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CHAPTER 19



It got quiet. Al Qaeda had figured out they were hiding and were controlling their fire until they had a target. The silence was eerie after all the shooting.

Wade wordlessly mouthed, “Twenty-two minutes.” Kyle nodded.

Nothing happened for long seconds, perhaps minutes. Nasima started crying again, her lips trembling. “I’m sorry I’m so scared,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Kyle whispered back. “We’re scared, too. You’re doing great, and we’ll be out of here in minutes.” Then he held a finger to his lips. She nodded.

The tension was thick. No doubt someone hoped the pause would make them break. All it would take was one hint, and fire would pour in on them. That RPG was still out there, and the machine gun was likely still functional, even if Kyle had bagged the shooter.

But the longer it went on, the closer they were to rescue from the helicopters. Kyle focused on that and took a deep breath.

The reprieve lasted another minute. When it broke, it was with another RPG round just outside their little hollow.

Nasima shrieked as the round crashed. Kyle and Wade both shouted in pain and fear as debris whistled overhead. But that was as far as it went.

Wade said, “Behind you, ledge, protruding shelf.” Kyle turned, drew up the SMLE and fired at a figure who was hastily trying to get back. The shot took him in the shoulder, and he cried, dropping the launcher. It bounced off the edge and out of sight.

“Good enough,” Kyle muttered, but he thumbed the bolt and took another shot. The man was still squatting there, hurt. The second shot went through his right eye and exploded out the back. That should stop the pain, asshole, Kyle thought as he dropped back down.

He turned to see movement on another ledge, and fired over that way. He wasn’t sure if it was good, but they were on the offensive for the moment, and they should press that advantage against these clowns while they could.

Shots were coming from all around now. Most were wide, a few close, and a handful were obviously aimed with intent. Figures were leaping among the rocks, and some were getting lower and closer. Kyle caught one as he stepped between two protrusions, and the man dropped like a sack.

“Targets of opportunity,” Kyle said, amazed at how calm his voice was. “Ask for backup if you need it. It’s been a privilege serving with you.”

“And you,” Wade replied.

“Yes,” Nasima said.

The odds of surviving more than two or three minutes were pretty damned slim. Flitting figures presented themselves, but Kyle held his fire. They’d be closer and clearer soon enough. He gripped the Ed Brown in its holster, just to remind himself it was still there.

“We might as well be moving targets. They know where this spot is. Over toward that face there,” he pointed. They nodded, and he said, “Go!”

They were up, and none too soon. Five figures were creeping over the rocks. Wade swung, pointed, and shot. Kyle picked the rearmost, but paused as the man threw himself behind cover.

They were just getting to the cliff, a solid backing they could rely on. Kyle was first, as he had only paused once. Wade was right behind him, having taken a moment to heave another grenade far out at someone hiding on the ground. It detonated about five feet up, and if his aim had been good, that person was scorched goo.

Kyle turned, prepared to give cover fire, and Wade crashed in alongside him, as if tackling the wall. Then a shot came from their right.

Nasima’s body was tossed like a rag doll. It wasn’t bullet energy that did it; small arms aren’t that powerful. It was muscle reaction as her nerves convulsed.

Her robe tore open in a gout of red, chunks of rib flying free. She tumbled off her feet and broke across a sharp rock face, her gurgling scream becoming audible in a break in the fire.

“Nasima!” Kyle shouted, clutching at his ruck to get the medical kit, knowing it was too late. She’d lost a lung or her heart or both on that shot, and was dead where she lay, even if her hands were still trying to hold her ruined body together and tears were running down her cheeks as her mouth worked soundlessly.

Seeing that, Kyle came back to his weapon. There was nothing he could do but kill as many of them as he could until he ran out of ammo, so that’s what he’d do.

Bolt action rifles are fast in the hands of professionals, and Kyle Monroe was not only a professional, he had been shooting them since he was seven. There was no one better, as these assholes were about to find out. He swung the Enfield up and fired, shooting a man right under the chin. His hand and the bolt shot back, then forward and he fired. Another one down, right through the breastbone. Work the bolt and fire, and another lost the top of his head. That was the last round.

Heedless of incoming rounds, standing, he dropped the clip he held between the fingers of his left hand into the open receiver, thumbed the rounds down with his right, then flipped the empty clip away and closed the bolt. Incoming fire tore past him, but he didn’t notice, and Wade was doing an outstanding job with that little carbine, 5.56 rounds cracking past him and ripping holes through theft aggressors. Kyle had his rifle back up in less than three seconds and fired again, and again. Five rounds on the clip, reach for another, and reload.

