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CHAPTER 11



Three hours later, he wasn’t so sure about the hiding place. With the Barrett disassembled, he and Wade each carrying half, it was still an awkward climb through jagged outcroppings. The path was up a fissure between two large massifs, and was well-hidden from town or the plateau, but it wasn’t a pleasant walk in the park.

“It’s just up here,” Nasima said, indicating to their right. “Come.”

Tired and sore, they followed her. It was a bit disconcerting to have the slim woman radiate so much energy as they lagged behind. Kyle kept reminding himself that she was familiar with the terrain. It did make a difference.

Shortly, they were gathered around a long crack.

“Here,” she announced.

“Very nice,” Wade said, looking at the convoluted opening. He shone his Xenon flashlight inside, and it appeared deep enough for their purposes, as well as being out of sight. “Just one problem,” he said.

Kyle finished the thought. “Neither of us will fit in there,” he said. It might be fifteen inches wide and there was no section long enough for legs or torsos for a six-foot male.

“It is smaller than I remember,” Nasima admitted. “I think I can still squeeze in, though.”

“Great, if you can,” Kyle said.

“Okay,” she said. For a moment she stared at him, considering. Then she said, “That means you’ll have to turn around.”

“Huh?” he asked, confused.

She blushed red and said, “I’ll need to pull up my skirt and squirm in. It’s not proper for a man to watch.”

Of course. Muslim doctrine demanded she not show anything except her face and hands. “Oh, no problem,” Kyle said. “Sorry, it’s just that we’re not used to these things. Here’s the components,” he said, unlimbering the filthy burlap package from his shoulder. Wade dropped his alongside. “We’ll move down about ten meters and just keep an ear out for emergencies, okay?”

“Excellent!” she beamed. She sat there, legs folded demurely under herself, until they moved away.

Behind them were scrabbling noises. “Dammit, I want to look when I hear sounds like that,” Kyle said.

Wade snickered. “And you want a glimpse of leg, too.”

Kyle punched his shoulder and said, “Yeah, she’s cute, what about it? I’m not going to piss off our only reliable guide to get a gawk at something I can’t have anyway. Besides, she’s wearing jeans.”

“Right,” Wade said. “Let’s hope she’s done soon, and that none of the kids come out here hacking around.”

Kyle gazed over the terrain. “Not a lot here to indicate activity. I’d say it’s pretty dead.”

“Yeah,” Wade agreed. “Kids these days. No matter where you go, they’re more urban, less adventurous, and listening to industrial music.”

“Hey! I listen to rock on occasion,” Kyle said.

“Great, old man. You must be a huge hit with the over-eighty crowd.”

They joked quietly until the scrabbling sounds stopped, and listened carefully, ears twitching for signs, eyes alert for movement.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” her voice said. “It’s hidden, and I appreciate your modesty.”

They turned. Her skirt was dusty and scraped, with a puckered pull of thread over her left hip.

“We’ll have to give you some money for more clothes. This is wearing out your wardrobe,” Kyle said.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Besides, there are no clothing stores nearby and there’s little selection in the marketplace.”

“Speaking of which,” Kyle said, “we need to get more local garb, and shift to another village where we can hide better. And where we can buy a rifle.”

She thought for a few moments. “If we can leave tonight, I know where there is a road east. It will take us where we can find a rifle and allies. And we need allies.”

“Let’s leave now,” he said.

Nasima drove again. Kyle was getting used to her Eastern style. It involved no philosophy or mysticism, it was simply based on being mean and rude to other drivers and pedestrians, and barreling along as fast as possible.

After so many direction changes, Kyle wasn’t entirely sure where they were. He was glad they had a GPS receiver, because he was sure they’d be needing it before this played out. In the meantime, they were approaching another town, and even from the outskirts it was obviously full of small industry. The rust stains and metallic stenches said as much.

By now, they were less obvious. Between two weeks’ worth of beard and dirt and sun they looked like any other peasants, so long as they were seen from ten feet away and kept their short hair hidden. Wade’s facial features were still problematic, but a lungee and a stiff coat fixed that. His skin tone was unremarkable. The people here varied from tan to near-black in the sun, skin leathery and stiff on all but the very young.

She’d been right about the town. He could see various children working at buffing wheels and using files on metal, and glimpses through curtained doorways showed revolvers, shotguns, even a few AKs. Whatever they might need should be available here. Quality would be debatable, but they could do some work themselves and pay for other aspects.

It was amazing, Kyle thought, how a few hours’ travel and the disposal of the Barrett had made them invisible again. The lawlessness and lack of proper TV or Web gave them a camouflage reminiscent of the Old West. As long as rumors didn’t catch up in a hurry, or any rumors were garbled by the time they got here, they’d be okay.

