Turning, she scanned the slope below her. No one was coming up to get her. Then she looked down toward the goat path. There were five men lying dead on it. There were no horses around. They had run off or been killed by leaping and falling over the deadly slope below the goat path.
Wiping her mouth, Khat tasted blood. Her nose was bleeding, as well. Lucky to be alive, she knew she could have died tonight. Her mind was mushy, and she wasn’t thinking coherently.
Sitting down, she fumbled for and found her radio. It had been crushed. She was out of range to talk to Mike on their personal headset channel. Sitting, eyes closed, Khat tried to wipe her filthy hands off on her wet trousers. Most of it came off. She had to find her rifle.
Trying to stand, dizziness struck her, and she fell down with a jolt. Pushing her palms against her closed eyes, she knew she was in deep shock. Pieces of the firefight came back to her. Her mind would shut down. And then minutes later, it would come back and function. Pulling the NVGs back over her eyes, she rolled onto her hands and knees. Khat felt nausea rising. Oh, hell, she was going to vomit! It was nothing but dry heaves as she crouched on her knees, her arms against her belly, violently retching. The paramedic in her recognized the symptoms of a concussion. Finally, the heaving stopped, and Khat forced herself to continue to search for her rifle.
She finally found the rifle on top of the ridge, partially covered with rocks and dirt. With shaking hands, she drew it to her, wanting badly for it not to have been destroyed. The rain washed most of the mud away from it. Looking through the scope, she saw it worked.
Turning it off, Khat pulled another mag from her H-gear harness, released the emptied one from the rifle and slapped in the new one. Now she wasn’t completely helpless, and hope filtered through her. She put the sniper rifle across her back, barrel down.
Her horse. Zorah. Gasping softly, Khat felt fear. She remembered only now that the first RPG fired at her had landed on the other side of the ridge where her beloved mare was standing. A cry tore from her bleeding lips, and Khat lunged to her feet, turning and trying to stay upright as she slid and slipped time and again. Her legs collapsed beneath her. With a frustrated sound, Khat clawed upward. She struggled, crawling to the other side of the ridge.
A sob jammed in her throat. Below, Zorah lay dead. Tears stung Khat’s eyes as she saw Zorah’s beautiful head, her eyes glazed open, lying on her side, legs curved in toward her body, unmoving on the slope. Pressing her hands to her mouth, Khat sobbed. No! Not Zorah! No! Tears created warm paths down her cold, dirty cheeks. She tried to stand, the dizziness felling her. Crawling toward her, Khat sobbed brokenly, not caring who heard her.
She reached Zorah, lifting the horse’s heavy head, placing it on her thighs, stroking her elegant dished face. Anguish spiraled into Khat’s wildly beating heart. She bent over, pressing her brow against Zorah’s head, sobbing. Her brave Arabian mare who had kept her safe, been her devoted companion for so many years, was dead. She had been courageous, stalwart and never shied away from a firefight or carrying medical supplies.
Moving her shaking, wet fingers across her horse’s long neck, Khat felt her world coming apart. She cried raggedly, calling Zorah’s name. It felt like an earthquake had suddenly ripped her life apart. Khat could still feel the warmth of Zorah through her thick winter coat, her fingers moving slowly, lovingly up and down her neck. The tears wouldn’t stop, the sobs deep and shredding her heart apart.
Khat didn’t know how long she knelt with her horse. She had shut off her NVGs and pushed them up on the rail of her helmet, hugging her horse. She slowly became aware that dawn was coming. A hint of gray light silhouetted the unforgiving peaks of the Hindu Kush. She was shaking and trembling, cold and numb.
Gently easing Zorah’s head on the slope, Khat tried to stand. Dizziness assailed her, but this time she remained on her unsteady feet. Sniffing, the tears still falling, Khat knew she had to leave her horse and find some kind of shelter. She didn’t dare be seen out in daylight hours, too easily spotted by sharp-eyed Taliban. Her mind was still functioning sporadically. The weight of her ruck cut into her slumped, weary shoulders. Remembering there was a cave on this side of the ridge, a goat path roughly a quarter mile down from where she stood, Khat knew she had to find shelter. Her mind revolved back to Mike. Swallowing hard, a lump in her throat, she knew that sometime soon, he would reach the safety of their cave.
