Raptor 6

by Ronie Kendig

  Heart in his throat, Dean snapped his sights into the back. A breath whooshed out. Nothing. No one. “Clear.” He moved with purpose and precision toward the cab of the truck.

  The door hung open.

  Falcon shook his head, anger fueling in his dark eyes. “Clear.”

  Dean turned back to where the street funneled down the hill. He looked in the direction of their team sniper. “Eagle, you got anything?”

  “Negative.”

  “What the heck was that about?” Hawk might as well stomp his feet. “I got shot for … what?”

  “Raptor, someone’s in the building.”

  The words were a swift kick in the chest. Dean flanked the door with Falcon and Hawk, who lost his mouthy objections in the heat of another potential conflict. Falcon took point kneeling at the door, gloved hand on the rusted knob.

  Adrenaline rushes never got old. Dean gave a nod.

  Falcon flicked the knob and threw back the door.

  Dean hurried over the threshold and went left, pieing out with his carbine as he moved. The room sat open and empty, save the bank of tables used by the team to line up those in need. A curtained-off area served as examination rooms and surgical area, though only outpatient surgeries took place here. As he swept back toward the door, cheek pressed to his weapon, he waited till his line of sight struck Falcon’s on the right.

  Hawk streamed through them, making a line straight for the curtained area.

  As he trailed his coms guy, Dean noted the stacks of papers on the table. Kept moving. Expecting. Ready.

  “Get down! Get down!” Hawk shouted, his weapon trained on someone.

  Dean hurried forward. A man—no, the teen who’d sprinted away from the team—went to his knees, hands up. “Please … I not bad.” Tears spilled down the youth’s dirty cheeks.

  “Why’d you run?’ Hawk demanded in Pashto.

  “They pay me to watch.” The teen ducked, shame ringing his dark, dusty features.

  Hawk cursed.

  “Get him up and find out what he knows.” Dean pivoted and returned to the table. Boxes of papers … wait … no. There were spiral-bound documents on the table, but the box … He tugged back the flap.

  “Oh God, help us.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Mazar-e-Sharif

  27 May—1245 Hours

  Mockingbird, this is Raptor Six Actual.” Swiping a hand over his beard did nothing to stave off the doom planting itself on Dean’s shoulders as he held the secure sat phone to his ear.

  “Go ahead, Raptor Six.” General Burnett’s voice boomed through his coms. It meant one thing that he answered and not Hastings: Burnett expected trouble.

  “Your warning paid off. There were armed Taliban here. They had trucks and men.”

  “No surprise.”

  Frustration strangled Dean. “No, sir. But what I found is.” He stared at the box again.

  “Go on.”

  “A SCIF-in-a-box, sir.”

  Burnett huffed. A loud thud carried through the connection. “How in the name of all that’s holy did they get one of our secure computers?”

  “No idea, sir. But it’s here.” Dean flipped open one of the spirals. “And they have manuals.” He thumbed through it. “Pages are missing, but it’s pretty close.”

  “Get it back to the base. Wait for me there. Show nobody—and I mean no one. Am I clear, Captain?”

  “Yessir.” Dean stuffed the phone into his pocket and velcroed it. “Move out.”

  “Hold up,” Hawk said as thumbed over his shoulder. “The clinic.”

  “Not this week.”

  Lips tight, Hawk cocked his head. “Hey, man. These people can’t control when terrorists get stupid. The villagers need medical attention.”

  “Harrier will have to play Florence Nightingale’s brother next week. General ordered us back to Bagram.”

  Hawk held up his hands. “Give us an hour.”

  Dean let out a huff. Noticed the people gathering at the clinic. “Eagle, Falcon, bring the MRAP.” He slapped Harrier’s chest. “One hour.”

  Kohistani School, Mazar-e Sharif

  27 May—1345 Hours

  Clouds broke away from the sun, throwing sunbeams across the hard floor. In silence, the young girls worked on their handwriting, heads bowed over their papers. Three to a desk seemed cramped by American standards, but the Afghan girls in her class were so happy to attend school without fear of reprisal that the proximity to their classmates didn’t bother them.

