“Coming in,” he hissed at Larry, buttoning up his trou as he did so.
“What the fuck, Aiden? Did you see anything?” Larry hissed.
“No,” Aiden answered. “It was just beyond me. I had my trou around my ankles. I thought they were shooting at my ass!”
“What a time to take a dump!” Larry said. “Hold up for a minute. The rest of the team’s coming in so we can investigate.”
Within a few moments, ten Marines were ready to move out, with three more providing rear security. Aiden knew where they were going, but Mike led them a bit too far forward. Brett found the dead kid, though, and called the rest of the element in. Almost immediately, the rest of the muj and the pilot were spotted.
“Look at what that beast did,” Cree said in awe as he took in the scene. “Half-dead, he zeroed their fucking asses!”
Mike had them do a sweep while Javier, who’d had first aid training and would fill in until Doc, who was with the other element, could get to the scene. Of course, nothing was found. Aiden had taken out the entire group. But he dutifully searched.
It was more than an hour before the other element and Norm arrived at their position. Doc examined the pilot, stating his amazement that this man, in this condition, had taken out three muj and scared another so bad that he had run into a tree and somehow killed himself.
Aiden was the butt of several jokes, all along the lines of “getting the shit scared out of him” when the firing opened up. He took is good-naturedly, but a part of him wanted to scream out that this was his victory. He didn’t want the pilot to get credit for his kills. When Dave acknowledged that Aiden had “waited” for the rest of the element before investigating, Aiden didn’t feel any guilt, and actually wanted to confess as to what he’d done. But he bit his tongue and resisted.
The entire team put a perimeter around the pilot. Any Taliban in the area would have heard the firefight, and they had to know that they’d probably lost their prisoner. The Marines had to be alert for a counterattack. But the night was quiet, and after another six hours, it was dawn. They moved the pilot up the slope to a field expedient LZ, and a 47 flew in to medivac the pilot and get the team out of the mountains and back to the FOB.
Chapter 6
Hozan threw the plastic bag into the dumpster. The morning meal was over, but there was no rest for the weary. Lunch prep was in full swing.
Hozan wasn’t even sure why he was still working in the DFAC. He’d only taken the original position at Camp Fallujah in order to be close to the information he’d needed to take out Saddam Hussein. Then he’d gone to Ramadi to be closer to Aiden Kaas, the kreuzeung[84] with whom he been inexorably linked. Now, Aiden was off in Afghanistan, and Hozan should have returned to northern Iraq where most of his fellow Kurds lived. Instead, he was dishing out food at Camp Liberty outside of Baghdad. Soon, almost all of the Americans would be gone, and he’d have no more excuses not to go home to Halabja. Hozan was not a superstitious man—few of the Tribe were. But he did not look forward to greeting the ghosts of his family and friends in that unfortunate town.
He closed the lid on the dumpster and had just started to walk inside when an almost-smell hit him. One of the Tribe was here, he realized. He’d been picking up hints all night that another werewolf was in the area. That shouldn’t be surprising. Baghdad was a big city, and the ebb and flow of people brought many to its stucco warrens. This was different. Someone was close and approaching him with a sense of purpose. Hozan didn’t know who it was, so he simply stood by the dumpsters and waited. He’d know soon enough.
Hozan didn’t know how he could sense the others in the Tribe so easily. Not many others could. It wasn’t a sense of smell, actually, even if that might be the closest analogy. It was sort of a tickle in his mind that told him others were in the area.
When the Arab emerged from the buildings some five minutes later, Hozan immediately knew this was his target. The man looked to be about 60, which for a werewolf, might mean anywhere from 80 to 90 years old. He was in full Arab dress, his thwab white and his keffiyeh red and white checked.
He scanned the area, and when his eyes finally locked on Hozan’s he purposely strode over.
“As-salaam'alaykum, Hozan Kamaran Mardin,” the man said, holding out his hand.
