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CHAPTER 17



He woke quickly when Wade shook him, and realized he was somewhat refreshed. “We’ll need more breaks,” he said, “but they can wait until we have distance.”

“I know that,” Wade said.

“Sorry,” he said, waking fully. “Thoughts coming straight out.”

“Well, we haven’t slept much the last month. Why start now?”

“Very Army thinking. You should get a job at the Pentagon,” Kyle said.

Nasima woke easily enough, but still had huge bags under her eyes. “I can walk,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They were in the valley proper soon, and turned northeast, heading for the rocks ahead. “This morning is when I bet on trouble,” Kyle said. “They have a radio, know our approximate distance and direction, and can look for all the signs we left behind in the dark. Then they’ll call more people in from other directions. We’re only a few kilometers from the village.”

“Do you have to be so optimistic?’’ Wade said.

“Sorry. But that’s how I see it,” he replied.

“Yeah, me, too,” Wade said.

“If I were to guess, I’d say the same,” Nasima said. “It’s not the first time they’ve stalked an enemy.”

“So we all agree we need to get up that hill,” he pointed at the stark cliffs ahead, “so we can call for help and have good shooting position.”

The climb up wasn’t easier than the previous one, though they did have more time and less immediate threats. But they were underfed and exhausted. Wade’s CamelBak was empty, Kyle’s rapidly getting so. Nasima wasn’t drinking enough, and he had to force her to pay attention to hydration.

During their second break, Wade said, “That’s it.”

“Nasties?” Kyle asked.

“Yup. Movement on the hill.” He rummaged for his spotting scope, and swung it up for a glance. Kyle eased slowly down behind the boulder he’d been resting against, to avoid silhouetting.

“Yes,” Wade said. “I count six, with radio, rifles, and an RPK. Also, movement on the southeast, would be coming just about straight from that village. Unknown number.”

“Great. Makes me wish we’d stayed on the vehicles.”

“I don’t think it would matter,” Wade said. “They aren’t going to back off until superior force kicks their asses. We’d have the same problem somewhere else.”

Nasima said, “It would be worse in a town where we don’t know who is trustworthy.”

“I suppose,” Kyle said. “I don’t have to like it. We need elevation quickly, and a position to shoot. Try the radio, just in case.”

Wade nodded, reached into his ruck and twiddled controls. He made two more calls. “Nothing,” he said. “Higher is all I can suggest.”

“So let’s get higher fast.”

It was none too soon. As they rose, dust burst from the hillside in a fountain, accompanied by a bang. It was two hundred meters away, but it wouldn’t be the only shot.

“Mortar!” Wade said.

“Yeah, move!” Kyle added, digging in. He grasped Nasima by the hand and pulled fast. He doubted this bunch could adjust fire quickly. Lateral movement was what they needed; anyone could get distance right from adjusting elevation incrementally.

“Eighty-two-millimeter Russian or Chinese?” Wade asked.

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “Everyone makes them now.”

“Haven’t they heard of gun control?” Wade quipped.

“Likely not, or they would have hit us,” Kyle said, as a second round dropped farther uphill. It wasn’t far below their elevation now. “Next round will be to our right,” Kyle said. “What’s the spacing on the shots?”

“That was about twenty seconds.”

“Okay, so now’s the time to start moving left!”

They dug in, turned, and headed back, angling uphill as they did so. The threat assessment, of course, assumed that this bunch could figure out how to adjust the mortar properly. It was possible they’d get directions reversed and drop one right on them. But that wouldn’t hurt at all, so Kyle didn’t think about it. Nasima was gasping next to him, because they were moving at a near sprint. Her legs weren’t long enough for this.

Kyle suddenly remembered Bosnia. It didn’t affect him anymore. It had just been a screw-up, as this was a screw-up, and there was nothing to be done about it afterward. He almost smiled at the sudden burden lifting from his mind.

Another round cracked rock. It was still distant enough not to worry about, but any incoming fire is bothersome. There are vets who can glibly watch it and not panic, but Kyle wasn’t that experienced. He also hoped like hell he never got that much experience.

“Let’s keep heading west,” he said. That was to their left. “If we get past the curve of that hill, they’ll have to come looking. Go lower!”

“Lower!” Wade agreed. The recent impacts had been about the line they were on now. Anything that forced the crew to adjust their mortar reduced their probability of hitting.

