by Eric Meyer
Chapter Five
They'd left at dawn, and he was alone. The Wrangler drove off through the six inches of snow that had fallen overnight, leaving deep gouges in the pristine white surface. Before they left, Greg cut the outgoing line, so the target would be unable to get messages out. The only possible connection was between the bar and Massoud's compound. He told him only to answer if the phone rang twice, stopped for a minute, and then rang again. That would be their signal. If it were anything else, it would be the enemy. He watched as the three adults disappeared into the distance.
Archer romped around in the snow while he cleared the tractor and started the engine. His father always told him when the weather was freezing to make sure he started it first thing in the morning to circulate the oil. The engine ran ragged for a few minutes and then settled into a gentle beat. When he was satisfied, he switched it off. The entire area was silent, no sound of engines, animals grazing, aircraft overhead, or the sound of people's gossiping voices. There was nothing, and the isolation seemed to crush him.
Archer seemed to sense his mood. He ran to him and tried to play a 'catch me' game, darting from side to side, wagging his tail with his huge tongue hanging out of his jaws.
"You're okay, my friend," he chatted to the dog. At least he had a friend, "But this isn't the time to play. We have to stay alert and watch their six."
The dog barked twice, and Ahmed knew he understood every word. He heard the phone ringing in the bar and rushed inside. He put his hand up, but the phone rang continually. The enemy. He didn't touch the instrument. Inside, a thrill of danger ran through him. The outside line was cut, which meant whoever had just called was inside the bandit's lair. It could even have been Sardar Khan himself.
The thrill of the proximity of the murderer reminded him to go back outside and retrieve his AK-47, his father's AK-47, which was now his. He wiped away a tear as he pulled the canvas-covered bundle from behind the side of the seat and took it inside the house. The metalwork was ice cold, but he extracted the clip and worked the action a few times, and found it worked perfectly, as it should.
The Kalashnikov had a reputation for rugged reliability. People said the Russians and Chinese had manufactured as many as one hundred million rifles. The mainstay of Third World armies across the world, they were also the preferred weapon of most terrorist organizations. The iconic design and banana shaped magazine was indeed almost as common in the failed world as a rite of passage as college graduation and the traditional celebrations in the West.
Ahmed walked back outside and practiced aiming at different targets. Archer looked on, still wagging his tail. Then the boy recalled the dog had once belonged to the U.S. Marine Corps. No doubt it reminded him of his previous master. The soldier who'd brought him to Afghanistan from the United States. He called the dog to him and patted his head, then stroked his fur. The animal gazed back at him with adoring eyes, and he knew when this was over and Greg wanted him back, it would be a heartbreaking wrench. It was then he heard the sound of the engine.
The sound was coming from the north. Someone was heading to the Torgan Valley.
"Archer, down boy."
The dog obediently lay on the ground, with his head low.
"Good boy. What do we do now?"
The dog growled an answer. Ahmed's eyes widened, was the animal of the opinion they should prepare to attack whoever was coming? He thought it through and decided the answer was yes.
Archer’s no coward, no way. He was a U.S. Marine dog. When he sights the enemy, he wants to attack. Why not? Isn't that our job, to guard our friends' six? Yes, between us, we’ll defeat the enemy. Besides, as well as the U.S. Marine dog, I have my father's AK, enough to take on the world.
In the end, he decided to use the tractor to block the track. He started the engine, and when it had warmed, moved it to the side of the building where the oncoming vehicle wouldn't see it, jacked a round into the chamber of the AK-47, and waited. Archer sat next to him, sprawled across the fender with his muzzle on the boy's back. He knew they were about to go into action. The dog's fur was standing on end, and his nose constantly monitored the air for the scent of danger. The noise of a small gas engine was louder.
A motorcycle or scooter without a doubt, one man, maybe two, either way they'll be no match for Ahmed with the AK-47 and Archer. Nossir, there’s no way they'll get past. I will watch their six.
When the noise announced the motorcycle was almost on them, he put the lever into gear, jammed his foot down hard on the pedal, and the Fordson model F lurched forward out onto the track. The driver of the oncoming cycle, a small motor scooter, swerved at the last moment when he saw the ancient hunk of machinery blocking his path.
He had a moment of exhilaration. He’d done it. He'd prevented the enemy from attacking Stoner's force from behind.
What should I do now?
The question resolved itself. The rider, a young man only a couple of years older than himself, scrambled to his feet and dragged out an automatic pistol. Ahmed didn't hesitate. He grabbed the AK-47, aimed, and fired in a single motion. Nothing happened.
Exhilaration turned to despair, as a 9mm pistol shot whistled past his ear. He was overwhelmed by the knowledge he'd let them down. He hadn't guarded their six, and if this boy killed him, he could ride on into the Torgan Valley and attack his friends. He froze, and another shot whistled past. Then it all happened in a blur. Archer leapt off the tractor, bounded forward with snarl, and sprung on the shooter. He began tearing at his gun hand, preventing him from using the pistol, as he'd been trained. However, the newcomer had another hand, and he began punching the brave dog in the head.
With a bellow of rage, Ahmed jumped down from the tractor, still clutching the AK-47 and raced up to them. He reversed the rifle in his hand, and when the boy’s head presented itself, swung it hard to collide with his head. The boy reeled back, but he still held the pistol, and Archer still had hold of his arm, growling and snarling. He was too far away for Ahmed to hit him again. He needed to use the gun. Then he remembered his father's lessons. Situated on the right side of the receiver was the selector. In the up position, it covered the bolt lever channel to lock the bolt. There were also two other positions, to select single shot or full automatic.
He moved the lever one notch, moved closer to make certain he didn't shoot the dog by mistake, and pulled the trigger. To his utter amazement, a spray of blood and flesh flew from the head of the enemy, and the force of the shot threw his opponent off the dog and down to the ground. Archer stood over him, barking and snarling, watching carefully in case he still presented a threat. He patted the dog.
"It's okay, Archer. He's dead. You did well."
He didn’t check the body. The huge hole in the head was more than enough to kill any man. He picked up the fallen pistol and tucked it into his sash. Then he picked up the motor scooter, which had stalled, and pressed the starter button. The engine fired immediately, and he wondered if the tiny vehicle might come in useful. Probably not, the wheels were sliding from side to side on the snow-covered track. Besides, he had the Fordson model F. He wheeled the cycle out of sight behind the bar, and then dragged the body alongside the machine. After a moment's thought, he covered the body with snow. He was an enemy, but he was also a warrior, like Ahmed. His body deserved respect. Then he went back into the bar to wait for the telephone to ring.