by Aaron Gwyn
Everything went instantly quiet. He breathed in and out. He heard Wynne key the talk button and ask Rosa what the other Talibs were doing. Russell snugged the stock of his carbine tighter into his shoulder, relaxed his hand on the grip, opened and closed it several times to get the blood moving. His scalp was tingling and a warm breeze stirred the damp hairs on the back of his neck. Ziza was just to his right, and Russell glanced quickly at the commando lying there beside him with the scope to his eye. He wondered if the man saw something he didn’t. He wondered if they’d have to fight their way back to the horses. It occurred to him that the horses might’ve been killed in the exchange earlier, and then it occurred to him that perhaps Wheels had been as well.
Then they were taking fire, the rounds buzzing in low and sparking off the rocks. Russell couldn’t see the shooters, but he hated them instantly. It always surprised him—men you didn’t know, never spoke to, never laid eyes on. As soon as that first shot cracked over your head, bile rose from your gut and you loathed whomever would aim the weapon and pull its trigger. You knew they loathed you as well, and you were bound together until one or both of you died and the hatred turned to sadness or rage, something else to carry inside you like a tumor. Russell pressed his chin against the deck, tried to remember to keep his heels down. Ox was releasing controlled bursts from his machine gun, and Ziza had begun to fire as well—spacing the shots carefully, conserving ammo, Russell thought. He shifted his weight and peeked out through his gunsight at the staircase below. There were no Talibs trying the steps, and Rosa’s voice came barking over the radio in a metallic stutter:
“Right flank! Right flank! Right flank!”
Russell was just processing the words when he heard the whoosh of a launcher and then the low hiss of the rocket traveling toward them. He glanced over in time to see a vapor trail climbing the steep slope to their right, and then he palmed the back of his head with both hands and tucked his chin between his elbows. He’d just done this when there was a loud explosion and debris began falling from the cliff face above. Sand and small clods of dirt rained all around, and there was a fog of dust so thick he couldn’t see. He began to hack and cough, and there was dirt in his eyes. He wished for his sunglasses that he’d lost during the assault on the building where they’d been ambushed, and it occurred to him that they’d been ambushed a second time, only this was a trap they’d expected and the captain had led them into it. He coughed again, cleared his throat and spat, then tried to blink the dust from his eyes. He heard Rosa’s rifle crack once, twice, and then his voice over the radio telling them to fall back. The dust began to settle and Russell saw what he could hardly believe: Talibs traveling up the hillside.
This slope was impossible to traverse—as unstable as it was steep—but the three forms came up it regardless, spaced twenty meters apart and sprinting. They wore black turbans and black man-shirts, and as they came they hip-fired their rifles. They were about a hundred yards below Russell, maybe a little less. Ziza already had his gun in the fight, and Ox had moved up to kneel beside him, firing on these men moving up the incline, one dropping and sliding backward, two more appearing in the distance to take his place. The captain had crawled up beside Russell—so had Sergeant Bixby—and he glanced to his left and saw Morgan had pulled the pin on a grenade. He rose to lob it, and then his head whipped violently to one side and he fell back and disappeared over the lip of the shelf. Russell called the man’s name, but he couldn’t hear his own voice, and it wasn’t until the sound of the grenade came from the hillside below that the others turned. Bixby shot Russell a confused look, but Wynne’s expression indicated he understood almost immediately, and the captain turned back to the enemies approaching from their right and continued to fire.
Then Rosa’s voice was loud on the radio. He said they were under fire themselves. He said they were pinned down. He said the captain’s position was about to be overrun, and then the radio went suddenly silent and Russell could hear the man’s rifle cracking down below. There was the tight staccato chatter of carbines and then the dull, loose rattling of enemy AKs. Another RPG came whooshing over the shelf and exploded above them, closer this time. Russell’s ears were ringing and fragments of rock peppered the backs of his legs. Smoke everywhere. All of them coughing. The Talibs couldn’t get a rocket directly on them, but they were using the explosions to provide cover as they moved, and Russell knew in another few minutes they’d be fighting them hand to hand. The dust started to drift, and the smell of gunpowder was back behind his eyes, sharp as needles, and then he heard the captain’s voice:
“No one fire,” it was saying. “Everybody on the deck.”
