by Harold Coyle
“I’ll practice that drill this evening.”
“Good. Oh, there’s another thing. Do you have tracers?”
“You mean, illuminating bullets?” she asked.
“Yeah. They light up when you shoot ‘em.”
“No. Should I?”
“Well, they’re useful for signaling. But if you get lost or something, there’s a standard signal. Shoot three rounds one minute apart. Everybody will hear the shots but only we’ll know it’s you. Just sit tight. If you don’t hear a reply after ten minutes, do it again. Your pistol’s best for that. Save the rifle ammo for when you really need it.”
“I certainly shall.”
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
Steve Lee had chosen his crew with efficiency in mind: Rustam Khan, four shooters, a radioman, CPS, a Pakistani doctor and medic, and three mule skinners — one for each animal. With himself that was thirteen in all: a group presumably large enough to deter brigands yet flexible enough to adapt to changing situations. If the team had to break up, Khan would lead the second section.
Lee briefed his team again the night before leaving. “We’re committing most of our linguists to this op: Major Khan and the Paki doctor both speak Urdu, of course, while the major and I have passable Pashto. Dr. Mohammed is staying here in case we need somebody fluent with the locals.” In truth, Lee and Leopole doubted that Mohammed was up to the physical challenge, and neither was enthused about their female colleague’s prospects.
Following the briefing, the operators were introduced to their four-footed colleagues. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, for one, had never met the business end of a mule. For that matter, neither had any of the other SSI personnel, though Breezy voiced pretensions of equine ability.
Padgett-Smith did not know which was more cantankerous: the mules or their handlers. All possessed two things in common: unpronounceable names and an attitude.
The SSI men put their suppressed MP-5s in the mules’ panniers; submachine guns would draw attention or envy where the team was headed. To blend in better with the locals, everyone had full-size rifles: the Americans carried AKs and most of the Pakis used G3s. The pistol-carrying types had Brownings beneath their vests. Other gear included night vision, tactical radio headsets, MREs and bottled water plus some fodder for the animals. The area where they were headed was rocky and low on vegetation.
Even with the mules, most of the men were burdened with more than they preferred to carry. Padgett-Smith’s early confidence wilted visibly when she hefted Bosco’s gear. “My lord!” she exclaimed. “That must be fifty pounds.”
“More like seventy, ma’am,” Boscombe replied. He knew that it was twenty-eight kilograms, but he believed in rounding up from sixty-two pounds.
The immunologist immediately sensed a male-female tiff brewing. She decided to defuse it by defaulting to her Scarlett O’Hara mode. “My goodness, Mr. Boscombe, how do you ever carry such a huge load?” You great big hunk of man, you. She batted her eyelashes at him.
Bosco was bright but he was also susceptible to feminine wiles. “Ah, you get used to it, ma’am. I…” He caught himself at the last second. Jerk! You’ve just been had. He recovered by cataloging the contents of his ruck. “Uh, I carry extra ammo plus at least a day’s MREs, a couple gallons of water, night vision, rain gear, sleeping bag, shelter half, first aid kit, and a change of socks and underwear.” He pondered asking Dr. Padgett-Smith about her extra undies when his testosterone poison was diluted by an influx of embarrassment.
Lee came by, saving Bosco from further discomfort. “Ah, Dr. Smith, if your gear is ready we’ll put it on the mules.” The bespectacled officer was careful to maintain a neutral tone in his voice, lest Padgett-Smith infer veiled criticism. She had prepared a day pack with enough food and water for twelve hours at a stretch; the rest went on the reddish jenny known as Taqat. CPS inferred that the name indicated strength or endurance.
Rustam Khan also was attentive to the mules. “Doctor, the handlers say this animal is the steadiest, so we will put your equipment and personal items on her. The other two will carry extra food, water, tents, and weapons. They will also have some medical supplies in case we meet people who might need help, which is of course our cover story. Dr. Chaudhry will deal with those cases, of course.”
