Blue Curse (Blue Wolf Book 1)

by Brad Magnarella

  “Good, so it’s a language you’re familiar with.”

  “Yeah … if what they’re speaking sounds anything like Wakhi. It goes back to their isolation.”

  “You’ll figure something out,” I said, trusting he would.

  Calvin Parker had been loaned to us from another team two years before when our then-interpreter was sent home with a lung infection. Only twenty-two at the time, Parker had been our youngest member. Add to that his gangly build, and I was skeptical. But after witnessing Parker’s proficiency in local languages and cultures—he had one of the country’s most notorious warlords crying with laughter over a crude joke—I lobbied to make his inclusion in Team 5 permanent. He hadn’t disappointed, becoming a close friend in the process. We’d even managed to put a little muscle on him.

  Across the barracks, the rest of the team members were organizing guns, ammo, and an assortment of equipment and supplies into piles for packing. The team medic, Mauli, a native Hawaiian built like a sumo wrestler, was sitting off to my right, double-checking an arrangement of medical stock that hopefully none of us would need.

  There had been no complaints when I announced the last-minute mission, and I felt lucky to be leading Team 5 one final time.

  “What’s this, sir?” Parker asked.

  I looked back down at the map where he was pointing. Across the corridor from our target and set back among a series of peaks was another complex. “The resort of some wealthy poppy grower, according to Stanick. It stands empty most of the year. Not our concern.”

  “Think the weirdo tribe will give us a fight?” Segundo asked hopefully.

  “No telling,” I said. “We’ll approach it like we did the Kamdesh mission last year, only with Centurion providing air support.”

  Segundo scowled.

  “Yeah, I know, but it’s their province,” I said. “And we’re going to need someone overhead. Even if the tribe doesn’t give us trouble, there are rumors of Mujahideen hideouts in the area.”

  After an hour of additional planning with Segundo, I returned to my room to finish packing. Lifting my emergency pack from my foot locker, I placed it on my bed and unzipped it. So named in the event things went sideways and we had to abandon our heavier gear, my emergency pack held a two-liter Camelbak, a couple of MREs, and a small medical kit, among other essentials. Some of the men slipped in personal mementos or good-luck charms. Not being superstitious or especially sentimental, I’d never done either.

  Now I found myself looking at the printout of Daniela’s surprised face. For operational security, we were forbidden from calling home before upcoming missions, so she had no idea I was heading out again—despite what I’d assured her. As I unfastened the picture and smiled down at it, I could hear her stern voice telling me to be careful.

  “It’s just one more mission, baby,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

  I started to tack her photo back up, but instead folded it into a square and tucked it into my pack.

  Just before 1800 hours, two large Pave Low helicopters touched down on the landing strip and dropped their ramps. Hefting our hundred-pound rucksacks, and bearing an additional fifty pounds of body armor and gear, we split into two groups of six and lumbered into the cargo holds, the mission officially underway.

  I spent the hour-long ride reviewing the plan. The info on the region and tribe was thin, but we’d been handed thinner. I needed to make sure every contingency was covered. In my four years as captain, I’d yet to lose a man. Most of us had been hit by bullets or shrapnel at one time or another, and my senior weapons sergeant had taken a rifle butt to the nuts, but we’d had zero killed in actions.

  I wasn’t going to blow that streak.

  I felt my Pave Low descend steeply before setting down heavily. The ramp had barely dropped when a team of Centurion soldiers trotted into the cargo hold to begin unloading our bags.

  I disembarked and walked around to where the pilot was climbing down from the cockpit. A fellow Texan, Pete had been in Central Asia for ten years and was as dependable as they came—which I couldn’t say for every pilot who had flown us. More than once we’d been left hanging in sketchy territory. Twice by Centurion pilots. I also happened to know that Pete had a good two-way line with the officers who cleared rescue flights.

  “Got a sec?” I called beneath the dying rotors.

  Pete removed his flight helmet. “What’s up, Wolfe?”

  I clasped his outstretched hand. “First, thanks for the lift.”