Russell didn’t know what they’d possibly fire at—none of them could even see—and they were all pressed to the earth anyway, awaiting their deaths.
But Wynne was crawling backward, inching toward the left side of the shelf, hissing for the others to do the same. Russell thought he was directing them toward the cave—which would certainly be the end, boxed in and buried—but that wasn’t the captain’s plan.
The four of them followed Wynne, belly-crawling, ten yards, twenty, dragging their bodies across the sand backward until their boots touched the rock wall on the far side of the ledge and they could go no farther. Russell was up against the edge of the shelf, the toe of his left boot hanging out over empty space, Ziza beside him, the captain to Ziza’s right. Then Sergeant Bixby. Then Ox. Wynne addressed them in a loud whisper. He pointed toward the far side of the shelf, the lip they’d been firing from and over which, at any moment, the Talibs would appear.
“Make them think they’ve killed us,” he said. “Make them think they pushed us back inside. They’ll be forming up down below us. They’ll come at us in a line. Don’t squeeze off a single round until you can see them from the knees up. You need to reload, do it now. Work your way from the outside in. Roger that?”
“Roger,” they all said.
Russell ejected his magazine. He had, from the weight of it, maybe ten or eleven more rounds, and he tossed the clip in his dump pouch, pulled a fresh one from his hip, and inserted it in the mag well, giving it a tap with the heel of his hand. He drew back the charging handle and canted his rifle to the left to make sure there was brass in the chamber, then released the handle and let it slam home, careful not to ride it, pressing the forward assist several times to make certain the round had seated. He tightened his grip on the rifle and pressed his heels against the ground, got his spine into alignment, inhaled and exhaled a few quick breaths. Then he stared through his gunsight at the far end of the shelf, holding the red dot about three feet off the ground, aiming for what would be center mass. He thumbed off the safety and rested the pad of his index finger very lightly against the trigger. He thought these would be the last bullets he’d ever fire from a gun, and then there was a shrill cry from the slope below them, a strange alien yawp like a dozen voices screaming the same unintelligible curse, and Russell felt his bladder give way and the crotch of his pants go warm. Wynne was whispering to them, the captain’s voice like a narrow bridge onto which he was walking—step by step by step—only the words allowing him to move forward while everything else urged him to close his eyes and collapse. The captain said to stay tight, stay focused, not to break their shots until they could see their targets from the knees up, and Russell managed to step out on Wynne’s promptings, a little bit farther, a little farther still. Each word was a brick beneath his feet, and Russell inhaled very deeply and blinked. One moment he was staring through his optic at an empty expanse of sky, and the next there were four men in their long shirts and turbans. Five men. Six. They seemed to appear on the shelf out of nothing—eight of them now—moving at a sprint. They wore the cheap high-top sneakers Americans called “Cheetahs” and carried their rifles very low. Russell watched their expressions shift from resolve to bafflement, eyes visibly widening. He realized they were close enough that he could see their eyes, maybe fifteen yards, and then these men were comin
g suddenly apart. He’d snapped off half a dozen shots in quick succession, as had Ziza and the captain, while Ox let go his machine gun in a long uninterrupted burst. The men rushing them seemed to have struck an actual wall, bodies moving back as their legs continued to carry them forward, garments shredding, a black-sleeved limb separating from its torso and turning end over end in the dry desert air. And then just as quickly as the Talibs had appeared, they were lying on their backs with legs bent underneath them, Wynne already up on a knee with his rifle shouldered, then Ox, then Ziza, the three of them standing and moving forward, hips locked, walking from the knees down, snapping additional rounds into the dead and dying Talibs as they went past, kicking rifles away from their hands. Russell cast a quick glance over to Bixby, who was still proned out on the ground himself, then looked back toward the captain and Ziza and Ox, who’d reached the far end of the shelf and were now firing over its edge.
