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CHAPTER 15



After a lunch of beans and rice with vegetables, heated over a trioxane stove, Gol asked, “How do we approach this?” His scouts had come back and drawn a map of the area. The al Qaeda patrols were marked.

“It’s not that hard, really, at least on paper,” Kyle said. “We find a good spot for a shot, set up support, take the shot, and run. Once we’re done, we can call support aircraft. We just have to hold out long enough to get a chopper in. Hopefully no more than an hour or two. If we run fast . . .” He tapered off.

“Running is not dishonorable when a task has been done, or to save soldiers for a better fight,” Gol said. “How do we arrange supporting fire?”

That was an excellent question. The discussion was important, but Kyle was groggy and wanted a nap. He’d settle for sitting still while they talked tactics.

It was decided to make the shots in the evening. They’d be to the southeast of the target, which would give them shadows and illumination. There was a risk of reflection from the scopes, but long shrouds and careful use of fabric should avoid that. The sun wouldn’t quite be in their eyes, but they might get some glare.

On the other hand, it would be much harder for them to be pursued at night, it would avoid another night camping, and would let them use NVG and then aircraft for overwhelming effect. There were no ideal conditions. But this was a good compromise.

With an improving grasp of the language and Nasima’s assistance, it was a much easier infiltration. They moved up the ridge before dinnertime, flitting from bush to boulder. They kept below the military crest until they found a good site, and made a quick, surreptitious recon over the peak.

Yes, there was a village. And it had signs of being more than that. First, there was a twenty-meter radio mast. Also two surplus Pakistani army technical vehicles, guards at the door of one house, and patrols on Suzuki dirt bikes.

“Looks like it,” Wade said.

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. This was much more military than the last encounter, and the radio antenna was the key item. Almost everyone around here was armed tactically. But communication implied a strategic mind. And that slight arch behind the house was . . . yes, a satellite dish.

“This be the place, I think,” he said.

Gol eagerly took his directions, dispersing his men in groups of two and three to provide cover fire. Once Kyle or Wade took the shot, they were going to pour automatic-weapons fire and RPGs into the camp, then run.

“I’ll wait here,” Nasima said.

“The hell you will,” Kyle replied. “We need our translator alive. I’ll motion if I need you. Get down the hill where you’re shadowed from stray shots.”

“Yes, Kyle,” she sighed, clearly not happy at being pushed aside again.

“Not sure if she’s just eager to see the climax of all this, trying to be one of the guys, or afraid to be down there alone,” Wade said.

“Dunno,” Kyle said quietly. “I do know I don’t want a civilian this close. And she’s got a real life I’d hate to see wasted. I know it’s cold, but I couldn’t care less if two or three of these guys buy it.”

“Yeah,” Wade said. “She’s got presence, a way of grabbing you. And she’s a babe.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Kyle lied. Yes, she was stunning. He didn’t know her genetic mix. He did know she was exotically beautiful, and her temper, wit, and keen mind made her that much more exciting. And as a local, a Muslim, and a civilian support specialist, she might as well be on the moon for his chances of approaching her. So he wasn’t going to go there. Anymore. He reached into his ruck and drew out his ghillie. He wanted the best concealment he could get.

“‘Hadn’t noticed’,” Wade said with a snort. “If you say so.” He reached for his suit, too.

“What’s our range?” Kyle asked, ignoring the comment.

“About eight hundred meters.”

“Not close enough,” he said. The SMLE could reach that far . . . but it would be a high-arcing trajectory, and not reliable. Especially with the bogus “match” ammo he had. As near as he could tell, it was standard ball. Still, the smith had done an honest job on the rifle. And there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. “Can we get closer?”

A brief exchange yielded the answer, “Five hundred meters. No closer.” That was a very respectable range for the SMLE, but doable. It had been a mistake to bring the Barrett in the first place. It wasn’t a weapon for extreme precision. It was a weapon for busting armor and vehicles. An infiltration with support was how it should have been played all along.

Next time, he’d tell them he wanted a weapons platoon.

“Three hundred,” Kyle said as he donned the shapeless tan ghillie. There was nothing without risk. He’d prefer to simply call an air strike at this point, but that wasn’t possible in putatively friendly territory with so many undefined people around. He wasn’t going to call them “innocent,” but he would give them the benefit of the doubt because his orders said so.

