Taking Fire

by Lindsay McKenna

  Khat smiled fondly. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  “I’ll teach you scuba diving and introduce you to Mom Ocean, and you show me your favorite forest haunts growing up in the San Francisco area,” Mike said. He wanted a chance to share happier moments in Khat’s life. They had been overshadowed, perhaps buried beneath the past five years of her life. He saw her green eyes sparkle, a soft smile come to her mouth.

  “I’ll take you to the giant sequoias, too. There’s a national park just east of Bakersfield, California. I’m so in love with those giant trees. That was another place of powerful healing for me. Another church of the woods.” She gave him a warm look, her eyes filled with good memories.

  “I like planning the future with you,” Mike said, meeting her smiling eyes. He saw such hope burning in them. Feeling as if a huge, invisible weight had lifted off his shoulders, or maybe feeling like he’d run the marathon and won her hand, hope threaded powerfully through his chest. Mike knew there was a long way to go with Khat. Nothing was going to be easy with her parents or dealing with her tortured past. He loved her, and that gave him infinite patience to help bring her back to the world he knew. A world of a solid, positive family, of being loved, of being able to laugh and start becoming a part of his world.

  Khat nodded. “My whole world is changing,” she offered quietly, finishing her MRE. “I feel unsettled about it, Mike. Scared in some ways, hopeful in others.”

  “It’s always that way when we make a big change in our lives,” he agreed. “The good news is we have each other. I’ll help you walk through this change.” He saw the love shining in her eyes for him.

  “You’ve been there for me since we met.”

  “I’ll always be at your side,” he promised, his voice gritty with emotion.

  “You have no idea how it feels to have you there, Mike.”

  “No one likes working or walking alone in life, Angel.”

  Khat stood. “We need to get packed,” she offered. She knew Mike was looking forward to getting back to Bravo. She wanted to remain here. This was a familiar friend to her. A place of safety of sorts, as crazy as that sounded.

  By the time they moved out of the cave, light rain was falling once more. Mike took the lead on his gelding, the rope to Mina tied to the back of his saddle as she carried the pack contents.

  Khat had discussed the change with him because she usually tied Zorah to the cantle of her saddle. Mina’s leg splint was starting to swell once again, and Khat didn’t want to take a chance and make her lame. Instead, Zorah would be her mount and trade places with Mina. She never went against her feelings because it had saved her life so many times in the past. And Khat felt uneasy.

  This time, she asked Mike to take Mina with him, leaving her able to move quickly, if necessary. Usually, she had the packhorse, but this time she wanted Mike to do it. With their NVGs on, she kept a quarter of a mile between them. Already having discussed the route to the next cave, she felt confident Mike would remember the way.

  The air was near freezing, her breath white vapor. She was glad to be wearing the Kevlar helmet tonight because it kept her head protected. The warmth of the gloves felt good and so did the heavy wool of her Afghan clothes over her cammies. Khat noticed Zorah’s small fine ears were moving around a lot. Was she hearing something through the rain? Picking up sounds human ears could not? Often she did, and Khat paid close attention to her mare’s alertness. In the distance, thunder growled and lightning flashed, coming their way.

  She wore her M-4 rifle on her back, the barrel pointed down to prevent water from getting into it. The goat path was fairly wide, maybe three feet in width, winding like a snake around the slopes of the nine-thousand-foot mountain. They’d be heading down to near seven thousand feet, and it would get warmer as the night progressed. Adjusting the mic near her lips, she knew their communications worked for a mile. The radio was hooked beneath her lapel of her cammies, protected from the rain.

  Lightning flashed, ruining her night vision through the goggles. Cursing under her breath, Khat pushed them up on the helmet rail. Everything was black. She relied on Zorah to see well enough to stay on the goat path. Mike had just disappeared around a large turn with Mina in tow. She was alone.

  Thunder rolled loudly around her, the air vibrating. She hunched her shoulders forward, hoping that the storm would pass them quickly, but instead, the rain increased substantially. Zorah suddenly stopped and froze.

  Her heart rate went up, and Khat pulled the M-4 rifle off her back, taking off the safety, a bullet already in the chamber.