It was less than a kilometer to where they’d be out of visual range of the enemy. That kilometer was across rough ground, however, and would have been a serious race even without all their gear. As it was, Nasima was choking, and Kyle had a hideous cramp in his guts that blended with the pain in his lungs.

Worse yet, the crew had seen what they intended, and were concentrating fire at the edge of their visibility. Three rounds had landed in a vertical line ahead of them.

“We’ll have to time it and dodge through,” Kyle said.

“Expect them to lob a couple just past that line as we do,” Wade said.

“Agreed. Wait for the next one . . .” Kyle said as they turned straight uphill, wanting to be moving anywhere rather than be holding still.

Just below them was an enormous bang. They should almost be used to it by now, Kyle thought.

“Now!” he said, and they turned left and downhill. It was a dizzying, slipping, skipping route, threatening to tumble them and break a leg at any moment.

It worked. The next round exploded far uphill, and none of them fell.

“Uphill now!” Kyle said. They were out of view, and needed to get into heavy cover fast.

It felt like a marathon. Kyle regretted not being twenty-two again, because it had been a bastard of a movement under fire.

“I think we have about ten minutes before they get a view over this way,” Wade said. His face was purple.

“About right,” Kyle panted, nearly sick. Nasima was dry-heaving on her knees. “Rest a moment,” he said, “then sip water. Are you okay?”

“Uh huh,” she gasped between heaves, nodding her head and letting it loll.

“We’re going to take a position and shoot. Any comment?” Kyle asked.

“Sounds good,” Wade said. “If we’re hidden, we can try for the crew or the weapon as they get here, then take them as they advance uphill.”

“Yes. You think ten of them?”

“Or more,” Wade said. “I saw ten. I’m sure there were others.”

“Okay, uphill while we can. We’ve got about five hundred meters to the top. Can you make it, Nasima?”

“I won’t stay here,” she said. “I’ll walk.”

They took the climb in slow, steady steps. Kyle placed his hands on his thighs and pushed with every step, using the extra leverage to help take the load. His gear balanced well, and wasn’t hard to carry, but it was damned heavy, and that manifested itself worse when moving quickly or in awkward terrain.

“Once up there, we try the radio again.”

“Okay,” Wade said. “Got to work sooner or later.”

“Yes,” Kyle said, though he wasn’t sure about that. Its range in these conditions was likely about 100 miles. They were about that from Kandahar. But the JSTARS was operating more to the north. The other option was to try several frequencies and hope to find another unit, like that one along the border.

Otherwise, they’d have to walk out or fight it out. Neither option offered good odds. They were down to dregs of water.

Then they were at the crest of the hill, and over. It was a jagged, rocky top, and Kyle smiled. It had cover, concealment, and a good, clear field of fire. A quick glimpse showed the valley below in a clear panorama.

“Well, this is one bright spot,” he said. He took a look around for the best sniping points. He had a choice of several.

“I’ll take a good position there. You offset to the right in that notch, and call shots. When they get close enough for me to handle on the fly, you pick off a few in front, then at the rear to slow them, then anyone who tries to flank us. And pour out fire while I reload.” He again touched the loaded five-round clips in his pocket, wishing for more than eight of them. That and ten rounds in the weapon were all he had. Plus two loose ones.

“Got it,” Wade said, squinting through the harsh, reflected light at the depths of shadow where Kyle had pointed. It was a short climb, perhaps five meters from their present position. Yet it looked foreboding in these cliffs. He made it up in seconds, leaned back to make room for his ruck, and pulled the radio out again.

“What about me?” Nasima asked.

Kyle looked at her quizzically.

“I can shoot a pistol. They might get close. Show me one,” she said.

He gulped, said “Okay,” to stall for time and rearranged his thoughts. She was a goddamned civilian! But she was in the middle of the fight. The best thing she could do was duck. On the other hand, more fire going out would keep people’s heads down while he and Wade dropped a few. She was here; she might as well help.

He reached into his pocket and drew the Colt Mustang .380. Start her small and work up as needed. He held it flat in his palm and pointed at the controls. “Magazine release. Safety. Trigger. Hammer. Slide. Slide release. Draw the slide, watch it chamber a round. It will lock back when empty, press the slide release to close it and rechamber from the fresh magazine. It holds five rounds. I have only two spare magazines.”

She took it, cycled it with only a little fumbling, ejected and replaced the magazine, and nodded. “Only close range or subversive fire?” she asked.

“Suppressive fire,” he corrected. “Yes.”

She nodded. “How do you say? ‘Let’s do it’?”

