by Tom Young
Rashid should have lifted off by now to get his aircraft out of harm’s way, but the Mi-17 still sat on the LZ. The helo’s rotors turned at idle, stirring that otherworldly smoke. The door gun stood silent.
Someone threw a grenade. When it detonated, the photoflash effect illuminated a still image of the firefight. Parson saw Blount, prone, aiming. Beyond him, an insurgent pulling a boy by the arm. And at the cave mouth entrance to the bunker, a man with an RPG launcher.
Parson fired a burst. The man, now a dim figure in the dark, crumpled. His RPG flew wild, cut a harmless path over the top of the helicopter.
The glare of the rocket’s passage reflected in the windscreen of the Mi-17. Bullets had pocked the glass, round holes with edges crazed white. No wonder the chopper was still there. A dead or wounded crew.
In a crouch, gear rattling in his survival vest, Parson sprinted the few yards back to the helicopter. The engineer lay beside the door gun, one gloved hand over the breech of the PKM. Hard to tell where he’d been hit; black blood soaked most of his flight suit. Parson put down his M4, felt the engineer’s neck. No pulse.
In the cockpit, someone was moving.
“Rashid,” Parson called. “Are you hit?”
“Copilot dead,” Rashid said. His voice was weak, like a man just emerged from sleep.
Parson stumbled over the engineer, kicked the folding jump seat out of the way. The backlighting of instrument panels revealed blood on gauges, bits of glass on the console. The copilot hung in his harness, head twisted at an unnatural angle. Rashid had managed to release his own harness. He turned in his seat.
A bullet had nearly severed his right hand. The hand hung by tendons, bled from exposed arteries and torn muscle. Another round, apparently, had mangled much of his forearm. The night was growing cooler. In the chill, the blood gave off vapor.
Rashid would probably lose the hand. And if the bleeding didn’t stop, he’d lose his life. Parson looked around for a first-aid kit. He didn’t have to improvise a tourniquet; the new kits had specially made combat tourniquets. He found a kit on the cabin wall, pulled it from its mounts. Broke the seal and unzipped it.
The tourniquet amounted to a Velcro band with a windlass rod for tightening. Parson looped the band over Rashid’s arm just below the elbow.
“Damn it, I’m sorry, friend,” Parson said. “I know that hurts.”
Rashid said nothing. Parson fastened the band around itself. Turned the windlass, watched for the bleeding to stop. When no more drops fell from Rashid’s wrist and bloody sleeve, Parson locked down the windlass with a clip.
Outside, gunfire still sputtered. And the cockpit was a bullet magnet.
“Let’s at least get you out of that seat,” Parson said. “Can you stand?”
Rashid didn’t seem to comprehend, so Parson pulled on his good arm. “You need to get down on the floor,” he said.
The Afghan leaned on Parson, pushed himself up, and let Parson back him out of the cockpit, holding him by the armpits.
Parson lowered him to the floor. Hated to put him down on the bloody plating between his dead crew chief and engineer, but that seemed the safest place.
The engines of the Mi-17 still whined, and all of Parson’s instincts told him to let them idle. You didn’t shut down under fire. But Parson couldn’t fly the helicopter, and its running engines with flowing fuel could do little now except start a fire if a slug hit the right place. He leaned into the cockpit, reached overhead, and pulled the stopcocks.
Out the left cockpit window he saw stabs of flame from muzzle flashes. Rounds slapped into the side of the helicopter like thrown gravel.
Now Parson was angry. He might not know how to fly this contraption, but he could damn sure work its gun.
He turned, stepped aft to the door. Pushed the engineer’s hand off the weapon. Released the PKM from its mount, lifted the old-school wooden stock to his shoulder. The belt of ammunition dangled to his feet. Shoot my friends, will you? Maybe shoot at Sophia? He waited for those muzzle flashes again… There they were.
Parson pressed the trigger and held it down.
27
Gold wanted more than anything to make that radio call before life left her. Warn Blount and the others. But she could not talk, could barely breathe. What little air she inhaled, she coughed right back out in a bloody spray.
She sensed someone kneeling beside her. Reyes. She was probably beyond his talents now. She hated to leave this way, with a job undone—one so critical. But like every mission, her entire life had been just a frag—a fragmentary order—that was part of a larger op plan she was not cleared to know.