  “Something’s up,” she warned Mike quietly into the mic. “Keep going, I’m going to check it out.”

  Anytime Zorah halted and froze, Khat knew Taliban was nearby. Her pulse ratcheted up as she pulled down the NVGs over her eyes, remaining where she was. Slowly panning up above her, she knew there was another goat path about a thousand feet above. It was devoid of riders.

  She slowly panned the slope from where the horse had halted. Khat knew there was a small rocky depression where Taliban would sometimes sleep overnight. They’d come in at dusk, make their tea, eat and then sleep, getting up at dawn to begin their patrol of the area.

  Standing up in her stirrups, Khat strained to look down the rocky slope littered with brush. Water ran down her cheeks, the rain slashing almost sideways in a sudden gust from the thunderstorm surrounding them. Damn. Where were they? She knew Taliban were nearby. Her skin was crawling with warning.

  Zorah snapped her head around, ears pricked up, looking behind her.

  Khat let out a gasp, twisting around in the saddle. Shit! There were fifteen riders coming around another curve, not more than half a mile from where she was at! Her mind spun with options. There was a thin goat path just ahead, moving up toward the ridgeline a thousand feet above them.

  “Tangos half mile behind me,” she whispered into the mic. “Get moving as fast as you can. I’m staying behind to stop them.”

  “I’m coming back,” Mike said.

  “No! I can handle this! Get the hell out of here! I’ll meet you at the cave at dawn. I’ve done this before!” Her heart was pounding now. Every second wasted on talk was seconds that Zorah would need to climb the rocky, steep path without them being discovered.

  “Roger,” Mike growled, his unhappiness clear in his tone.

  She heard the protectiveness in his voice. First, he couldn’t turn around on this narrow goat path. Second, he had a packhorse in tow, which would slow him down. She pressed her heels into Zorah’s flanks, heading forward at a gallop toward that small path. She would have minutes to set up a sniper op to stop the tangos.

  Jets of white vapor shot out of Zorah’s flared nostrils, her hind quarters digging into the rocky, muddy trail like powerful pistons. In minutes, the game Arabian had crested the top of the ridge, following the narrow goat path that moved down to the other side of the rocky slope. Dismounting, Khat dropped the horse’s reins and led her to the opposite side of the ridge so she remained protected and out of the line of fire. She tied Zorah’s reins to a low bush.

  Khat hauled her Win Mag sniper rifle out of the nylon boot and quickly pulled out the bipods, settling the rifle just below the ridgeline, aiming on the other side the Taliban would be riding by. Finding a shallow depression, she set the sniper rifle up, turning on the Nightforce scope, the thermal imaging flickering on. Khat flipped up the protective lens covers at both ends.

  Settling down in the rocks, the path clearly marked three hundred yards below, Khat pulled five mags from her H-gear. She slowed down her breathing, the rain coming in torrential sheets around her.

  Khat knew once the riders came within view, they had no place to turn around. And it was nearly impossible to back a horse for a quarter of a mile on a dark, slippery, rocky path. The animals would be frantic, the sounds of the rifle scaring them, making them hard to handle. The enemy had no recourse but to try and ride past her and make the other curve half a mile away in order
to seek protection.

  If they tried to come up her narrow goat path, she’d stop them before they ever got close to her. There was a five-hundred-foot drop-off on the other side of the path; a rocky scree slope. If they tried to escape down it, their horses would break legs or their necks and fall, and most likely, the riders would be killed, as well. They didn’t have options, and Khat knew it.

  She felt the cold water dripping down her neck, soaking through the heavy wool shemagh around her shoulders. Putting her eye to the scope, she watched the slow progress of the Taliban. They were all hunched over, heads down, their AK-47s on their backs. The horses were weary. Her mind clicked off other possibilities. Normally, Taliban stopped at dusk to rest. This group had to have something they were carrying or was needed elsewhere to be out on a night like this.

