Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

On the riverbank, a quarter of a mile away, a lone figure sat on a horse. A rifle was raised to his shoulder. Off-hand, he fired again.

Another thwack. The head of the man at her feet exploded.

A third man raised his AK47 and cut loose. Robyn recognized the distinctive heavy drumbeat of an AK on full auto. Effective at maybe a hundred yards. The fourth man swung onto his horse, unlimbered his rifle, and charged.

The lone figure fired again at the galloping bandit. Missed.

The man on foot dropped his mag and pulled another from his chest rig.

Thwack.

The round hit the man center-mass before he could reload. He dropped like a sack of grain.

The rider with the AK47 was charging at full tilt. The only way to close the distance and get inside the AK’s effective range.

The lone figure spurred his horse, fired again. Another gunshot, and the bullet knocked the attacker right off his mount. The horse, without its rider, bolted.

From start to finish, the engagement had lasted less than a minute and a half.

Robyn struggled to one elbow. Humiliated, she tried to cover herself. The lone mounted figure cantered toward her. She recognized the black turban with red trim, and the red waistcoat. Zarek Najibullah carried his Dragunov with one hand on the pistol grip, muzzle pointed skyward.

That was damn good shooting. Mounted, off-hand, at four hundred yards. Five shots, four hits, one from a gallop at a moving target.

Robyn squinted at Najibullah. Brushed dust from her face. Her hand came away wet with blood. From the man who had pinned her arms.

“Sergeant Trainor,” Najibullah said. “You are full of surprises.”

Robyn blinked. “What?”

Najibullah smiled. “You speak Pashto.”

Robyn was shaking. Her pants and underwear were down around her knees. She struggled to pull them up. All she wanted was to cover herself.

The warlord sat on his horse and circled her. Watched her struggle to fasten her belt with quivering fingers.

“Shall I have you flogged, Sergeant Trainor?” he asked.

“You’ll do what you want.”

“Give me your word you will not run away again.”

Close to tears, Robyn stared at him.

“I’ve seen women flogged in the villages.” Robyn shudders. “I agreed.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” I tell her. “You had to go back.”

“He gave me one of the horses from the men he had killed. Watched me mount it, liked that I knew how to ride. He made me wear the chador, escorted me back to the village. The imam tried to make trouble, but Zarek ignored him.

“Wajia said I’d been foolish, that there was nowhere to go. Zarek and the men thought my escape was entertaining. They expected me to run.”

“Entertaining.”

“These are hard men, they lead hard lives. They find sport in things modern Americans don’t understand. Hunting, racing horses cross-country, telling stories. Most Afghans are illiterate, but they respect a man who can deliver a good story.”

“Did you keep your word?” I asked.

“Yes. Everyone knew bandits tried to rape me. The men accepted Zarek’s decision not to have me beaten. I kept my word, and the village welcomed me. Of course, I was a woman, and had to respect their restrictions. Zarek gave me a lot of room. While we waited for Adim Fazili to return, Zarek took me riding, hiking. He wanted to learn all he could about our culture.”

Trainor’s narrative disturbs me. There are ways to obtain information. Trainor’s relationship with Najibullah sounds way too cozy. The fact that he’d rescued her from being raped mattered a lot to her. Everything he did was tailor-made to gain her trust.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Trainor says. “He should have beat the shit out of me and locked me in a box. You think he wanted information. I’m telling you he didn’t care. He had his own agenda.”

“Alright,” I say. “I believe you.”

But I don’t.

22

Exfil and Ambush

Kagur-Ghar

Wednesday, 0400

I call a council of war.

The four of us take a knee in the center of the enlisted bunker. Robyn and I are short on sleep after our long talk.

“What’s the plan, chief?” Ballard sounds alert and rested.

“I want to try something the Talis won’t expect.”

“I like it already,” Lopez says.

“Okay. We’re going to violate the most basic rule of infil-exfil. We are going to leave the way we came.”

A special forces team does not leave an area of operations by the same route it entered. The simple fact is, should the enemy become aware of the infil, he will deploy forces to guard it.

“Do you think they know you came by way of Shafkat?” Ballard looks skeptical.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “But any forces around the village and Shafkat are likely to be weak. We’ll use the smaller bridge. Cross the river a mile to the north, avoid the village entirely.”

“What about Shahzad’s main body?” Lopez asks.

“We’ll stay a step ahead of them. I’m willing to bet they humped all night to close on Koenig and LZ Three.”

“Will the general try to exfil LZ Three?”

“Only if the helos don’t run into SAMs. It’s also possible Shahzad doesn’t have SAMs deployed on Shafkat. Better for us.”

“What’s our Plan B?” Ballard asks.

“We’re on Plan E now,” I say. “There is always something else to try. If helo exfil fails, we’ll melt into the forest below the tree line. Walk out.”

“Alright,” Ballard says. “I’m in.”

Lopez gets to his feet. Snorts, rolls his shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring. “Why not hike out right now?”

“This mission is time-sensitive.” I glance at Robyn. “Exfil by helo is the preferred option.”

Ballard raises Bagram on the high frequency radio. General Anthony comes on the air almost immediately. I doubt he has slept.

“If we start now,” I tell him, “we can reach our insertion point on Shafkat an hour after daybreak. It’s on the west face. If Shahzad has SAMs in the village, the peak will shield us.”

“It’s worth a shot,” the general agrees. “I’ll arrange the extraction team.”

“Five-Five Sierra out.”

Next, Ballard switches to the squad frequency. Koenig cannot respond, but he might be able to receive.