Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

was in position to cut off Koenig and Takigawa on the west slope of Lanat,” I tell them. “At the time, he could not have known our team had split up. Why did Shahzad turn his main body around and head for the village?”

“He was covering all his bases,” Koenig says. “All morning, Takigawa and I dodged a platoon-strength detachment.”

“Shahzad knew Zarek’s caravan was on its way to the village. Zarek’s mounted fighters were covering ground at the pace of the Mujahedeen infantry. Even so, Shahzad had to turn around and drive his own foot soldiers hard. His objective was to get to the village first. Kill us and capture Robyn before Zarek could intervene. We held him off long enough for the cavalry to arrive.”

I pause for effect. “How did Shahzad know to move his infantry so quickly?”

“We may never know the answer to that, Breed,” General Anthony says. “Shahzad split his force and moved quickly. Captain Koenig’s theory is as good as any.”

Koenig tells of our two days on the trail with Zarek’s caravan, the ambush at the riverbend, and the battle that conclusively defeated Shahzad’s main body. The captain ends with our extraction earlier this morning.

Before the general can speak, I interject. “Sir, Najibullah said something I thought rather odd.”

“What was that, Breed?”

“He claimed we attacked his caravans three times more often than we attacked Shahzad’s.”

“That’s news to me, Breed.” General Anthony clasps his hands behind his back and steps to the front of the room. “Have you seen any such stats, Larsen?”

“No, Sir.” The captain lifts his eyes from the screen of his laptop. “I don’t think we break them out that way.”

“It isn’t the kind of self-serving statement Najibullah would make,” I offer. “He said it was not too difficult to count. Good businessmen count.”

The general smiles. “Well, I reckon we bomb them where we find them, Breed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The general dismisses me, addresses Koenig. “Thanks for the picture, Captain.”

“If you have any other questions, Sir.”

“Not at the moment.” Anthony turns to Robyn. “Sergeant Trainor, it is unfortunate that Colonel Grissom did not survive to see you freed from your ordeal. I am given to understand that you are familiar with the details of the deal he negotiated with Najibullah. These men are all cleared top secret. Please share with the team.”

“There is considerable detail, General.” Robyn straightens in her chair. “In broad terms, the United States agrees to withdraw all its forces from Afghanistan. The Afghan National Government and Zarek Najibullah will make peace, and guarantee the Taliban and Al Qaeda will not be allowed to operate inside the Afghan-Pakistan border. It’s that simple.”

“And the details?

“I am to convey the details to the highest authority in DC, Sir. They will be documented in an agreement Zarek Najibullah is prepared to sign.”

“The deal can’t be that simple.”

“It’s not. There are spheres of influence, phases of implementation. Colonel Grissom was very specific. I was to convey the details to State and the highest authority in DC.”

What balls. Robyn is giving General Anthony the equivalent of her name, rank and serial number.

The general wrestles with his frustration. “Very well,” he says. “I am scheduled to engage in a call with State an hour from now. Captain Larsen will arrange appropriate quarters. Grab a shower, some hot chow. We’ll reconvene when I have something to tell you.”

The general leaves the conference room. We are left staring at each other in silence.

“Gentlemen.” Captain Larsen slaps his laptop shut and pockets his digital recorder. “If you’ll follow me.”

31

The Bonus

Bagram

Friday, 1300

Captain Larsen takes us back to the Humvee. The sergeant who escorted us from the helo has gone. We pile into the vehicle, and Larsen gets behind the wheel. In minutes, he is racing toward the barracks area.

“You’ll occupy the same barracks you’ve occupied all week,” he tells Koenig. I assume his statement includes me, since I was billeted with the team. “The women’s quarters are across the street. With force reductions, there is plenty of room. Sergeant Trainor will have a room to herself. She’ll share quarters with three other ladies, two nurses from the base hospital, and one from intel.”

The Humvee lurches to a stop in front of the same drab, prefabricated huts I saw when I arrived on Monday. The street the captain referred to is a single lane, twenty feet wide.

“Sergeant Trainor’s in the hut opposite yours,” he says. “Sergeant, please follow me. The rest of you wait here.”

Robyn piles out of the Humvee and follows Larsen to the first hut on the women’s side of the street.

The captain pounds on the door, throws it open. “Man on the floor!”

He disappears inside, with Robyn in tow. Emerges five minutes later.

“Gentlemen,” Larsen says, “I believe you are familiar with your quarters. You have until sixteen hundred free. Do whatever you like. I will be in touch with Captain Koenig to let you know the score.”

We pile out of the Humvee, shoulder our weapons and our rucks. I’m too exhausted to move. Follow the others into the hut, go to my room, and drop my gear on the floor. Strip naked, walk bare-assed to the communal shower, and let the spray blast four days of mountain dirt and sweat off my body. I’m not alone. Koenig, Lopez and Ballard straggle in. Dressed in full combat gear, Takigawa has passed out on his bed.

I go to the sink and shave. Back in my room, I close the door, put on the civilian clothes and desert boots I’d worn from Clark. I hang up my stinking camouflage uniform. Set the M110 and plate carrier at the very back of the closet.

The Mark 23, I take from its holster. Drop its magazine, rack the slide, and perform a three-point check. There were two spare magazines in my plate carrier. I grunt, fish them out, and slap a fresh mag in the butt. Let the slide go, lock and load. I place the spare mags in the pocket of my field