Wiping her numb cheek with cold, trembling fingers, Khat leaned down and touched her beloved mare one more time. “I love you,” she whispered unsteadily. “I’ll never forget you, Zorah…never…”
Khat pulled down her NVGs, picking a path down the disturbed soil and rock caused by the RPGs. Soon she located the thin goat path, one that was not used often, and walked unsteadily to the south. There was a cave about fifty feet down the slope about a mile away. She would find it and hide for the day, taking stock of herself and what she had to do next in order to survive.
Emotionally numb, Khat found the cave. Wanting to stop and dig out the satellite phone in her ruck, she staggered into it, glad to slide the heavy ruck off her aching shoulders. Finding a tunnel in the rear of the small cave, she hid behind the wall and sat down. There was enough light with the coming dawn. She shook with fatigue and shock.
Opening her ruck, Khat found a mess. Of the eight quarts of water she had in it, four were destroyed. Her heart dropped as she pulled the sat phone out. It was in pieces. A number of glass bottles filled with drugs were also destroyed. The entire ruck was soaked with the water from the exploded plastic jugs that had once held the liquid. Frowning, she remembered that she’d been on her belly, the ruck on her back, protecting her from the worst of the RPG pressure wave concussions. Her ruck had taken the massive pounding, not her body.
Without a working sat phone, she couldn’t call for help. Mike wouldn’t know if she was dead or alive. Her heart contracted with agony. There was no way to let him know, either.
Drinking deeply, she put the bottle aside, hungry. The two MREs were destroyed, as well, the food packets blown open, the bottom of the ruck a gooey mess. Digging into a side pocket, she pulled out two protein bars. She had food, and she had water. Bravo was probably twenty miles away. Not hungry, Khat forced herself to eat. The blood was drying against her temple and cheek, pulling at her flesh. The metallic copper odor made her nauseous.
Closing her eyes, she waited. She couldn’t vomit. Not now. Forcing the sensation away, she opened her eyes and tucked the rest of the protein bar away into her pocket. Utterly exhausted, Khat stretched out beside the tunnel wall using the ruck as a pillow. Beside it was her .45 pistol with a bullet in the chamber in case Taliban appeared. The moment Khat closed her eyes, she spiraled into sleep.
*
KHAT AWOKE DISORIENTED. She was sweaty and feeling feverish. It was dark outside the cave. Freezing, she waited, trying to hear any sounds through the still-ringing in her ears. It was reduced by at least 70 percent, but it was tough to hear subtle noises or sounds that might be nearby. Sweat trickled off her temples.
Khat pushed herself up into a sitting position, thirsty. Finding the half-filled bottle of water, she slugged down the rest of it. There was a dull ache in her abdomen, and she frowned. Had she been shot? Pulled a muscle in that area? Her mind was cleared, but her memory kept shorting out. Touching the side of her head, the blood had dried and flaked off beneath her fingers. Grimacing, Khat wished for some water to clean herself up, but she knew this cave was a dry one.
Doing a serious physical examination of her body, Khat started at her head and worked down. She had a gash in her scalp, and that’s why she’d bled so heavily. It was now clotted and had hardened, which was good news. When she reached her abdomen, pressing the quadrants, she felt a sharp pain lance deeply into her gut. Grunting, she lay back, closing her eyes, feeling around the tender area with her fingers. And then she felt the opposite side on her back, thinking she’d been shot. There was no bullet hole. No nothing.
T
he rest of her examination revealed a lot of swelling and bruises around her ankles and feet, but otherwise, she was in decent shape. Again, her stomach rolled, and she felt like she was going to vomit. What the hell was this all about? Flu? Drinking more water quelled the nausea.
Glancing at her watch, it was 2300. She’d slept a long time and felt more alert. Stronger. Forcing herself to eat, Khat shrugged into the ruck, slid the pistol into her holster and put on her helmet, pulling down the NVGs and slowly easing out into the cavern. It was empty.
As she walked silently to the opening, Khat could hear the wind. Her ears were returning to normal, able to pick up the subtle sounds around her. Looking up, Khat saw the stars above. No clouds. No rain. That was good.
