by Mark Terry
Further back, behind the men, he saw several crates. He adjusted the binoculars on the NVGs. The writing on the sides appeared to be Cyrillic.
The sound of gunfire broke the silence. Gunfire from down below. In the village.
Tensing, heart pounding, Derek watched the men jump to their feet. One of the men shouted at several of the others. They grabbed weapons and sprinted into the darkness. Everyone picked up their AK47s. Two disappeared into the cave. Three took up posts at strategic locations around the camp. Three moved toward the edge of the terrace, toward the route Derek had come.
He stayed as still as possible. They walked around the cornfield, only a dozen feet from where he lay hidden.
The person who appeared to be the leader of this group paced inside the mouth of the cave, AK47 clenched in one fist, smoking a cigarette. Minutes crept by. Several of the men reappeared, reporting in. It continued to rain. Derek, chilled to the marrow, was lying in six inches of mud.
Almost forty minutes later, Derek heard the sound of a truck engine. To his surprise, their Land Rover appeared from between a cut in the terrace and pulled up alongside the makeshift corral. One of the Afghans was driving. The doors opened and General Johnston and Noa Shoshan climbed awkwardly from the rear doors, their hands tied behind their backs. One of the men prodded Johnston in the back with his assault rifle. Johnston and Noa walked toward the encampment.
7
THE MAN DEREK HAD PEGGED as the leader of the group stalked toward Johnston and Noa. He studied them a moment without saying anything, smoking his cigarette. Finally he said something. Johnston shrugged. Suddenly the leader struck Noa with his fist. With her hands tied behind her back, she went down hard and awkward. Derek thought maybe she’d said something the leader didn’t like, or perhaps he was the type of conservative Muslim who didn’t want women speaking out of order at all.
Johnston stepped between the man and Noa. Derek couldn’t hear a word. His rifle was back in the truck. He carried a .45 Beretta in a holster on his belt. Taking it out now, he braced it in front of him, aimed at the leader. It was a shot he could make. Maybe.
Derek was one of that strange breed of shooters. Put him in range with stationary targets and he was a fair shooter, maybe a little above average. Stick him in a tactical shooting range like the FBI’s Hogan’s Alley and he was one of the best around. He performed best under pressure.
Still, it would be a hell of a shot in shitty conditions.
He waited. As he did, the rain became more mixed with snow.
I lead a charmed life, he thought.
The leader spoke to one of his men, who roughly hauled Noa to her feet. Johnston spoke to her. She said something to the leader. The leader seemed to be listening. A three-way conversation ensued.
Two more men appeared. A more spirited conversation took place. Lots of gesticulating. Then the leader pointed at Johnston and Noa. Two of his men pushed them across the compound and knocked them to the ground by the fire.
The leader talked with several of his men, gesturing to the truck. Several of the Afghans started sorting through the gear. They liked the guns. They liked the pots and pans and cooking gear and food. Derek, shivering, hoped they didn’t associate the five or six duffels with three people and start looking for him.
Once their gear was out, the men started loading crates on top of the truck and securing it with rope. They shoved as much as they could into the back. The leader walked over, a bag on his shoulder. He spoke to several of the men, gesturing at Johnston and Noa, then he and another man climbed into the truck. They drove away.
Patiently, Derek waited. He counted the men. Eleven left. Two had gone. He hoped they were gone for a long time. The men in the camp came and went. A couple remained, guarding Johnston and Noa. Derek didn’t like the way they eyed Noa. Only bad things were going to come of this if he didn’t act soon.
As he watched, one of the men crouched down by Noa. He reached out and pulled her scarf away. She said something, jerking away. He touched her face. Johnston said something. The other man stepped over and punched the general in the head. Johnston went down hard. Blood flowed from his nose.
Derek coiled, ready to act if he had to.
Johnston rolled to a sitting position, talking. Noa nodded, speaking to the men. The two men looked at each other. They talked to each other, furtively looking at Noa.