“Kyle!” he heard behind him and ducked behind rock before turning to glance at Wade. Wade said, “Grab that AK and stay the hell behind cover!”

Nodding, he snatched the weapon in question from the outflung hand of a corpse he hadn’t seen while it was alive, and slung it over his shoulder. He still had a dozen .303 rounds and he wasn’t going to leave a loaded weapon for the enemy. Besides, he’d been through a lot with the Smelly. If he survived, he would keep it. He had no other souvenir, and his only local friend was now dead.

The survivors had taken cover now. The fifteen or so corpses in front of the two Americans had either scared them or wised them up or both, because they were not visible. That brought its own dangers. The fire was still coming in, but from concealment.

“Get us out of here,” Kyle rasped, unable to speak in a normal voice. It was due to the breath burning in his throat, and too much yelling, and the cold, and a little bit was a combination of fury and pain at Nasima’s death.

“Cover me,” Wade said. He tossed the M4 at Kyle as he ducked low and got the radio handset. “Bossman, this is Roadkill, over.”

It made sense. The M4 was not only familiar, it had the grenade launcher. The acquired AK was an unknown quantity. Kyle nodded. Wade had adapted very well to combat: calm nerves, cool head.

Right then, something stung his leg. He’d been shot, he knew. It couldn’t be bad, he told himself, as he was still standing, leaning over the rock. He panned the M4, both eyes open, seeking the telltale dust tossed by shots. There. He swung the muzzle until the illuminated reticle of the Holosight covered his best guess, then fired three rounds; one on that spot, one two feet to either side. He took a deep breath and shook his head to clear the splotches in front of his eyes before seeking another target.

“Roger that, Bossman. Roadkill out.” Wade changed frequencies and said, “Nightstalker Seven, this is Roadkill, over . . . Roger that, Nightstalker, we are glad to hear your voice! Kyle, we’ve got choppers!”

“Good,” Kyle replied. He wasn’t sure he meant it. She was dead. Like Jeremy. Why?

He needed to ask Wade if there was a load in the M203, and if so, what type. He didn’t dare take the time to inspect the chamber. But Wade was busy with the helos, and he didn’t want to disturb that golden hope. No matter how he felt, Wade deserved to get out alive.

He was down to one spare magazine plus a few rounds in the weapon. He counted five of the al Qaeda gathered behind an outcropping, based on muzzle movement. Worse, they were higher than he was. However, they had a slight overhang above them, and they were about sixty meters away, so they were outside the minimum range, even if it was risky. Hell, letting them shoot at Wade and him was risky.

But Kyle had never tried to snipe with a grenade launcher. Still, it looked like a good time to start. He hoped to hell it was loaded—it certainly hefted like it—and hunched lower, easing it forward. He checked the tangential sights, made his best guess along the barrel . . .

“Roger, Nightstalker, we will mark with flare and smoke. I’ll be on air, but might be away from the mike a moment or two. Hope you understand. Roadkill, over.”

. . . the fire was really picking up now, as he took another check of both sights, made his best, professional estimate—professionals don’t guess—and drew the trigger.

Boonk! Slam! The HE shell impacted on the ledge right above the creeps. At that range, the explosion tore them to bloody mush. A piece of what he thought was a rock splinter whistled overhead, spinning like a boomerang, and Kyle realized it was a bent AK. Rocks were tumbling onto the ledge, crushing whatever was left, and a blood-soaked man ran screaming off into space.

He’d been climbing up to join his buddies and had just enough cover to be alive. Whether it was his blood or another’s Kyle didn’t know. He’d automatically taken the snapshot as the body appeared, however. Between the explosion, Kyle’s round, and the impact on the rocks below, the man was way dead.

Kyle had to admire their persistence. And what was it the manual said? “Break contact. Do not engage in a drawn out battle with a larger force.” He laughed, the manic gesture relieving some stress. He fired again and felt the bolt lock back, magazine empty.

The M4 would be needed badly here shortly, with its one lonely magazine and the single canister round Wade had left. Then they had pistols and grenades. They’d never had a chance to use the claymore. This fight wasn’t over yet. Pistols weren’t much of a threat, but a scared enemy seeing a rifle he didn’t know was empty, and hearing a pistol, would think twice about sticking his head up to do a comparison. Kyle laid the M4 down where Wade could get it, and raised the Enfield again.