And then the engagement was over. Wynne was walking back toward them, keying the radio to raise Hallum or Rosa, Ox behind him laughing contentedly, a warm light in his eyes, joyful as a boy. Ziza began to laugh, and Russell found that he was smiling as well—he couldn’t help it—adrenaline coursing, the euphoria like something that could split your chest. He could hear gunfire from across the valley, the long rattle of an AK, and then two quick shots in answer. Then nothing.
He stood and followed Bixby over to the mouth of the cave, where Ox stood beside the captain. He glanced at Ziza. The Afghan was still standing at the far end of the ledge. He looked at Russell and smiled, ejected the magazine from his rifle, and let the mag fall to the ground. He’d reached to the mag pouch on his belt when a Talib clambered over the lip of the shelf with an AK to his shoulder. Ziza turned to see him just as he appeared—the two of them less than a meter away—and the commando dropped his rifle and reached behind his neck to draw the enormous knife from its sheath. He raised it and stepped forward to make a pass at his enemy, but the Talib emptied his clip into Ziza and sent him sprawling back. Ox and the captain had their backs to the men, but Bixby lifted his weapon and fired, missing each shot. The Talib pointed his rifle, but he was either out of ammunition or his gun malfunctioned, and Russell drove his gun forward and put two rounds into the man’s midsection.
The Talib went down hard, rifle in his lap and his hands pressed against the bright blood spreading across the front of his shirt. The captain turned and began firing, and the Talib jerked backward and then lay still.
The four of them moved up and knelt around Ziza. He’d fallen onto a clump of broken sandstone, and there were bullet wounds across his groin, bullet holes in his throat and face. His mouth was open, the front teeth shattered, and his brown eyes stared up at nothing. Wynne put his hand to the commando’s chest and Ox began to curse. The captain tore the Velcro patch from Ziza’s shoulder—A POS—and held it a moment. Then he rose, slid it in a cargo pocket, and started back toward the mouth of the cave. As he went he keyed the radio, calling once again for Rosa.
“What are you thinking?” Bixby asked.
“I don’t know,” the captain said.
“You think their radios are down?”
“I said I don’t know,” Wynne told him.
He tried the radio again: “Underchild, this is Underchild Actual, how copy?”
He stood waiting for a response, with the breeze stirring his hair, blue eyes very bright. He turned and looked back toward the valley where they’d left the others. Then he turned and looked at Bixby and Russell.
“Take Russ and go see what the deal is,” he said to Bixby. Stay in radio contact. You get eyes on, grab Wheels and beat feet back up here.”
“You’re going back?” Bixby said.
“Me and Ox,” the captain told him. “Get moving. I want to be back on the trail in an hour.”
“How about we get back on the trail now?” said Russell.
The captain’s brows tightened and his eyes seemed to narrow.
“Get moving,” he said.
Russell and Bixby came down the slope, skidding through the talus, raising a gray dust. They made the flat floor of the plain and went toward the grove of evergreen saplings at a sprint. It was about a hundred yards out, and then it was seventy-five yards, fifty, twenty-five, and then they were jogging among the leaves and limbs. They came crashing through the underbrush and branches, and when they entered the clearing where the horses had been tied, the first thing Russell saw was Hallum on his back with his body armor stacked beside him; the second thing was Wheels sitting beside him with the radio propped on his knee. He had his back to a tree and a tourniquet wrapping his left thigh, and Russell walked up and saw that Hallum was dead. Wheels looked up at Russell. He’d been shot through his right thigh. His eyes quivered.
“We’ve been sort of busy,” he said.
Bixby began examining the wound, cutting off Wheels’s pants leg with a pair of medical shears, pressing the skin around the wound with his fingers. Russell didn’t think it looked that bad, but the sergeant’s face was grave.
“Where’s Rosa?” Russell asked.
“Still in his perch,” said Wheels. “You had to’ve heard his rifle.”
“We heard it,” Bixby said.