“Let’s do it,” he agreed. Wade echoed him. “And take care of the pistol. I can’t get another . . . and take care of yourself.”

She nodded and smiled. “I shall duck like a mouse.”

Kyle crept up the rill and pointed out a good spot for her. It was separated from his position slightly, had lots of rocks to echo the shots and confuse an observer, and a good field of fire at an angle to his, should anyone get close. It also put rock between her fire and him. He’d seen enough Afghan “veterans” shoot to be leery of them as allies, terrified of a half-trained woman raised in this culture. She might be able to hit the broad side of a hill, if it held still. But even unaimed fire would be a help. The enemy wouldn’t know it was unaimed and wouldn’t expect her. Also, if they saw her, they’d be confused and reluctant to shoot. It might last only a second, but he could kill two or three if they held still for that long.

Hopefully, she wouldn’t get her head blown off in the process. He’d seen that, too. The thought of it happening to a cute young lady schoolteacher whom he liked wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on.

He crawled up near Wade with only a few dings, and then tried to get comfortable on cold, sharp stone. Kyle was under a slight arch, his head and shoulders filling it and making it look like solid, shadowed rock from a distance. He’d be hard to hit at this angle, but could see adequately, though he wished for a better view to the right. He also wished the points stabbing him in the belly, hip, and crotch weren’t there, but they came with the territory.

“No luck on the radio,” Wade said. “I tried for other units, too. Nothing. We’re going to have to get closer.”

“Okay,” Kyle said. “It sucks, but it’s all we can do.”

Nasima scrabbled up the slope to his right in her lousy shoes and goofy robe, making him wonder again at this pathetic waste of a region. He couldn’t see, but could track her progress by skittering rocks, scraping sounds of flesh on basalt, and occasional invocations to Allah in Pashto. She had jeans and sneakers at the very least.

After that, it was back to waiting. Still, it gave them time to catch their breath, sip a few precious drops of water to clear dust and phlegm, and cool from the burning endorphins. It really was an addictive high, Kyle thought. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline from being shot at so often.

“Hell,” Wade said.

“What?” Kyle hissed back.

“Even more than we thought. I’m guessing at thirty. Entire platoon.”

“Wonderful.” No matter how well they shot, there were limits to the odds. There were also limits to ammunition.

“Yeah. And I think I see some on the hill across.”

“They’re too far to worry about,” Kyle said. It was a kilometer or more across the valley. No small arms were going to make it that far. Unless, of course, they had another mortar. “They’ll come down or go away.”

“Or have a mortar, or spot for one,” Wade echoed Kyle’s thoughts.

“We can run.”

“Sure. We’ve been doing that a lot,” Wade agreed.

“Well, for now we shoot. Tell me when.”

“Will do,” Wade whispered.

“Are you okay back there, Nasima?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “What should I do?”

“Just stay there unless they get up the hill. You’ll know from the cussing and shooting,” he said.

“But Kyle, you’ve been cussing and shooting for days.”

He had to chuckle. “Yes, but this will be worse.”

“Worse language than you used last night? I’m impressed. One hopes you haven’t done most of those things.”

“Yeah. The Army wouldn’t like it,” he said.

“Nor would the goat, I suspect.”

Wade was chuckling now, too.

“Right, let’s keep quiet,” he said. It was the best retort he could think of, and it was a good idea, too.

For minutes they sat, physical stress draining while mental stress built. There was nothing right about this part of the mission. It was a Giant Mongolian Clusterfuck, as the slang went.

He wondered how far they could walk if they had to. They might manage two days, if they dumped a lot of gear. That would get them close enough that even the border posts should be within range.

If they weren’t, then they were going to have to find water. There wasn’t much green this way. The prospects weren’t good. They were less good back toward Pakistan, as they’d be running a hostile gauntlet.

Kyle didn’t feel like a superhuman killer in a movie. He felt like a man alone and scared. It was one thing to shoot and be shot at, when you knew you had support, medics, radios, and food and water. It was totally different to imagine dying in the middle of a desiccated desert and never be heard of again.

Wade’s whispered voice disturbed his thoughts. “Got ’em, Kyle.”

“Right,” he agreed, and hunched to shoot. He checked again the venerable rifle, flexed his hands to get more familiar with it, and got a good cheek weld. Shooting was a relaxing task, especially now. It was something he could do to improve the odds.

Wade called him his first victim. “Reference: Directly below the tallest spire ahead of you, left of the notch. Target: one asshole. Two hundred fifty.”

