off running.

  Parson cycled the bolt and slammed home a fresh round. The fleeing man’s back bounced up and down behind the reticle. Parson fired. Missed.

  The bullet made a hollow whack against the mud wall of whatever outbuilding those ruins had been. A sheaf of dry snow slid from the remains of the roof. The insurgent disappeared behind the wall.

  Parson cursed and rebolted. The empty brass clinked off the battlement and flipped end over end, trailing smoke.

  “Stay behind some cover,” he said to Gold. He slung his rifle across his back. Sprinted down the steps and along the interior wall. Kicked open a decaying wooden gateway and ran toward Najib. Gunfire barked all around. Parson expected a slug to take him down, but he made it.

  Parson crouched low beside Najib. The dead insurgent’s arm lay across the Afghan officer’s face. Parson flung the arm off and was relieved to see Najib’s eyes open and moving. He heard the crump of a grenade from the battle still going on throughout the fort.

  “Saarah dee,” Najib whispered. Blood oozed from his legs. Parson saw maybe four entrance wounds. One leg was so mangled it was hard to tell.

  “I don’t speak Pashto, buddy,” Parson said. “Let’s get you to cover.”

  Parson fired three pistol shots toward the wall where the insurgent had run. He didn’t see any enemy there now, but he wanted to keep their heads down. Then he grabbed the collar of Najib’s anorak and began pulling him back toward the main fort. Through clenched teeth, Najib made a noise closer to growl than speech.

  “I know it hurts,” Parson said. “I’m sorry.”

  Three shots snapped close by, from the fort. Parson flattened himself over Najib. But when he looked toward the fort he saw that the shooting came from Gold. Smoke wafted from the muzzle of her rifle as she aimed. She was inside an archway, laying down covering fire. Parson dragged Najib a few feet, then fired a round or two. Dragged, fired. He considered lifting Najib into a fireman’s carry, but decided that would make a target too big to miss. Dragged and fired some more. When the Colt’s slide locked open, he ejected the empty magazine. Pulled a new one from his vest. Dropped it. He cursed his frozen fingers as he scooped the magazine from the snow and rammed it into the pistol. Released the slide and fired again.

  He pulled Najib inside the archway. Gold kneeled to examine his wounds. “See what you can do for him,” Parson said.

  Parson hoisted his M-40 in his right hand and gripped the Colt in his left. Without looking back, he headed down the hallway, not sure what he should do next. When he came to another opening in the wall, he saw Najib’s shotgun lying in the snow just inside the courtyard. That gave him an idea. Najib’s Benelli had blood on its stock and a bullet hole in the receiver. Probably not working, but that didn’t matter. Parson holstered his pistol, reached through the rubble, and picked up the broken shotgun.

  Parson watched the courtyard, judged when and where to make a break. He did not see anyone, but he still heard firing from rooms within the fort. He ran for the nearest steps. Climbed back up onto the battlements, this time along the south wall. Dived for cover among the ramparts.

  With the shotgun in one hand and his rifle in the other, he crawled in the snow along the walkway. He came to an embrasure that faced into the courtyard. Designed for a bad day when the enemy gets inside, he thought. Just what I need now.

  He pointed Najib’s shotgun through the embrasure, far enough to be visible, not far enough to seem an obvious ruse. Then he picked up the M-40 and crawled a few yards over to the next gap in the battlements.

  This section of the fort remained fairly intact, with alternating merlons and crenels where archers could take cover and shoot. Parson placed his rifle barrel through a crenel, the muzzle barely visible. From here he could cover the whole courtyard and much of the fort’s structure. If only he had a target. He saw no one, though he still heard sporadic firing.

  He watched and waited, looked out into the courtyard and back at the broken shotgun. It drew no fire. He looked through his rifle scope, panned across the battlements. Nothing. Come on, you bastard, he thought. You can’t miss something like that shotgun barrel.

  Even if Marwan didn’t shoot, Parson hoped he’d look at the decoy long enough to get distracted. Maybe slink around to maneuver for a better shot at it. But nothing moved. The rest of the firefight had seeped down to the lower rooms. Muffled shots pounded in the recesses below. Parson saw nothing outside but snowfall. Sparse now, letting up.

  Damn it, he’s gone, Parson decided. So the watch cap worked but not the shotgun.

  He raised himself, crouched low with his rifle, and trotted along the parapets. They led to a narrow chamber, perhaps a barracks for guards centuries ago. He stepped inside, hoping he’d find interior stairs. Paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Webs of frost on the walls. Trash on the floor, an empty water bottle with a Farsi label.

  He nudged the bottle with his foot. Felt cold metal at the back of his neck.

  “Do not move.” The voice turned Parson’s blood to ice. “Put down the rifle. Slowly.”

  Parson’s hands sweated, though his fingers had little feeling. His gloves felt as if they were filled with cold mud. He did not even exhale.

  “Go on,” Marwan said. “Put it down.”

