Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

walking in on her that night. She’d been sobbing.

“Shahzad’s force has been crushed,” I tell her. ”Tomorrow morning, we’ll call for exfil. They will extract us by air.”

“Promise me,” Robyn says, “you won’t tell anyone Zarek and I are married. The people who know, in State and the CIA, will reach out. Let them come to us.”

“We’re going to be debriefed.”

“Of course. I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you not to tell everything. Without Colonel Grissom, I have to wait for friends to come to me. They will, as soon as they learn the colonel was killed.”

I hesitate. But—Robyn’s suspicions mirror mine. And my suspicions mirror Stein’s. I believe interests in neoconservative circles want the war to continue. I’ll go so far as to say the military-industrial lobby wants the war to continue. But Afghanistan is a sideshow compared to Syria, Iran and Ukraine. I’m not prepared to believe it’s worth murdering an Army colonel over.

“Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll play along. For a while.”

“Thanks, Breed. That’s all I ask.”

30

Debrief

North Arwal Valley

Friday, 0800

The Apaches hover over the riverbed, their chin guns levelled at Zarek’s troops. The warlord signals two of his men. The Mujahedeen step forward from the tree line, long olive drab tubes on their shoulders. Stingers. Zarek snaps a command, and the shooters lock onto the Apaches.

Koenig stands there doing nothing.

“Ballard,” I snap. “What’s their call sign?”

“Black Hawk is Hawk One. Apaches are Hawk Two and Three.”

I take the handset from Ballard. “Hawk Two, this is Five-Five Sierra.”

“Go ahead, Five-Five Sierra.”

“Safe your weapons and back off. These are friendlies.”

“Five-Five Sierra, they have missile lock on us.”

“You have guns on them. For the record, it’s my call. Back off two miles.”

“Hawk Two, copy. Your call. Backing off two miles.”

The first Apache peels away. The second hesitates, then follows.

I meet Zarek’s steely gaze. He nods, waves his men off. The shooters raise their missile tubes and withdraw to the tree line.

“Hawk One, this is Five-Five Sierra.”

“Go ahead, Five-Five Sierra.”

“LZ is clear. These are friendlies. We are ready to exfil.”

“Copy, Sierra. Stand back, we’re coming down.”

The Black Hawk swoops down, flares for landing. The door gunners are primed for action.

“Hawk One, keep your gunners off their triggers.”

“Hawk One, copy.”

“Let’s go.” Koenig ducks his head against the rotor wash and runs to the helo. Takigawa follows, then Lopez and Ballard.

I take Robyn by the arm. Together, we run to the waiting Black Hawk and pile in. She sits on the floor, her back to the copilot. I squeeze in next to her, brace one booted foot against the minigun mount.

Koenig takes the handset from Ballard. “Let’s get out of here,” he tells the pilot.

The Black Hawk pilot lifts from the LZ. His rotor wash drives the Mujahedeen back. All but Zarek, who stands in the open, staring at the helicopter as it pulls away. Robyn puts one hand on my shoulder, the other on my chest rig. Leans around me.

She’s not waving goodbye, but I know Robyn’s eyes are drinking Zarek in. Impressing his image upon her memory. Standing in the rotor wash, Dragunov slung over his shoulder, watching her go.

The future of a country rides on this girl’s shoulders.

The three helicopters fly south-by-west in a Vic formation. Our Black Hawk leads, flanked behind and on either side by the two Apaches. We race across the mountains, skirting the tall peaks of the Hindu Kush. Soon, we are hurtling over foothills. To our right rises the forbidding shark’s-tooth silhouette of the Koh-i-Baba range.

My ears are stuffed by the pressure differential as the Black Hawk descends toward Bagram. I swallow hard to clear the inner chambers. Soon, I am gulping air as fast as I can, trying to equalize the pressure within and without my skull.

Robyn twists, craning her neck to look through the pilots’ windscreen. I turn and register what she sees. The vast complex of Bagram Air Field. The long runway, the endless rows of parked aircraft. Everything from whale-like C-5 Galaxies to tiny F-16s. Row upon row of administrative buildings, barracks and armories.

The Black Hawk lands at the rotary wing terminal, and the pilots shut down the engines. The Apaches make for the gunship field. I look out the door. Next to the landing pad, a Special Forces sergeant stands waiting by a Humvee.

I step off the Black Hawk and help Robyn down. As soon as Koenig joins us on the tarmac, I say, “What the hell was that, Captain?”

“What are you talking about, Breed?”

“Were you going to stand there and let Zarek’s men and the Apaches shoot each other?”

Koenig turns on me. “Listen, Breed. Let me remind you those Mooj are still the enemy. As and when we get a peace deal in our hot little hands, we will cease fire. Until then, I don’t trust anybody.”

“You came pretty goddamn close to a firefight right there.”

The sergeant approaches us, salutes Koenig. “Captain Koenig, your team is to report to General Anthony.”

“Very well, Sergeant. Let’s go.”

Blood pounds in my temples. I want to haul off and deck Koenig. Am I being paranoid? Oversensitive because of my conversations with Stein and Robyn?

No. We have reason to be hypersensitized to danger. Robyn looks at me anxiously. The young girl who orchestrated this complicated negotiation is in the thick of it. She is struggling to process situations her experience has not prepared her to handle.

I take Robyn by the arm and help her into the Humvee. She sits between me and Takigawa. Koenig, Lopez and Ballard sit across from us in back. Koenig stares at me, fuming. Was his dereliction malicious, or an example of his lackadaisical approach to command? I am seeing threats everywhere.

Lopez stares straight ahead, unconcerned. Ballard looks troubled. He knows how close we came to exchanging fire with Zarek’s Mujahedeen. He knows the escalation was unnecessary. A call to the helicopters before they approached was all that was required to control the situation.

The sergeant drives us to General Anthony’s HQ. The VIP gate is