Now was the time. Confident in the number of men and their various locations, he began a slow backward slither. He was silent and the wind blew the corn and wheat, so his movements wouldn’t be obvious. When he was deep in the corn, he slipped off his rucksack. It contained the chemical test kit, a bottle of water, two full clips for the Beretta, a basic first aid kit – his more extensive one had been in the truck – a couple energy bars, a cigarette lighter, a steel match, and water filter. In other words, basic survival gear plus high-tech equipment to test for chemical weapons.
He pocketed the clips for the Beretta, the energy bars, and cigarette lighter. He drank from the water bottle and shivered. Whatever he intended to do, he’d better do it in a hurry before hypothermia set in.
With the night vision goggles, the gun, and the seven-inch Yarborough knife he received when he graduated from the Special Forces Qualification Course, he was ready. Keeping the gun in the holster, he gripped the knife and began to crawl back toward the precipice that overlooked the village below.
Within a dozen feet of his destination, he smelled cigarette smoke. Whatever else these guys might be, they weren’t pros.
The wind blew harder, dissipating the smell and drowning out any sounds. Edging closer, he finally saw two men. Derek hid about a dozen feet away. They smoked cigarettes and murmured to each other. Their AK47s were slung over their shoulders. They stood on the edge of a terrace. If Derek remembered correctly, it was about twenty-feet high. He had climbed up it along a steep, winding trail.
Slowly, he drew himself up into a coiled crouch.
He exploded out of the corn. One of the men heard him and turned, struggling with his assault rifle. Derek slammed into him with his shoulder. With a cry the man flew off the terrace.
Spinning, Derek slashed out with his knife at the other man. He instinctively raised his hands in defense. The razor-sharp blade tore through an upraised hand. Stumbling backward, the man balanced on the edge of the cliff, then caught himself and turned to run.
Derek was on him in a flash, yanking the man’s chin back hard and slicing his throat. Hot blood gushed over his hand. The man sagged. Derek let him tumble off the edge of the cliff.
He crouched, listening if anyone had heard their shouts.
Confident in his continued anonymity, he disappeared back into the corn. There was another set of guards off to his right.
Using the cover of the corn, he moved quickly. When the crops ended, he laid in the mud, NVGs scanning the area. Easily forty yards away he saw two more men. They paced, guns in their arms, not over their shoulders. They walked along the ridge the truck had disappeared through, some sort of road or path that eventually led down to the main road.
Derek spent another ten minutes watching their movements and scanning the terrain.
Moving again into a crouch, he felt stiffer and slower. The cold was taking its toll. The rain had mostly turned to snow and the wind bit through his clothes.
Watching the two men, he waited until they both faced away from him. He sprinted from the cover of the corn, ten yards to a wind-twisted tree. It didn’t provide much cover.
The men didn’t act as if they had seen him. In a crouch, he waited.
They walked along the ridge for a while before turning back.
He sprinted another dozen yards to a tumble of boulders.
Now he was a dozen yards from the men. They had the high ground. There was no cover from where he hid.
They separated, which was not what he was hoping for.
Derek continued to wait. One of the men walked toward where he was hiding. Heart hammerin
g in his chest, he couldn’t believe his luck.
The man walked right past where Derek hid. Derek leapt out and took him out, cutting his throat. The man struggled in his hands for a moment before going limp.
Derek dragged him behind the rocks and took the AK47. Checking the magazine, he found it half-full.
Turning back, he realized he had lost track of the other man. He quickly scanned the ridge, but he was nowhere to be seen. Shit. Where was he?
Derek crept around the boulders. Suddenly behind him came a shout. Spinning, he saw the man, now only a dozen feet away, AK47 aimed at Derek. He gestured for Derek to put down the rifle.
The man was close enough and his AK47 aimed at him, that Derek didn’t think he had much choice. He hoped the guy didn’t see his dead partner’s body behind the boulders. That would make for a very short conversation.