Moments later, Wade was shooting again. “Just stand by, they’re en route. Maybe five minutes. Get ready to pop a flare and pop smoke.”

“Roger,” Kyle agreed, swinging up to his right and dropping a man who’d thought to flank them from the right by crawling through spiky scrub. His leg was screaming at him now. He’d forgotten he’d been shot. Twisting and putting weight on it was excruciating. He hoped it was a quick five minutes. It could be a goddamned long time with rounds coming in every second. And they were coming in like a swarm of angry hornets.

But he had seven rounds left for the Enfield, and he cycled them through quickly, seeking movement. As he drove the last clip down into the magazine, he felt pressure against his hip. It was the AK he’d forgotten about.

“Wade, stand by for cover fire,” he said. “Pick your targets.” The M4 was a far more inherently accurate weapon, and had much more consistent ammunition compared to the AK. But he could rapid fire or auto fire at exposed targets and keep them down while Wade took them out.

He took his last shot with the Enfield, slung it over his left shoulder as he unlimbered the Kalashnikov. “Fire!” he commanded, then stood and commenced shooting.

His leg was on fire, numb at the bottom, burning and freezing all the way up and making his groin twinge, too. But it was still supporting his weight. He aimed through the smoke and dust, hoping visibility was good enough. There was movement to the right, under a ledge at their own level, and he said so to Wade.

“Fire on my impact,” he ordered, leaned in and fired five rounds rapid. They chewed chips from the rock and worked down into the hollow.

There was movement under the overhang, and Wade put three rounds down into that shadow.

There was no obvious response, but the incoming fire seemed to slow. Dropping back down by the simple expedient of taking the weight off his legs, Kyle grunted in pain. He rolled to the left, got low between two comforting knobs of rock and found another nest. “Fire on my impact,” he ordered, and gave it five rounds. Wade cracked three sharp, barking 5.56 rounds between the crags in question, and seemed to score a hit; another rifle tumbled out.

But the Kalashnikov was empty, its firing pin dropping on an empty chamber.

“Flare now!” Wade yelled. Kyle dropped low behind the rock, discarded the AK, snatched the flare from his belt and let fly, pointing it generally upward and yanking the lanyard. It arced up into the air and lit, a bright red star even in daylight. “Sixty seconds, then the smoke!” Wade said.

Kyle nodded and couldn’t tell if Wade had seen him. His voice was too ragged to speak, his throat dry and papery, tinny tasting from propellant and gilding metal. He pushed up painfully using his left foot, and leaned over to shoot at anything that moved. It was all he could do, as he was down to his Ed Brown, with two magazines plus three rounds. At least they were eight round mags.

But the bucking, kicking, roaring .45 was a comfort to him. He gripped it firmly but not too tightly, arm solid to support it and rocking slightly with every shot. It was an extension of his arm and he pointed at movement and shot, shot.

“Smoke now!” Wade reminded him. “I’m empty!” he added.

Kyle stuffed the .45 into his belt, grabbed the AN-M8 smoke, yanked the pin, and tossed it. The “Pop!” of the fuze firing was barely discernible, but billows of white gushed reassuringly from it. Ideally, one used a bright color smoke for extraction. White was what they had and would have to do. It also provided concealment.

It also provided concealment for the bad guys. “Oh, shit, this is not good!” he commented. He had eleven rounds left with the fresh magazine he’d just slid in. The slide dropped, clacked reassuringly into battery, and he raised it to provide cover fire as they retreated to the left and away from their backing. It wasn’t the best choice for superiority of position, but they’d have to hope that chopper was here shortly anyway. If smoke was out, they should be here. So where were they?

Behind him, Wade said, “Roger, Roadkill confirms white smoke.” Just in case some bright boy on the other side had a different color going. It had happened before.

Kyle thought at first something was wrong with the pistol. He couldn’t believe the noise and the pressure slapping at his ears. Then he realized it was an incoming helicopter. The choppers had arrived.

“One casualty, civilian. All element members healthy under the circumstances . . . Roger, out!” Wade yelled. “Danger close!” he said to Kyle, and they both ducked down close behind the boulders.

Then the world exploded.