“Of course.” Padgett-Smith had only briefly met her Pakistani colleague. He was courteous but remote, probably uncomfortable with a female of any variety taking the field. But since he was subordinate to Khan, she surmised that the major would continue running interference for her.
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
Kassim had news of the newcomers.
“My scouts found the medical team yesterday and remained hidden when it stopped for the night. There are more than twelve people, including foreigners. One of my men saw an armed guard dig a hole and void his bowels.” Kassim paused for emphasis. “The guard wiped himself with his right hand.”
Ali sat back, rubbing his chin, reflecting that Satan eats with his left hand. “So the guards are infidels. Maybe all of them are.”
“No, Doctor. The animal handlers all seemed to speak Urdu. And there was at least one man who is almost certainly a Pakistani Army officer. But several men spoke English. So did the woman.”
Ali sat bolt upright. “What?”
“Yes, one of the strangers is female. She wears men’s clothing and tries to disguise her face. She is definitely not Muslim — I questioned my men closely.”
“One woman traveling with a dozen men, on foot, in rough terrain. Presumably bringing medical aid to the poor.” Ali’s eyes tracked back and forth, as if seeing the camp layout. “Did these strangers treat any people?”
“Some. But they kept moving most of the time. They only seemed to provide the most basic treatment to a few farmers or travelers they met.” Kassim organized his thoughts, focusing on evidence rather than supposition. “One of my scouts doubled back and talked to a few people who had dealt with the medical team. They had received bandages, water purification tablets, a few pills for diarrhea and the like.”
“What did the woman do?”
Kassim shrugged. “I do not know. But as I said, my scouts only trailed them from late afternoon onward.”
“Very well, Kassim. Your men did well. Please tell them that we will arrange a surprise meeting with these people tomorrow.”
The Syrian turned to go. Abruptly he stopped and turned. “Oh, there is one thing about the woman. She carries a rifle.”
Kassim’s tone was flat, unemotional. Ali’s blood pounded in his temples as he absorbed the blasphemy.
As Kassim departed, Ali raised his hands and eyes to the heavens, giving silent thanks for what had been delivered to him. When his senses returned to earth, he said, “So nice to meet you, Dr. Padgett-Smith.”
25
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
Kassim had doubts.
“Doctor, I understand your eagerness to eliminate these strangers, especially if they are as you suspect. But I have few reliable fighters anymore. It takes time to grow mujahadin.” He paused for emphasis. “As you know.”
Ali exuded cool confidence. In truth, he had anticipated his colleague’s objections and was prepared for them. “You are correct, my brother. Nor would I dispute your knowledge of… such things. But consider this: your new men are excellent at scouting and observation. This opportunity will give them small unit combat experience. Their numbers almost equal the infidels: with surprise they will surely succeed.”
The veteran muj slowly shook his head. “I have seen it work the other way too many times. These Americans are almost certainly experienced. If they survive the initial volley — and some of them will — it could go badly.” He was setting up his final argument. “Allow me to accompany them. I can make the difference between success and failure.”
Ali rose from his rough desk and placed his hands on Kassim’s shoulders. “My brother — my friend — I shall do you the honor of speaking bluntly. I cannot spare you,
and with your wooden foot, you would be at greater risk.” The vet shook his head. “No, Kassim. You must remain behind.”
Kassim capitulated with atypical good grace. He was accustomed to having his way in tactical matters, but he recognized the wisdom of his superior’s argument.
He also realized that Dr. Ali was willing to lose every man the Syrian had recruited and trained in the past several months in exchange for comparable losses among the Americans. And their British she-devil immunologist.
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
Lee was going to call a halt for the evening when the RPD gunner opened fire from barely forty meters uphill. Ollie Norton went down hard with the radio. Depending upon their training, judgment, or inclination, everybody else returned fire, hit the deck, or assaulted through the kill zone.
The mules brayed in panic, whipped their leads from the handlers, and fled as fast as four hooves would take them.