Derek slowly dropped the rifle. It was dark and Derek definitely had the advantage with the NVGs. As he dropped the rifle, he tucked the knife into his sleeve, the handle in his hand. He slowly walked toward the man. The muj jerked the AK47 at him and shouted something in what Derek thought was Pashto. Derek’s Pashto was severely limited. He could say “One more beer, please” in about twenty languages, and Pashto wasn’t one of them.
He said, “As-salaamu’ alaykum,” a basic greeting. The man responded, but Derek had no idea what he said. He took two steps closer. The man indicated with his gun for him to stand still.
Having used most of his Pashto on the first attempt, he went with his second phrase. “Za na poheegum.” I don’t understand. True enough.
This seemed to anger the man, whose tone grew harsher. The gun bobbed more violently. Derek was now within three or four feet.
Despite the man’s thick beard, Derek got a sense of youth. Late teens, early twenties. Even in the rain and snow and wind he smelled of curry and tobacco, body odor and fear.
Derek was down to one more phrase. “Tashnab cherta di?”
The man cocked his head, puzzled. As well he should have been, since Derek had just asked where the toilet was. But the puzzlement didn’t last long. Derek leapt toward the man, one hand catching the barrel of the AK47 and pushing it aside, the other bringing the knife down in a deadly arc. The blade caught the man between his neck and the collarbone. He screamed and squeezed the trigger. A chatter of gunfire split the night air. The muj jerked away from Derek, trying to bring the gun around.
Derek hung onto the blade, pulling the man to him so he couldn’t use the gun on him. With his free hand the man pounded at Derek’s head. More gunfire spasmed out as Derek drove the knife further into the shoulder. With a final twist, Derek tore the blade upward, across the neck into the left common carotid artery.
Blood spurted over his hand and spattered across Derek’s face. The man howled and collapsed, taking Derek with him.
Picking up the AK47 and snagging the other dead man’s weapon, Derek threw himself to the ground, rolling to a stop next to the boulders.
He had just long enough to catch his breath. Through the NVGs three men raced toward him. Derek set his sites on the man in the front. And fired twice.
As that man went down, he aimed for the second. Fired twice. The third man threw himself to the ground. Derek had been prepared for that. His next two bullets took off the top of his head.
Rolling, Derek jumped to his feet and raced for the ridge.
8
TWO MORE MEN APPEARED. BY Derek’s count, there were still two unaccounted for. These men carried powerful flashlights and were shouting. The flashlights caused problems with his NVGs, green light flaring in his vision until the dampening technology adjusted. As soon as they found their dead comrades, they started firing at anything that moved.
Derek hit the top of the ridge and flung himself to the ground. He tossed aside the AK he’d been using, unsure of how much ammo it had left. He grabbed the other, scanning below him for the two remaining muj.
They had cut their lights and disappeared.
He surveyed the area, coming up blank. Where had they gone?
He saw the bodies littering the ground. Carefully Derek counted them. Five. The two from the ridge he’d killed. The three that had rushed blindly into an ambush. He was too far away to see the two who had been guarding the terrace, his first victims.
He settled his gaze on the cluster of boulders he had been using as a blind. Were they there?
Quietly, he checked the magazine of the AK he had tossed aside. It was a good call. He had a single round left. And probably five or six in the one he was using. Plus his Beretta. Plenty of ammunition for the Beretta, but he had no desire to get into a firefight with a handgun against a couple assault rifles.
He settled in to wait. If they were out there, he could outwait them.
Derek was right. They weren’t pros and they were frightened and impatient.
But they weren’t stupid.
Without any kind of warning the two mujahideen exploded from both sides of the tumble of boulders. They fired simultaneously toward the ridgeline. Derek fired once at the man on his right, simultaneously rolling to his left.
He missed. The man continued to run, spraying gunfire everywhere. But in a second he was out of bullets. The muj slid to the ground, fumbling for a spare magazine.
With a clear field of fire, Derek shot him. He rolled back to his right.