First a rifle, then intel. He really had no idea how to accomplish that second requirement.

They parked the car in a sunny, dusty street. The dust was pervasive, just like that in Arabia, and covered everything. It was worse here, as the road was mere dirt, gullied and with stones protruding from some ancient rain.

The stores they wandered past were a bewildering mix. There were restaurants, textiles, dry goods, a video arcade with twenty-year-old games from the U.S. and a handful of Russian machines, a dealer of plastic cases, and gun shops. Lots of gun shops.

Wade picked the store that seemed quietest, pointed, and they slipped through the translucent fabric. The walls were lined with rows and stacks of rifles of all kinds. A clutch of pistols sat atop a shelf behind the counter. The shopkeeper nodded. He and his son both were dressed lightly in cotton, neatly bearded and kempt, and carried AKs. There were likely other weapons handy. At least, Kyle would have weapons handy if he ran the place, so he assumed they did, too.

They all nodded and bowed, and Nasima handled greetings and small talk. Wade watched the door as Kyle sought the left side of the store, which seemed to have many grimy, dirt-encrusted examples. The son watched him firmly but not threateningly as he examined the merchandise. There were many old Mausers, some Russian Mosin-Nagants, some Indian-made Enfield #4s, a scattering of odd things like a Swedish Ljungman and a Parker-Hale .22 that had seen far better decades. There was a lot to sort through.

Then he stopped short. That looked like . . .

It was. A Short Magazine Lee-Enfield. World War I British surplus. Only this one had been worked over quite a bit. He picked it up and examined it.

The muzzle-length stock had been shortened to a reasonable modern length, and the stock cap that held the bayonet mount removed. It had been refinished and phosphated instead of blued. The length of pull was a bit short for a man of his stature, of course, but that could be fixed. Then he saw the stamp on the left side of the receiver, PROPERTY US GOVERNMENT.

It clicked in his mind. During the ’80s, lots of these—cheap, familiar to the locals and easy to procure—had been cut down and packaged for the mujahedeen. The SMLE or “Smelly” was a reliable, accurate weapon, almost as good as a 98K Mauser, and easy to maintain. With a bit of work it would make, as others had before, a fine shooting rifle.

“Da pe tso dai?” he asked. How much?

“Uzer rupee,” the man replied confidently. Kyle figured for a moment. One thousand Pakistani rupees was sixteen bucks American. It was cheap, and ridiculously within his budget.

But it would be out of place not to haggle, and he couldn’t have stories of a stranger tossing money around freely. “Penza sawa,” he countered. Five hundred rupees, eight bucks.

The man looked offended but clearly wasn’t, and stuck to his price. Kyle pointed out the “defective” stock, how short it was, the grunge and dust, no bayonet mount. He didn’t speak the language well enough, but didn’t need to. All he had to do was point, shake his head, look grossly put upon and disgusted. Twice he put it down and walked toward the door, and each time the man countered with a slightly lower price. Kyle would turn back and they’d start again.

It took ten minutes, with much grumbling and complaining, gesticulating and shaking of heads, but finally they settled at twelve dollars, 750 rupees, with sixty rounds of match-grade ammunition included, twelve stripper clips to hold it, the rifle to be adjusted to his specifications, and a sling added, along with an abused but functional Dragunov bipod and better sights. He’d have to settle for iron sights, but they’d be good ones. The ammo made him suspicious. It sounded too good to be true.

“You bargain well,” Nasima acknowledged.

“Lots of flea market trips as a kid,” he replied. She looked confused at the term and he added, “I’ll explain later.”

Haggling done, he sought to explain the modifications he wanted made.

“What do you seek?” the man asked. He didn’t seem bothered at Nasima translating. That was typical. As a woman helping a man, she was in her place. Besides, he was being paid.

Or possibly he was modern-minded enough not to care. Kyle decided he was being too harsh in his assumptions. So far, almost everyone had been very hospitable. Even Qalzai’s people, while they screwed him over, had been polite and helpful. There was no reason to impute bad thoughts to everyone.

With a bit of conversation and a few gestures for technical matters, Kyle got his point across. “Ah, yes,” the man said. “Ah, yes,” when he understood the nature of the changes. “Ah, yes.” It might be the only English he spoke, though Kyle wasn’t going to assume so, and would watch what he said around him.

Kyle stayed on site while Nasima and Wade went to shop for food, more clothes and assorted accessories. He watched and advised with a few basic words and hand signs as the smith cut off the remaining barrel band. He then dismounted the weapon and carefully placed the stock in a vise, padding the jaws with leather. He gestured for Kyle, who used a scribe and straightedge to carefully mark how he wanted it cut, then held up his hands to indicate it should be hollowed in a semicircle along those lines.