  “Yeah, sorry we’re not carrying you all the way in, bro. This being your last mission and everything.”

  “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about. It’s been hit and miss with Centurion in the past.” Pete rolled his eyes in understanding. “If we find ourselves stranded up there, could I give you a call?”

  “I’ll beat your ass if you don’t.”

  “Thanks, Pete.” I clapped his arm.

  “Hey,” he called as I started to leave. “Be careful, bro. Some strange shit up that way.”

  I turned back toward him. “Oh yeah?”

  “A number of years back, before Wakhjir Province was Centurion’s show, we had a guy flying an Apache on a solo mission. Swears he was chased by something.”

  I nodded. That would have been about the time China was getting testy about its border. “Probably an Mi-8,” I said.

  “Naw, man.” Pete looked around as though to make sure no one could overhear us. “He said it wasn’t another vehicle but this big fucking white thing with a long neck and wings like a bat. Bigger than his helo. It came after him after he’d deviated off course over the Hindu Kush. Thing knocked him into a spin before he was able to get the hell out of there.”

  I liked Pete, but I didn’t have time for this. “I’ll spread the word,” I said dryly.

  But Pete’s face remained serious. “Hey, I thought it was bullshit too till I got a look at his helo. Three big gashes across the side door, like claw marks.” He held up a hooked hand. “Swear to God. And our guy was for real messed up after that. Couldn’t fly. The very idea of going back up would set his hands shaking. He was finally Sectioned 8 and sent home.”

  I nodded. Protracted warfare did that to some people. “Thanks again, Pete.”

  “Just be alert, bro,” he called after me. “There are still a lot of dark corners out there.”

  I went in search of Segundo to fill him in on our backup plan and found him on the edge of the landing strip.

  “Get a load of this place,” my team sergeant muttered. “Shangri-fucking-La.”

  The base beside the landing strip could have been a small college campus, with its red-brick buildings, white sidewalks, and an athletic field surrounded by a regulation-sized track. It made the kinds of bases we were used to operating out of seem like refugee camps.

  “Probably looks good on a recruiting pamphlet,” I said.

  Segundo snorted. “Not to me, it wouldn’t. One week in this joint and I’d be softer than a ninety year old with ED.”

  “Captain Wolfe,” someone called.

  I turned to find a man who looked about twenty-five walking past our stacked rucksacks where the rest of my team had assembled. He approached with a buoyant gait that bounced his sweep of blond hair and rustled his shiny black flight suit. On the left side of the suit’s chest, the Centurion logo of a Roman shield gleamed silver in the airstrip’s lights.

  “Baine?” I asked.

  A gleaming smile spread over his plastic face. “The one and only. Welcome to Sigma Base.” He pumped my hand a little too enthusiastically, as though trying to force friendship through the gesture, then did the same with Segundo, who looked at him askance.

  I took the moment to size Baine up. He was on the short side, and what I’d first mistaken for a muscular build was actually the load-bearing vest he was wearing underneath his suit. Stripped of those and his boots, he was no more than five-six and a buck sixty.

  “When can we expect the Black Hawks?” I asked,
peering around.

  “They’re en route. Oh, and we’ve got another man coming. Boss’s orders. We’re going to need to find him a spot.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at a large, dull-looking soldier with a shaved head. He was standing about twenty feet back, bearing a bulky 7.62mm assault rifle with a grenade launcher and other attachments. Or what we called a Big Fucking Gun.

  Segundo looked at me wide-eyed as though to say, Can you believe this?

  “Yeah, that’s not gonna be possible,” I said. “Our guy in charge of the load plan weighed and logged everything down to the ounce. We’re maxed out. We even had to leave some gear behind. And what would we be talking? Another three-fifty, four-hundred pounds? No way.”

  “Seeing as how they’re Centurion’s helos, yes way,” Baine said, his eyes hardening above his smile.

  “Well then order another one,” Segundo jumped in, his chest bowed. “You heard Wolfe, we’re maxed out. And there’s no way in hell we’re ditching a man.”

