Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

Taliban are gathering behind houses at the top of the escarpment. Others are crossing the bridge from the far side, taking kneeling positions on the riverbank. It’s like every fourth or fifth man carries an RPG on his back. A long firing tube, and a pointed warhead. Other men carry spare rockets.

“We should run for it,” Ballard says.

I shake my head. “It’s light enough to see. They’ll blow us off the mountain before we get halfway up those steps.”

“I ain’t surrendering, chief.” Lopez draws his Mark 23, stuffs the pistol in his waistband. “It’s like that dude Kipling said. Save the last round for yourself.”

I look through my scope, searching for the Taliban warlord.

No sign of Shahzad. There are other men who look like squad leaders. They are getting ready to rush us. An RPG barrage first. No idea how many RPGs this stone wall can survive. They’ll follow with an infantry charge.

“Ballard.”

“Yes, chief.”

“Can we call a Broken Arrow… Napalm the whole village?”

“Negative. There’s ROE. Civilians hiding in these houses.”

I draw my Mark 23, hand it to Robyn. “You’re living Kipling now, Sergeant.”

The girl’s eyes meet mine. Wide, blue, all pupil. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

I brace myself against the door frame. Raise my rifle. Decide which leaders to kill first. Robyn has not seen enough killing. When you have killed enough, the act loses any special quality. It’s a job. You are left with nothing but the husks of men from whom life has been taken.

Shouts from the Taliban.

An RPG sizzles toward us.

I squeeze the trigger. One of the leaders falls.

Ballard ducks as the rocket’s warhead explodes against the outer wall. Orange flames flare against the windows, and a wave of heat breaks over our heads. The house shakes, and clouds of dust burst into the air from cracks between the stones. I fire again. Another leader jerks, blood spurting from his neck.

Another RPG explodes. The concussion rocks me back as I am about to fire. I struggle for balance, raise my rifle. Can’t reacquire my intended target. Shoot an RPG gunner instead.

More shouting, a different timbre. The Taliban are turning this way and that, shouting to each other. There is a sound like thunder. The rattle of automatic fire. Many of the Taliban are turning away from us, pointing their weapons in the opposite direction. Some run for the steps leading to higher terraces, others run for the bridge.

“What’s going on?” Lopez continues to fire, picking off fleeing Taliban.

I ignore him, swipe my scope back and forth, looking for Shahzad. The big kahuna, the apex of command and control.

“They’re running,” Ballard breathes. “My God, they’re running.”

They are. A hundred or more Taliban, fleeing across the bridge, swarming up the steps. Fighting each other to reach the tree lines on either side.

Ballard shoots a man running across the bridge. The Talib jerks, pitches over the side. Lopez fires on the men running up the steps. I have never seen men climb stairs so fast. Already, two dozen have reached the first terrace. They are either running to the tree line, or disappearing behind houses for cover. Looking for stairs and other ways to get onto the mountain.

The village and riverbanks go quiet. Cordite smoke drifts in the breeze. Three dozen Afghans on horseback approach. More men on foot follow behind them.

One man at the head of the cavalry stands out. Dressed in black, with a crimson waistcoat. A brown leather chest rig. Muzzle pointed skyward, he carries a Dragunov in his right hand.

Zarek Najibullah.

Robyn steps close, lays her hand on my shoulder. Squeezes.

“He’s here.”

Robyn undoes her headscarf from about her throat, covers her hair. Steps around me and through the door. “Let me,” she says.

Arms spread wide, Robyn approaches the mounted men. Addresses Najibullah in Pashto.

The warlord’s men remain mounted, rifles ready. Wary, they cover the opposite bank and mountainside for snipers. Najibullah exchanges words with Robyn. Turns to his men and issues commands. Mujahedeen swarm the steps and begin the process of clearing the village.

Najibullah addresses Robyn.

Robyn turns to me. “Zarek wants you to come out,” she says. “No harm will come to you.”

“We can’t trust this guy,” Lopez says.

I carry the M110 low ready. Step through the doorway. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

Ballard and Lopez follow me outside.

“Tell him we thank him for his help,” I say. “He has our gratitude.”

Najibullah responds in English. “You have rescued Sergeant Trainor from Abdul-Ali, and kept her safe. That is thanks enough.”

“We have to bring her to Bagram.”

“Colonel Grissom is not among you.”

“We lost him yesterday.”

Najibullah sighs. “That is terrible news. It is now more urgent that Sergeant Trainor complete her journey. You understand?”

“Yes. Our people cannot bring helicopters to this valley as long as Shahzad has SAMs in the hills.”

Najibullah laughs. “I have them, too. In fact, I need them more than Shahzad.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“We have to walk out,” I tell him.

“You shall ride out. I came to free Sergeant Trainor, you have rescued her for me. Therefore, you shall ride to Nangalam under my personal protection. Make no mistake, Shahzad will shadow us the entire journey.”

Najibullah dismounts. A practiced, graceful motion. He slings his rifle and goes to Robyn.

“We shall dally here an hour or two. My men are clearing the village, and we must finish any Taliban who are wounded. Make yourselves easy, enjoy a meal. I must speak with Sergeant Trainor alone.”

That’s a slap in my face. What the heck is this Afghan warlord doing, speaking with an American sergeant without leave? I start to object, but Robyn silences me with a sharp glance.

Fuming, I watch Najibullah take Robyn by the arm and escort her to the house where she had been kept prisoner two days ago. Now, Mujahedeen guards flank the door, AK47s locked and loaded. The warlord ushers her into the structure, closes the door behind them.

“Son of a bitch,” Lopez snarls.

“Take it easy,” I tell him.

One of the riders, a big man with a bushy black