Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

a lookout. Lopez on the west face, Trainor on the east. Watch each other’s back.”

Lopez and Trainor glare at each other. Sullen, they walk to their positions.

“Five-Five Actual, this is Five-Five Kilo,” Ballard says.

Nothing.

“You got the right frequency?”

“Yes.” Ballard twists a dial on the set. “We can reach them, but they can’t reach us. Their squad radios aren’t powerful enough.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “They can hear us, but we can’t hear them. If I speak into that handset, there’s a good chance Koenig will hear, though he can’t respond.”

“Exactly. Incoming bursts on the squad frequency will trip their receivers. He’ll try to respond, but it’ll take him a minute to realize you can’t hear him.”

I motion for the handset and Ballard hands it over. “Five-Five Actual, this is Five-Five Sierra. Listen close. You can hear me, but I cannot hear you. Have spotted Mujahedeen caravan in valley between us and Lanat. LZ Three is no-go, we cannot RV. Am sheltering for the night, will advise intentions in the morning. Repeat. Will advise intentions in the morning.”

“Fair enough,” Ballard says.

“Best we can do,” I tell him. “Let’s raise the general.”

Ballard has no trouble reaching the general. The 25-Watt HF ManPack bounces waves off the ionosphere, straight onto Bagram. I provide a terse update of our situation. No embellishment is required—it’s a clusterfuck.

“Bring Principal Two home.” If General Anthony is tearing his hair out, his voice gives no indication. “Use your discretion. Improvise.”

“Yes, Sir. What about Five-Five Actual?”

“If they are at LZ Three on schedule, we will exfil, subject to local air superiority.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Keep me posted. Two-One Actual out.”

Ballard switches off the radio. We exchange glances. Trainor and Lopez are keeping watch on the slopes. It is my first chance to be alone with Ballard since Grissom’s fall.

“What happened out there?” I ask. “You had the clearest view.”

“I don’t know, Breed.” Ballard looks uncertain. “The colonel was getting worse. Unsteady on his feet. Half the time, he used Lopez for support. Then he saw that caravan, broke loose, and stepped onto the outcrop. Lopez went after him, tried to pull him back. The colonel kind of… flailed. They struggled for a second. The colonel fell.”

“Did you see the way Trainor looked at Lopez?”

“Trainor thinks Lopez killed the colonel.” Ballard grimaces. “Dude, her reaction was fucking bizarre.”

“She’s calmed down,” I tell him.

“Trainor freaked out once.” Ballard shakes his head. “That’s once too many.”

18

Zarek’s Base Camp

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 2000

The wind howls on the mountaintop. Ballard stands at the wall of the enlisted quarters and covers the west approach. Lopez covers the south. All around us, the rocky slope drops off in a symmetric cone. Both men are wearing their helmets and NODs. The Taliban cannot approach undetected.

“Four hours,” I say. “Trainor and I will spell you at midnight.”

I descend the steps of the officers’ dugout and find Trainor leaning back against one of the walls. She’s sitting on the floor, arms folded across her chest, trying to stay warm. The dugout provides protection from the wind.

She’s staring at the sky.

Resentment and anger have bled from her features, leaving grief. She has been crying. In the moonlight, the tracks of tears shine on her dusty cheeks.

Nights are dark in the Hindu Kush. Villages are lit by lanterns. Precious fuel is conserved. In the mountains, the faintest glow can give away your position. Something as simple as lighting a digital watch can get you killed. A cigarette is a magnet for snipers. In the valley, the caravan has lit cooking fires. Cocky bastards.

Without light pollution, a clear night is beautiful. The sky is an ocean of stars. “Do you see the Big Dipper?” I ask.

“Yes.” Trainor points. “Right there. If you follow it, you get—the North Star.”

One of the logs that formed the ceiling has fallen back into the space. I sit on the floor across from her and lean against it.

Exhaustion is stamped on the girl’s features. Her blond hair has been drawn back in a careless ponytail. A tangle of loose strands hangs to her shoulders, gets in her eyes.

“You were right,” I tell her.

“About what?”

“I do love it here.”

“You got a first name, Breed?”

“Yes.”

Trainor stares at me. At last she chuckles. “You can call me Robyn.”

“I’m not sure that would be appropriate.”

“Why? You’re not a serving officer. You’re a consultant.”

She’s playing with me, and I don’t mind.

“Robyn,” I say, “you’re a tough girl.”

“Not five minutes ago.”

“How well did you know Grissom?”

“How long have you known these men?”

“Are we trading now? Two days.”

“You were brought in from outside. Why would they do that?”

“I know the land. Now—how well did you know Grissom?”

Robyn zips her field jacket to her chin and tries to duck into it like a turtle. “Reasonably well, over the last six months. He was a good man. I liked him.”

“Eighteen months, Zarek held you. Did you ever try to escape?”

Darkness. I study Robyn’s expression by the light of the moon and stars. She exhales, and her breath fogs instantly.

“I knew you’d ask me that.”

I shrug. “You’ll have to answer at your debrief.”

Robyn chews her lip. “Alright,” she says. “I tried to escape—once.”

“Tell me.”

She does.

The Mujahedeen who captured Robyn hooded her, and marched for three days along the banks of the Arwal. When helicopters passed overhead, her captors rushed her to the cover of the tree line.

Robyn was exhausted. On the fourth day, the Mujahedeen mounted horses and put her on a pack mule. The trail sloped upward. Her captors took her ever higher into the mountains. Deeper into the Hindu Kush.

When they stopped, the Mujahedeen jerked the hood from her head and pushed her off the donkey. Hands bound behind her back, she fell to the ground with a thud. The men around her laughed.

The shock of the impact rattled her bones. Robyn felt like she had been beaten.

They had arrived at another village. High in the mountains, surrounded by snow-capped peaks. The village, of rock and logs, rose majestically from the river valley. It was bigger