  “If you want our higher-ups to slug it out, fine,” Baine said with a chuckle. “That’s always entertaining, but it’s also going to mean delaying the mission. And then you’ll get a call in the next day or two telling you to lose a man.” He tilted his head as though to suggest we were all trapped in the same bullshit bureaucracy. “C’mon, you know how these things go.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Mind giving us a minute?”

  Baine stepped back, his eyes already gleaming with victory. “Take all the time you need.”

  I turned to Segundo, who was glaring after him. “Little prick,” he muttered. “Waits until the last minute to tell us.”

  “It sucks, but he’s right. CENTCOM kisses their ass every time.”

  Segundo sighed. “So who are we going to have to break the bad news to?”

  I surveyed the men sitting and milling around the rucksacks. Shit. “You came up through communications, right?” When Segundo nodded, I said, “Then let’s go with Melker. He’s the junior commo sarge, which will still leave us with Hotwire and you. Sound okay?”

  “No, but it’s the least worst option. I can tell him.”

  The captain usually broke that kind of news, but it would be good practice for Segundo. As he trudged over to the team, Baine rejoined me. Having won, he was ready to bro up again.

  “Hey, I hate to kick things off like that. I’m really stoked to be working with you guys. I’ve heard great things.” I knew the type: a trust-fund brat who had signed up with Centurion for a chance to play soldier.

  “Good, then let’s be clear,” I said. “Team 5 has operational control. We’ll be executing the mission plan. No deviations.” That was something I would scrap the mission over. There was no way in hell I would be taking orders from some Ken Doll-looking mercenary and his pet caveman.

  “Absolutely,” Baine said, nodding. “Olaf and I are just going to observe.”

  “And we’ll be linked up to your pilots providing air?”

  “Whatever you need dropped, they’ll drop.”

  I looked at him for another moment. He met my gaze, his pale blue eyes unblinking. More important than my instinctive dislike for the man was whether or not I could trust him. I had a team depending on me. I glanced over at Olaf, who seemed to have moved closer in the last minute, his BFG clutched to his chest as if someone was going to try to rip it from his grip.

  “Okay,” I said, looking back down at Baine. “I’ll walk you through the mission plan when we reach our target area. But I don’t want any more last-second surprises. We clear?”

  Baine laughed and slapped my shoulder. “You’ve been in country far too long. Relax, brother.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I growled.

  Far away, the deep thumping of rotors sounded, heralding the arrival of the Black Hawks. I wheeled from Baine to check in with the team. The sight of Melker hanging his head at the news he wasn’t going jabbed me in the gut. The decision was necessary to complete the mission, but barely two hours in, and I already didn’t like the direction it was headed.

  5

  Rotary fire thundered from the left gunner’s mounted M134 as the Black Hawk in which I sat climbed and banked steeply right. Machine gun bursts rattled from the other Black Hawks. I gripped my M4 and looked over the mountainous landscape, trying to see what we were shooting at.

  “What’s happening?” I asked into my headset.

  “The lead took some small arms fire,” the crew leader responded as the explosive bursts ended. “We’re out of range now.”

  “Any damage?” I asked.

  “Negative, but we’ve called up the coordinates.”

  “What’s our distance to the landing zone?”

  “Just over ten klicks.”

  Which meant those rumors of fighters in the area were now verified. And really damned close to where we’d be staging. As the Black Hawks reorganized into a staggered formation, a dull boom sounded behind us, then another. Our escorts—armed drones thousands of feet above—were bombing the shooter’s position. That was some reassurance.

  Minutes later, our Black Hawk dropped straight down. Sand and grit gusted up as we touched ground. Olaf and I jumped out our side of the helo and, dragging our rucksacks, ran for several yards and dropped onto our stomachs. A storm raged behind us as the remaining Black Hawks landed and then lifted off. Within minutes, everyone on the thirteen-man team was in a defensive perimeter around the landing site, the helos thumping back to base.