Lee had been on the receiving end of an ambush before. He knew that delay could be fatal, so he shouted for the nearest men to follow him. Bosco, Breezy, and a Pakistani joined him, sweeping the nearest rocks and foliage with full auto fire, clearing a path twenty meters wide. Reaching temporary safety, they knew the drill. “Cover!” Lee shouted.
“Covering!” Bosco replied.
Lee dumped his empty magazine, speed reloaded, chambered a round, and yelled “Ready!”
Bosco and Breezy hollered “Cover!” simultaneously. Lee responded, “Covering.” He scythed a short burst in the direction of the RPD. Seconds later the two partners called “Ready!”
The Pakistani soldier drew a G3 magazine, then calmly reloaded. Bosco thought, Either he’s a hell of a mule skinner or he doesn’t have a nerve in his body.
Lee looked around, trying to assess the situation. He badly wanted to regroup his dispersed team, lest it be destroyed in detail. He called out. “Rustam! You there?”
Khan responded from fifteen meters to the right rear. “Back here! We’re covering Hendricks.” The firefight had quickly stabilized, neither side now possessing an advantage.
Low crawling, Micky Hendricks was first to reach Norton and pulled the quick release clasps on the harness. He saw that the radio set had taken at least two 7.62 rounds; it looked useless.
The PRDC-150 was a high-end piece of gear: ten pounds without batteries and barely a foot square. Voice and data encryption, frequency-agile VHF. Now it was several thousand dollars’ worth of assorted spare parts.
Hendricks safed his weapon, slung it around his neck, and began the laborious process of dragging Norton to cover. Occasional AK rounds spattered the hard earth around him, but Lee’s and Khan’s teams suppressed most hostile fire. Lee recognized a no-win situation and began formulating a plan. He leaned close to Bosco and Breezy. “You two flank ‘em uphill to the left. The Paki and I will keep ‘em busy.”
The two friends looked at one another, tapped right fists together, and began to move out. Lee grabbed Breezy. “They might be flanking us — be alert.”
Breezy nodded, then was gone.
Lee grabbed his notebook from a vest pocket, scribbled a message, and used duct tape to secure it to a rock. He told his new partner, “Shoot!”
As the Pakistani soldier began firing semi-auto, Lee raised up and heaved the rock at Khan. One of his men saw the message inbound and rose to catch it. He drew immediate fire, taking bullet fragments off a boulder, but hauled in the missive. Khan read the printed note:
TWO FLANKING LEFT. SEND FLANKERS RIGHT.
Khan called out. “Message received!”
Glancing over his right shoulder, Lee saw two or more of Khan’s team disappear around some boulders.
* * *
Bosco and Breezy had their moves down. They covered one another, keeping eyes and guns swiveling through 190 degrees as they advanced uphill. They heard the RPD and some AKs firing from the crest of the hummock and swung farther to their left in order to approach from behind. Reaching the decision point, they paused long enough to coordinate their move onto the skyline.
An armed man appeared twelve meters in front of Breezy. The former paratrooper raised his AK from low ready, got a quick sight picture, and pressed the trigger. Four rounds struck the gunman, who collapsed with his mouth agape. It happened before Bosco could react.
Both men realized what had happened. They had experienced what professionals call a meeting engagement: when two maneuver elements collide unexpectedly. The Americans were flanking the al Qaeda flankers.
Seconds later two more figures emerged from the boulders uphill. One saw what he saw, spun on a heel, and fled. The other opened fire from waist level, hip shooting on full auto. His burst went low and left. Breezy’s and Bosco’s sighted rounds left red gouts on his torso. He was a big man, probably 250 pounds, and somehow stayed on his feet. Breezy was aiming a head shot when the terrorist dropped to his knees and pitched forward, downhill.
Breezy called “Cover!” and dropped to kneeling. As he executed a tactical reload, Bosco replied, “Covering.” After Breezy stashed his partly used mag he nodded to his partner. Bosco said, “Set.”
Breezy knew the drill: he shouted, “Go!”
They continued uphill, pushing hard because they had been spotted.