Gol sighed in exasperation as he answered, “Yes.”

So they sought an approach down the rocks. It would need to allow them a swift retreat, heavy cover, good concealment, and a clear field of fire. The criteria were tough. Luckily, the ridge was long and geologically recent. There would be an appropriate place somewhere, they just had to find it.

It only took twenty minutes. While Gol and his boys might not be professionally trained, they were experienced enough to be patient and calm. One of the teenagers whistled softly for attention, and grinned a mouth of teeth as he pointed.

“Good enough,” Kyle commented. It was. Bedrock with enough texture for traction lay down the hill, with tumbled slabs over it, slowly weathering away after their collapse from a vertical peak above.

He and Wade, with Gol and the teen moved forward. Kyle would rather have had another experienced troop, but it was the kid’s right as the finder to be along. Still, he seemed reliable. Above and behind them, the other six hugged the ridge, prepared to fire and under orders to do so only if incoming fire threatened the snipers. That left one driving each vehicle, and one each on the guns in case of pursuit.

The sun was angling down, shadows lazily falling across the landscape as they snuck down. “We might get darkness for cover, too.”

“Excellent,” Wade said. “Though I don’t think we’ve got the only night vision.”

“I bet we use it better,” Kyle said. It was arrogant, he knew, but really, most of these guys weren’t that well trained. Cunning, sneaky, intelligent, sure. But not trained and schooled. Education was key.

Education, patience, logistics, communications, adaptation . . . even on a mission with only two troops, he reflected, battle was a complex skill that took massive support. “An Army of One” might be a great PR tool for recruiting, but this mission depended on two snipers, their knowledge, local support, a chunk of cash, a radio, a computer, an orbiting aircraft, satellite intel, CIA-gathered intel, several transport aircraft, and four military installations. Two generals, their staffs, an infantry lieutenant, a whole chain of supply clerks, and several pilots and mechanics had put them here.

He shook himself back to the present, though the mental drift was good, as it meant he was in the mindset to do his job. One couldn’t have a wandering mind if scared or overwhelmed, so he was calm. All he had to do was keep a focus on the operation, and zoom in where needed.

He found a good position, in shadow from the falling sun, framed by rocks and wide enough to pan across the entire village. Wade was right next to him.

“I’d call this three hundred and fifty-five meters to the near edge,” Wade said, “three hundred and ninety to the antenna.”

“Right. Far side?” Kyle asked.

“Eight hundred meters. But we’re waiting for him to get near the radio, right?”

“I figure he’s in there now. Hence the guards.”

“Good bet,” Wade agreed.

Next came the waiting. They stared in turns, taking time to rest their eyes. Sweat rolled down them, and the rock underneath was cool, then chill. As the shadows lengthened and swallowed them entirely, the temperature dropped. That left them dusty and sticky, then wishing for more clothes. The wool itched and scratched, as did Kyle’s two-week beard. He might be less noticeable, but he was not comfortable.

But he’d been less so before, and this was the crux of the mission. He put it aside, and nibbled crackers from his ruck, letting the crumbs and the plastic packaging stay inside. No need to leave any traces. The weapon was placed, sighted, loaded, and ready. All he needed was a few seconds.

Wade jerked suddenly.

“What?” Kyle asked, but no answer was needed. Wade pulled out a vibrating cell phone. It was the one Siddiq had carried.

“What the hell do we do?” Wade asked, staring at the phone as if it were a grenade.

“Don’t answer it,” Kyle said. “It’s bad, but answering it would be worse. If they don’t know what’s happening—”

“They might think he’s surrounded and can’t answer,” Wade finished.

“Right. Still, it’s a Bad Thing.”

Everyone had clustered around, and was staring. “Let’s not bunch up, folks,” he said. He made shooing motions and the gaggle dispersed.

Wade said, “There’s no number given. They’re blocking.”

“I think we’re pretty sure who it is. Let’s let him stew a while.”

“Sure,” Wade said.

The phone buzzed again at once. After that, nothing. Whoever was calling had apparently decided there wasn’t going to be an answer.

“This just keeps getting more and more succulent,” Kyle said. “Emphasis on the suck.”

“Well, we can’t turn around now.”

“No,” Kyle said, “But I’d really rather call an air strike. Why’d this bastard have to be in Pakistan? Just over the border, we could blow him to Mars and be done with it.”

