A staccato of gunfire came from the open window opposite the school, raining down on the armored car. They were caught in a crossfire. Brin had stopped shooting and Jarvis could hear the two soldiers still in the armored vehicle yelling instructions.
“RPG!” Brin shouted and Jarvis whipped around to see where the blast would come from. But Brin wasn’t warning of incoming fire. He was arming Jarvis. A three-foot long metal tube slid under the armored car and hit Jarvis in the side. He rolled over and grabbed the heavy gun that shot a grenade up to a hundred yards with deadly accuracy. In one movement he flipped up the safety and pulled the scope to his eye. The space under the car was just enough for him to squeeze the grenade launcher onto his shoulder if he pressed down on the dirt road with his chest and strained his neck. The angle was hard and he had to expose himself to the open air to point it up enough to get the balcony in his sights. It was far enough to the left of the school that there was little danger of collateral damage. He pulled the trigger just as another round of automatic fire hit the roof of the armored car.
The kick from the launcher slammed his head into the floor runner on the driver’s side. The sound of the retort hadn’t reached his ears before the grenade hit the open balcony and the explosion created a volcano of white rock and plaster. Shouts of wounded men speaking Farsi rose over the ruckus. Less than two minutes had passed since the US Army vehicles had come around the bend. The scene inside the school was furiously calm, as parents raced to cover their children and keep them from going outside to see the action. A few bits of rock from the shattered balcony fell onto the courtyard, but no one was injured.
Jarvis waited, holding his breath. Nothing. The next burst of gunfire would come from the opposite side of the street again, where Brin was. He began to turn around, opened his mouth to tell Brin to get in the armored car and they would turn around, get the hell out. Before he could get the words out, he heard Brin shout again.
“RPG!” Jarvis was confused for a moment, looking at the weapon still in his hand, the extra grenade attached to the underside. Then he understood. The tone was different in Brin’s voice. RPG, but this time it was incoming.
Jarvis scrambled out from under the armored car, back towards the side of the street with the balcony he’d just fired on. The risk of being shot was lower than being blown up. He pulled himself up and turned to open the door of the armored car to get the other two soldiers out. His sergeant waved him off, opening the door himself and pulling at the soldier behind him.
“Go, go, go!” the driver screamed.
Jarvis ran across the street and dove for a low wall beneath what remained of the balcony he’d destroyed. On the other side of the armored car, Brin ran in the opposite direction, toward the muzzle of the grenade launcher, his gun firing. Jarvis held his helmet down with one hand and peered over the wall. He saw the two soldiers getting out of the armored vehicle, Brin running hunched over, gun blazing, and above them all in the sky, coming over the low buildings on the outskirts of the village, a US helicopter equipped with small, deadly missiles.
Almost in slow motion, Jarvis saw the grenade spit out of the launcher across the street and head toward the armored car. The explosion was almost instantaneous. Jarvis locked eyes with his sergeant, or thought he did, as the vehicle burst into flame and the two soldiers coming out the driver’s side were shredded. Burning pieces of car and flesh rained down on the street. Jarvis felt a spray, not sure if it was fuel or blood. He pulled his head down and immediately there was a second explosion, next to him on the same side of the street. The wall of the courtyard erupted, the concussive force throwing Jarvis three feet back. Large chunks of rock and plaster fell into the space that moments ago had been filled with children playing and shouting.
Jarvis was uninjured. He leapt up and saw the helicopter closing in, large caliber machine guns strafing the building across the street where Brin had been running. Brin lay splayed on the street, in one piece, moaning. The helicopter passed over the street and hovered 150 feet above the school, guns at the ready. Jarvis waved to the helicopter and looked back to Brin.
Two men in Afghan garb, wearing scarves covering their faces, were on either side of him. Another held an automatic rifle at the ready. The two soldiers in the helicopter were not looking that way. The men in the street dragged Brin toward the building where the grenade had been launched. Jarvis jumped up but the Afghan man with the gun sprayed bullets in his direction and Jarvis could not return fire, dropping to the ground instead. The helicopter turned toward the street and the soldier strapped against the open door returned fire at the Afghan who’d pinned down Jarvis. The man in the street was cut in half, but Brin was already gone.