Her mind stopped racing, settled into something like acceptance. This wasn’t so bad. It hurt, but the pain wouldn’t last much longer.
Scattered images, sensations came to her. Vermont’s Green Mountains, aflame with sunset and October. A rocky coast in Maine, lobster with corn on the cob. A banana milk shake with almonds and dates, a gift from students in Kabul. Quite a blessing, she thought, to have such memories to ease her passing.
Reyes pulled a knife. He slashed away her MOLLE gear, pushed aside her radios, cut the fasteners of her body armor.
“Your lungs have collapsed, Sergeant Major,” he said. His words only half registered, as if they applied to someone else.
One of the Marines held a penlight for Reyes as he worked. The Marine shielded the light with his hand to hide the glow from the enemy. Reyes unbuttoned her ACU top, cut open her bra.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Also, this might hurt a little.”
He reached into his medical ruck, withdrew a catheter needle so large, it resembled a nail. Gold noticed the silver glint of stainless steel, thought it strangely pretty.
Reyes pressed his fingers into the flesh just above her left breast. Found a spot between ribs. Aimed the needle. Pushed it in all the way.
A faint pop sounded as the needle pierced her chest cavity. Then came a long rush of air.
The fist that had crushed her lungs let go. She drew half a breath. Coughed blood. Drew a full breath.
Dear God, it hurt. But now her chest rose and fell. Reyes slid the needle from the catheter, left the catheter inside her.
“I think that bullet glanced off your clavicle or something,” Reyes said. “It got at least one of your lungs, and it exited your back.”
“I’ve seen bullets do weirder things,” the Marine said.
“You just got a needle decompression,” Reyes said. “Don’t pull out that catheter.”
Gold drew another breath, spat blood and saliva. “Give me my radio,” she said. “The MBITR.” The sound of her own words scared her. Like she’d choked them out through gravel in her throat.
“Just rest and—”
“Now, Sergeant!”
She tried to rise up on her elbow. Cords of reddened mucus dangled from her nose and mouth. Reyes looked worried, but he stopped arguing. He put the MBITR in her hand, moved her boom mike back into place over her lips. She pressed the transmit button.
“They’re sending—they’re sending out three kids in suicide vests,” Gold said. Inhaled again. It felt like breathing fire, but she was breathing, nonetheless. “They told them to come out”—another burning breath—“with their hands up.”
Gold released the button. She heard Blount respond with one word, devoid of emotion: “Copy.”
* * *
The PKM’s bolt latched open. That told Parson he’d fired the last 7.62-millimeter round in the ammunition belt. The weapon smoked in his hands. He’d emptied the machine gun on the insurgents who were firing up at Gold’s position on the knoll. Now, no more muzzle flashes came from those bastards. Parson put down the PKM and drew his handgun. The team had to clear the cave eventually, and his Beretta made a good close-quarters weapon.
Blount rose from the stone ruins just yards from Parson. Moved closer to the cave entrance. He spoke into his microphone, but Parson could not hear the words.
Three f
igures stepped out of the cave together. In the dark, Parson couldn’t see them well, but they were not tall enough to be adults. All the children had their arms raised. Good. Maybe this thing was ending.
“Zaai peh zaai wudregah,” Blount shouted. Parson remembered that phrase; it was one of the few things he knew in Pashto. Stay where you are. Gold had taught Parson a few useful words in recent days. Someone had taught Blount, as well.
The kids continued toward him. “Zaai peh zaai wudregah,” he repeated. “Stop! Now!”
Blount backed up several steps. Why was he being so cautious? Of course these kids would come toward their rescuers.
“Wudregah,” he called. “Please!”
Blount shouldered his weapon. With quick semiauto shots, he cut down all three children.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Parson shouted. He pointed his Beretta at Blount, who had apparently lost his mind.
Before Blount could speak, one of the small figures on the ground turned into a geyser of orange flame.
Heat, noise, and debris hit Parson. Flying grit stung his face, lashed his arms. The blast so overwhelmed his ears that their membranes transmitted not sound but pain. Parson’s mind seemed to lock up and cage like a navigational instrument getting bad data: Marines don’t shoot children. And children don’t become pillars of fire.