As soon as he heard the voice, Hozan knew who this visitor was. He’d talked with the man on the phone before, and he had a good memory for voices. What he didn’t understand is why the esteemed Nemir Muhmood, a member of the tribal council, had left Germany to come back to Iraq and find him.
“As-salaam'alaykum, Nemir Muhmood,” he replied, offering nothing else.
Nemir was the father of Omar Muhmood, Aiden’s patron. Aiden had called Nemir when Losenko had been sent to kill Aiden and begged Nemir to recall the assassin. That Losenko was there had been a surprise to Nemir. The assassin had been sent without authorization by Günter Wais, another rival council member.
Hozan stared passively at the man, waiting. His heart gave a few extra beats, though, as he wondered why the visit. Had the Council finally decided to rid themselves of their unauthorized kreuzeung?
Finally, Nemir broke the silence with, “Your ward has been active in Afghanistan.”
Ward?
Technically, Aiden was not Hozan’s ward. The dead Omar, Nemir’s son was Aiden’s patron, so Aiden was Omar’s ward. But Hozan had nursed Aiden through his first shift, and he had taught Aiden about the ways of the Tribe. So if this orphan had a ward, Hozan would take up the title.
“Active?” he asked, leaving it at that.
“Yes. Active. He has shifted twice now in advancing the cause of the humans.”
Hozan’s heart fell. He’d warned the headstrong young man about shifting, and he’d thought the warning had taken root. To shift to advance one of the causes of man was verboten. It could bring unwanted attention onto the Tribe.
His thoughts darted around his brain like a songbird in a cage. He tried to think up an excuse.
“You know the rumors as well as I do, about feral tribes who inhabit the Afghan and Pakistani mountains. It could have been them,” he argued.
“They are not mere rumors, but no, this was your ward,” Nemir said, offering no room for argument.
Hozan’s heart fell. He’d been ready to kill Aiden after he’d been infected. But over time, he’d grown very fond of the boy. Hozan knew that could be a reaction to losing his entire family to Saddam’s gas, but reaction or not, the feelings were real. And he would not—no, could not—carry out any orders to execute him.
Something seemed to flicker in the council member’s eyes, and he seemed to deflate a fraction as he stood there.
“I need you to go to him,” Nemir said. “Make him listen to you. I’ve arranged for you to be transferred to the cafeteria where Aiden is stationed. Talk to him. Get him to hold off on shifting. I can only do so much to keep him alive, and he’s not making it any easier for me.”
Hozan stared at Nemir in surprise. He was going to Afghanistan? To be close to Aiden? He needed to know why. He thought he knew, but he wanted it out in the open.
“Why?” was all he asked.
Tears welled up in Nemir’s eyes. “When I lost Omar, I lost my family. And Omar was, well, I am sure you heard. He hated humans with a passion, and he casually used them as prey, I know. But he was my son, my only son. And when Aiden Kaas took his seed and survived, he kept part of Omar alive. As long as Aiden is alive, my Omar is alive, too.”
Hozan understood Nemir, to his great sorrow. He’d lost his entire family when Hussein had gassed his town. Everyone. This sorrow, this anguish, was something, as bad as it was, that he could trust. This was not some political game, some struggle for power. This was a heartbroken man crying out for help, and that assistance coincided with Hozan’s own wishes. Aiden was Hozan’s ward, no less than if it had been his seed that had initiated the change in him.
He took Nemir’s arm in the old way, forearm to forearm, hand grasping ju
st short of the elbow.
“I would be proud to undertake this task.”
Chapter 7
Qalandar stood in front of Zakia, waiting for an answer. He’d brought along several of his cronies for support, all older members of the tribe. This was a public discussion, though, so most of the rest of the tribe were gathered around, waiting as well for her to make a decision.
The unknown werewolf had struck again, killing four men on the slopes of a nearby mountain. Once again, the dead men came from the Taliban sect, and while Zakia had no love lost for them, they could be dogged in their pursuit of protecting their drug trade, driven by both greed and religious fervor. Zakia’s people had suffered from these men’s forefathers, and she had little doubt that should the Taliban become aware of this enclave of the Tribe, they would stop at nothing to eradicate them.