Kyle had to smile at the ID. There. He was creeping along the cliff at the edge of the trail. Should he fire now, or wait for more targets? Now would bag one bad guy of thirty or so. Waiting might get three or four before they scattered, but would have them closer and more of a threat. “Got him sighted. Others?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

So take the shot. He shifted just slightly, eased the rifle over until the man’s turban was just above the post, took a breath and relaxed his mouth, then squeezed the trigger.

And squeezed. And squeezed. God, it was so creepy. Whole wars had been fought with this thing. It really was accurate. Rut the trigger sucked. Would it creep forev—

BANG! The shot took him totally by surprise. The recoil still wasn’t bad, but he was wedged in tight and banged his skull on sharp points. Lacking room to shake his head, he squinted and grimaced, waiting for the flashes in front of his eyes to stop as he cycled the bolt automatically. Through his ringing ears he heard Wade say, “Hit! Right through the goddamned nose! Scanning . . .”

He resumed his sight picture, then glanced above the peep to see what was happening below. Someone somewhere was shooting at something, but it wasn’t at him. No fire discipline and absolute panic. Should we duck out now? he wondered. No, better thin the herd a bit more first.

Wade called, “Reference and target: behind the first at one hundred sixty meters. Flush to cliff.”

“Can’t see him,” he replied.

“Want me to take the shot?” Wade asked.

“Is he advancing?”

“Not right now,” Wade said.

“Wait.”

“Roger.”

There were suddenly five figures down there, and he didn’t need a spotter to see them. They shot as they ran, mostly suppressive, but with a few shots aimed in the general direction of Kyle’s position. One of them pinged nearby, scattering dust. But Kyle was well hidden and they obviously hadn’t marked him. He squeezed off another round that gapped the first one under his breastbone, eyes bugging wide as he tumbled. A second shot caught one in the hip and the man behind him in the foot. Nice! Then the other two dodged as the third shot smacked into rock. Kyle swore and closed the bolt, took several breaths to catch up and calmed down for more waiting.

He hadn’t banged his head on these shots, but had been flinching to avoid it. He’d shot okay anyway, but he should have been able to get off at least one more round in that time. Damn.

“Wade, shoot anything you see,” he said. “I think it’s about time to mov—”

A flurry of shots came in, including some automatic fire. Dust kicked up in his face and he shimmied back in a hurry, tearing cloth and skin on the lip as he did so. He was about to clutch at the empties he was leaving, then decided they didn’t matter. They weren’t any use as intel and the enemy knew who he was and where. They could stay on that mountain as a memorial for the bodies below, who would either be carried off or eaten by buzzards. Hell, maybe some archeologist a hundred years from now would find them and annotate the incident, if it was ever publicly admitted.

“Nasima!” he called. “Let’s go!” Then he swore at himself. He’d just used her name where they could hear. Damn. Maybe they hadn’t heard over the din of fire and the distance, but it was a bad thing, anyway.

Fire started coming from the right.

He yelped and rolled behind a boulder, slid down the slope, belly exposed as his shirt peeled up, and gratefully took several gouges rather than a bullet.

“Seven, about forty meters, just below the crest,” Wade said. Damn, but the man had sharp eyes. Any movement at all was a cue to him.

Another fusillade came in, but Wade rapped off a few bursts in response, along with a canister from the grenade launcher. There was no chance of hitting anything at that range, in this terrain, on autofire, but it did make the enemy duck. The canister load might have done something, but it certainly let the enemy know the Americans still had teeth. There was no comparable Russian weapon.

Kyle shot and worked the bolt three times to voice his own opinion, and Nasima fired three times. She was about twenty meters away and running toward Kyle in a fashion to do credit to a sprinter. “I’m behind you,” Wade said.

Good: All three together for best fire effect. Bad: All three together as one target. Worse: Seven bad guys at point-blank range, and more on the way. Dust and chips of stone flew, bullets ricocheted in cracks and whines, and Kyle raised the Lee-Enfield and shot three times. He nailed one, winged a second, and missed with the third. Wade was firing on semi as fast as he could pull the trigger and got two more. Nasima fired twice, the Colt running dry.

Someone had to be ready before Wade ran dry. That someone was Sergeant First Class Kyle Monroe. He had perhaps a second. The Ed Brown .45 came out of its holster, familiar and snug in his grip. He drew it, raised it, and then immediately had to shove it at a tribesman standing over him, shoving an AK at him in a parallel motion.