Four choppers came in. Two AH6J Little Birds were hitting the area with their pods of 2.75” rockets. The craft came into view just after a huge multiple pressure front slapped the air. Kyle didn’t know the danger close distance, but the pilots apparently did. Other than ringing, stinging ears and a thump to the chest, he thought he was okay. But rock was flying and the enemy suddenly was very disinterested in them. The little craft darted around like hummingbirds, firing as they saw fit.

It was best not to take chances, and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment were not the type to let an enemy off easily. The doorgunners on an MH-60K Blackhawk were hosing the landscape with 7.62mm miniguns. Another MH-60 with M240 machine guns was punctuating with “normal” automatic fire. They knew exactly where the friendlies were, there was no risk of collateral damage, and there was no reason not to shoot anything that moved. It was also daylight. Those were choice working conditions, and the gunners’ enthusiasm was clear as they swept their mechanical bullet hoses back and forth, bursts chewing anything suspicious into dust.

Overhead was an Apache. It likely wouldn’t be needed, but too much firepower is always better than not enough.

The smoke from the canister joined dust that was whipped up and blown swirling by the blades. A farting explosion blew a stream of fire through the smoke; a 7.62 minigun firing a burst of perhaps 50 rounds. At 6,000 rounds a minute, that was a half second.

The MH-60 rocked over the draw, buffeting winds bumping back against it. But the pilot knew exactly what he was doing; it held position, even if it wobbled. Then a figure on a cable started winching down.

“You first!” Kyle yelled over the roar. “Take whatever you can. We ain’t leaving dick for these assholes to play with.”

“Understood!” Wade shouted back through the din.

Wade met the rescuer when he touched down. In moments they were winching back up fast. That left Kyle alone, looking over at Nasima’s corpse and knowing he couldn’t do a damned thing. Nor could he go over and say goodbye. His pickup was right here. He kept his attention on the rocks, wondering if some last, dedicated al Qaeda soldier would fire a suicidal shot to kill one more American.

Then the penetrator on the end of the cable was dropping back down and it was his turn.

The ride up was brisk and wind tugged at him. He dragged himself aboard the chopper’s deck and nodded thanks. Then he cleared his throat of a cubic yard of dust and spat.

“Check on the woman!” he shouted, voice ragged and losing control.

“Kyle, she’s dead!” Wade replied, taking his arm.

“Check on her!” he screamed, throat stinging from the force.

The soldier nodded. He said to Wade, “We’ll check anyway, sir. Stand by.”

The crew were professionals. The chopper lifted, swayed over to Nasima’s location and hovered as the two gunners rapped out short, steady bursts at movement. There likely wasn’t much opposition left, but one always assumed movement was action and shot to keep it at bay. The medic was out the side and down the winch almost as fast as it could unspool, the flight engineer watching the mechanism.

After a few tense moments, the cable started rising again.

The look on his face said everything. “She’s dead, sir,” he said. Hands helped ease her battered and bloody body onto the deck, wounds gaping blood everywhere. Her eyes had a vacant look, her mouth open in an expression of sheer agony. She hadn’t died painlessly. Almost no one does.

Then the deck tilted and the chopper surged, vacating the area in a hurry. A silent streak to starboard as they broke the ridgeline resolved itself as some sort of MANPAD. It missed. The Apache unloaded a ton of ordnance on that location. Whoever fired wasn’t around anymore, because half the cliff face came loose and slid down, the dust looking like oil in motion and the large chunks dropping straight, not tumbling.

Kyle bid a farewell to the rocky crags of the Toba Kakar range and followed it with a one-finger salute. It really wasn’t a chunk of real estate he could justify fighting over. The deck tilted, Gs pushed at him, and then they were in level flight.

Then he looked down at the broken corpse and the empty eyes. She’d been a hell of a young woman. And the bastards who’d killed her had been her own people. That’s what made it so disgusting.

In a moment, he knew what to do. “Wade, map, please,” he shouted over the din of the thumping rotors. Wade nodded and drew the creased, stained, and tattered sheet from inside his shirt. It was a bit of an icon of their mission to hell, and he planned to keep it as a souvenir.

Kyle took it, flipped it over and around, jabbed his finger down, and said, “We’re going here, first. Nakhonay.”

“Sir?” the flight engineer asked.

“That’s her home. We’re returning the body.” It was all he could do, but he’d damned sure see it done.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant agreed. It wasn’t on their route, but there wasn’t any reason not to, and they seemed to realize Kyle wasn’t in the mood to argue. The map was passed forward for the pilots to compare to their charts.

The medical sergeant spoke to him from the other side. “Sir, I need to treat your leg. Please lie back and relax the best you can.”

