Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

the face. Patches of bushes. Higher on the mountainside, three hundred feet above us, is a proper forest. A band of trees, two tree lines. The lower tree line below which trees struggle. A traditional tree line much higher, where the wind and cold prevent trees from growing at all.

“Guess we should make for the forest,” Koenig says.

He’s learning.

“Yes. We have time. We’ll take it slow.”

I shouldn’t be such an asshole to Koenig. It’s just that I never liked him.

Admit it, Breed. You love being out here, where Koenig doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. Where... you’re coming back into your own.

We’ve been on this rock less than four hours, and already it’s like I never left Afghanistan. I’m moving on the slope like a mountain man. My hips and shoulders rock gently with the swaying of my fifty-pound ruck, six pounds of ballistic plate, and ten pounds of sniper rifle. All in rhythm with my gait over the sharp rocks and loose shale.

Koenig and the others are in better shape than I, but they’re sucking shit. I’ve been pre-adapted to the harsh environment.

Joy sings in my blood as I climb the slope to the trees. My legs burn, but I shrug off the fatigue. Koenig gasps behind me, falls behind with every stride. I’ll be nicer to him, but not yet.

I don’t bother to look at my watch. The night sky tells me what I need to know. We’re heading straight north. The sky above Kagur-Ghar is lightening. The stars above are sharp and bright, those hanging over the snow-clad summit are dimming.

The spot I’ve picked on the tree line provides the view I expected. I step into a cozy nook behind a big pine tree and look into the black valley. Scan the shiny worm of the river, the little bridge, and the dark shapes of houses in the village.

I lower myself and sit on a soft carpet of pine needles. Drink in the smell of sap, and early morning frost. Stretch my legs out.

Koenig, Takigawa, and Lopez join me. I pull my gloves tighter. Clouds of steam surround our sweating bodies, but exposed metal is ice-cold. Grasp a rifle with your bare hands, and your skin will lock tight, as though bound with glue. I set the butt of the M110 on the ground and lean on it, careful not to touch the barrel with my cheek.

We’ve arrived on schedule.

Dawn is an hour away.

I lean against the pine and allow myself to sleep. Everyone will want to catch their first glimpse of the target by daylight. I’m in no hurry. It’ll be another pile of rocks.

When I wake, I find an ocean of fog has rolled in and filled the valley. It’s so thick it’s risen almost to our position on Shafkat. Only a snick of Kagur-Ghar’s north peak is visible. A quarter of the south summit peeps above the blanket.

The sun has risen and hangs over the saddle that joins the two peaks. The saddle itself is obscured by fog, and the sun shines through the mist like an orange orb suspended in space. A circle of light you can stare at without hurting your eyes. I’ve awakened to one of the most beautiful sights God ever put on this earth.

It’s cold. Frost covers the pine needles and forest floor. My uniform, wet with sweat an hour ago, has frozen and frosted over so it crackles when I move. The air is sweet with the smell of the pines.

I unclip the NODs from my helmet and squeeze them into a pouch on the left side of my plate carrier.

“It’s beautiful,” Takigawa says.

“Yes, it is.”

I like Takigawa. A tough, hardened warrior, he’s blessed with an innate Japanese appreciation for beauty. I imagine him making origami birds, killing time in the barracks.

Koenig’s squad radio crackles. “Five-Five Actual, this is Five-Five Kilo.”

“Go ahead, Five-Five Kilo.”

Ballard’s voice. “We are preparing to move to blocking position.”

The pair were landed on the east slope of Kagur-Ghar. It made sense for them to wait for daylight before plunging into the forest.

“Copy that,” Koenig says. “You’ve got time.”

“Actual. We have eyes on six Talis moving north-by-east on Parkat.”

The hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

“Have they spotted you?” Koenig sounds anxious.

“Negative, Actual. Looks like a patrol, moving away.”

Koenig looks at me. I shrug.

“Advance to your blocking position,” he tells Ballard.

“Five-Five Kilo, copy. Moving now.”

I twist the cap off my canteen and drink deeply. When I’m done I open my pack and take out a pair of compact Leitz 16 x 35 binoculars. I loop their strap over my neck and settle back. Wait for the fog to clear.

The sun on my face wakes me. The fog has burned off, and we have a clear view of the village. Takigawa has taken out a powerful spotting scope and is studying the ground. To keep sunlight from glinting off the front element, he’s deployed a honeycomb lens shade.

I ask him what he thinks.

“It’s what we expected,” Takigawa tells me. “Nice to see the village and battlefield for real.”

He’s right. All the maps and satellite imagery in the world can’t beat eyes on the ground. I rise to my feet, grunt and stretch. Deploy my own lens shades, and lift the binoculars to my eyes. Glass the village.

It’s not large, as Pashtun villages go. Maybe forty houses, distributed across nine levels and eight terraces. It climbs the mountainside, like those perch villages you find in the south of France or Italy. The houses are gray and brown, separated from the river by twenty yards of rocky escarpment. A wooden bridge has been flung across the river to provide villagers and goatherds access to the west bank.

Each level is between four and seven houses wide. Stone steps rise along the sides of the village. Steep staircases like those found in Montmartre in Paris. These are narrow, two feet wide, with landings at each level. The houses are built on the terraces, with paths in front.