Standing, she felt a twinge of pain in her abdomen. Rubbing it absently, she looked out into the night, her mind turning on the best plan in order to get back to Bravo. Had Mike made it to the cave? The FOB? God, she hoped so. He should be back at Bravo by now, if all went well.
And she knew he’d be raising hell to find her.
Wiping her mouth, Khat used her wealth of knowledge. About a mile down from the cave, the trail forked down a steep grade, heading directly to a Shinwari village ten miles below and situated in the valley. It was her best choice under the circumstances. If she tried to avoid Taliban patrols around Bravo, she stood a greater chance of being captured. The well-used goat path to the village in the valley was safer in many ways.
Khat felt fevered. Despite the cold air and gusts of wind, she was hot and sweaty. She had some kind of infection, but didn’t know what had caused it. Maybe she was right; she’d caught the flu. It was that time of year for it to raise its ugly head.
Stepping back into the cave, she decided to give herself a shot of antibiotics, just in case. The only two bottles of drugs that weren’t destroyed by the RPG concussion were the morphine and antibiotics. She’d gotten lucky. Her heart and mind turned to Mike. Love flowed through her, giving her a momentary reprieve. Never had Khat wanted to survive more than this coming day.
*
MIKE WAS IN with Mac in his office when Travis Cooper showed up.
“I took care of the horses,” he told them. Hesitating at the door, he asked, “Anything else I can do, Mike?”
Exhausted, Mike said, “No. Thanks, Travis.” He stunk of sweat, wet wool and filth. The moment he’d trotted up to the security gate at Bravo on his gelding with his packhorse, Mina, his only focus was in finding Khat. Mac had called in an Apache that had finally been cut loose from another engagement, had just refueled and was now flying over the area GPS coordinates Mike had given them. He was leaning down, hands on Mac’s desk as the Apache was feeding them live video pictures of the area.
His eyes burned with fatigue. Mike had arrived at dawn, the weather clear in the FOB region. Mac had already been awake and at his office because Mike had called in about Khat and the earlier firefight. Travis had met him at the gate and taken the two horses to the barn while he ran to the SEAL HQ.
Wiping his face, feeling the grit beneath his fingertips, Mike intently watched the scan as the Apache approached the area. Where was Khat? God, where was she? He choked back the lump forming in his throat.
“There,” Mac said, putting a finger on the screen. “Three or four Taliban horses dead on that goat trail.”
Looking closer, Mike scowled. “Khat said over the radio to me that there were fifteen Taliban on horses approaching her from the rear on the same trail we were on.”
Mac watched the Apache slowly move around the steep slope. “I’m counting seven horses dead, and I think there’s at least ten dead bodies, all Taliban.”
Nostrils flaring, Mike gritted his teeth. “I heard a lot of shooting and two RPGs being fired.” The Apache flew along the trail. There were five more Taliban bodies on it. There were no other horses in the area, probably fleeing down the trail and disappearing into the night. “That’s fifteen bodies. Now, where is Khat?” he growled.
Mac called the pilot and asked her to fly up above the goat path where all the dead bodies were at, to look at the ridge above the area. The pilot confirmed his request.
Mike’s heart began a slow beat of dread. He saw two huge RPG-made craters up near the top of the ridge. “Damn,” he whispered. But no body. Khat wasn’t there. It would have been a perfect sniper firing position to take down that group of Taliban. His heart plunged. As the Apache flew over the ridge, he spotted Zorah’s dead body.
“Stop!” he rasped. “Ask her to hover.”
Mac gave the radio order to the Apache pilot.
Breathing hard, Mike looked closer. “That’s Khat’s horse. Jesus! She’s dead,” he muttered. Killed by an RPG. Where was Khat? Was she riding Zorah at the time? Mike rapidly scanned around the area. It was all wide-open scree, nothing but rocks of all shapes and sizes. Far below it, he saw a narrow trail.
“I don’t see her,” Mac said. “That’s good news.”
“Ask the pilot to turn on thermal imaging. Khat might be wounded nearby. We need to check it out,” Mike said hoarsely.
The pilot acknowledged, moving up in elevation so that the ridge was completely viewable on both sides. Mike wiped his mouth, breathing irregularly, fear snaking through him. The screen now showed thermal imaging. Anyone who was alive and breathing would give off a heat signature. The Apache trolled slowly along both sides of the ridgeline. It then moved down to the goat path on the side Zorah had been killed on. Nothing. It then moved to the other side of the ridge, imaging the enemy and their dead horses. There were no heat signatures.
