Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

options are identified and articulated. If exfil from LZ One fails, the team moves on to LZ Two, a set number of hours later. If that fails, a pre-arranged exfil from LZ Three is attempted at another fixed time. Takigawa and Koenig can either abandon us and go for LZ Two, or try to meet us at LZ Three.

“Wait one, Sierra.”

More explosions. Shrapnel splinters the remaining pillar supporting our end of the bridge. Loud as gunshots, the ropes supporting the span snap. The bridge tumbles into the chasm, dangles against the north wall of the ravine.

Koenig comes back on the radio. “Sierra, we will meet you at LZ Three. What are your intentions?”

“We’re going to circle back across the west face of Kagur-Ghar and head down-slope. If we can’t use the bridge, neither can the Talis. You can cover our withdrawal.”

“Roger that, Sierra. Maintain contact. Good luck.”

“Five-Five Sierra, out.”

Koenig and Takigawa are our ace in the hole. Safely across the chasm, there is no way Shahzad can outflank them. The best he can do is rake them with suppressive fire and shell them with mortars. But—he only has two mortars. One man—Takigawa, with a sniper rifle, can pin Shahzad down. Takigawa has limitless options on Lanat to displace and cover the far side of the gorge.

So long as he has ammunition for the heavy M110.

Ten magazines and as many stripper clips.

Koenig can help. I wish we had thought to bring a light machine gun.

The mortars continue to hammer the approach to the bridge. Fountains of rock and dirt are blasted from the clearing. The first fused airbursts shower the space with shrapnel and cartwheeling tree branches thick as a man’s thigh.

Trainor, Lopez and Grissom join us at the edge of the forest.

“We’re going to try for LZ Three,” I tell them. “We have to get moving. Koenig and Takigawa will cover us from Lanat.”

Grissom hangs his head.

“We have no choice,” I tell them. “But we have been lucky so far. Now, we get cover from the other side of the gorge.”

“Breed… you’re hurt.” Trainor brushes the side of my face. Her fingers come away slick with a pink fluid. “What is this?”

The concern in her voice, the tenderness of her touch, surprises me.

“I was a few feet from some RPG blasts,” I tell her. “Overpressure ruptures blood vessels in the ear. Nothing to worry about now—we have to get out of here.”

Koenig and Takigawa can buy us at least an hour. There are two ways for Shahzad to pursue us. First, he can force his way through the clearing at great cost. Second, he can have men climb the steep ridge that separates the east and west faces of Kagur-Ghar. That option could delay pursuit for hours.

“Better lucky than good,” Ballard says.

“Best to be both,” I tell him. “I’ll take point. Then Trainor. Lopez and the colonel next. You’re rear guard.”

14

Flight from the Bridge

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 1530

Sweat pours down my face. The fluid trickling from my ears rolls down the sides of my neck and under my collar.

I lead our small band away from the clearing and onto the west slope. We throw caution to the wind, move as quickly as we can manage on the rock face.

The view from the west slope is vastly different. The expanse of the Kagur Valley spreads at our feet. Two miles in the distance lies snow-capped Shafkat. A high tree line above which little or no vegetation grows. Forested flanks, and a jagged lower tree line where trees have difficulty growing on rock faces.

It’s often easier to climb a mountain than it is to descend. In fact, when climbing, it’s wise to plan for a retreat. If your way is blocked from above, and you have no retreat, you’re fucked.

Years ago, I traversed the east slope of Kagur-Ghar. I don’t know the west face. Now I have to look for a trail off the mountain. There must be a few. The bridge was built to make it easier for travelers and goatherds to cross to Lanat and back.

From where I stand, I can’t see the whole west face. The trail we are on continues straight south, back the way we came. There’s every chance it joins the goat trail we used to escape from Kagur village. That’s no good to us. LZ Three is in the opposite direction.

The trail must have its own forks and switchbacks. Paths that lead higher, to the old Soviet outpost demolished in the eighties. Paths that lead back to the valley. Most of these trails are no more than a foot wide.

The lower levels of the west slope are heavily forested. Over the millennia, heavy snow melts swelled the Kagur River and deposited sediment and fertile soil on the mountainside. Piled onto the underlying rock. At higher elevations, there’s less soil, and weather conditions are harsh. Cold air, snowfall, and high winds. There are fewer trees, much more bare rock. Huge boulders jut from the face. Jagged rocks of all shapes and sizes. Some are larger than five-ton trucks.

Crack.

An M110. Takigawa engaging. The shot is followed by an overwhelming volume of AK47 fire. The abrasive rush of incoming mortars.

I step off the trail, follow a faint path. It’s heading south to the village. The wrong direction, but it leads off the face. At lower levels, I’ll double back.

Trainor’s voice is edged with fear. “How long can Captain Koenig hold them off?”

“As long as he and Takigawa have ammunition.”

“How long will that be?”

“Depends how many men Shahzad is willing to sacrifice.”

I listen for the crack of Koenig’s M4. He’s firing single shots. Takigawa, in particular, will be scoring one-shot kills at a range of two hundred yards. Indeed, he has enough ammunition to wipe out Shahzad’s force.

“Listen.” I struggle to keep my balance on loose rock. “What do you hear?”

“Shooting.”

“What don’t you hear?”

Breathing heavily, Trainor says nothing. Astonishing how exhausting climbing downhill can be, how hard your muscles have to work to keep your balance. You find muscles