He yanked the trigger, let his arm ride the recoil rather than try to shoot center of mass again. The muzzle caught under the chin of the thoroughly surprised and pop-eyed native, then Kyle shot again. The man’s head exploded out the back in red mist, his cheeks and throat jiggling like Jell-O as the hydrostatic shock tore through them.

Kyle looked around frantically to locate the rest. Wade had gotten another, and Nasima had somehow managed to reload while some idiot had tried to grab her. He lay in front of her, neat holes in chest and face. Kyle’s first thought was that the stupid SOB planned to either capture her or rape her in the middle of a firefight. Either way, he’d gotten dead, and that was fine.

Everyone was panting for breath. The lone survivor, who Kyle had wounded in the side of his belly, was moaning away. Nasima jumped across two rocks as if they were stepping stones, pointed the little pistol at his head and said a phrase he recognized, “Go with Allah,” as she pulled the trigger. She looked green and nauseous as she turned back around. Part of that might be due to a wound in her head, oozing through her scarf.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“It is a rock chip,” she said. “I’ll be okay.” It didn’t look okay; it was a dark, spreading stain.

Wade had reloaded, and Kyle followed suit, topping the Enfield with a fresh clip. He couldn’t find the one he’d dropped, but wasn’t keeping track anymore.

“Let’s move,” he ordered, forcing his body to ignore the stings, dings, and chunks of bruised and torn flesh. They needed to get farther away in a hurry. He detoured to snag an AK from the nearest body. There was only the magazine in the weapon, and a quick check showed it to hold five rounds. By then, they were a hundred yards away and still running. It didn’t seem worth it to lug the weight for five rounds, so he stripped it and scattered the bolt group as they ran. At least no one else would use it.

“Nine dead, two wounded,” he said as they scrambled up and down the hill, glancing behind for signs of pursuit. “But I’m down to thirty-two rounds of .303 and my pistol. Wade?”

“Five mags left. We’ll be fine, boss. Nice shooting.” Turning, he spoke to Nasima, “And you, too, young lady.”

Nasima blushed and looked shocked, embarrassed, and ill. “I only got one. And I used seven shots.” She was examining the magazines.

Kyle said, “With that pistol, that’s about right. It’s backup only.” He turned to his partner and said, “Wade?”

“What?”

Kyle made a pistol shape with his hand and held it up.

Wade caught on and said, “Oh, no!”

“Wade, you’ve got the M4. It’s plenty of firepower. I have a bolt and a pistol to save me from reloading in a hurry. Take the Mustang if you want, but let her have something worth using.” Sighing, Wade said, “Oh, all right! I suppose it makes sense. Now, or when we stop?”

“Better be as we travel.”

“Right. Oh, Nasima!”

Wade handed her his Beretta and showed her the differences between the pistols as they moved, she nimbly like a goat, he more like a lumbering bear. She nodded and said, “I have no belt for a holster. I’ll just carry it.”

“Fine,” Kyle said from ahead. “I’ll loan you a belt when we stop. Will the spare magazines fit in that little pouch of yours?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “But I can’t reach them quickly.”

“If we get attacked, grab one and hold on to it. Then take cover. We’ll do the shooting, you just defend yourself or make noise if we tell you to, okay?” he said.

“You are the expert in this field,” she smiled. “I will obey.”

“Touché,” he said, and smiled, with a hint of blush. “So let’s walk.”

It was already well past noon. They’d had a busy morning, Kyle reflected. They were all still alive and unwounded, and the longer that was the case, the better. But there was no telling how many people were closing in on them, and it was becoming beyond imperative to make radio contact.

They stopped every hour for Wade to try a call. The second time, he announced, “I have static!”

“Good!” Kyle said. “Anything else?”

“No, but stand by,” he said, and clutched the handset. “Any U.S. military unit, this is Roadkill, say again Roadkill. Contact Bossman. Inform Bossman we are three zero kilometers north of previous grid. Request Bossman contact us. Critical. Over.” He ran through the spiel twice more. If anyone could hear them, they might get the backup they needed soon. “That’s all I can do,” Wade said.

“No sweat,” Kyle said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s better. It will keep getting better. Let’s move.” He wasn’t sure it would, but he had to encourage his tiny command.

“Right,” Wade said.

“As we must,” Nasima said, trying to sound cheerful. She looked as if she’d been through a washing machine.

