The Complete Delta Force Shooters

by M. L. Buchman

  Rather than show the slip of paper around as it would cause too many questions, he jumped straight in.

  “The third building to the south of the road to Marjeh, close by the Helmand River. Get me everything we know.”

  The team snapped to. In moments they had the drone retasked and feeding them images. A small compound less than a kilometer away, it would be overlooking the river if not for its high wall.

  “I’ve got three late-model SUVs out front and four armed guards,” Conway reported. The “Con Man” had been Chris’ right-hand man through some ugly shit and, as usual, was hunched over the drone controls. They couldn’t actually fly the thing from here, those guys lived in a hole in Nevada, but they could take over the camera feed and streaming video archive as needed.

  Three new SUVs. Not unheard of, but certainly not common in this city.

  “I have cell transmissions,” Baxter reported.

  “Who doesn’t these days?” Burton countered.

  The two of them were like a Laurel and Hardy routine; never just one spoke. They’d been collectively tagged as “BB” because they would sometimes chatter back and forth like a BB gun plinking away at tin cans.

  “CIA at Langley has squat.” “Try The Activity.” “Duh! Already on it!” The two of them were one of the sharpest electronic surveillance teams in the business.

  Chris let the sound of his team working the problem blend into the background. He was watching the silent woman who lay unmoving on the floor before the hearth. She was curled up with her shawl pulled over her face as she typically did while sleeping. Her hand clutched her shawl tightly as it always did, as if it was her last sliver of hope. But now her breathing was different. He watched the uneven acceleration of the movement of her ribcage.

  “The Activity has nothing.” “Cell transmissions are not in the clear.”

  Encrypted signals. They were getting smarter about not being overheard. He knew Baxter would route them to Burton to send back for possible decryption.

  “Running back the video,” Conway was on it. The drone had a camera system that could see the entire width and length of the city. The resolution was so high they could zoom in on a small area like the compound, and then roll time backwards.

  “Two SUVs were on the move three hours ago. One traces to another compound on the northeast side of the city, but the second one had arrived from the direction of Kandahar to the east. Close-ups coming in.”

  Chris moved up to sit on the bunk next to Jaffe who was working the current drone feed rather than the historic one. But he managed to align himself so that a darkened screen reflected the “sleeping” Azadah. Moments after he turned his back, she indeed raised a lazy hand to remove her shawl. Couldn’t resist looking, could you?

  Chris glanced over his shoulder to let her know she’d been caught. Rather than a blush, she met his gaze for three long heartbeats.

  She was watching him. Waiting to see what he would do with the information she’d provided. Had she set a trap for them?

  For perhaps the first time in his whole military career he was going to consciously choose to engage an unknown area on the advice of an unknown civilian. He only knew her name, her beauty, and her weariness. If you’re an agent, you’re damn good at your job, lady.

  She made no reply to his unspoken thought, instead turned away to tend the low fire.

  In half an hour they had the compound clearly in their heads and a plan of action. His core team knew the faces of all of the main players on their target, but he made sure they reviewed Abdullah bin Hazar’s photo again. He assigned the new guys to backup roles until he had a better feel for them.

  They’d already scouted and acquired several vehicles. Bost Airport was like a junkyard. Cars left behind by departing businessmen. Trucks that were too worn for the evacuating US forces to bother taking or permanently disabling. They’d spent the last few days putting together a small but serviceable fleet of unremarkable appearance.

  Once ready, they dispatched out of the building. It would be twilight soon. They’d leave now and do some daytime scouting. Then they’d wait for nightfall and slide in from three directions at once.

  Chris let the others go out, then stepped over to the kitchen from which Azadah hadn’t reemerged. She was waiting for him, he could tell even though she still squatted with her back turned.

  “Abdullah?” He asked, meaning far more than confirming their target.

  She nodded without turning.

  “You’ll still be here when we get back.” He was careful to not make it a question.

  Again her nod, then so softly that he could barely hear her, “I have nowhere else to go.”

  He left her there and followed his men out into the yard.

  “Hitting on the maid servant, Deuce?” Conway teased him as Chris slid into the driver’s seat of a ten-year old silver Toyota Corolla. It was a small and awkward car to launch an attack from if they were surprised, but over half of the cars on the road were aged Corollas, so it was as good as invisible.

  “Looking to be put into an early grave, Conway?” Azadah wasn’t the sort of woman who a man just yanked down her partug and took from behind. One look in her eyes told him that. Easy women existed. Even in a conservative place like this country, there were plenty of willings, both unpaid and paid. Azadah was not one of them.

  “Well, now that you—”

  “Just drive!”

  5

  Azadah stared into the small fire and wondered at the enormity of what she’d done. The two cars and a truck had departed and the echoing silence of the evening settled over the house.

  For three days the six men had been constantly here, at least some of them. She’d never been alone except during the short walk to the well or the long walk to market. Often they went out in ones or twos on lazy “patrols,” ambling along just like any local. But she’d heard the reports when they returned and how they were familiarizing themselves with an impressive amount of detail about the city. Two hundred thousand people in a rectangular area roughly three by five kilometers, yet they soon knew it as well as many who had spent their lives here.