  Zahrah walked the room, fingers threaded in front of her as she made her rounds. She touched a paper and admonished one student to watch her spacing. Writing English was as important as speaking it.

  Back at the front, she folded her arms and glanced at the clock. “Thank you, children. Pass your papers to the front. Remember your reports on your favorite person are due tomorrow.” She accepted the papers from the students on the end and then smiled. Her heart thumped in heady pleasure. Teaching these girls, assuring they could communicate effectively—her dream had come true! “Thank you. Have a good evening, and may God bless you.” She’d gotten away with the blessing because God could be interpreted many ways. In her heart, she knew whom she meant.

  The girls thanked her in unison then filed from the room. Zahrah turned to her satchel and slipped the stack of papers in, alongside math worksheets. When she turned, she stilled. And smiled inwardly. She would not let the little girl know she was on to her. “Ready for tutoring, Ara?”

  The doe-eyed child sighed. “Yes, Miss Zarrick.”

  Zahrah moved to the bench seat in front of Ara’s desk. “Okay, let’s go over the lesson one more time.” She shifted to sit beside the girl, being sure her voice carried well enough to the door and hallway where she knew the girl’s older brother listened—learned. He’d been too proud to accept teaching and instruction from a woman, let alone an American woman. Yet he was here. Hungry to learn.

  As they reviewed the lesson, Ara hooked a hand around Zahrah’s arm and rested her temple on her shoulder.

  The comfort and the warmth of her touch sailed through Zahrah. With the strict rules about touching and the pressure to maintain propriety here, she ached for the strong, bosomy embrace of her mother. But for now, Ara’s light sign of affection would do.

  As Ara finished reading the short story on the page—without complication—she smiled up at Zahrah. “He is too afraid to ask for your help.”

  “I am not!”

  Zahrah tucked her chin to hide her smile as Ara’s older brother stepped into view. Finally straight-faced, she acknowledged him. “Ah, Rashid. Ara is ready for home now. Bia.” She stood as she motioned him to come to her. She went to her satchel and tugged out a small folder then walked to the eight-year-old boy. “Could you be sure Ara practices this?” She nodded at the seven-year-old girl, buying Ara’s cooperation. “Apparently she needs the help.”

  Rashid’s shoulders straightened. “Of course.”

  “Oh, such fine manners, Rashid—and such good English. I’m very proud of your progress.”

  Ara strutted to the doorway. “Madar said I’m doing better.”

  “Quiet!” Rashid said, his face betraying the hurt.

  “You’re both learning so quickly.” Pride thrummed through Zahrah at the young boy’s hidden attempts to become proficient in English. “Good-bye. I’ll see you tomorrow.” If she did not know better, she believed Rashid held American soldiers in very high regard, too. Though his father was in the ANA, it still was taboo here for Rashid to take instruction from a female.

  As she watched the two slip down the hall and into the foyer, Zahrah spotted her cousin coming toward her.

  “Ready?” Fekiria said as she smiled at the two youngsters. “Secret lessons again?”

  Zahrah laughed as she retrieved her satchel. “He is so anxious to learn, to speak and write English. It just makes my heart break that his father won’t allow it.”

  “It is true for most men.”


  “I understand their fears, but they’re unfounded.”

  Fekiria groaned. “We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

  As they passed under the iron walk-through gate and onto the city streets toward the home they shared with Fekiria’s parents, Zahrah smiled. At times, it was hard to remember Fekiria with her wild ways and desperation for liberation was also profoundly protective of her heritage.

  “You’re right.” In an easy lope, Zahrah linked arms with her cousin. “Have you told your parents that you do not want to marry Yakta?”

  Suspicious eyes skidded into Zahrah, then focused ahead. “No.”

  “Why?” Zahrah straightened and tugged a small bag of figs from her satchel. “And this isn’t me making comment against your home or life. This is me caring about my cousin-sister.”

  “They will be so angry.”

  “But they love you. And I believe that is more important to them than marrying you off.”

  “Ha! My father is ready to marry me off. He says so every day and is so worried about his nang.”