He flattened himself, waited for another explosion. Nothing. As the smoke and dust cleared, in the moonlight he saw two of the kids on the ground. The other had simply disappeared as if vaporized. The two that remained wore bulky vests. Suicide bombers.
Somehow Blount had known. And maybe he’d saved Parson and the Marines behind him. Blount had been even closer to the explosion. Now he lay on the ground, supported himself with one hand. His cheek bled from a deep gash. Tears and sweat mingled with the blood. He pushed himself into a kneeling position, shouldered his weapon, and fired more rounds into the two boys who had not detonated themselves. They were probably already dead, Parson realized, but Blount had to make sure.
Three of his men emerged from the darkness. “I think we got the hill secure, Gunny,” one of them said. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” Blount said. “We still gotta take the inside.”
“What’s in there?”
“No telling,” Blount said. “Just stragglers, I hope. We caught a lot of them outside.”
“Only one way to find out,” another Marine said.
Blount leaned on his rifle for a moment, steadied himself. Then he stood up and took a flash-bang grenade from his tactical vest.
“God only knows what we’ll find,” Blount said. “If it’s kids, let’s try not to kill any more of ’em.”
The gunnery sergeant made his way to the cave entrance, stepped over the broken bodies of the two boys. Pulled the pin on a flash-bang. Threw it inside.
The flash-bang made a weak pop compared to the suicide detonation moments ago. The Marines activated the rail-mounted lights on their weapons, charged into the cave bunker. Parson was not as well equipped. He found his SureFire in a leg pocket, turned it on, and used both hands to hold it next to his Beretta. He still felt stunned from the suicide blast, and his head hurt like hell. Parson just hoped he could see, think, and move fast enough for whatever waited inside that cave.
As soon as he stepped inside, two quick shots rang from up ahead. He rounded a dogleg entrance and saw the Marines crouching. Dim light bathed them from an electric lamp mounted on the cave wall, perhaps powered by a generator tucked away in some stone recess. A flashlight beam illuminated a fallen insurgent, facedown, AK-47 in the dirt beside him.
“Look alive,” Blount called. “There might be more.” He rose from his crouch and led on, taking half steps through the dark. At another bend he froze, raised his fist. The other Marines stopped. Parson held his breath, waited. Blount swept with his rifle, searched with the light beam. Fired two shots.
The team held their positions, listened. Parson heard nothing but a single moan. When they moved forward, he stepped past a dead insurgent slumped against the cave wall as if in repose. White beard and tunic. Camo field jacket. Radio in one pocket.
Parson realized neither of the dead insurgents looked like Chaaku. That meant little, though. The Black Crescent leader could have died in the firefight outside, or fled. The thought of that lowlife getting away infuriated Parson. It was time for a reckoning, one way or another.
Beyond the glow of the wall-mounted lamp, pure blackness loomed. The Marines’ flashlights probed the cave bunker like the beams of divers exploring a deep shipwreck. Brickwork reinforced the walls in places. A conduit carried wires along the ceiling. Powdery dirt made up the floor, soil so dry it retained only vague hints of the Marines’ boot prints.
“Preston,” Blount called, “keep a watch behind us. Shirer, you watch up ahead.”
“Aye, aye, Gunny.”
“Will do, boss.”
A few steps deeper into the cave, they came to a metal door. Parson guessed that it opened into a side room dug out of the rock. The cave’s natural passage continued past the door into darkness. Blount tried the rusty lever. Locked.
“Shotgun man,” he ordered. “Get up here and breach it.”
One of the Marines carried an M1014, a twelve-gauge semiauto. He placed the weapon’s muzzle to the latch.
“Watch your eyes,” shotgun man said. Turned his head to the side and pulled the trigger.
In the confines of the cave, the blast hurt Parson’s ears nearly as much as the bomb detonation earlier. From the other side of the door came the screams of children. Parson shuddered. What kind of misanthrope would lock kids in such a dungeon? Blount tried the lever once more. The door still wouldn’t open.
“Hit it one more time,” Blount said. “Be real careful. Y’all be careful when it opens, too. They could have more suicide vests for all we know.”