The distance between breaks got smaller, as they tired. They were in a fugue state beyond exhaustion, and kept going only because they had to.

“We haven’t had any immediate pursuit,” Wade said.

“No,” Kyle said. “But I’m betting on a hot reception in Afghanistan. They’ve got a very good idea of our route, and roads to get there.”

“Yeah. Once we get there, it’s plateau, too. Nowhere for good cover,” Wade said and indicated the map. “We’re here,” he said, pointing out the grid he’d taken from the GPS module.

“Right,” Kyle said. The terrain ahead turned to rolling hills, a bit like the moors of Scotland or the high plains of Wyoming. It was warmer and dryer, though, with tough, stalky grass in clumps amid the rocks. They’d driven through a bit of it on the way here. Crappy terrain for a fight.

Around them, everything was still a dun color. Long rills of the mountains trailed off onto the southern Afghan plateau ahead. “We stay with the hills,” he said. And hope to get in radio range Real Soon Now.

Three hours later, the sun was dropping quickly. “We need to find a cave if we can, or a hollow if not. And it’s going to be chill again,” Kyle said. The clear skies and unprotected heights meant any warmth was radiated away or blown off. It wasn’t going to be really cold, but it would be cool enough by contrast to make things unpleasant and potentially dangerous.

“I’ll look,” Wade said, moving ahead. He was getting more sure of his footing as they traveled, but was favoring his left leg. Likely from some injury or other. Kyle would ask him when they stopped, but he’d likely deny being hurt.

They’d better check each other for injuries and not pretend, Kyle thought. That “rock chip” was soaking Nasima’s scarf with a dark stain. Head wounds were bloody, and needed treatment. But when he mentioned it again, she said, “It’s not necessary.”

“Nasima,” he said, “it needs to be bandaged. Really. You’ve got to let me do it.” It had bled a lot, and could still have shrapnel in it, or worse, damage to the skull. Even if it were only a slice, it needed to be cleaned and dressed.

They’d been following one of the ridges, and it seemed to still have a feature or two they could use. Up on one granite cliff, there were pockets that could be caves, or at least overhangs to hold air still and reduce convected cooling. They trudged wearily up, slipping and tripping.

It was fully dark when they reached the pocketed area. The holes gaped like huge mouths, dark and foreboding. There was an instinctive fear of the black maws, but also a tactical one. Kyle’s nerves were naked wires as he eased up to the first, the muzzle of the SMLE preceding him by a few inches. He held it close, not wishing to have it snatched or deflected by some waiting threat. Not even his NVGs showed him much inside other than a hole. It was that dark.

He used his Maglight with a red filter to take a better look. That was insufficient illumination to give their position away to an observer, but enough for the goggles to see the confines of the mountain. It was a cave a few meters deep, and not even bats were present. It was still eerie and tense, but with the goggles he could see well enough to know intellectually there were no threats present. Now if only he could persuade his quivering guts of that.

He stepped back out carefully, fearful of making a disturbance of rockfall. It was possible, even likely, they’d be surrounded by dawn, and have to stay hidden for some time. Or shoot their way out.

Or, he reminded himself, die a messy death. One RPG round into that cave would mince them to sausage.

Wade was waiting, muzzle down but ready. They nodded at each other, not a prearranged signal, but merely an acknowledgment that they were both okay. Kyle stepped down slowly, each foot in place before he moved further.

He crouched back with them. “It’s safe, tight, and not too large,” he said. “Let’s get in and shelter. Nasima, I’m going to look at your head. It needs treatment.”

Her face worked, mouth twisting. “Wade,” she turned and said, “I must be rude. Will you stay outside?”

“Huh? Sure,” he agreed. “Someone needs to be on watch anyway.”

Kyle suddenly got it. For her to take her scarf off was a major breach of the modesty protocol. Even when hurt, she had an issue with it. Like an American woman taking off her pants or exposing her breasts. And it was just her head. He just couldn’t understand it.

She led the way inside, and sat down facing him. Taking a deep breath, she unfastened and unwound her scarf as he held up a blanket. He needed lots of light for this, but couldn’t risk it being seen. With the blanket tossed over his ruck and a protruding rock, they had a tent of sorts to shield the glare. He held his Maglight out, shaded with his hands for now.

Underneath, she was much prettier, her head and hair framing her face. That hair fell in wavy cascades down below her shoulders or longer, and was a lustrous blue-black in color. It would likely be even shinier cleaned of dirt and sweat and the dark, oily sheen of blood above her right ear.