Topping the crest, the SSI men saw the geometry of the ambush. The machine gun was sited improperly, perpendicular to the trail rather than at the head, where the gunner could have fired down the enemy’s route of advance. One or two riflemen were positioned over there, engaged in occasional fusillades with Lee. Farther “upstream” were at least three more shooters trying to keep Khan’s men pinned down.
“Look!” Bosco pointed out the survivor of the recent shootout, sprinting for the safety of the RPD nest. Both Americans began shooting at the running man at least fifty meters away. Bosco was first on the trigger, firing while standing. Breezy plopped into a hasty sitting position. Their bullets impacted ahead and behind the fleeting bandit. Breezy realized he was pumped; he forced himself to breathe deeply and concentrate. At a quartering aspect, he put his front sight one width ahead of the target and pressed the trigger straight back.
The man seemed to stumble, regain his balance, and continue ahead. Then he slowed. Bosco’s next round knocked him down.
Now aware of its peril, the MG crew swung toward the uphill threat. Before the belt-fed weapon could open up, more firing erupted behind the RPD. The loader was badly hit, rolling on the rocky ground. Then the gunner was cut down by 7.62 rounds from two of Khan’s team. The Americans recognized Blake O’Neil and a Paki, who waved from about 120 meters. They advanced cautiously on the gun crew, rifles pointed at the two “items” while covering forty meters of open ground.
Bosco began searching the enemy bodies for information. Finding only al Qaeda propaganda, he handed the papers to the Pakistani NCO.
O’Neil kicked one of the prostrate gunmen in the ribs. The man groaned loudly and O’Neil shouted, “We got a live one here.”Then he bound the man’s hands. Khan sprinted to the scene and pulled back the gunman’s robe and vest. “Femur, through and through. He can talk.” Khan motioned for the Paki medic, who went to work.
Breezy toed one of the corpses with his boot. “Man, they shoulda had us.”
Bosco held out his hands; the left was steady but the right had a tremor. “Bad setup, dude. I wonder why they put the belt-fed uphill. They coulda hosed the length of our column from the head of the trail.”
“Come on down!” Lee shouted from the trail, eager to regroup his small force. He could not assume that all the opposition had been killed or repulsed. The SSI men picked up the enemy weapons and alternately stepped and slid down the hummock.
Lee did a quick head count. One mule handler was dead and one was missing. Norton, the radioman, was seriously hurt and the radio was destroyed. “Our spare radio was on the second mule, and he’s long gone.”
Khan produced a hand-held radio. “Major Lee, not to worry. This is a short-range set but I can pass a
message to the district commander. He can notify Quetta for us. It may take some time, however.”
Dr. Chaudhry pulled a blanket over the dead Paki soldier. “What about our casualties?”
Lee exhaled audibly. “We can’t bury the KIA in this soil, Doctor. Maybe our remaining mule can pack him and Norton off this mountain tomorrow. That leaves one handler missing as well.”
Lee looked around again. Finally he asked, “Where’s Padgett-Smith?”
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
Carolyn Padgett-Smith looked around. She felt a shiver between her shoulder blades. She was alone.
Not just alone, but stranded in remote, hostile territory: a European woman without communications or food, who spoke no local dialect. She spent fifteen fervent seconds berating herself. You stupid, stupid twit. You clot! You vain, unthinking female! Chasing after a mule — as if you could ever catch one. And if you did: then what? You can only hang on to the brute’s lead rope.
CPS looked back in the direction she had come. Or thought she had come. With her focus on the scampering pack animal bearing her supplies, she now realized that she had paid little attention to the terrain. You didn’t even make note of trees or boulders. Twit. Looking at the sky, she realized that daylight was an expendable asset: she could use it to search for Lee and company, or she could climb to a protected position before darkness descended. She decided to seek high ground and find shelter from the wind.
Padgett-Smith recalled Breezy’s comments: Fire three shots one minute apart. Sit tight and we’ll find you. She wondered if she should try the signal, but thought better of it. By the time anyone could reach her area, night would have descended, and she knew something of the risk in stumbling around a combat zone in the dark.