He turned his attention to the other man. This muj had found cover behind a scraggly tree. The NVGs were good, but not so good that he could pick out enough of the man behind the tree to take a shot. At least not with only a handful of bullets for the rifle.
So he waited.
The snow came down harder, mixed with sleet. The wind whipped it into whirls and eddies, hard, sharp pellets that bit at exposed skin. Derek began to shiver and wondered if that was the muj’s plan. But surely he was cold and wet, too. Maybe he didn’t know that he was sole survivor. Maybe he was expecting backup. Or maybe he was willing to wait until his boss and his second-in-command came back—
The muj sprinted for the ridge, spraying bullets everywhere.
Derek felt a searing pain along one shoulder. He took a deep breath.
The muj dropped the magazine and slammed in a spare, continued to fire.
Derek let it out. Squeezed the trigger.
The muj crumpled to the ground.
Derek waited. No movement. Two flashlights glowed from the ground. One pointed at the sky, illuminating the blowing snow and rain. The other glowed off at an angle.
Scanning around, he saw no one. Carefully, he crept down off the ridge and approached the mujahideen. Studying him, he saw a boy. Maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. Too young to even grow a beard. Derek’s bullet had torn out his throat.
Setting back on his haunches, Derek stared around him. He picked up the flashlight and clicked it off, pocketing it. His own words to General Johnston reverberated in his head: thought it might be nice to stop killing people for a while.
Two men unaccounted for.
A quick search turned up a spare magazine for the AK47. He took it. Cautiously he crept toward the other corpse and shut off the flashlight. Two full magazines.
Good. He reversed his steps, staying low. After a good half an hour he was back in the corn, looking at the encampment.
It was empty. Even Johnston and Noa were gone.
He scuttled toward the camp, stopping regularly to scan around him, listening. It was hard to hear anything with the wind and rain mixed with snow. All he heard was the wind and the nicker of a horse.
Finally he made it to the camp. The fire was still lit. The heat coming off it felt like heaven. Still no signs of life.
He stepped further into the cave.
The bodies of the two men who had been guarding Johnston and Noa lay on the ground. They were both dead. Studying the corpses, Derek realized one apparently had a slashed throat. The other looked like he had been stabbed in the chest.
Pieces of rope lay on the ground.
>
A sound behind him made him spin, rifle up. Johnston and Noa stood at the mouth of the cave. Johnston’s nose looked broken, blood was embedded in his beard, and his eyes looked blackened. Noa’s mouth was set in a grimace. One whole side of her head was bruised, her left eye almost swollen shut. Both carried AK47s.
Johnston said, “Everyone accounted for?”
Derek nodded. “There’s a story here. I wouldn’t mind some dry clothes, even though I’m going back out in this mess.”
One eyebrow raised, Noa said, “What do you have to do?”
“I think there actually is a mass grave down there. So I need to do some gravedigging to see if I can figure out what killed the people. Proof of biological or chemical warfare, if that’s what caused it.” That’s my mission, he thought. I don’t know what the fuck yours is.
He felt testy as the adrenaline wore off.
Walking over to a backpack that had probably belonged to one of the muj, Johnston crouched down and rummaged through it. He tossed it at Derek. “There are clothes in here. A little smelly, but dry. But we can’t stay around here long in case Khan decides to come back.”
Stripping out of his wet clothing, Derek crouched naked in front of the fire. Noa said, “You’re not shy.”
“If you see something you haven’t seen before, shoot it. Meanwhile, I’m freezing my ass off. So tell me. What happened?”
“You’ve been shot,” she said, pointing to his shoulder.
“Yeah. It hurts. I’ve got a first aid kit in the ruck. You mind taking care of it? Now what happened?”
BOTH JOHNSTON AND Noa had been picked up by muj down in the village. Four of them, apparently, hearing the truck, had followed them into the village. They took Johnston first, threatening to kill him if he made a sound. Then they bound his hands and went and found Noa. She tried to talk to them, but they weren’t in a chatting mood.