Their kind was considered haram, or “forbidden,” to the people who shared their mountains. They still survived by hiding, by keeping out of sight and mind. Zakia knew that the rumors of members of the Tribe roaming the mountains kept most of the humans at bay, afraid of the creatures of the night. The smugglers, however, would not be afraid. If they knew of the Leewekhel, her small tribe hidden in the mountains, they would close in and destroy them. Their tribe even hid from the Tribe. Zakia knew the other werewolves had some sort of organization out beyond her mountains, but they were foreigners, too, not to be trusted any more than the humans.
Now it looked like one of them had moved into their area and was attacking the Taliban smugglers. That threatened to expose their village, to put them at risk, and that could not be allowed to happen. Qalandar wanted action, and Zakia was in full compliance. There was only one choice.
The tribe had to act to protect itself.
Chapter 8
Aiden waited in the chow line. It was hot-meal time, and while he’d essentially recovered from his shifting and healing, he still had a bigger appetite than most of his fellow Marines and soldiers. The hot chow here was not as good as what they’d had in Fallujah and Ramadi, not as good as at Camp Leatherneck, but still, it was better than MREs.
“Good evening, Cpl Kaas,” the server said as Aiden made it to the front of the line.
Aiden looked up in shock. Standing in front of him, ready to dish up his choice of potatoes or rice, was Hozan.
“Hozan! What’re you doing here?” he stammered out.
“I’ve been transferred here. It is good to see you again. Perhaps we can catch up later?” Hozan asked before turning to the next Marine and asking him what he wanted.
Aiden stumbled to the next station, getting chili ladled over the rice Hozan had given him. He kept glancing back at Hozan, who was now ignoring him. In a daze, Aiden got the rest of his food and made his way to the team’s table.
“You know that hajji?” Griff asked as he sat down beside him. “We weren’t at Leatherneck long enough for introductions.”
“No. I mean no, I didn’t meet him at Leatherneck. He’s Iraqi, a Kurd. I met him at Hurricane Point,” he said, not bothering to tell Griff that Hozan had followed him to the Ramadi base after Aiden had first met him at Fallujah. “He used to hook us up with extra chow. You can ask Doc.”
Aiden doubted that Doc would remember Hozan, but he panicked just a little and wanted to deflect the attention from Hozan and him. He needn’t have worried.
“Ah, OK, good shit. Maybe he can hook us up here, too. Check it out for us, OK?”
“Sure, no problem.”
The rest of the meal went by in a blur. He didn’t remember eating, but when he returned his tray, his plate was clean, so he must have downed the chow. He went back to their tent, and with nervous energy, cleaned his M4 one more time. The rest of the team wandered in; some lying down for a nap, another group starting a game of poker. The team was scheduled to go out on a mission later that night, so they had a few hours of free time.
Aiden waited an hour, then made his way back to the DFAC. He sat on the crude wooden bench left by a previous unit at the FOB.
Why is Hozan here? he wondered.
He knew this was not a mere coincidence.
He waited another 30 minutes before Hozan came from around the back of the DFAC. Aiden stood up, and both men hugged each other. Aiden didn’t know why Hozan was there, but he was glad to see his friend.
“What . . . how?” he started.
“You’ve shifted,” Hozan simply said.
“Well, yeah. But what good is it to be a werewolf if you never shift? And I had to; it was an emergency.”
“The Council has noted it, even out here in these mountains. And you are shifting in support of man, which is forbidden.”
“This is my team, Hozan. And I have to do what I have to do to protect them,” Aiden said. “Besides, when you were a Peshmerga, didn’t you ever shift?”
Hozan had the grace to look embarrassed. “Yes, I did, on several occasions. But I am of the blood, and you are kreuzung,” he said, holding up a hand to stop Aiden’s protest. “I am not saying I am more worthy. I’m just stating the facts. And even as a kreuzung, you were not an authorized infection. There are factions within the Council that want you dead, and they will seize any opportunity to make it so.”