It was as bad as Kyle had expected. He could see white edges to the wound. He might have to suture, and scalp wounds hurt like hell. But before that . . . “I’ll have to cut away some of your hair,” he said, feeling ill. It was gorgeous hair in contrast to an ugly wound. She was a tough young woman, and there was an electric tension to the moment that was disturbing and exciting.

She nodded slightly, then winced. “Yes, I thought so,” she said.

“Hold the flashlight,” he said.

She took it from him and held it still. “Where?” she said. He reached over and adjusted her arm and the beam and felt that tension again.

It was lust, plain and simple. She was pretty, young, self-assured. In this foreign wasteland, she was the only link to his world, by speaking his language, and they were both under a lot of stress. Add in not having been laid in weeks, and it was easy to explain.

He shook it off and continued. “Tilt your head to the left,” he said, and she did. Carefully taking a small handful of hair, he raised it and held it clear of the scalp. “Hold still,” he said.

The blade on his SOG Powerplier hadn’t been abused and was razor sharp. He placed his hand against the back of her head for balance and moved the blade carefully in close. It sliced the strands off in a single pass as she winced only a little. He selected a few more and sliced, some more and sliced, and cleared the area around the wound down to a half inch or so.

The edges were raw and he’d have to do quite a bit. It was a small, triangular wound, but it was ugly and stale, blood congealing in shiny globs. “I need to shave it,” he said. “This will hurt.” She nodded and clenched her teeth as he leaned in again. The blade was sharp enough, but the scraped off strands stuck to the bloody mass around them. Her breath came in hisses and her chest heaved. The light wavered as she gripped it tightly. Kyle barely noticed. He was intent on doing this safely and perfectly, and forgot the trouble he was having.

Leaning back and releasing a breath, he reached for his canteen. “Here,” he said as he handed her a soaked bandage. “Pat it clean and away from the wound.”

She nodded and took it. Gently she stroked it to the surface. Her hair looked odd now, with a wedge cut above her right ear. Her scalp was pale, then inflamed, then red as it got closer to the hole. And suturing was not an option in the field. The edges of the flesh were curled under and too wide to stitch.

“Can’t suture,” he told her. “But it’s not bleeding badly. I’ll need to sterilize it though.”

She nodded through what was already a wince, tears forming at the thought of the pain that was to come. She kept her eyes averted as he splashed alcohol into a wadded bandage and closed the bottle. Then he raised it.

Her wince became a whine became a whimper and then a suppressed cry. Blood-tinged liquid ran from under the bandage, and she trembled. Head wounds are horribly painful, and this was traumatized, bruised, abraded, and now tortured with chemicals. Then she was crying, mouth open, keening to keep the noise down and let out the pain.

He caught her as she passed out from the agony. That wasn’t unexpected. Kyle had had a thrown rock split his scalp in school, and could remember what he thought was terrible pain as two nurses held him down to clean it. This had to be excruciating. “Superficial” does not mean “painless.”

Her head was in his lap and he reached over for the light, plucking it from her limp fingers. He stared into the wound. There didn’t appear to be any damage to the bone, but it was going to hurt like unholy hell for weeks. There was no grit, the hair was mostly gone, and it would be fine until she could get into town. But there’d be a nasty scar there forever.

She stirred, and her eyes fluttered. Her first mutter was in Pashto, then she said, “I was passed out?”

“Yes,” he said. “But you’re okay now. It’s clean at least.”

She nodded just barely and said, “Help me up, please.”

His arms were under her shoulders, and he lifted. In a moment, they were face to face, eyes reflecting the reflected glimmer of the flashlight from the rocks, and their lips were perhaps two inches apart.

Then she pulled away.

They stared for a second, eyes locked, and her hand was caressing his arm. “I can’t,” she said, and stopped stroking, too, as she averted her eyes. “I’m sorry you have been excited by me. But I am Muslim and unmarried and I can’t.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Kyle said, “And I can’t. Don’t apologize, because it’s not your fault.”

He pulled out a dressing, laid it carefully over the wound as she offered her head. He wrapped it and tied it securely but gently. “Is that okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And it feels much better, now that the burning is gone. And I thank you.”

“I wish I could do more,” he said, meaning it on several levels. Dammit. “I’d better go take a turn on watch,” he said. “Do you need a clean covering?” he asked.

“I have another scarf,” she said. “Are we done?”