Jarvis pulled at the radio on his belt.
“One man alive, they’ve got him in the building below you. Hold fire!”
The helicopter would land only to pick up the wounded, careful not to risk losing more men or equipment to the Taliban or Al-Qaeda or whoever hated the Americans at the moment. The voice of the pilot came over the radio and Jarvis could see the man’s mouth moving a hundred feet up in the air at the same time.
“Another ground patrol is on the way. 17 minutes out.”
Jarvis looked across the street, then above where the balcony had been. No movement. Moans and cries of anguish came from the rubble to his left, from what was left of the wall of the school’s courtyard and the people buried beneath or cut down by flying fragments of rock. Eerie silence filled the space between the shouts for help. In the distance, a siren slowly emerged. The village was small, but after generations of war they were prepared for death and violence. An ambulance would be there in moments. The warren of homes and shops across the street where Brin had disappeared stretched back further than he could see. Brin might be in the building from where the grenade had been fired. Or he could be two hundred yards deep in the maze of narrow walkways and angled doors that were less navigable by a stranger than a Greek labyrinth. Four men were dead already. Jarvis had fought in the first Gulf War. He’d seen what happened to captured US soldiers. He would not let a fifth die today. Jarvis took a deep breath and ran, zig-zag, across the street toward the open doorway. No one shot at him.
He reached the door where Brin had been taken and put his back against the adobe wall next to it. The accumulated heat from the day transferred from the wall to his shoulders. Jarvis quickly poked his head around to the open doorway and pulled back, less to get a look and more to create a target and see if anyone took a shot. Silence. He spun through the door, M-16 pointed forward and sweeping the room. It was empty, except for spent shells on the floor. There were few windows and the transition from bright sunlight to the shaded interior made everything seem shadowy and dangerous. It was. Jarvis saw the one opening to his left and ran quickly across the room. This time he didn’t bother to sneak a look. He passed through what may have been an abandoned shop and then out a back door into an alley. A movement to his right and he whipped around, finger on the trigger. A child stood in a doorway twenty feet down, large brown eyes not judging the soldier. Jarvis held the gun tightly. He’d seen children approach US Army vehicles, hands out begging for scraps of food, grenades hidden beneath their ragged clothes. The boy held his stare, then raised a hand. He pointed in the other direction. Solemn, silent. Jarvis turned and ran that way.
The sound of the ambulance was getting louder and the thump of the helicopter was persistent, but both became muted as he followed the winding path of the alley away from the street. He passed under a colonnade and instead of shouldering along a narrow walkway he was suddenly in an open space, dozens of people milling about. They were talking, some still engaged in commerce and ignoring the explosions they’d heard from the street a hundred yards away. Inured to bedlam, their lives continued. Others huddled and pointed at the sky where the helicopter was visible but distant and smoke drifted in several directions. Fewer people than Jarvis would have expected stopped to look at the armed soldier bursting into the
bazaar.
Jarvis looked around, taking in every group, trying to read body language and intent. No sign of the men who had taken Brin just moments earlier. Jarvis suddenly felt alone, vulnerable. Not everyone in the country hated the Americans, but none embraced another invader. The smart thing to do would be to wait for the squad that was ten minutes away. Jarvis ran across the open space, deeper into the crowd. He looked at each corner of the bazaar, trying to read every face, interpret the dust swirling at every entryway or door. Nothing spoke to him. He looked up, searching the second floor of the building encircling the plaza. As he turned around, the panicked shouts of dozens of voices rang out just as a searing pain hit his right shoulder. The sound of the rifle shot followed. Jarvis spun from the force and almost dropped his gun. Instinct shifted it to his left hand and as he completed his turn he dropped into a crouch and raised the rifle. It was set to semi-automatic and the first two shots hit brick and window but the next four struck the gunman on the balcony. Jarvis looked down and caught the eye of one of the people whose heads he had just fired over, inches separating them from the bullets that found their mark. Blood poured from his right shoulder and he took a quick glance before running across the courtyard to the building where the shot had come from. There was an exit wound – the bullet had passed through.