  Scanning the line of riders, the horses were nose to tail with one another. She saw a number of packhorses in between each rider. Probably fertilizer being carried in the panniers. If she didn’t stop them, eventually, this group could run into Mike on the same trail. It would become a shoot-out, but he would be at a distinct disadvantage, firing behind at the tangos. This group had to be stopped now.

  Mouth tightening, the rain continuing in sheets, wind gusting, Khat dialed in the windage and elevation. Her first shot would be from a cold barrel and often, the bullet was off target. The blustery wind could easily cause a bullet to miss its mark. Her breathing slowed down, her wet finger caressing the two-pound trigger. Khat would wait until they were almost in front of her. That way, she could start with the first rider and pick them off quickly down the line.

  Her mind grew detached, making a thousand calculations on speed, trajectory, weather and her target.

  The leader was in her sights. She could see his bearded face, his scowl, his face, wet and cold. She panned three riders down from him. Her heart thudded with fear. All three of them carried RPGs. That wasn’t good. If one of them was able to get off a shot, she was well within easy distance and could be killed. The Win Mag did not have a muzzle suppressor to hide the flash from the shot. Taliban were skilled at seeing that flash and then would swiftly attack her position. Khat bit her lower lip, shifting her scope to the leader. Damn. Even if Mike were here, it wouldn’t make a difference. She was relieved he was ahead of her with Mina, moving out undetected and unknown by this group. It was up to her to stop them. Now.

  The first round struck the leader, throwing him off his horse, his hands and arms flailing like windmill blades as he flew over the edge of the slope. The horse skidded, turned sharply and crashed into the second rider and horse.

  She got off a second shot. The booming sound was muted by the heavily falling rain. Khat took a third shot and missed. Dropping the mag out of the rifle, it took her precious seconds to slap the next mag into it. Quickly sighting through the scope, she saw the fourth man raising the RPG to his shoulder to fire at her. She squeezed the trigger, taking him out. The third man was next. Khat saw him fire the RPG at the same time she squeezed the trigger.

  The RPG landed on the other side of the ridge, just above her. Khat opened her mouth as the concussions from the explosion tore by her. The red and yellow explosion lifted her off the rocks, throwing her into the air. She rolled, gripping her rifle. Rocks and dirt pelted down around her. For a split second, Khat remembered Zorah had been hidden on the side where the RPG landed. Her head rang. She couldn’t hear anything, shaking herself, rolling back onto her stomach, knowing she had to kill the men below.

  Sighting, Khat shot the next three tangos. Their horses were wild, nearly uncontrollable. She saw two horses leap off the trail, taking their hapless riders with them. They would all die on that five-hundred-foot fall.

  Breathing slowly, controlled, Khat took out the next Taliban, trying to race past her position. She turned the rifle, looking for the last two of the group. They were whipping their horses, screaming at the packhorses who were wild-eyed, unsure of where to go, slowing them down, leaving them easy targets to shoot. She shot the last man in the group first. And then, as she swung the scope on her last target, she saw he had an RPG. And he had just fired it up at her. She fired back, taking him out.

  Throwing her arms over her helmeted head, Khat opened her mouth, hoping like hell the enemy’s RPG was not on target. The last thing she remembered was a huge whump, the earth heaving violently upward beneath her, and she was lifted into the air.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MIKE CURSED SOFTLY, hearing the firefight miles away, the sounds echoing through the mountains. Twice, he’d tried calling Khat on his radio. There was no response. Frustrated, he knew that in this kind of weather, they’d get no air assets. A drone couldn’t fly in this violent weather. They were essentially blind on the ground.

  Fear snaked through him as he kept the soaked bay gelding at a steady, fast trot through the rain, Mina close behind. They were at least five miles away, at a lower elevation, the trail sometimes steep and slippery. Where was Khat? Why wouldn’t she answer her radio?

  There was no lightning now, the rain beginning to let up as the storm moved past him. It was 0300. Mike tried calling Khat every ten minutes. There was never an answer. His mind seethed with possibilities. The radio Khat carried could be low on batteries and therefore its range was limited. Or it could have been broken if she landed on it. Or rain had gotten into it. This wasn’t the first time communications got fucked up in this mountain range. It happened all too often. His intuition screamed at him to go back.

