CHAPTER 13
They were on the road again at once, in three pickups. These, however, were in much better shape than the last one. They were dusty and faded, Obvious working trucks, but everything was functional and there were no sharp metal bits poking through the seats. Rested enough, with food and a full CamelBak of water, weapons, ammo, translator, and reliable (hopefully) allies, it seemed as if it was a real mission at last.
Just before noon, they turned off the road and angled uphill. It was a jolting ride, but the drivers were familiar with the area and experienced in the techniques needed. They’d done this a time or two.
Just how long had these feuds been going on? Kyle wondered. They were less urgent and intense than the Middle East or the Balkans, but they were remembered for just as long. A strange life, plotting and scheming and never being at peace. And there were people who insisted America was militant and violent. He smirked. A few of those whiners needed to spend a week here.
Or Bosnia. There were too many similarities, and he didn’t want to go back there yet again. Dammit, the past was the past. And this future might not be too long, so he’d have to pay attention.
Shortly, they got out and started slogging on foot again. Gol had confirmed that the cell phones could call his farm, and at the suggestion, Kyle had taken another risk and given one of the two to Gol’s burly bodyguard, herder, and deputy, Pir, who was far more perceptive than he looked. Nasima wrote out directions for using the phone, and he seemed familiar with them. So the vehicles could catch up later, when they were needed for extraction. For now, they’d move quietly.
The walking was a bitch. Kyle had a sore spot on his left foot he felt sure was a small stress fracture. It wasn’t debilitating, but it was annoying. They were definitely getting their route marches in. He didn’t think the Army would waive PT for the year, though. Pity.
“I wonder how much of a problem it’s going to be to find this weasel?” he asked aloud.
“I don’t think finding him is the problem,” Wade said. “I think it’s more that no one wants to screw with this guy.”
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “If he’ll blow up children and torture women for fun, who wants to piss him off and see him when he’s really mad?”
“Exactly. But that means we can hope it’s not that hard of an infiltration.”
“Except for that part about two Americans and a translator,” Wade said. “I think he knows we’re here.”
“Yeah, it sucks to be us,” Kyle said, “but I don’t think a squad would be less noticeable.” “Right, he’d be gone. We’re along because we won’t scare him. Until it’s too late, that is.”
“That’s the plan,” Kyle chuckled. “I bet he crapped his pants after that shot I took.”
“He should,” Wade said. “He’s only big and bad because we haven’t found him yet.”
“That’s the idea. Keep in mind how cool we are, how efficient, and eventually we might believe it.”
“Well, us and our allies,” Wade said.
Gol had been good to his word. His tribe was also better equipped than Qalzai’s had been. They had newer, cleaner weapons, including AK-74s in 5.45mm and even one AK-100. They clearly had better sources of intel and materiel. In that light, Kyle had reason to be thankful.
After jabbering around a map, Gol and his next deputy Nasrulah, who had no teeth and a bald head, pointed out a likely area. “We’ll go here,” he said, “and then over this way. We’ll find them.”
It was reassuring to the Americans to see a map. It was even a standard 1:50,000 military map. They brought out their own, newer copy and took a look at the area. They were trained professionals, and the contours on the map formed into peaks they could see in their minds. It would improve their navigation on the ground.
“You know,” Wade said, slipping on another loose rock, “if I’d thought it was going to be this much of a pain, I wouldn’t have been so eager. To hell with the enemies, this terrain sucks.”
“‘A bitching GI is a happy GI’,” Kyle replied with mirth.
“Screw that,” Wade said, though he smiled, too. “I’d say it could be worse, but I won’t, because I can think of fifty or a hundred ways it could be a lot worse.”
“We could be on an alien planet, tracking down some strange artifact . . .” Kyle said.
“Or just rain and incoming fire. That seems a lot more likely and real,” Wade said.
The poor excuse for a road dove into a deep cut in the hills. Wind whipped occasional dust devils down it. It was foreboding, even though silent and empty.
At least it seemed empty. A burst of fire boiled sand from the rutted track in front. Everyone scattered for cover.
“Son of a bitch!” Wade gasped as he dropped down between Kyle and Gol behind a boulder to one side.
“Hey, you’re the wiseass who mentioned incoming fire,” Kyle said. Frankly, he was getting sick of it himself. He just wanted to take this shot, drop this freak, and get home. The universe seemed to be conspiring against him.
“Right, so what do we do now?”
“Nasima?” Kyle called after the next burst. She looked over from behind another rock, keeping low. “Tell them I want them to shoot where Wade shoots his tracers.”
“Tracers?” she asked.
“Bullets that light up.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, and told Gol, because of course, she couldn’t give orders, only he could, and she could only relay the request.
Luckily, Gol nodded agreement with a grin.
“Right, Wade, you light ’em up, they pour out the fire, I’ll spot for you and hit anything that needs precision.”
“You got it,” Wade replied. He had already swapped out his magazine for one of straight tracers. He pushed the button to bring up the Eotech sight and hunkered down around the little carbine.
It was noisy, Kyle thought. He hadn’t expected this much fire from as few people as he could see. It took a few seconds before he figured out what was happening.