  Parson lowered the rifle. His trembling made the weapon rattle as he placed it on the floor. As he stood back up, he saw the barrel of the Dragunov in his peripheral vision.

  “Do not turn around,” Marwan said. “Did you really think you could fool me twice?”

  Parson did not answer. His .45 was holstered in his survival vest, under his parka. No way could he pull it fast enough. He thought to run. No, he’ll shoot me. At this range the bullet would pierce body armor.

  “There are stairs to your right,” Marwan said. “Walk.”
r />   Parson shuffled to the stairwell as if in a trance. Tried to form thoughts.

  “We have unfinished business,” Marwan said. “You are going to suffer for your treatment of our spiritual leader.”

  Then maybe I want him to shoot me, thought Parson. I’ll go for the pistol and make him shoot me.

  Like the other stairways in the fort, the center treadway of each step had worn down nearly to the next step. Parson lost his footing and tumbled into darkness. He felt his head and limbs striking a misery of stone. As he lay at the bottom, his wrist and elbows throbbed. But no bones seemed broken, not that it mattered anymore.

  He grabbed his twisted ankle. Through the leg of his flight suit he felt the silver pommel of his boot knife. And he decided to live a little longer.

  Parson put his hand under his flight suit, onto the knife handle. Groaned as if in more pain than he really felt. Kept his hand in place as if massaging an injury. Marwan avoided the stairs’ eroded center and descended with the poise of a gymnast. Parson felt the Dragunov’s muzzle against his cheek. Perfect.

  “Get up,” Marwan said.

  Parson grabbed the barrel with his left hand and wrenched it to the side. Marwan fired. The muzzle flash lit the dungeon like lightning. Parson yanked the rifle toward him and swung his elbow into Marwan’s face. Kneed his groin.

  The Dragunov clattered to the floor. Parson felt both Marwan’s hands choking him. He tried to stab him in the chest, but the Damascus blade scraped body armor. Parson slashed higher.

  Marwan shouted a word Parson did not understand when the blade entered his armpit. He let go of Parson’s neck. Then kicked his chest. Parson’s own flak jacket took the brunt, but the blow sent him reeling against the wall. His vision tunneled, particled. Then cleared.

  He shifted the knife from his right hand to his left and dug for his pistol. A kick to his knees knocked his legs out from under him. Parson fell onto his side and dropped the knife. Marwan reached to the floor for his rifle.

  Parson tore open his coat and drew the Colt. He could not seem to make his frostbitten thumb pull the hammer. Marwan pointed his Dragunov just as Parson cocked the .45 and pulled the trigger.

  The shot sounded like an explosion within the stone walls. The flash illuminated Marwan as the bullet hit his armor. Photo of a man with rifle, falling. Parson pulled the trigger again.

  Nothing. Parson tried to clear the slide, but it wouldn’t move. Jammed.

  Marwan began to pick himself up. Parson dropped the pistol and swept his hands across the stone floor, looking for his knife. Felt the blade slice his left thumb through his flight glove. He grabbed the antler handle and hurled himself at his enemy.

  Parson drove the knife through Marwan’s throat and slammed him against the wall. The blade penetrated to the hand guard. Air whistled through the severed windpipe. Parson twisted the knife as the two men slid to the floor. He jerked the blade up, left, down. Pain in his wrist again. Warm blood on his face.

  Dust floated in a narrow beam of milky light from the stairwell. Marwan’s torso spasmed. Parson felt him exhale through both mouth and wound, and the dying man’s chest did not rise again. One of his hands clenched as if he still had fight left in him, but then the fist just trembled with the stray impulses of muscles shutting down for good. In the dimness, Parson thought he saw Marwan’s eyes fix on him. Parson could not tell the exact moment they ceased to see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Parson’s flight gloves were already ruined with blood, so he used one of them to wipe his blade. Then he put the boot knife in its sheath and pulled the glove back onto his hand. The glove felt sticky and he wanted to take it off, but it was too cold to do without it.

  He picked up his pistol, climbed the stairs, and found his rifle where he had left it. Hoisted the M-40 by the sling. Out on the battlements in the daylight, he saw better what was wrong with the .45. An empty casing was caught in the slide. He took cover behind the parapets, racked the slide, and cleared the jam. The offending cartridge casing dropped into the snow, and the next round fed into the firing chamber.

  Thinking to clean his gloves, he picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it between his palms. Didn’t seem to help. His war couldn’t get any more primal now. Personal combat with brawn and edged weapons, against an individual enemy despised by name. It would have been good for the snake-eaters to take Marwan for questioning, but there was nothing Parson could do about that now. He doubted they’d get the mullah alive, either.

  Especially not with all the shooting. Shots still thumped from other rooms in the fort. A grenade sailed into the courtyard. When it exploded, shrapnel raked the battlements like grapeshot.

