The MSOTs had all the high-speed, low-drag equipment that the Marines or the other services could provide. The other four teams in the company, the “regular” teams, had the GMVs[61], the souped-up versions of the Hummers, to get around up north in their AO,[62] but for Badger 29, it was the trusty combat boot that got them to where they wanted to go. Their GMVs had yet to leave FOB Ballenstein—the terrain and paths just didn’t allow for it.
Aiden let out a sigh as he saw the first members of the team reach the crest and disappear from view. He was still a good deal away and had some climbing to do, but with some of the team up and over, it was a mental relief.
A slight bit of movement across the valley and on the opposite mountainside caught his eye. Since his transformation, he seemed more attuned to movement, but objects that weren’t moving were a little harder to discern. He stared at where he thought he saw the movement but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary—until the PKM[63] opened upon them. Almost instinctively, he turned and ran back down the trail 15 meters to where a meter-high and two-meter-long rock jutted up along the trail and offered some protection from the other side of the gorge. He dove to the ground and was joined a few seconds later by Griff, the team’s mechanic and the next man up from him in the march.
Within moments, the entire side of the mountain opposite him seemed to open up with flashes as rounds began to impact around them. An RPG went off, only to peter out and fall into the gorge below.
“Stupid fuckers,” Griff said almost in disgust. “Didn’t they make a range card?”
Aiden estimated that the muj were at least 650 to 700 meters away across the gorge. That was well within range of the PKM, which had a max effective range of 1,000 meters, but too far for the RPG, which could only fly 500 meters.
Aiden scooted over to the end of their rock cover and fired his M4 at the flashes across the gorge. The M4’s 5.56 round could easily reach that far. Marines all qualified at 600 yards on the range, but with Terry hard to spot, Aiden was just putting rounds downrange, hoping to get a lucky shot in.
A moment later, the loud crack of a .50 cal round went off from the crest of the road. Javier had opened up with his Barrett[64]. Sgt Javier Herrera was the team’s primary scout sniper, and with the big Barrett, 650 meters was almost point-blank range. Several of the Marines carried the SR-25[65], and while they could also easily reach out and touch the ambushers, they didn’t have the emotional impact of the Barrett. In Iraq, at least, the hajji often broke and ran the minute the Barrett opened up. Aiden had heard that the muj were made of sterner stuff, but this was his first contact with them, so he didn’t have any personal validation of that.
“Now we see if Manny’s worth his shit,” Griff said. At Camp Leatherneck, Griff and a few others who had been on the same team had said their previous JTAC was worthless, and everyone had been slow to accept Manny as part of the team. If he could call in air and break the ambush, then that would go a long way in acceptance for him.
An explosion sounded from about 30 meters up the trail quickly followed by another. Shouts sounded, more in surprise than anything else.
What do they have that can reach like that? Aiden wondered.
Another explosion sounded up the trail, but below them, and it quickly became clear. Someone was up on the mountain above them and throwing grenades over the edge and down at them. No one was hurt yet, but it was only a matter of time before a grenade landed on the trail itself and hit someone.
Aiden and Griff both looked up the side of the mountain. It wasn’t exactly a sheer cliff, but it was unclimbable. From their route brief, Aiden knew that to get up there, someone would have to go over the crest and down into the valley ahead, then cut back and make the climb over an easier slope. That could take several hours, and this contact would be over by then.
“Motherfuck!” Griff said. “Those assholes over there pin us down while Terry up there drops grenades on our heads!”
“Air can take them out up there, right?” Aiden asked.
“Shit, think of it. An A-10[66] can use its guns, but if we get a Lancer[67], that’s only bombs. And if he’s only a few meters off, what happens?” Griff asked as he fired off another volley across the gorge.
Aiden had to think for a moment before realization hit him. “The 500 pounder comes down here and takes us out.”
“If they use a 500 pounder. The Lancers also got them big 2,000 pounders. And even if they hit up there, that’s a whole shitload of mountain breaking off and coming down the slope on our heads. We’ll end up buried down there in the river,” he said sourly.