  With my night-vision goggles flipped on, I scanned the craggy wall ahead of me, then peered up and down the boulder-strewn valley. Nothing stirred among the wash of green hues. “Anyone see anything?” When my team answered in the negative, I ordered them to move out.

  I took point along with the engineers, alert for mines and ambushes, while the rest of the team followed in a two-by-two procession, heavy rucksacks slung across their bodies, weapons at the ready. Baine had shed his flight suit and was wearing Centurion’s patented ultra-light body armor and digital camos that blended into whatever environment the wearer happened to be in. Team 5’s gear, in contrast, had changed little in the last twenty years. When Baine’s sleek night-vision optics met mine, he grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.

  Before long, the valley opened out and the former Soviet outpost appeared on a five-story hill to our left.

  I dropped my rucksack and signaled for the team to stop. “Have them establish a perimeter around the hill,” I told Segundo. “The engineers and I will go up and check it out.”

  “Mind if I come?” Baine asked.

  “Actually, I need you to get Hotwire linked up to your air support.”

  “We need to secure the bunker first,” he said.

  I ignored him and led the engineers up the hill. Situated at a bend in the valley, the old outpost provided a great vantage point in both directions. There were no signs of recent activity outside the stone building, and we cleared the three bare rooms inside quickly. While the engineers performed a second sweep for traps and old munitions, I stepped back outside to radio Segundo.

  “Have the men come up with their stuff in pairs,” I told him.

  “You’ve already got two on the way,” he radioed back. “These guys aren’t listening.”

  At that moment Baine’s and Olaf’s heads came into view. The men were lugging their rucksacks up the hill. “Don’t shoot!” Baine called with a laugh, the sound echoing down the valley.

  I don’t frigging believe this. “Is Hotwire linked up?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “There’s no rush,” Baine said, arriving out of breath. “The drone operators reported the area clear when we landed, so I released them back to base.” He handed his heavy sack off to Olaf, who hefted it toward the bunker, past the emerging engineers giving an all-clear sign.

  “You sent them back to base?”

  “Is there a problem?” Baine asked.

  “Yeah. There is. We’re in an unfamiliar area with hostiles nearby. We might
be clear now, but if they observed our landing, they’ll be en route. I want you to get those drones back overhead. If we’re still clear after midnight, then you can release them. In the meantime, you’re going to set Hotwire up so he can talk to the operators and coordinate our approach to the village tomorrow morning.”

  Baine remained grinning up at me. “Buddy, did I mention you need to rela—”

  A ball of fire stormed past and exploded into the side of the bunker. Olaf, who was just emerging, shouted and disappeared in a plume of smoke. I grabbed the front of Baine’s vest and pulled him to the ground as debris and hot shrapnel rained over us and a mean metallic smell filled my lungs.

  “The hell’s happening?” he demanded.

  “We’re under attack. Get air support back here. Now!”

  Another rocket-propelled grenade roared past as the valley erupted in gunfire. The explosion rang in my ears and more debris hailed around us. I checked on my engineers. They had hit the ground and were working their way toward their rucksacks for cover. Olaf hadn’t been so lucky. Part of the bunker had collapsed over him. Through my night-vision, his protruding head and right arm glowed with blood.

  I turned back toward the valley and, M4 in my grip, belly-crawled toward the edge of the flat hilltop. “How are you doing down there?” I asked Segundo through the radio.

  “They’re attacking from at least two positions,” he answered. “We’re pinned pretty good.”

  When I reached the edge, I could see Segundo and the others, bodies pressed flat behind their rucksacks, carbines cracking. On the opposite ridge gunfire flashed from two different positions about one hundred yards apart. Even without night vision equipment, the enemy could see my team members’ silhouettes against the sandy riverbed, while ours were obscured by the bunker behind us.

  Jamming a pair of foam plugs into my ears, I waved my engineers forward. With my M4 braced against the ground, I aimed at where the heavier fire was originating. Several figures moved in and out of my sight—Mujahideen. I squeezed off four shots, dropping two of them. When the engineers arrived on my left side, I pointed out the targets, and they began to engage them.