  He slowed his horse to a walk. His mind was working on other paths back to that area. He’d more or less committed all the larger paths to memory, but in the dark of night, things changed markedly. Mike wasn’t as familiar with them as Khat was. She seemed to know where every last damned one of those trails were located. She’d had years to learn them all. He had only ten days to learn the intricate and complex trail systems.

  Son of a bitch! He felt helpless. The trail had narrowed with absolutely no possibility of turning around. And even if he could, how could he get Mina turned around, too? It was impossible. There was a two-thousand-foot cliff above the trail and a thousand-foot drop off below him on the other side. He was trapped, with no way to ride back to help Khat.

  Mike thought about calling Camp Bravo, to try and get them to send an Apache helicopter. He decided to make the call, hoping against hope. The entire region, as far as he could see, had early autumn thunderstorms raking the area.

  He called directly to Ops. They informed him all Apaches were needed elsewhere and were grounded in his sector due to extreme weather conditions. Next, he called the CIA about a drone. They refused to put one up in the area due to weather issues. Calling J-bad, all air assets were out tending presently to other trouble spots; none were available for his area.

  Cursing softly, Mike urged his horse into a trot, hoping like hell Khat was all right. He had heard two explosions, the sounds of gunfire in the distance, but then it all stopped. Praying she was on her way down the trail and that he’d meet her at their agreed upon cave, Mike felt terror in his gut. He didn’t know why. But it was eating him alive.

  *

  KHAT FELT THE RAIN striking her face. Her head ached; her ears were ringing. She felt warmth trickling down across her right cheek, mixing with the colder rain slashing at her. Trying to move, her legs were trapped, pain floating up through her. It took her minutes to remember what had happened.

  The night surrounded her. She lay on her back, her spine curved because of the sixty-five-pound ruck she wore on her back. Slowly lifting her hand, Khat tried to wipe away the mud and dirt across her face.

  Shaking her head, she realized her lower legs were buried in rocks and mud. Then she remembered everything. Blinking, Khat forced herself to lie still. Had she killed all the Taliban? Or were they searching for her up on this slope? Her heart pulsed powerfully through her as she tried to take stock of her situation. Her ears rang so loudly she could hear absolutely nothing, and that scared her.
She would never hear the enemy approaching her. Moving her hand over her head, she realized her NVGs had been blasted off her helmet. It was dark, and she couldn’t see anything.

  Moving her one leg, Khat slowly pulled it from beneath the rubble. Her boot moved, and she worked on the other trapped leg. In moments, she was free. Rolling over on her belly, she felt dizziness wash through her. The softly falling rain was washing away the mud and blood on her face. Where was her rifle? Panic ate at her. Khat automatically felt for her .45 in her holster. It was still there, and some relief skittered through her.

  She rolled over and got to her hands and knees, her lower legs aching and bruised. Nothing felt broken. Remaining crouched, Khat tried to hear through the ringing of her ears. She felt blood trickling from her right ear, the pain excruciating, realizing she’d blown an eardrum in the blast.

  Trying to take stock of her physical condition, to see if she had a wound or had a broken bone, Khat found none. She was a victim of being too close to a blast from an RPG. And maybe a concussion because she’d been slammed by the resulting pressure wave that had knocked her unconscious.

  Reaching out with her shaking hands, Khat realized her helmet had been torn off her head. Where was it? Her NVGs were on it. She needed to locate her goggles and rifle. The cold was seeping into her bones, and she was soaking wet in near-freezing temperatures. The wind was less now, and she could see the thunderstorm had moved toward the south.

  Her mind not working well, Khat concentrated on finding her helmet and goggles. Without them, she was toast. If she hadn’t killed all the Taliban, they would be actively searching for her right now.

  Moving slowly over the rocks, her knees taking the bruising punishment of crawling across the slope, her outstretched hand finally found her helmet. Joy tunneled through Khat as she settled it on her head. She pulled the NVGs down on the rail. She flipped them on. They still worked! Pushing off her hands and knees, Khat slowly rose. She was able to see clearly.