Another PKM opened up, sweeping the trail. With the Marines prone, the mujahideen weapons were having a hard time hitting anyone, but if they stood up, the Marines would present much easier targets for them.
Aiden looked back up the trail, where about 70 meters up, Javier was calmly putting out rounds. The big gun kicked, and the report echoed back and forth in the canyon, the reports of the other weapons being fired by both sides seemingly being made by pop guns in comparison. Suddenly, there was a flash of fire on the Barrett, and Javier fell back. Aiden’s heart lurched, but Javier rolled back over and inspected his weapon. It was too far to see much, but the radio told the story. A PKM round had hit the gun, taking it out of action. Javier’s hand was hit, but he was still functional. Without the Barrett, though, it was small arms and their SAWs[68] against the mujs both across from them and above.
A grenade landed on the trail and detonated, and a scream of pain reached the two Marines. One of the team had been hit. The Taliban had picked a perfect ambush site. The Marines could not move without exposing themselves to automatic fire. If they stayed until they could get air, the grenades being lobbed from above would slowly take them out. The situation was becoming dire, and something had to be done.
Aiden knew what that something was. He had thought about this over and over again before this deployment. If the situation arose where he needed to shift to protect his fellow Marines, he would do it, Council be damned. Hozan had warned him against shifting, especially after he had broken up the attack outside of Ramadi as a werewolf, but he couldn’t just sit there and not do anything.
“I think I saw a way up the cliff back there a ways,” he told Griff. “I’m going for it.”
“What? I didn’t see no path,” Griff responded, popping up over their rock to fire a few more shots before dropping back down.
“It was not much, but I think it’s a way up. I’m dumping my gear here, then I’ll take a look again. If it isn’t, I’ll be back,” he said.
“You’ll get leveled as soon as you stand up.”
“Nah, they’re putting most of the rounds up there in the middle. Besides, they’ll just think I’m bugging out, and probably send someone to snatch me back there somewhere.”
Griff looked unsure, but he asked, “Do you want me to go with you? Two’re better than one.”
With Griff there, he couldn’t really shift, so he quickly said, “No, I need you to cover me. Let me look first, and I can always call you to come join me.”
“Sounds like shit,” Griff said, a round pinging off the top of the rock and sending rock dust over them. “But let me call it in first.”
Aiden had already dumped his pack, and he said, “Get permission, and if Norm says no, tell him I’ve already gone.”
He got to his knees, took a breath, and then jumped up and sprinted down the path. To his surprise, no rounds chased him. Maybe they did think he was bugging out. After only 100 meters, the path bent around the mountain, shielding him from the Taliban on the other side of the gorge. He looked up, and the mountain in front of him looked impossible. And to Aiden in human form, it probably was.
Quickly stripping off his battle rattle, frog,[69] and boots, he was down to his trou and body armor. With one more look up and down the path, he closed his eyes, and with barely an effort, he shifted. Within moments, his sense of smell and hearing sharpened, his color vision faded, and
the intoxicating feeling of immense power poured through him like a pyroclastic flow. It had been months since he had made the shift, yet his varg body felt like an old friend embracing him.
The cliff wall in front of him, which had looked like an impossible barrier before, was now merely a challenge. With a growl emanating from deep in his throat, he jumped up, his powerful legs catching on rough spots and propelling him forward, the claws on his hands grabbing and pulling in his center of gravity. Rocks dislodged by his passing rained down. Several times, feet or hands slipped, but the forward momentum kept him going. Within two minutes, he had climbed over 400 meters to the top of the mountain’s shoulder. To his right another 100 meters away, the mountain continued to rise, but this was good enough. His prey would be on this wide ledge.
Aiden started a slow jog along the edge of the cliff, looking through the scattered trees to spot the Taliban fighters. He could hear the firing below, the sharp crack of the American 5.56 and the deeper report of the mujahideen’s 7.62 rounds sounding much more distinct to his varg ears. Within moments, those ears picked up something else: Pashto.