Shotgun man positioned his weapon at an angle so that any buckshot penetrating the door would slam into the ground. Parson turned away to shield his face and eyes from metal shards. Held his pistol in one hand, pressed the other hand over his ear.
Since he was ready for it this time, the shotgun’s report sounded more like a loud thump. Sparks danced off the metal, burned out in an instant. Blount kicked the door. It clanged open.
Flashlight beams and the bores of weapons came to bear on a group of six boys. The children cowered in a corner. They cried and shouted in Pashto.
Parson tightened his finger around the Beretta’s trigger. Scanned with his SureFire. The boys held no firearms, but Parson worried more about detonators. He watched their hands, looked for a tiny thumb over a switch. Saw only grubby fingers, dirty faces streaked with tears and mucus. The children squinted against the flashlight glare. They wore tennis shoes and baggy pants. No bulky vests or wires. Thank God.
“Zoy,” Blount said. “Zoy, zoy, zoy.” Parson tried to remember what the hell that meant. Oh, yeah. Another of the simple words Sophia liked to teach the Americans. Son.
That’s better than nothing, Parson thought, but we need to get Sophia in here once we have this place under control. Get these poor kids calmed down.
Blount kept repeating the one word he knew to say, which seemed to help a little. The children quieted, but remained huddled together. Blount kneeled in the doorway. Stretched out his hand toward the boys.
Automatic weapons fire ripped from deeper within the bunker. The Marine with the shotgun fell against the wall. Blount twisted out of the doorway, brought up his rifle, and fired. Something knocked him backward as if kicked in the chest. He dropped to the cave floor. The two other Marines whirled, opened up. The boys screamed, huddled into the corner to escape the shooting.
Flashlight beams wavered, spun, bounced off cave walls. Voices shouted in English, Pashto, and Arabic. Two, no, three insurgents charged out of the darkness. Parson fired his pistol three times. Sprayed more than aimed.
The firefight in such tight confines tapped a madness within him.
Parson struggled to think, to hold on to reason. Trapped in a hole filled with gunfire and screams, his universe closed down to nothing but the urge to kill. He squeezed off four more shots.
One of the insurgents went down. Then two others fell to rifle fire. Parson pointed his flashlight, saw one of the men raise himself onto his knees. The wounded insurgent aimed a handgun. Parson shot again, twice more. One of his rounds struck the base of the insurgent’s throat. The terrorist collapsed.
Blount lay stunned. Rounds to his body armor had knocked the breath out of him. He got up on one knee. Shotgun man sat up, bleeding from an arm wound. The two other Marines stood with rifles poised, but the shooting seemed to have stopped. The boys cried and shouted words Parson could not understand.
“Get those kids out of here,” Parson said to the Marines left standing. “Blount and I will cover you.”
The two Marines looked at Blount.
“I’m all right,” Blount said. He coughed. Then he added, “Do what the man said.”
One of the Marine riflemen extended his hand toward the children. “Come on,” he said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
The other rifleman slung his weapon and kneeled, stretched out his arms. “Let’s get out of here, guys. This ain’t no good place for you.” Perhaps the kids found the tone reassuring. One of them stood and moved toward the Marines. The rifleman on his knees picked up the smallest boy, and the two men led the kids out of the cave. The moment brought a brief scene of normalcy: two adults taking children on a stroll.
“Can you walk?” Parson asked shotgun man.
“Yes, sir.” The wounded Marine got up, held his M1014 with one hand.
“Go on,” Blount said. “Let the corpsman check out that arm. The lieutenant colonel and I will be right behind you.”
“Aye, aye, Gunny.” Shotgun man stumbled toward the cave mouth.
Parson’s mind reeled. His thoughts raced to catch up with time, to account for all the bloodshed and choices made in the last ten minutes. Lives saved, taken, or scarred in split-second decisions. He couldn’t believe he’d aimed a weapon at children, nearly pulled the trigger. Couldn’t imagine what Blount was thinking. Whatever Blount thought, the big man just kept it in. Parson watched him eject from his rifle what must have been a nearly empty magazine. With hands covered by black tactical gloves, Blount started to reach into his vest for more ammunition.