  Honor. It was tantamount to every decision here. But Fekiria’s own willfulness was as much a problem.

  “If you would stop pushing him with your rebellion,” she said with a giggle. Kaka Jahandar had shouted that so many times at Fekiria when she spoke up or expressed her disapproval for something. “Look, honestly, it is possible to hold your parents and culture in respect and yet disagree with them.”

  “Easy for you to say. You aren’t the one being married to a grandfather!”

  Shouts startled them both and yanked their attention to the small market. Two children bolted out from among a throng of adults. Faces wrung with fear and dirt, they darted toward them.

  Zahrah’s blood went cold. “Rashid! Ara!”

  The boy locked on to her. His face paled. He thrashed a hand at her. “No, go back. Run!”

  No sooner had she set eyes on the strange man standing in the middle of the street than a loud noise cracked the afternoon. A white Toyota pickup barreled through the crowd, toppling some who were not fast enough to get out of the way.

  Taliban!

  “Hurry!” Zahrah waved the children to her. Ara leapt into her arms and Zahrah whipped around. Tucked her head and hurried. Her cousin had Rashid by the hand. “Just keep your head down and walk fast,” Fekiria said as she relinked arms.

  A bitter taste glanced off her tongue. She’d been so careful … all these months …

  She felt her cousin turn by the slight pressure on her shoulder as she looked back. A strangled yelp stabbed her with fear.

  “Run,” Fekiria gasped.

  The sound of a whiny car chased them down the street. The school gate loomed at the far end of the narrow stretch.

  “They’re close,” Ara wailed.

  The heartrending sound shoved Zahrah ahead. Her sandaled feet slapped the ground, twisting and slipping as they ran down the pothole-laden road.

  “Open the gate,” Fekiria shouted. “Open the gate!”

  Panic clutched at Zahrah as she felt a hot trail sear along her arm. Her sleeve shifted. The gate erupted with tiny explosions, wood bursting out and up. More bullets!

  Ara shrieked and clutched her leg.

  Panic morphed to terror, and Zahrah threw herself at the still-closed gate. She banged. “Open up, please!” she shouted in Farsi.

  Clanking on the other side warned her of the lock being unbolted.

  “Hurry!” She made the mistake of looking back.

  The Toyota careened around the corner. Dumping two Talib. The men remained unfazed and lifted their weapons toward her.

  The gate gave way against her weight. She shoved through with Ara, Fekiria, and Rashid behind her. “Taliban,” she breathed and hurried into the building.

  As she passed beneath the tiled doorway, a thunderous crack detonated. She dared not look back. It would slow her. Expose her. The children.

  An explosion rent the night. Its concussive blast of heat scalding her back as she threw herself and Ara toward the stair shelter. Something hit her head—snapped it forward, right into the cement blocks. Warmth slid down her face. Fire lit through her side.

  Amid screams her world darkened.

  CHAPTER 6

  Balkh Province

  27 May—1420 Hours

  They are some kind of stupid.”

  Dean looked up from the military-grade iPad as their MRAP trounced down from the village back toward Mazar-e. He frowned at Falcon, who aimed the armored vehicle onto the main road. “How’s that?”

  “Way I figure it,” Falcon said, speaking louder than normal without yelling so he could be heard over the engine and road noise, “they had that kid watching for us, which means they knew we’d be there.”

  “The clinic,” Dean said, nodding.

  “Right. But … why?” Falcon held up a hand. “Why would they be there on the same day as us?”

  “Don’t need brains to be a terrorist.” Hawk hollered from the rear compartment, his green eyes lit with amusement. “I been out here enough times to see that played out.”

  “Exactly,” Falcon said. “Stupid is one thing, but to be right there …”

  “Hey.” Hawk lunged forward, thrusting a pointed finger between Falcon and Dean. “Check it out. What’s that?”

  Dean ducked to see out the window. A klick out, maybe two, a fireball streaked into the sky. Black smoke chased the flames.

  “That’s—dude!” Hawk growled. “The blue dome—it’s the school!”