Jarvis skirted the hunched men and women who tried to take cover from the impending firefight. No more bullets flew. He rushed through the open doorway, gun arcing back and forth. He expected half a dozen men, a grenade launcher, perhaps a tank. Nothing. Stairs to his left led to the man he’d shot. No one came racing down to shoot at him. One foot on the bottom step, Jarvis stopped. Except for the cries from the courtyard, there was silence. No footsteps running above him. No shouts of warning or cries of courage. But not complete silence. There was a buzzing noise. A hum. Jarvis looked around the room. It was a living room, someone’s home. Carpet, a couple chairs. One painting on a wall. A small closet covered by a long blanket. And a heavy door at the back of the room. The humming came from behind the blanket.
Jarvis crossed the room and pushed aside the blanket. On the floor sat a squat, shiny new machine, buzzing like a beehive. A generator. In the back of the tiny closet, a hole had been drilled and a power cord ran from the generator into the gap. The cord angled down, not up. There was a basement.
Jarvis backed out of the small space and looked at the heavy door to his left. He gently tried the latch. It gave easily, quietly. Wincing from the pain, he kept the rifle in his left hand and forced his right to slowly pull back the door. Steps led down into the dark, turning to one side just before the light gave way to shadow. Jarvis stepped in and carefully pulled the door almost shut behind him. In the silence, he could begin to make out voices. They were urgent, angry, but controlled. Jarvis took a few steps down, gun pointing forward. With each step the voices got louder. Just before the turn in the stone stairway, he could make out a few words. They were in Arabic and he strained to remember any of his six weeks of language training a dozen years earlier before his first deployment in the Gulf.
There was a loud clicking noise and the murky shadow ahead of him was instantly illuminated as though a bright light had been lit. Jarvis pulled back instinctively but he was still out of sight. His eyes adjusted once again and Jarvis moved forward to the edge of the light and crouched on the stair just before the bend where he would be able to see into whatever was below – and they would see him. A few words now emerged out of the stream of increasingly agitated language. One voice rose above the others, defiant and confident. Jarvis made out a phrase he’d learned and heard many times: God is great. And he recognized a few others that were less encouraging: American pig, which sounded almost eloquent in Farsi. Invader, killer, children – these were words he’d heard thrown at him not just in the classroom but occasionally in the street. The tone of the speaker’s voice became more emotional, strident, like a rising crescendo reaching for a final note. Jarvis poked his head around the corner and pulled it back almost before his eyes could focus. It took him a moment to interpret the image that burned onto his eyes like a horrible photograph. On the opposite wall a large gray sheet hung like in a photographer’s studio. A bright light shone against the image in front of the tarp – a man in traditional Afghan garb holding a medium sized sabre. He was looking toward the light, which blinded him from seeing Jarvis’ brief peering around the corner. But he wasn’t looking into the light – he was looking at a camera on a tripod, a ridiculously small video camera. And the camera was taking in the scene, of the man holding the saber in one hand and a tightly bound but conscious Brin in the other. Four other men, their backs to the staircase, operated the camera and lights, shouting encouragement to their comrade. Over the din, Jarvis heard one voice that he did not have to interpret.
“Fuck you, asshole.” Brin.
The Afghan man’s voice continued to rise and Jarvis could feel the fury, the exultant victory the man felt. The cheers of the others were those of a mob watching the guillotine in 18th century France. They were calling for death, for vengeance, for a good old-fashioned beheading. Jarvis flicked the setting to single shot on his rifle. He took a deep breath, slowing his racing heart and ignoring the light-headedness that tried to embrace his brain from blood loss. He stood and turned the corner, aiming more from memory than the sight of what was before him. As he pulled the trigger the first time, he took in the movement of the man’s arm as it began to pull across Brin’s throat. It would take several strokes, more of a sawing motion, to complete the act. But the first slide of the blade would sever Brin’s carotid artery and seal his fate before the horror of the beheading could be complete. Jarvis’ shot found its mark with almost comical accuracy. The man’s forehead seemed to cave in slightly. The momentum of the movement of the sword across Brin’s throat was inevitable and unstoppable, but the backward force from the shot lessened the pressure. Blood seeped but did not gush.