“‘Ours not to reason why. Ours but to punch holes at long range,’” Wade said.

“Yeah. Enough chatter out of me. Back to the task,” Kyle said.

It was more than an hour before anything of further interest happened. Meantime, men wandered around, joked, swapped off on guard. Several vehicles drove by on the road, and were watched suspiciously from both sides. Yes, these guys were hiding something.

There was a smell of stewed goat and burning grain under the oily fire smoke. Kyle lay low on the rock, chin on arm, and cautiously twitched his toes in his boots to keep circulation going. He was too well trained to make large movements, but he needed to shift a little or his body would fall asleep from inaction.

“There,” Wade said, interrupting his musing. At once, he leaned over the rifle, wrapped around it and eased up into a shooting position. Then he waited.

“What?” he asked.

“Someone opened the door, and one of the guards nodded. Not sure what’s next, but it’s the first action we’ve seen all day.”

“Right,” he agreed. “Tuck a dollar in my G-string.” But he stayed on the weapon, waiting. With his left hand, he raised his scope and took a look.

Wade chuckled. “We’ll see.”

But the action was followed by more. A few minutes later, the door opened again. A figure came out and strode away. His face was in shadow, and Kyle cursed, begging for light to identify his target by. The dusk was making it a bitch to use available light or night vision. If need be, they’d stay here a day, two, a week, however long it took. But patience and eagerness are not opposites. Kyle could be patient, but he was eager.

Then the figure turned and the orange sun caught him in profile. It was a repeat of that first shot days before, only with, Kyle hoped, reliable allies. This face in his scope was quite similar to the provided photo.

“Good,” Kyle said. He put down the scope and leaned over the SMLE.

“That is him,” Wade confirmed. “Three seven zero meters.”

“Got it,” Kyle said, and squeezed. The trigger pull on the venerable rifle was long and slow, but even. Patience was called for even here, as he held the reticle firmly on the man’s chin, expecting the shot to take him high in the chest. Squeeze, squeeze, and then it broke.

It was a crisp, clean letoff, the rifle boomed and kicked, and the short stock had his hand close enough that he banged his nose with his thumb.

“Hit,” Wade said. “Breastbone. I call him dead.”

“Good,” Kyle said, calmly cycling the bolt, lowering his aim and putting one through the brain to make sure. BANG! “So do I. Let’s move.”


Bin Qasim wasn’t happy. Siddiq had reported on the Americans’ location, but had not reported back. His phone was intact, but he was not answering. It could be that he was too close to report or reply, but in that case, he should be faking an injury and slipping off. Once they were within five kilometers, he could easily direct artillery and roving patrols to them.

It was also possible Siddiq wasn’t smart enough to handle the situation. That was a common problem. Many of the smartest had died in the attack upon America, Allah praise their names. Many others with an intellectual bent were too . . . detached, reluctant for operations. Bin Qasim would call them cowards, but as he needed them, he tried not to think it too loudly.

None of the patrols had found any sign of the Americans or their traitorous peasant allies. They had likely been lost and slowed by the mountains. He couldn’t rely on that, though. He needed concrete intelligence about his enemy soon.

Additional patrols were going out in an inner perimeter. It wouldn’t do to appear nervous or afraid; there were two of his own people who might jump at an opening and do something stupid and criminal. But he did need the patrols.

It was time to send out another update. The lesser soldiers were often competent, but lacked the fire of the warrior of Allah. They needed to talk to a real leader in order to maintain their courage. Which was fine; it was why Allah, all glory to him, had placed people like bin Qasim on this earth.

After that, he would see about planning another relocation. The Americans were constantly biting at him, hordes of insects against the power of Allah, but even insects could be dangerous in number. Faithless, vile, but nonetheless a threat.

He looked up at the door of the communications center to see the guard snap to attention.

Then excruciating pain tore the breath from his lungs as a 180-grain .303 bullet smashed through his ribs, his heart, and out the back. He staggered, stepped, and saw the shocked look on the guard’s face.

“Help me,” he uttered, but it was silent, no air behind it. He knew he was on his knees but not how he’d got there, his memory fading. Then he was prone, nose and lips battered by the impact, but that pain paling in comparison to the mule kick to his chest. He breathed a choking mouthful of dust, and the cough that followed felt like the fires of hell.

He died too quickly to feel the shot that pulped his skull like a melon.


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