  Insurgents poured into the courtyard. Bursts of fire from somewhere beneath him cut most of them down. Parson ran along the parapets, hoping to get a better idea of what was happening. He leaped across a hole blasted in the stone walkway, landed hard, banged a knee. Four ANA troops ran through the courtyard.

  More shots came from outside, just beyond the walls. He looked over the parapet to see Gold and Cantrell on the ground, shooting at insurgents fleeing the fort.

  Parson shouldered his rifle and looked through the scope. One of the insurgents, a tall man, had his arm around a shorter, stooped man, helping him lope through the snow. Perhaps the shorter man was wounded. Then Parson recognized him as the mullah.

  Gold ran forward a few yards. She dropped to one knee and pointed the AK, elbow resting on her thigh. Parson watched the mullah and the other insurgent through the crosshairs.

  Gold’s rifle popped once. Parson saw a puff of dust between the insurgent’s shoulder blades. The man fell and took the mullah to the ground with him. Hell of a shot at that distance with open sights.

  The mullah flailed in the snow and pulled himself from under his downed follower. Snow wadded onto his baggy shalwar kameez and dusted his beard. The old man staggered to his feet and pulled at his helper’s rifle. The sling was wrapped around the body. The mullah jerked at the weapon but could not free it. He let go of the rifle and tried to run. He limped, but he moved fast enough for his boots to kick up powder.

  Gold and Cantrell gained on him anyway. Then Parson heard rifle fire from somewhere beneath him in the fort. Snow sprayed up from the ground between Gold and Cantrell. Gold dropped to the ground and returned fire. Cantrell also turned and opened up. Then he ejected a magazine, slammed in another, and emptied that one. Parson leaned to see where the shots had come from, almost directly underneath him in the fort. The insurgents remained inside. No target for him there.

  About a mile distant, past Gold and Cantrell, beyond the river, he saw men on horseback. The mullah was headed in their direction. The old man stumbled, fell, then got up and ran again.

  Parson saw just one option. He watched the mullah through the scope, put the crosshairs on his torso. The old man had caused enough trouble. Parson had always enjoyed the hunt, but this time he’d enjoy the kill. Too bad not to have hollow-point bullets. Expand and fragment on impact and rip that motherfucker’s guts out.

  The mullah was damn near a thousand yards away now. Parson looked up from his rifle to check the wind. Still a little breeze, not much snow falling. Then he saw Gold looking up at him. Remembered why they were here in the first place. A mission to transport a prisoner. All right, Sergeant, he thought, you brought me this far. I’ll do it your way.

  He put his cheek back on the stock, lowered the reticle to the mullah’s pumping lower legs. Pressed the trigger.

  The bullet kicked up snow between the old man’s feet. Parson swore, rebolted. He expelled air from his lungs, steadied the M-40 on a parapet. Aimed again, a little higher this time. The mullah was getting near where the land pitched downslope. Time for one more shot, if that.

  Parson squeezed the trigger so slowly that the recoil surprised him. The old man crumpled. Then he sat up and held his right calf with both hands.

  Through the scope, Parson watched the riders and horses. Six of them. One wi
th a rocket launcher. Another with a belt of grenades. Out of range. If I just had a Barrett rifle, he thought.

  The firing around the fort subsided to sporadic crackles, then stopped altogether. The riders galloped away. Where they were going, he could not tell. Three of them followed the riverbank, and the other three just disappeared. Parson didn’t know how the raid had gone, but every insurgent he saw was dead, wounded, or fleeing.

  He watched Cantrell and another SF troop lift the mullah by his arms. They brought him back to the fort a few yards at a time, checking his wound, giving him water. No slaps or punches. When they put him down, Gold spoke to him in Pashto without raising her voice.

  Parson found his way through the fort to where he had left Najib. Cantrell’s medic was tending to him. Najib’s face had a gray cast, and his eyes were closed. Tan granules lay scattered around his legs from where the medic had poured QuikClot into his wounds. A pulse oximeter clipped to one of his fingertips glowed red from its LED.

  “How is he?” Parson asked.

  “I’ve done all I can. If he doesn’t get to a hospital this morning, he’ll die.”

  Parson looked up at the sky. A canopy of clouds stretched from peak to peak at the higher elevations, but he guessed the valley’s ceiling at better than three thousand feet. It would be tricky, but that’s why helicopters had radar altimeters.

  “Let’s go home,” he said. He took his GPS and 112 from his coat pocket and switched them on. Keyed his radio. “Saxon,” he called, “Flash Two-Four Charlie.”

  The answer came immediately: “Flash Two-Four Charlie, Saxon. How are you down there, mate?”

  “Better. Weather’s better, too. Can you have the bartender call me a cab?”

  “Affirmative. Ready to copy coordinates.”

  Parson gave his numbers. After an agonizing wait, the Brits called him back: “Flash Two-Four Charlie, Bagram wants your nine-line.”

  Dear God, thought Parson, we’re actually getting out of here. He couldn’t remember all the items in a nine-line medevac request, but he knew enough to get the aircraft to him.