Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

for a better view. We are so high, I can see the curve of the Earth. I exhale, watch my breath fog in the cold.

Fifteen minutes pass. I hear a snap of fingers and turn. Koenig motions me to take point.

Fair enough.

None of the others has been this far north. In fact, the last time I passed this way, my route covered the eastern flank of Kagur-Ghar. That was a more direct route north, following the Kagur River valley to where it dog-legged east into Pakistan and the Wakhan Corridor.

But—I had been this way before. I had reconnoitered the village of Kagur, and that made me the expert. You develop a sixth sense on the ground that you don’t get from studying satellite photographs and contour maps. You learn the texture of the ground under your boots, the smell of the forest, the heat of the day and the chill of the night.

I get to my feet, sling my rifle across my chest, and lower my NODs. Set off into the darkness.

We need to hike three miles around the southern face of Shafkat. The bulk of the mountain screened our infil from eyes in the Kagur valley. The target village is on the other side of the river. I’ve chosen this route because it allows us to walk, Taliban-style, on the rocky slope itself. Properly executed, we’ll reach our destination on the east face by dawn.

Improperly executed, one or more of us could break a leg or fall right off the damn mountain.

There’s no point procrastinating. I step off the ledge and onto the slope. Test the footing with my boot. I take one step, then two. I’ve done this before. It gets easier.

Soon, I’m covering ground at a healthy pace, moving north-by-east, following the curve of Shafkat. My uniform steams from sweat wicking into the frigid air. I rest my right hand on the M110 slung across my chest. My left is free. I walk with a slight lean. Whenever my balance is in doubt, I reach out with my left hand and brace myself against the rock face.

Koenig follows me, then Takigawa. Lopez is last in line.

None of them have covered country like this before. They thought the slopes of the Korengal to the south were rough. Now they have something to write home about.

Half an hour into our march. Something is wrong. I raise my right fist to halt the column. The mountainside in front of me has disappeared. NODs restrict your peripheral vision. I look left and right, up and down. At my feet, the mountainside slopes sharply into a deep ravine. It plunges a hundred and fifty feet before climbing the other side. It’s like a piece of pie has been carved from the side of the mountain.

Koenig joins me, puts his hand on my shoulder. “What the fuck is it?”

“Ravine,” I tell him.

The captain looks around me. “I can see that, goddamnit. What are we going to do about it?”

“Would you like to speak louder? I don’t think they heard you in Kagur.”

Koenig drops his voice to a hiss. “Don’t fuck with me, Breed. We have three hours till dawn.”

I’d factored ravines into my estimates when I planned the insertion. Forgot to tell Koenig. It’s inevitable you will run into ravines, because they cannot always be discerned from satellite photographs and contour maps. Observed from above, they appear as black lines. Jagged shadows. When you run into them, you are brought to a halt because there is nothing in front of you but blackness.

“We have two choices, Captain.”

“Get on with it.”

“We can climb down and up the other side. Or, if the route is passable, we continue to follow the contour of the mountain. The ravine has to come to an end at some point on the face. Either way, we take a bit longer. Which would you like to try?”

“What do you recommend?”

“This chasm isn’t particularly wide. It probably doesn’t stretch too far into the face. I’d follow the contour of the mountain. If that route is impassable, we’ll climb down, then back up.”

“Okay, do it.”

The route is passable.

Four times more, in the three miles we have to cover, we run into ravines. Each time, I follow the contour of the face. Each is a gamble, but I figure climbing down and back up is riskier. Koenig and the others have little experience in the mountains. Descending can be more dangerous than climbing, and there is no clear advantage with respect to effort.

Three hours later, off to the southeast, we find the mountain plunges into a narrow valley. A sinuous river, the Kagur, winds its way through the middle. Far in the distance, three lights twinkle. Goatherds. Lanterns in a shack, or small campfires.

I stretch my hand out, lean against a boulder. Wait for Koenig to catch me.

“What is it now?”

“That’s the Kagur River. See that mountain across the way?”

Fifteen thousand feet high, snow-capped, the mountain dominates the terrain for miles. The summit is on the south peak, opposite our position. To the north, a long col, or saddle, stretches until it rises to a second peak of ten thousand feet. The north peak slopes onto a long ridge that plunges into a chasm. The pair of peaks and the north col look like the back of a sleeping dragon. Beyond, another tall mountain.

“Hard to miss,” Koenig says.

“That’s Kagur-Ghar. The summit is too hostile any time of year. Over there, at the end of the saddle, is the north peak. It’s dark, but if you look with NODs, you can make out the village at the base of the south peak.”

“Fuck me,” Koenig mutters. “It makes you feel... small.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? So beautiful it can kill you. Hubble and Ballard are on the other side right now, making their way to the blocking position.”

“We’re almost there.”

“Yes, and we don’t want to be exposed on this slope when daylight breaks.”

The slope below is too rocky to support many trees. Here and there, copses decorate