Aiden’s M4 was slung across his back, forgotten in the rush of being a varg again. He sped up, dodging the rocks and trees, his nose telling him that just ahead were four men. He could smell the adrenaline reeking from their pores. A few more steps, and he could see them, all dressed in the typical Pashtun dress. Three were busy pulling the pins and tossing grenades over the edge of the cliff while one stood guard, his AK at the ready. Only he wasn’t looking behind them; he was watching his three companions toss the grenades. His bust.
Aiden never slowed down. He rushed the guard, who turned around just in time to see the apparition close in on him. He tried to swing his weapon around, but Aiden blocked it with one hand and took him by the throat with the other. The man gargled out something before Aiden swung him around and sent him flying into his companions who were only now beginning to realize something was wrong.
The guard hit one of the grenade throwers, knocking him over the edge and out of sight. Aiden took three long strides and was among them. One man had a live grenade in his hand. He threw it right in Aiden’s chest, where it bounced back to fall just behind the man. The Taliban fighter realized his mistake, but between a creature out of his nightmares or a live grenade, he didn’t know what to do. Aiden solved that problem for him. He picked up the man and threw him down, right on top of the live grenade. The man was stunned and weakly tried to move off of it.
Aiden turned to the other two. One took a single look at Aiden and started running only to trip and fall in his panic. The other reached for a wicked-looking knife at his belt. There was no fear in his eyes as he lunged for Aiden. In another time or place, Aiden might have admired the mujahideen. With his team in danger, however, there was no room for that. As the man lunged, Aiden hit him flush in the face. There was a crack—whether that was the man’s jaw or neck, Aiden wasn’t sure, but the man went down.
The runner who had fallen was crawling away, moaning in what might have been Pashto, but was probably mindless gibbering. Aiden looked back at the man on the grenade and wondered why it hadn’t gone off. Was it a dud? He took a step closer when it did detonate, shredding the man and sending shrapnel into Aiden’s legs, belly, and face. His flak jacket had protected part of his chest, but the rest of him sure felt the pain!
Of course, at 300 meters or so above the trail below, they would have had to adjust the fuzes on the grenades so they would not detonate too high above the Marines, hence the long delay before the grenade went off. Aiden wanted to slap his head in a “d’oh!” moment.
The sting of the shrapnel didn’t put him in a very good mood, and he almost casually grabbed the runner by the legs and pulled him back. The man’s mind seemed gone—it was time for his body to be gone as well.
Aiden carried him to the edge of the cliff where he was surprised to see the first man, the one who Aiden had thought had already been knocked over, clinging to some bushes on the slope. The cliff was not abrupt, as Aiden had expected. It went down at a steep angle some 30 meters before plummeting down at what had to be a steeper angle. The mujahideen had been throwing the grenades out maybe fifteen meters to clear the edge below.
Aiden hefted the man he was carrying. He probably weighed 200 pounds. Aiden was very strong in varg form, but that strong? There was only one way to find out.
He picked up the man and brought him to his shoulder. The varg shoulder joint didn’t have as much motion as a human joint, but Aiden pushed off with his legs in a sort of shot put motion, sending the man flying. Aiden wasn’t sure he would clear the edge, but most of him did, with only his feet catching on the edge, and that sent him tumbling as he fell down the cliff. Aiden wanted to roar with delight.
He picked up the security guard, who was barely conscious, and he tried grabbing one leg and arm and by twirling him discus style this time, cleared the edge by a good meter or so. Discus was better than shot put, evidently, when throwing people.
Looking at the remaining two mujahideen, he decided to leave the one who had been killed by the grenade. He had fought, at least, without fear, and an unspoken warrior creed made Aiden leave his body alone.