Kyle nodded and reclined, loosening the straps of his ruck and letting them ease him out and up to a litter. He winced slightly as his pant leg was cut away, but said nothing. As his sleeve was rolled up, however, he said, “No IVs! Not until we’re done with Nasima.”

Sighing, the man said, “Very well, sir. But this is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.” There was a half smile on his face as he said it, from exasperation or amazement or both.

“Fine, get on with iiiit!” Kyle said, gripping his harness and restraining a cry of pain. He snuck a quick peek, then decided he didn’t want to watch. The medic was debriding the torn flesh and sterilizing the wound. It was close enough to the surface to be a rip rather than a hole, but it still hurt worse than anything he’d felt before. “Superficial” did not mean “Painless.” As he recalled that statement, he scowled.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, his leg was bandaged and he had some candy—Motrin. It wasn’t much, but it took the edge off and he was alert, mostly. He washed it down with what felt like a gallon of water. Then they were landing at the edge of Nakhonay. He vaguely knew that the variation on the flight was a hassle for the JSTARS people, and had caused various other air assets to be standing by, just in case. He really didn’t care. They owed him, and they owed Nasima.

A crowd started to form, only five or six people at first, but then more. Many of them were children. Wade and the flight engineer hopped out, Wade’s weapon replenished with a fresh magazine, and more in his gear. The doorgunners stood ready. The crowd was only curious, not threatening, but there was no reason to let them get close.

Kyle stood on the deck, swaying a bit until his balance returned. He crouched and wiggled his arms under her corpse, which seemed so light now. She wasn’t large as women went, and even as . . . dead weight, was negligible. He slid out, got his feet on the ground, stood and turned. In moments, four men came forward, jabbering away. He didn’t know enough Pashto to handle this. He strode painfully toward them, every step aching and stinging, the dust swirling from the whipping rotors.

But one of them said, “She is dead,” in English, and he nodded.

“Nasima. Yes, dead. She was our translator and . . .” He wasn’t sure what he should tell them. “She was very faithful. Pray to Allah for her.” Dammit, there was nothing else to say. He tried unsuccessfully to restrain tears.

The man nodded. They wore simple knitted hats over their bright vests, not the turbans of the more conservative. He trusted they’d treat her properly. They took her gently and laid her on the ground. One of them shouted out and he caught the word for “cart.” There were children gathering around and crying. They’d seen death before, but this one was obviously personal.

He wanted to find a memento. Then he remembered. He reached into his pocket and drew out her matted, blood-encrusted scarf. Gently, he laid it over her face. “Go with Allah,” he said in Pashto.

“We have to go,” he said. “But I will send a letter explaining.” He wasn’t quite sure how, but he’d do it.

They nodded, he nodded, someone said, “Go with Allah,” and he turned. He wanted to leave this country at once. He limped back to the waiting chopper, and heard the rotors and turbine whine as the pilot prepared to lift. Everyone backed in, climbed aboard, and then they were lifting.

Kyle had expected to be debriefed in theater. However, no one in Afghanistan cared about anything except helping them leave. Kratman didn’t meet with them, and the staff in personnel simply signed them in and back out. Kyle did make a point of providing a map with the location of the Barrett marked. Even without a bolt, the Army would want it back, or would want to destroy it or have the Pakistan Army do so. How they would explain that, he wasn’t sure. But a .50-barrel by itself was too useful to the fractured clans and factions in the area.

Everyone was polite and helpful, but no one knew what to do with them, and the easiest thing for all concerned was to shuffle them out quickly. They dumped the native garb. The Army considered it to be its property, and would likely just throw it out. They surrendered and receipted the remaining cash. Weapons and gear were crated for transport, the SMLE tagged as a “local procurement.” They wound up on the same C-141, same crew, and headed back for Kuwait.

“Shave now, or after we land?” Wade shouted from three feet away. They were back in uniform, and looked like hell with beards and hair brushing their ears. Even after showering, they were a mess, deeply tanned and lined from the sun, obviously sore and tired, ragged and wired.

“I really don’t care,” Kyle replied. “We’ll be swapping back to civvies as soon as we land, so whenever we damned well feel like it. After all, we’re done and we don’t need to pretend we weren’t here as long as we don’t brag about it.”

“Good enough. I’m going to crash back and nap.”

But Kyle was already asleep, even if his face indicated he wasn’t getting much rest.


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