“And so why are you here?” Aiden asked, his stomach turning sour as he heard Hozan’s words.
“Others want you left alone, such as Nemir Muhmood.”
“The father of Omar, the guy who turned me?”
“Yes. He has taken an interest in you, and he sent me here so I can offer my guidance to you.”
“So you are here to babysit me?”
Hozan gave a half shrug.
“Look, Hozan, I’m glad to see you. Really glad. And I’ll try to be good. But if I need to shift to keep my team alive, then I will, and the Council can kiss my ass. If they want to come for me, they’ll know where to find me. Last time that happened, it didn’t work out so well for them.”
Aiden was speaking with a sense of bravado that wasn’t totally genuine. He knew he’d been unbelievably lucky with Oleksander. Before that, in the desert outside of Las Vegas, he’d been beaten pretty handily by two American werewolves. Like it or not, he was a kreuzung and not as powerful as a blood.
On the other hand, he’d about had it with this almighty Council. He’d never asked to be turned. And now they seemed to have the power to decide if he was good enough just to live. He’d never met any of them, and they’d never met him, so by what right did they get to decide his fate?
Let the fuckers come, he thought to himself. If they are man enough—no, werewolf enough—to come after me, I’ll make that a very painful evolution.
I’m a Marine, and we’re a harder out than anyone else walking the planet.
Chapter 9
The team was broken into its two elements. Each one had eyes on a trail leading through the mountains. “Trail” might have been an overstatement, though. A rabbit would have had a hard time using it. Evidently, though, the Taliban thought it was a highway—at least according to their source.
Supposedly, a small smuggling team was going to come through the area in the early hours of the morning, and the team was positioned to interdict them. Stopping the flow of drugs, which funded the Taliban, was one of the team’s primary missions. This would be their fifth such operation—each of the previous four came up empty.
They knew the drugs came through, as well as weapons and fighters who had rested up and trained in Pakistan. Every kilo of heroin, every RPG, every rested fighter who made it through had the potential to fund or fight the Coalition troops. Each Marine in the team wanted the mujahideen to try them. They wanted to do something positive for the overall mission in the country.
Hidden in the trees and rocks above the tiny trail, the Marines settled in to wait. It would not be dawn for another six hours or so, and they didn’t expect anyone until then at the earliest. Down in the deserts, the mujahideen tried to make use of the night. In the mountains, that was quite a bit more da
ngerous.
Just a few meters away, Cree was lying prone alongside a big boulder. Aiden knew he was there, but he couldn’t see him. He was tempted to try and shift only his nose to see if he could smell the other Marine, but he wasn’t sure just how to do that. A finger shift alone was fairly easy for him now; however, trying a nose and olfactory system was beyond him, at least at the present time.
He’d been contemplating how to do that when he sensed something behind him. He didn’t hear anything, he didn’t see anything, he didn’t smell anything. But he was positive that something or things were out there. It didn’t have the feeling of the Taliban, but there was a sense of danger. Like a Siren, it called him.
Aiden peered over to his right, trying to pierce the darkness and see Cree. He flipped down his NVDs, and still Cree was out of sight. Good. That meant he should be out of sight to Cree as well.
Despite his promise to Hozan not to shift unless absolutely necessary, Aiden took off his frog and helmet, unfastened his flak jacket, and shifted. Immediately, the richness of the night aromas assaulted his nose. The smell that demanded the most attention resonated within his body. It was werewolf.
Back there, maybe 30 or 40 meters, a pack of werewolves stood in the trees. He could smell their nervousness, their anger, and a sense of excitement. He couldn’t tell how many there were, but certainly more than a few. There was something else, though. It was werewolf, but more: a deeper, more concentrated smell. It was as if some paranormal chef had taken Essence of Werewolf and reduced it to a deeper, concentrated flavor. What was freakier, to Aiden’s senses, was that this concentrated odor reeked of, not exactly sexuality, but a compulsion that had to tickle the same part of the brain as where the sexual drive formed. He had to find the source of that smell.
The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy Page 27