“She must have escaped,” Mac said, his voice hopeful. He looked over at Tarik. “Look, I’ll keep on this. Why don’t you get a shower and a change of clothes?”
Mike didn’t want to, his heart beating with dread. “She’s got to be somewhere nearby,” he muttered, refusing to leave. He didn’t say the obvious: that another group of Taliban had taken Khat prisoner. A wash of violent fear savaged his strewn emotions.
“Tarik, get your ass out of here. I’ve got every possible asset out there looking for Khat. We’ll find her. Get cleaned up, get some food and then come back here.”
*
KHAT STUMBLED. THE PAIN in her abdomen had intensified with every mile she’d walked. Sitting down, thirsty, she gulped water. It was 0300. Fever was ravaging her mind now, and she grunted softly, feeling throbbing pain in her gut. Finishing the water, she tried to think.
Her progress had been slow because she had to always be aware in the dead of night, since Taliban camped then. She didn’t want to accidentally run into a group.
Breathing irregularly, feeling like she was burning up, she knew the antibiotics would take forty-eight hours to really take hold and fight her infection. If the infection was bacterial. All flu was a virus, and antibiotics wouldn’t touch it. She waffled on what to do.
Last night she was freezing. Tonight, she was burning up. The wool cloak she wore had dried out. Khat wanted to rip it off, rip all her clothes off to cool down, but she knew it wasn’t a smart move. The brown wool colors blended perfectly into the night.
It was warmer now, and she figured she was at seven thousand feet. The valley below was at six thousand feet.
She sat down next to a tree to rest a moment, pulling out her compass. She made sure she continued toward the village that she couldn’t see below. The goat path was heading in that general direction, as well.
Pushing the compass back into her cammie pocket, Khat groaned and gritted her teeth. Opening up her waistband because it was tight against her swollen abdomen, she gently moved her hand across the area. Ruthlessly, she searched her memory, her medical symptoms once her mind decided to work again. Shit. It was appendicitis! Not flu.
Khat tipped her head back against the tree trunk. Her mind wasn’t working well. That would account for the nausea, the vomiting and the fever symptoms she had currently. This was the wrong place and time to get this. A cold dread moved through her.
Nostrils flaring, her breathing uneven, Khat sat up and pulled open her ruck. She had already taken a max load of antibiotics hours earlier and couldn’t give herself any more for twelve hours after the initial dose. Hands shaking badly, she located the bottle of morphine and a new syringe and a clean needle. The pain was increasing with each breath. She felt faint from it. Fighting the agony, wanting to lie on her side and curl up into a fetal position, Khat pulled just enough morphine into the syringe to dull the pain, but not knock her out or mess with her mind.
She pulled up her sleeve, giving herself the shot of morphine directly into her brachial artery at the bend of her elbow. A zigzag of sudden, fiery pain made her moan. The emptied syringe dropped out of her nerveless fingers as the pain made her faint.
Khat awoke slowly, blinking, fever surging through her. She felt less pain. It took more minutes to connect the dots of what had happened, where she was presently located. Rolling onto her side, she sat up, dizzy. Hand moving to her abdomen, she breathed shallowly, fingers moving against the tender area. The morphine was taking hold, thank God. How long was she out? She had no idea.
Shutting her ruck, Khat struggled to her knees and slowly shrugged it over her stiff, tired shoulders. Looking up at the night sky, the stars twinkling, Khat wondered if there was a drone up there watching her. She saw no helicopters. No nothing. Understanding that drones were in high demand, Mike and the SEALs might not be able to get one over the area. Further, he had no idea where she was.
Sweat leaked into her eyes, and they burned and blurred her vision momentarily. She staggered to her feet, gripping the trunk of the tree for support. She had to get to the village or die trying. As she stepped out on the trail, weaving drunkenly from the high fever ravaging her, Khat sucked it up and put one boot ahead of the other. Every cell of her stubborn body was focused on reaching safety. Reaching Mike. She wanted to live! She wanted a chance to have a life with a man who loved her without question.
Taking Fire Page 29