  Now, there was only her own breathing, the bleating of a distant goat, and the silence that was Afghanistan.

  She…liked Two C. She liked her own joke of calling him that, partly because the man Chris was overwhelming. She’d seen how the others followed him, always wanting his good opinion, asking his advice. These warriors, America’s very best, respected him deeply and listened carefully when he spoke.

  It was rare for him to speak first which she also liked about him. He too understood the value of listening.

  That was how she’d heard about Abdullah. A chance comment in the market had led her to walk far across the city and listen as she followed a goat that wasn’t hers by the compound’s gates in the great stone wall.

  She knew this once had been an American city, even called “Little America” by some. They had come during the Cold War and built dams and waterways to create a massive irrigation system across the surrounding desert. They had built roads, homes, swimming pools…all of which had ultimately failed. Some farming occurred here, but the great agricultural plenty promised in the 1950s and 60s had been gone long before the Russians invaded in the late 1970s. Instead, the open-plan American style of buildings had been closed in after they left with three-meter high walls.

  One of these had been taken over by Taliban leader Abdullah bin Hazar.

  But why had she told the Delta Force soldier?

  Why had she exposed herself to hope once more?

  It was a question she had not answered when the twilight fell, nor when the men returned just hours before the dawn.

  She listened to the footsteps. There was an excitement. There was an energy in the air that she’d forgotten the feeling of. There was a slap of weary bodies collapsing onto thick bedrolls as the soldiers dropped down on them. Weapons rattled.

  One set of footsteps crossed to the threshol
d that separated the sleeping and the kitchen area. They stopped there, unmoving.

  Azadah reached out to nurse the fire back to life and to begin the cooking of breakfast.

  The meal was nearly ready before she heard the footsteps move away.

  6

  “I want Syed!” Jaffe growled as he slammed down his gear.

  It wasn’t even worth responding. They all wanted him, Chris most of all. Their three-month tour was up in just a few more days and the Taliban leader for all of Helmand had eluded them so far.

  He had been there. Even during the first operation when they’d taken down Abdullah and a local lieutenant. While they’d been scouting the compound, one of the three Range Rovers had departed. Not knowing who was in it, they had let it go. When Chris finally gave the team the go, Abdullah had died in the first round. But before his lieutenant bled out he reported that Syed Harim Akhram had indeed been there earlier and just left.

  Three months they had been chasing him back and forth across the countryside, twice over the ninety miles to Kandahar but with no success.

  After their initial success with Abdullah, command had taken a real interest in their operation. A heavier drone had been lofted with more sophisticated communications detection and an even better camera. Computing assets had been layered in behind that to intercept and interpret cell and radio communications in real time.

  For three months they had become a jacked-up, head-of-snake-eradicating machine. Three of the senior-level people, along with dozens of minor ones, had been tracked and taken down due to the millions of dollars of effort.

  Yet five other top Taliban leaders had been taken down by tiny slips of paper left on his pillow while he slept through the heat of the day. He didn’t know Azadah’s wages, but assumed it was typical for the region, a hundred Afghanis. A dollar and a half a day.

  Also for three months, they had barely spoken again. Only when the day was done and the first stars shone across the desert sky, sometimes she would come and sit by him. He’d imagine they were looking over a different landscape, one of rolling green hills, grazing cows, and cool forest. He would grill lamb and chicken Spiedie kebabs and would serve them to her in a fold of sesame-seed crusted Italian scali bread as the sky faded and the stars ruled the summer sky.

  More than once he fell asleep with his back propped against the wall and his feet crossed together on the sand, listening to her silence. But he always woke alone, never hearing her leave.

  7

  Three days!

  Azadah had never felt so helpless. They would be gone in three days and she would be…lost. How was one woman’s heart supposed to hold so many emotions?

  She shouldn’t care!

  Others had come and gone. So why did these men tear at her so?

  They had been thoughtlessly kind to her and she would miss them. They had eaten heartily of the food she’d made them and occasionally even thought to thank her.

  Five of them had treated her so.

  But the sixth—

  Unable to stand the thought, she snatched her market basket and fled from the house.

  They had done exactly as Two C. had promised; they had cut the head off the snake, or at least most of it. She had seen no prisoners, heard of none. Maybe the Americans had finally learned that a dead terrorist was far simpler than a live one.

  She knew Syed plagued them and twice she’d heard almost enough to find him, but not quite. Not without exposing herself more than she dared.

  No one knew about “her men” as she’d come to think of them. People certainly knew what they were doing though. She could see the effect in the way the Afghan Armed Forces had increased their patrols through the city. As she made her way into the market she could see that they held their heads a little higher. People even waved at them on occasion as if it was their doing. The heavy mantle that was the Taliban was once again lifting its smothering weight from the city. Maybe this time it would even be enough.

  But her men were leaving.

  Worse, her man was leaving.