That left the one on the slope below him. Aiden could let him live, but the man had seen him as a varg, and so leaving him alive was probably not a good idea. Aiden stepped over the edge and onto the first slope. He grabbed several bushes to keep his balance. It wouldn’t do much good for him to fall over the ledge himself and hit the trail among his fellow Marines, even if his varg body survived the fall.
“Oh, hi guys. Don’t mind me, I’m just your friendly neighborhood werewolf” wouldn’t cut it.
As he approached the Taliban, the man simply said “shaytan” and spit on Aiden. He let go of the bush he was holding and started sliding down the slope on his stomach, eyes locked on Aiden’s. It wasn’t until he was almost at the edge of the cliff proper that he seemed to realize what he was doing, and his resolve faltered. Panic hit his eyes as he went over, and he screamed as he started his fall.
Rounds started zinging over his head. Evidently, the Taliban on the other side had seen their buddies fall and were firing at him. But it was a useless gesture. They couldn’t even see him, and the edge of the cliff kept any rounds from impacting on the top. They must have just been enraged to see their friends bounce down the cliff and onto the trail, probably splattering into bloody red messes.
Oh shit!
A body falling from 300 meters could kill a Marine if it landed on him. His varg mind was caught in the blood lust, and he hadn’t thought it through. He almost shifted back as the shock hit him, but he needed to stay in form to get back down.
There were four AK’s and over 50 grenades up on the ledge. The AKs were easy. He took each one and, with a couple of hits against a rock, put it out of action. The 50 grenades were something else. He didn’t want to leave them there, and he couldn’t take the time to pull the pins on each one and let them blow up. There was still firing going on below him, and he had to get back into the fight. He picked up the box and took it with him.
A few minutes later he was going down the mountainside. After less than 100 meters, when the slope got steeper, he ended up tossing the box ahead, knowing he could come back and police up the grenades. He hurried down, more of a controlled fall than a climb, although for the last 100 meters to the trail, he had to face the cliff and actually climb down. He hit the trail, looking back up for any sign of movement. The firing had fallen off some, but the firefight was not over yet.
Looking over the edge of the trail, he had another 200 meters down over jumbled rocks to the water, then what looked to be an easier climb back up the other side. Before he could think of a logical reason to take it easy, he bounded over the edge of the trail and bounced from rock to rock all the way to the bottom. Any parkour specialist would have been green with envy had they been there to witness his descent.
He splashed across
the five meter wide tumbling mountain river and attacked the other side. He didn’t know how many of his team had been taken out, but the longer it took, the more chances there were that a Marine could be hit.
It was easier on this side, and within a minute, he found a small trail leading up into the trees and rocks. It was barely more than a goat trail, but it led in the right direction. The firing got louder, and Aiden pushed his senses ahead. Through the heavy smell of gunpowder, he could pick up people, probably two in front of him. He slowed down, and could just make out the flash of white clothing ahead when another sound caught his attention. It was a high roooooshshsh that confused him for a moment. It didn’t confuse the two Taliban, however. Aiden saw a head pop up, looking at the sky. Immediately, the two men bolted, running only 10 meters beyond Aiden but never seeing him.
Like a dog seeing a rabbit run, Aiden almost instinctively took after them before his brain realized what was happening. Somewhere, up above him, at maybe 20,000 feet, a B-1 Lancer had just released its payload. This close to friendlies, it was probably the 500 pounders and not a 2,000 pound JDAM[70], but that was more than enough. Werewolves were amazingly tough creatures, but they couldn’t stand up to the best the US Air Force had to offer.
Aiden wheeled and plunged back down the goat path, heedless of rocks or anything that might trip him up. The roooooshshsh got louder and louder, seemingly right on top of him. A sense of panic threatened to take over, and he had to push that down. From feeling invincible on the other side of the river, he had been reduced to a powerless mouse running for cover.
The first bomb hit behind him, the blast wave picking him up and throwing him 15 meters down the path where he bounced and skidded among the rocks. Then a heat wave washed over him, and his hearing was gone. Another blast sounded, somewhat fuzzy to his ears, but farther up the slope.
The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy Page 24