  “What school?” Dean watched the plumes of smoke lighten. Black indicated a fuel source—oil, most likely. But gray meant a natural fuel source, wood or plaster.

  “When you were stateside, Command wanted feelers about that place, so we did a one-day clinic.” Falcon shrugged, already slowing and taking a route that led them closer. “There’s got to be thirty or forty kids there. Teachers.”

  “Oh, man. That American-Afghan teacher.” Hawk struck Dean’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Dude—this chick could be the woman of your dreams. I know she’s mine!”

  “Down boy.” Dean motioned in that direction with a nod. “Let’s check it.” He keyed the mic on his headset, eying the flames and smoke. Still burning. “Command, this is Raptor Six Actual.”

  “Go ahead, Raptor Six Actual.”

  “Signs of an explosion and fire. Possible location is a school. We’re going to check it out.”

  “Copy that, Raptor Six. What do you need?”

  Again, Dean eyed the black ball. The location—tight cluster of buildings. “We’ll need medevac and air assist.”

  “Roger that. Dispatching now.”

  “Raptor Six out.” Dean looked over his shoulder to the well of the MRAP. The black seats that lined the hull weren’t comfortable but they beat sitting on steel. “Harrier, get your gear. Probably got some wounded.”

  Dean’s gaze hit Titanis. Behind the black Oakley ballistic M Frames, the man stared back. Quiet and formidable. Which made him fit right in with the Green Berets since they were known as the Quiet Professionals.

  A curse hit the hot air as Falcon whipped the MRAP onto the street where a structure burned. The blue-domed mosque stood silent as it watched a neighbor building spewing smoke into the sky like an angry dragon. Charred, a gate hunched to the side. Afghans dressed in their perahan tunban huddled on the opposite side of the street. A man carried a child across the dirt road to safety.

  “There,” Dean said, pointing to the large, open courtyard.

  Dazed and in shock, people littered the area. Some walking around with mouths gaping and eyes glazed. Too much to take in. Mental overload. Others, sitting on the side, holding crooked limbs or bloody children. The L-shaped building had lost most of its shorter leg, which sat in ruins. A direct hit. Behind it, draped in smoke and chaos, a warehouse-type building looked like the triage point.

  After Falcon eased into the area, Dean swung open the door and leapt down from the MRAP before the e
ngine died.

  “Oh, thank you,” an older man with a graying beard said, rushing them. “Help us! Children are missing!”

  “Are you in charge?” Dean swept the courtyard with an experienced eye. A dozen or more adult males stood around, staring. Shell-shocked. Faces and clothing smudged with ashes.

  “Yes, yes. I am Doctor Kohistani.”

  “Oh, good. A doctor.”

  His brown eyes widened. “No no.” Dirty, blood-smeared hands waved at him. “Not that kind. I am a school doctor, the director.”

  Dean considered the man who stood about five-five. His long, tan kaftan bore black marks and blood. “Are there wounded?”

  “Yes, yes. Please hurry.” He shuffled toward the large building at the back of the compound, away from the fire that forced the school to surrender its fight despite the volunteers sloshing buckets of water against its fury.

  “Harrier.” Dean waved the field medic with him.

  “What happened, Doctor?” Dean asked as they hustled across the paved courtyard and into the relative shade of the other building.

  “I do not know. One minute all is calm. Next—boom!” The small man raised his arms in emphasis. “Here, here.” He scurried out another door and into a smaller building. At least twenty men, women, and children were laid out on concrete with varying wounds. Some sat along the wall, waiting, bleeding.

  Someone behind Dean cursed, knocking Dean out of his own shock and assessment. “Hawk, call in backup and medical support.” Dean removed his Oakleys and set them atop his helmet. “Rest of you, let’s get to work.” Since every American soldier had field-medic training, they’d be able to stabilize most of the patients.

  “Help! Please help,” a woman’s shout drew Dean’s attention back to the courtyard. “Komak! Komak!”

  He shifted and jogged toward the voice screaming for help.

  Dressed in a red kaftan, a woman stumbled from an alley between the two buildings with a boy in her arms. Tripping beneath the limp weight, she cried out. “Please, help him!”