Their fire discipline, to put it mildly, sucked rocks. They were great at pouring out long bursts of automatic fire that did little but waste ammo and make noise. Some of the more experienced ones stayed on semi and banged off rapid fire groups that were likely yards across. Only two or three of the group were worth a damn.
Kyle reflected that that was often true in American units, too. But in an American, or any, actual military unit, there’d be an instructor to train the panicky kids out of that. Some of these guys had been shooting like this for forty years, and he wasn’t sure how they’d lived that long, considering the real battles they must have been in.
Unless, of course, the people they fought against were equally bad shots.
Still, there was enough metal in the air that something was bound to hit sooner or later. A quick, decisive action would end this before that happened, or before their allies ran out of ammo.
Kyle identified what looked like a vintage Russian RPK, from the snout protruding between two clumps of bedrock and the muzzle flash. Whoever it was was spraying with abandon. “Wade! Reference: twelve o’clock high. RPK.”
“Sighted,” Wade said. “Nasima, have them fire on my tracer!” He squeezed off a short burst that came close to doing the job itself.
This was a game to the locals. As the streaks appeared, they enthusiastically turned their weapons on target and actually aimed, at least as far as the start of their fire. Enough bullets hit to carve the outcroppings down some, and there were several dings against the weapon itself. Its fire stopped. Whether or not there was a casualty behind it was unclear. Either way, the incoming fire declined.
Kyle had already scanned and found a competent marksman. He called to Wade, who ended the problem by himself, his tracer round cracking center of mass as the man slipped from behind a boulder to shoot, and dropping him. Nevertheless, their friends poured out a sufficient volume to reduce the corpse to hamburger. That was of great psychological effect, as the incoming fire tapered off another order of magnitude.
But someone over there was shouting orders, and the copper-clad hornets picked up once again. One of their own allies had been hit and was screaming. Chips flew above Kyle and he decided it was time to duck. He pulled in close to the earth, shimmied forward just enough to get a peek, and sought a target.
Yes, there was Qalzai, that sneering, conceited jackass. It wasn’t a good idea to mix business and pleasure, but in this case, Kyle would make an exception. There were rounds cracking close to him now, but he ignored them. He eased the SMLE forward, clicked off the safety, and sighted carefully. The range wasn’t great, perhaps 150 meters, and that was an easy range for this weapon. As long as there was no sudden movement.
Qalzai ducked and shifted, to yell at another of his men. Kyle sighed, avoided letting it get to him, and resighted. It was only a matter of a second, though in battle, seconds of action could decide the issue. But calm and professionalism would win. He breathed, squeezed, and felt the sharp kick against his shoulder.
Qalzai came apart in a mess, half his face blown off. Better yet, from a tactical point of view, he wasn’t quite dead yet. He screamed and thrashed and provided all kinds of gratuitous special effects to dissuade his buddies, who were now not firing, but running. They left their wounded and even some of their gear in their haste to retreat. Kyle wondered at the effect he’d had with that one shot, until he realized Wade had accounted for two others. That was five down out of twenty or thirty, a respectable casualty count and more than these people liked to see in thirty seconds of feuding.
Most of the kills had been by Kyle and Wade, or at least under their direction. That left far fewer wounded than could be expected. Kyle destressed with a long drink of water, ignoring the grit and slime in it for the cooling, cleaning wetness it provided. He tried to ignore the screams of the wounded, which were punctuated by cracks of fire as several were put out of their misery.
He and Wade at once administered first aid to their side’s casualties. One man had a vicious wound to his shoulder, the bone nicked and fragments scattered through the flesh. He bandaged it as best he could and tied the arm in place. One man was dead, a bullet through the lung leaving a pool of blood two yards across. Wade had bandaged up a man with an excruciating shot to the hand, and three minor wounds where people had crashed into rocks.
While they were finishing, the patrol Gol had led up returned with loot, including the damaged RPK. Considering the local craftspeople, it was likely to be operational again within a few days. Gol was grinning a yard of teeth. Nasima translated his raucous comments. “He says you shoot with Allah, destroying the enemies. And he congratulates you on Qalzai. He doesn’t say so, but you’ve proved yourself to him.”
“Sta na shukria,” Kyle said in thanks.
Several bodies besides Qalzai’s were brought down. Mirza was one of them, and Kyle felt saddened by it. He’d been a good man. It was likely his only fault was in teaming up with Qalzai. Khushal had gotten away, apparently, or had not been involved.
“No Khushal. Good. He’s a good kid,” Wade said. They’d both been thinking it.
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “And there’s Bait,” he said, pointing at another corpse. “I guess it wasn’t a bad day.”
“Glad to hear it, but we better hurry,” Wade said. “We need to be well clear before dark.” Nasima nodded, repeated it, and Gol shouted orders. In moments, everyone had formed back up, the bodies left behind with some hasty dirt and rocks thrown over them. “They will bury them better later,” Nasima said. “We are moving for safety. But it’s not right to leave any Muslim exposed to carrion birds and wild dogs.”
Kyle frankly didn’t give a damn about Qalzai and Bait, but it would make sense tactically to have them better covered. Although it wasn’t likely to happen before this mission played out. “That’s decent,” he said diplomatically, taking another pull of water and falling into line.