Wheels shook his head. “He’s been racking them up. He’ll be pissed no one’s here to confirm.”
“Morgan and Perkins are gone,” said Bixby.
“Zero too,” Russell added.
“Talibs?” Wheels asked.
Russell nodded.
“They got Ziza?” said Wheels.
“Yeah.”
“Perkins too?”
“Perkins too,” said Russell.
“Where’s the captain?”
Russell was about to tell him, when the radio crackled to life.
“Underchild Five, how copy?”
Wheels glanced down at the radio, then picked it up and keyed the talk.
“I read you,” he said, “go ahead.”
“What’s your situation? Over.”
“We lost Hallum,” said Wheels. “I took one in the leg. We don’t have eyes on Rosa. His radio isn’t working.”
“Have you seen Corporal Russell?”
“He’s sitting right here beside me,” Wheels told him.
“Put him on.”
“Wilco,” said Wheels and passed the radio.
“How do things look out there?” the captain asked.
“Terrible,” Russell told him.
“Are you in contact?”
Russell told him not at present.
“We need some help in here,” said Wynne, and right as he said it, they heard Rosa’s rifle from the hill up above them.
“Sergeant Rosa’s engaging targets.”
“That’s good,” said Wynne. “We’re going to need some help.”
Russell was silent a moment. He told the captain they needed help themselves.
Wynne didn’t respond to this. He said, “Put Mother on.”
Russell passed the radio to Sergeant Bixby.
“Get back up here,” Wynne said. “You and the corporal.”
“Captain, I’ve got a patient,” Bixby told him. “It’s a through-and-through, but the round just missed his femoral. He could turn into a category highest.”
“Not up for discussion,” the captain said.
Bixby sat there several moments. Russell could see the struggle on his face. He watched it move from his mouth to his eyes and then back to his mouth again.
“Now?” he asked.
“Right now,” the captain said.
Bixby stood and brushed at his pants. Another gunshot came from the hill—still Rosa’s—and then another that wasn’t. They waited a few seconds and heard Rosa answer the shot. Then everything was quiet.
“Roger that,” said Bixby, and then handed the radio back to Wheels.
Russell had reloaded and charged his friend’s carbine, then stacked spare magazines beside him on the ground. He squatted there, studying Wheels’s face.
He was frightened for him and frightened for himself if something should happen to the man. A great cavity of need seemed to yawn inside him, and he knew that he’d only been able to keep it together because Wheels had somehow propped him up. It wasn’t the kind of thing you ever said, and he didn’t say it now.
What he said was, “You going to be all right? Down here, I mean?”
“Be better down here than you’ll be up there,” said Wheels.
Russell said he had a point. He gestured toward the man’s rifle.
“That enough ammo? I can get a few more mags from your saddle.”
Wheels glanced at the magazines laid out along his leg. His lips mumbled, counting.
“No,” he said.
“You need water?”
“Not thirsty.”
“Keep sipping from your tube anyway,” Bixby said. The sergeant pointed at the tourniquet around his thigh. “Especially with that.”
The cave was cold and quiet, and Bixby and Russell went along shoulder to shoulder, their carbine lights flashing over the dead rock walls.
When they passed down the narrow tunnel and emerged into the torch-lit chamber, they saw that Ox and the captain had removed the lids from dozens of crates, overturned them and spilled their contents on the talc-covered floor. Countless rounds of ammunition, hundreds of Soviet-era grenades. American MREs and new American uniforms and a number of brick-sized packets of plastic explosive, wrapped in wax paper like sticks of butter. There was a small pile of detonators and blasting caps. Another pile of toe-popper mines. Russell and Sergeant Bixby stepped farther into the room, lowering their rifles, glancing around. Bixby called for the captain, and then Russell looked over and saw him. He and Ox were on the far side of the chamber, bent over what looked like a metal footlocker—about two feet long, a foot wide, another foot in depth. He had no idea what was in the chest, but as soon as he saw it, something seemed to yaw inside him and his hands started to shake. The captain turned to look at them, then motioned them over.