  In her panic, her feet had carried her to the edge of the market, for where else had she to go. She slowed and joined the others in the lazy heat, but her mind would not settle.

  How would a day be without Chris “Two C.” Cooper to smile at her when he was pleased? How could she possibly wake up and not see him there, sleeping so close by her that she felt like she existed, like she mattered once more? And perhaps worst of all, to never again sit beside him as evening fell and feel the peace inside the man, no matter his duty of death?

  She had been invisible for so long that it should be easy to go back to her old habits. But not this time. He saw her in a way no one ever had before. And she saw him so clearly. His effortless leadership. His simple rough brand of kindness that made his men both respect and trust him.

  How could she—

  And then she heard it.

  An old serving woman who she recognized as Abdullah bin Hazar’s cook, the woman who had unwittingly led her to that first discovery. She was complaining of the load she must carry and the food she must cook. It was a common complaint heard about the market, especially when a feast was planned. But who was she cooking for now? There was no holy feast day coming.

  Once a trusted servant of the Taliban, always one?

  Perhaps. Just perhaps.

  She did what she could to keep within listening range. She studied the pretty dye powders while the woman bought cauliflower and onion. She inspected the scrawny chickens on offering while the woman bought a lamb and drank tea while it was slaughtered and the meat was dressed.

  Azadah did not have to stay too close as the woman’s complaints were not soft.

  “With no warning. Big guest coming to town. Many people.”

  Azadah wanted to follow, but how to do so discreetly?

  “Very important man. Very important guests.”

  And that was when Azadah made her mistake. She stood in one place watching for too long and the old woman turned on her.

  “You. You are the quiet one who speaks to no one. I’ve heard about you.”

  It wasn’t a question and all Azadah could think to do was nod.

  “And no man.”

  “What makes you say that, mother?” She forced out the words, and it seemed the respectful thing to say.

  “Your basket is empty yet.”

  “Yours is very full.” So much so that the woman was badly burdened with it. And then Azadah had an idea. “May I help with yours? Do you have far to go?”

  “A sweet girl. But I can only pay a little,” the woman eyed her shrewdly.

  Azadah knew her clothes were tattered and worn. She had not even dusted them off after rising from the hearth before she rushed out the door.

  “Even a pittance would help,” she tipped her empty basket as an explanation only then realizing that in her haste she had left all of her money tucked under the third rock from the left of the fireplace. Her pockets were as empty as her basket.

  “Let’s see how you fare.”

  And so simply, Azadah fell in with Geti and began helping her with the shopping.

  8

  Chris had seen Azadah run out the door, basket in hand even though she’d already been to the market once this morning. He was now so familiar with her ways that he knew something was deeply wrong, but he’d been ill prepared to follow. His sidearms were spread in pieces before him for cleaning and he was not properly clothed to blend into the city.

  By the time guns were assembled and he was dressed, he knew there was no point in attempting to follow. Besides, he and Conway were the only two at the house. He’d sent the other two teams out to scour the streets. Over the last three months they had each built up a circle of friendly contacts and now was the time to tap them—one last shot at Syed.

  Conway was on guard.

  “Which way did she go?”

  “She who?” Conway looked truly perplexed. He scanned out the window, then turned to inspect
the rooms. “Oh. Servant girl? No idea. Thataway,” he waved a hand toward the city.

  Chris stood on the threshold squinting against the burning sun. He couldn’t wait to get back to a land where people wore sunglasses. Afghanis never seemed to squint or be bothered by the brightness of the day, and since they were undercover they couldn’t either.

  Ten minutes. She’d had a head start of under ten minutes. But today was Thursday. That made tonight the end of the work week and tomorrow a day of prayer. It was the biggest market of the week, stretching blocks. It would be packed and he’d have no chance of finding her in the crowd.

  The “wrongness” was itching at his intuition. After three months he was shocked she even could surprise him. Every gesture, every breath, the quiet hum when she was happy about a task, even the way she looked at him when she didn’t think he was watching.

  Yet something had grabbed her by the throat. If she were a more effusive woman, he’d have expected an outright scream based on the way she’d fled.

  Again he went to step across the threshold, but again he stopped.

  He had no way to follow her.

  …unless he did.

  Chris spun on his heel and dug under the other gear for one of the equipment briefcases and dropped it on the table.

  “What the hell, Deuce?”

  He ignored Conway. His training said to let her go. She had proven herself too many times for her to be a threat. Besides, if she were betraying them, she would not have acted so obviously out of character.

  But the man in him had only found one way to interpret her actions: panic. And she’d become far too important for him not to protect her, or at least try.

  He did have a way to follow her.

  “C’mon! C’mon! C’mon!” The computer was taking forever to boot up.

  9

  Azadah’s arms were soon burning with the load she’d been given to carry; Geti had seen opportunity and shifted all of the heavy items to Azadah’s basket. They moved out beyond the last awning of the market and headed north across the city. No car waited, nor a cart. Though the woman was stout and old, she continued to move steadily along despite her burden.