Hoping more than assuming his shot had been accurate, Jarvis flicked the gun into semi-automatic. The other men in the room were stunned for only an instant and turned toward the stairs. Each held a gun. Jarvis strafed the men hitting three almost instantly. Two died before they could point their weapons at Jarvis but the third was mortally wounded and bent on killing Jarvis as his final act. Jarvis pulled the trigger again and the man’s torso ripped open and his gun flew out of his hand. Jarvis turned to the one man he had not hit and saw the muzzle of a Russian rifle flash. The wall next to him splintered and the next sound was of the Afghan’s weapon being switched to automatic. Jarvis pulled his own trigger and nothing happened – he’d spent his final rounds. He dropped the M-16 and reached for his sidearm but it was too late. The Afghan raised his gun and uttered a final expletive. He pulled the trigger as Jarvis raised his gun, knowing it would not matter but unwilling to give up. The spray of bullets, though, missed Jarvis wide to the left as the man flew forward in an explosive rush as though hit by a truck. Brin, launching himself like a torpedo, bleeding, bound, and beaten, landed on top of the Afghan. He began to bang his head against the man who struggled and tried to turn to push Brin off. The American smashed his forehead against the man’s neck and ear, then against his nose and mouth as his former captor squirmed around to face him. The gun was still in the Afghani’s hand and he brought it up to shoot Brin whose arms were uselessly tied to his side. One shot rang out and the man laid still. Brin looked up into the barrel of Jarvis’ service revolver. Still on top of the dead Afghan, Brin smiled.
“Hey, thanks, man. Tried to stay calm, but guess I sorta lost my head.”
Jarvis’ heart raced and he began to feel faint. He smiled, or thought he did, and as he crumpled to the ground and almost onto Brin, he heard shouts – American voices – and feet running across the floor above. The voices got louder and as he passed out he looked down again and the grin of the bleeding soldier grew larger and broader until it filled his vision like the Cheshire cat.
Chapter Two
Jarvis sat loosely in the driver’s seat, the radio filling the car with low sounds of a KCRW late-night talk show. The topic was troop withdrawals from one of the countries where America was at war. He fiddled with the controls on the steering wheel and took it down to a murmur. Nothing was open at 2:15 a.m. so the flashlight beam playing back and forth in the alley ahead and to his left screamed for attention. The main street where he’d parked more than seven hours ago was deserted. The strip mall abutting the alley contained a Quizno’s, a check cashing place, a liquor store masquerading as a convenience market, and a small pharmacy. It was the last that held Jarvis’ attention.
The door of the BMW was virtually silent as it opened and Jarvis slid out. No oncoming traffic threatened and he stepped quickly and quietly to the curb. The eighteen-inch section of pine 2-by-four was almost invisible as he held it to his side. He reached the alley just as the beam from the flashlight widened, signaling its owner was nearing the mouth and about to reach the sidewalk. Jarvis paused for a moment and a dark shadow emerged from the alley and turned to its right, away from Jarvis and toward the banged up mini Toyota truck a hundred feet up the street. Jarvis resumed his walk, just a few steps behind the figure, unnoticed. Five steps and Jarvis was immediately behind. Hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, and a large green Hefty bag slung over the figure’s shoulder. Without breaking stride, Jarvis swung the makeshift club up with a turn of his hips. The force caught the burglar precisely as aimed, almost dislocating his shoulder and forcing the bag to drop. A grunt flew from the man’s mouth and before his body could hit the brick wall, Jarvis hit him again – not as hard, just a stunning jolt, on the side of the head. The man bounced off the wall and was on the ground, too confused to know whether to grab his shoulder or his ear where a lump was already forming.
Catalyst Page 25