Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

I was getting over it in the Philippines. Learning to sleep unaided. Flying in a C-17 to Bagram is a good reason to climb off the wagon.

I stuff a pair of wax plugs in my ears and throw myself on the bag. Pull the cargo strap over my chest and under my arms. The takeoff sequence is a dream. In minutes, I’m watching the movie in my mind.

It was two years ago.

The screaming wouldn’t stop.

High-pitched screams of agony and terror.

The village was in southern Afghanistan. There were mountains to the east, of course, but the local high ground consisted of foothills. Not as difficult to navigate as the mountainous country to the north. This was poppy country, where Afghanistan’s major crop was grown.

Two of our men had been taken the day before. They were being held in the village, which was Taliban-controlled. My spotter and I had been ordered by Lieutenant Koenig to infil and locate the prisoners. Evaluate the chances of an escape.

Our Rules of Engagement forbade engaging unless we could do so with a reasonable probability of rescue.

We all knew the chances of rescue were slim. A rescue force could go in with armor, or it could go in by air. Probably both. The Taliban would be waiting. In the worst case, the prisoners would be killed immediately, the rescue force would take heavy losses, and the death of civilians would be inevitable. More of our men might be taken prisoner.

Two of us went in. Me with an M42 sniper rifle, and my spotter with an M4 to provide security. We knew what the consequences would be if we were caught. I intended to kill myself before I let that happen.

We climbed a low hill eight hundred yards from the village. Built our firing position.

That was when we first heard the screams.

“What the fuck are they doing?” Moe Tarback asked.

I didn’t answer. Set my M42 on its bipod, took out a beanbag, and shoved it under the toe of the rifle’s butt. The M42 was a modified .308 Remington 700 with a heavy barrel. A classic hunting rifle, one of the most accurate sniper weapons available. My first rifle, when I was twelve years old, was a Remington 700.

Tarback lay behind his spotting scope, and took out his gear. Laser rangefinder, Kestrel anemometer, a notebook of firing solutions for the M42.

With the scope at 3.6x, I scanned the village. We had a good angle, I could see the square clearly. The screams continued, spaced with pauses as though the torturers were drawing out the exercise.

“I can’t tell where the screaming is coming from,” I said.

We were prepared to displace if we could find a better firing position. This hill was good. I couldn’t see elevated positions closer to the village. It was hard to imagine a better angle.

“Neither can I.” Tarback squinted through the spotter scope. He positioned himself behind me and to my right. He wanted to have as clear a view as possible of my bullet trace.

There were villagers going about their chores in the streets. Taliban were mixed among them. Everyone in Afghanistan has a rifle, whether it’s an AK47 or an old Lee Enfield. Rifles are the soul of an Afghan.

“Horizontal range 786,” Tarback said. He had taken a reading with the laser rangefinder and inclinometer. Double-checked with the spotter scope reticle. The horizontal range to a target is the distance from the shooter if one measures flat to the earth. When firing from an elevated position, the line-of-sight range is always longer than the horizontal range. The horizontal range is the correct range to use in the firing solution.

The rifle was zeroed at four hundred yards. I moved my hand to the elevation turret and dialed in the adjustment.

From his position behind me, Tarback counted the click-stops and checked my work.

The wind was blowing dust from the streets.

How convenient.

“Wind 10, right-to-left, full value. Deflect three-point-six.”

“Roger that.”

I made no adjustment to the turrets. I knew the windage, and I would shift my crosshairs by the appropriate hold-off. Wind speed and direction changed frequently. I could move faster by cuffing the adjustments rather than dialing them in.

Slaughterhouse screams.

We lay there for hours. The blood-curdling screams continued. Spaced-out, carefully paced.

Screaming uses energy. A man can’t sustain full-throated screams for more than a few minutes. If torturers continue their work without pausing, their victim becomes exhausted and ceases to function. Some nerves continue to conduct pain stimuli. Others are dulled. The torturer can’t tell the difference because the victim can no longer make noise.

The Afghans know this. Their women are skilled in the art of torture. They use knives, they take their time. While the women work, the men watch or stand guard. In this case, there were a lot of armed Taliban in the village. They expected rescue to come from the air.

Tarback was shaken. “God almighty,” he said. “How long has this been going on?”

“Day and a half,” I murmured.

The screams must have lowered in pitch over the course of the day. I didn’t notice because the process was gradual. The winding down of a life, like the running down of a clock.

“There,” Tarback said.

“I see them.”

Two women in burqas were dragging a man from one of the houses. A naked carcass of raw, bloody meat. The thing’s mouth opened, the sound beyond description. I saw white eyes, white teeth. Ragged skin, black with dried blood, peeled from red skeletal muscles, white ribs, and the pink-white abdominal wall. Translucent, enclosing dark, violet bowel. Afghans cheered.

Ropes were tied around the man’s wrists. They had used those ropes to bind him inside the house. Now they were using them to drag him into the square.

A third woman dragged a second carcass from the house. This man was silent.

“Jesus Christ,” Tarback breathed. He keyed his mike. “One-Five Actual from One-Five Bravo.”

“Go ahead, One-Five Bravo.” Koenig’s voice.

“Two, repeat two POWs dragged into square. Their skin’s been taken off.”

“Say again, One-Five Bravo.”

“You heard me.” Tarback was about to vomit.

Koenig made