“Yes,” he agreed. In seconds, her scarf covered her head. It was as if it were a shield, and he felt the frustration retreat just a bit. He shut off the light and reached for the red filter again. He gathered up the trash and her ruined scarf and stuffed it into a pocket.

“I’m going to dig out all the remaining food we have,” he said. “You eat what you need to, we’ll finish it off.”

“That’s not fair to you,” she said. “You’re bigger.”

“That means I can lose more mass and keep going,” he said. “You’re injured, we may need you yet, and even if not, I’m not leaving you for those animals.”

“Thank you,” she said. He could almost see her smile in the dark.

With the red filter in place, he dug through his ruck and turned up two more sticks of jerky wrapped in plastic, a handful of hard candies, one small bag of airline peanuts, and a stale apple. There was a packet of MRE peanut butter, but nothing to spread it on. It would have to be sucked out. It didn’t appeal to him; the stuff tasted like cardboard. But it was protein and calories and they needed it.

It would be even worse with no water to wash it down. “Dig in,” he said. “I’ll leave the light on for you.” She wouldn’t get the joke, though.

As he found his way cautiously to the cave lip, he pondered the spookiness of that cultural issue, and how it could affect him, an unbeliever.

“How’d it go?” Wade asked as he came out.

“Messy and painful,” he said. Then he realized he meant that another way, too.

“Going to be okay?”

“Yeah, it’ll scar, but it’s sterile and bandaged.”

Wade chuckled and replied, “I meant you, jackass.”

Kyle paused for a moment, flushed in embarrassment, then realized it was an honest question. “I’ll be okay.”

“Good. Let me know if you need to talk.”

“Thanks,” Kyle said. Wade was a hell of a decent man. “I think we just did. Go get some sleep. We’re going to share whatever food is left now. Let me have the carbine.”

“Sure,” Wade said, unslinging it and passing it over. “Nothing so far. It’s dark and still, and unless someone has infrared, we should be fine.” Wade slipped inside. Kyle had nothing to do but wait, worry, and watch. He decided now might be a good time for another attempt at the radio. He set it up on a ledge, set the frequency for the JSTARS and hoped. “Bossman, this is Roadkill, over,” he said, wishing he’d picked a different call sign. It had seemed amusing a lifetime ago. Was it three weeks?

Nothing. He set a frequency the Army should be using at the borders. “Any U.S. military unit, this is Roadkill. Urgently need relay to Bossman, over.”

Nothing. There had to be units within one hundred miles now. Though if they were encrypted, they wouldn’t really be looking for him on a single frequency. But the only way to plug into the encryption algorithm was to have another set do it remotely.

He’d try again around 0200, he decided. Or have Wade do it. If they couldn’t get a good signal then with the nighttime atmospheric effects, it wasn’t going to happen. But dammit, they had to be close! It was frustrating.

Carefully, he shut it off and disconnected the battery. The nominal eight hours in that battery was likely down to seven, minus any loss from not being used for two weeks.

That left him nothing to do but look at the sky. It was the prettiest one he’d ever seen.

Stars by the millions, a sliver of moon that set quickly . . . and a moving light far overhead and to the south that had to be a satellite. A Satcom unit would have been great, he thought, but too bulky for this.

All those bright pinpoints made him feel even smaller and more insignificant. Just the thing while being chased by half the world’s terrorists in the ass-end of nowhere.

About two, there was rustling and whispers from inside the cave. Wade came back out. “Your turn,” he said. “We should pull out early.”

“Right. How is she?” Kyle asked.

“That’s one brave but crazy lady,” Wade said, sounding bewildered.

“Oh?” Kyle prompted. What now?

Wade said, “She wanted to stand watch. Said it wasn’t fair that she sleep so much.”

“Dammit, she needs the sleep, and to be still, and she’s not trained with the weapons!” Kyle said.

“Easy, pal. You think I let her?” Wade replied. “She’s sulking but agreed with me. I fed her some more Motrin. Now go sleep.”

“Right. Sorry. Long night. Check the radio. Thanks,” Kyle muttered, handed over the M4, then turned and felt his way into the cave. There was a dim glow from the Maglight, left on for his convenience. They’d left him the peanut butter. As he grimaced at that, he noticed a dried fruit component from the MREs and half a pack of chicken with noodles. There were four Oreo cookies, too. It was no banquet, but it would let him sleep more easily and last another day.

After eating, he turned the light off again, curled up in his blanket, and leaned against a naturally perfect hollow that was quite comfortable.


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Framed