Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

“There’s nothing more to tell.”

Not good enough. Trainor is holding back, but I can’t figure her out.

I’m tired of running, and I need a place to think.

Someplace we can reach before dark. A defensible strong point.

I know just the place.

17

Soviet Outpost

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 1700

The Soviets knew enough to seize the high ground. Back in the eighties, they flew a company of crack paratroopers onto the north peak of Kagur-Ghar. Built an outpost. The Taliban heard the helos fly in one morning, and the fortress was there by nightfall.

The south summit was higher, but snow-capped year round. The north peak afforded the paratroopers a commanding view of the entire Kagur River valley. It was above the tree line, occupied a position that gave defenders a 360-degree killing zone.

I intend to occupy that strong point.

We can’t go back because of Shahzad’s main body. We can’t make for Lanat because of the caravan and mounted Mujahedeen.

I step off the trail and start climbing. Full of confidence, energy surges through my limbs. The photograph of Kagur-Ghar is fresh in my mind. In half an hour, we can reach the tree line. From there, it will be easy to make our way to the peak.

The pace I set is fast enough to exhaust the fittest trooper. I’m still shaking from the confrontation at the promontory. Trainor all but accused Lopez of murder. Neither Ballard nor I saw what she thinks she saw. I can’t blame Lopez for being pissed.

Trainor is sucking wind behind me. No casual chit-chat now. Either she’s still upset by Grissom’s death, or she’s being beaten to death by the altitude and physical exertion. I will give her this much—she is holding her own. Higher and higher we climb. Without Grissom holding us back, we cover ground at a faster pace. Above the tree line, I find a trail that leads to the summit. Not directly, because such a route would be too steep. Rather, it snakes across the face at acute angles. A series of dizzy switchbacks. First south, then north, then south again—always higher.

I pick my way over rocks and boulders. Now, incongruously, over a huge log. A felled tree trunk. I sit on it, raise one leg, and rest it on the log. Prop the butt of the M110 against my thigh, lean my forehead against the barrel. Watch sweat drip from the tip of my nose. Gasping, Trainor joins me.

“How did this get here?” Trainor asks.

No question… she regrets her outburst. She’s offering a peace pipe.

“Soviets.” I lift my face to Trainor, hold the rifle barrel with both hands. “They hauled logs from the tree line by helicopter. Used them to build the fort.”

Trainor rests her hands on her knees and bends over. “Why, Breed. Why bring us here?”

“This elevated position dominates the valley. It’s a defensible strong point. From here, we can hold off two hundred Talis.”

I lower my leg to the other side of the log and roll over the obstacle in one smooth motion. Climb higher.

“Fuck.” Behind me, Trainor levers herself over the log. I’m pretty sure she’s not swearing at me.

More logs are scattered over the mountainside. Many are splintered. When the Soviets abandoned the fort, they set off explosive charges, scattered debris everywhere.

I reach the top as the sun crowns the summit of Shafkat. We’re ten thousand feet above sea level and the air is cold. The setting sun bathes the mountain in blood-orange light.

Take out my binoculars, sweep the valley. Looks like the caravan will make camp for the night. The Mujahedeen are setting a lager on the embankment of the Kagur. Watering the horses. They must be Shahzad’s men… they are making no effort at concealment.

Sweep right. Nothing from the direction of the bridge. An illusion. Koenig and Takigawa have disengaged. Shahzad will have split his force. A small unit descending the east face to flank Koenig. The main force following the contour of the mountain to the west. Will they see signs of our passage?

Exhausted, Trainor collapses next to me. “What do you think?”

“I think everybody is going to ground for the night.”

Lopez is the next to reach the peak. He casts his eyes around. “Be it ever so humble.”

The Soviet outpost isn’t much to look at. Never was. Two bunkers, a cookhouse, a magazine, and slanted chutes blasted in the rock—to wash toilet waste downhill. The smaller of the bunkers was for officers, the other for the enlisted. The sleeping quarters doubled as storage space for supplies. RPGs and ammunition for mortars was stored in the magazine bunker in case the Mujahedeen got lucky with a mortar round.

When the Soviets blew everything up, they did a pretty good job. The quarters are little more than a pair of dugouts sunk five feet into shallow depressions in the rock. The log and stone walls are still there. They rise three feet above the depressions.

Each roof had once been constructed of logs laid across the walls. Each log was lifted by helicopter from the tree line. In some cases, the Soviets used a double layer, to provide extra protection from mortar attack. The magazine had a concrete roof with rebar, and logs on top. Pitch was slapped between the logs for insulation. The whole affair was covered with canvas tarp to provide a measure of waterproofing. When the Soviets’ charges went off, the rock reinforced the walls, and directed the blast effect skyward. A good eighty percent of the roofs are gone, scattered over the mountainside. A few of the logs fell back into the living spaces.

I key my squad radio. “Five-Five Actual, this is Five-Five Sierra.”

No response.

Ballard trudges the last few steps to the mountaintop.

“Five-Five Actual, this is Five-Five Sierra.”

“They’re out of range,” Ballard says. “I can get them on the high frequency set.”

“Let’s do that.”

Ballard shrugs off the ManPack, deploys its five-foot whip, and establishes comms. I turn to Lopez and Trainor. “We can hold off a company from here if we have to,” I say. “Keep