What he was trying to do was relieve most of the pressure of the stock against the barrel, free floating it. This would allow the barrel to oscillate with a harmonic resonance as it fired, rather than shaking the stock. It also prevented warped wood from humidity changes from affecting the barrel, and left a small air gap to reduce the effect of bangs and strikes against the barrel. A small amount of pressure at the front of the stock would make things stable and consistent.

Kyle almost jumped in shock when the craftsman grabbed a chisel and mallet and banged along the lines indicated. He was sure the stock was ruined from the rapid, careless striking. He held still, not screaming, jumping or reacting, trying to think of a polite way to address the issue. He’d be needing one of the Mausers now.

At a wave, he stepped closer to look at the damage, and paused. In actuality, it was a job almost as neat as a precision machine could do.

It came to him that this man was a craftsman in the old style. He’d be lost in a modern machine shop, but with a handful of files, a drill and chisels, he could do any of the same precision work, it would just take longer. Though “longer” was in comparison to machine tools only. His work so far was faster than Kyle would dare try with a chisel.

Impressed, Kyle nodded agreement, and indicated that the foremost part of the stock should be left proud so as to support the barrel. The grimace the man gave him indicated he was well aware of that fact, and the arrogant foreigner should stand back and let him work. He selected a large riffler rasp from his rack and commenced to shaving out long, paper-thin strips of the old beechwood.

Kyle simply watched. The man’s hands were sure, his eyes squinty and clear. Stroke by stroke the well-aged wood was scraped and cut into a more modern shape. It took about an hour, which was surprisingly fast.

It took only a couple of hours to complete, including a wooden cheek piece shaved to fit and pinned in place with wooden dowels as a Monte Carlo style stock, and another piece screwed in place on the butt to lengthen it to fit Kyle’s long frame. It was a good three inches longer than the short British stock. Careful pegging and filing filled out the grip to something Kyle might hold more easily. It was a hideous Bubba-looking job, but functional.

Wade and Nasima returned with meat-stuffed pies. The filling was mutton. Though if Kyle hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have asked. He’d learned to eat what he was given, enjoy it or reject it and not ask about pedigree or breed. But Muslims were strict on eating only certain meat as far as mammals went, and there were few streams here to fish from. He bit at the pie, and gave the spare one to their host, who hugged them graciously and plowed in. Once he’d munched his meal, he returned to delicate filing and hammering on the bolt mechanism. After that, he drilled the rear of the receiver for a proper sight assembly. He actually had a small drill press that looked fifty years old and held a standard hand drill, but it cut straight holes, which he threaded by hand.

“That is one ugly looking bastard son of a left-handed, red-headed stepchild,” Wade said, eying the stock critically.

“Ain’t it, though?” Kyle agreed, beaming. Yes, it was ugly, its soft old lines surgically altered to rakish angles and now converted to butchered curves. But it was purely functional. It should, if everything had been done correctly, and to Kyle’s eye it had, shoot every time he squeezed the trigger, and put every bullet within a couple of minutes of arc of where he aimed.

After the sight was installed, the smith smoothed the butt down with files and a metal scraper with better curves than a French stripper. There was no sandpaper in evidence anywhere; all finish work was scraped patiently to a fine, smooth surface.

Meanwhile, the trigger had been reshaped and the bolt reworked. Once reassembled and the stock attached, the man presented it to Kyle for examination. He wore a confident smile.

Kyle hefted it, liking the balance. The bipod had been screwed to the forestock and added just enough weight that it should help hold the muzzle down. The stock was long and tall enough for his arm and neck, the grip swelled to fit his large hand. He raised it, worked the bolt and safety, though he wasn’t likely to use the latter much. Still, it was a good test of function. He drew the trigger, which still had a long, creepy draw, but was crisp at letoff and not mushy.

He nodded satisfaction. The man had done a fine job.

“Ammunition,” he reminded the smith, and the man nodded. He spoke to his son, who slipped into the back. After a patient three minutes, Kyle asked Nasima, “Do we know what’s taking so long?”

She spoke, the smith spoke back, and she said, “The match ammunition is hidden at the back of the safe. It will be here shortly.”

“Okay,” he agreed. But it was another five minutes before the son returned. He handed over a paper wrap that contained the rounds, and another that held the clips.

Kyle examined the rounds carefully. The case markings varied, and he wasn’t very familiar with British ammo. This batch was stamped A 79 7.7r 1m3z. 1979, 7.7mm rimmed? That seemed likely, but the rest meant nothing. But the cases were very even in shape and length, had faint turning marks on the necks, and the bullets were in nice condition. He had no idea where “match-grade” ammo came from out here, but he’d seen all kinds of stuff, including a titanium Taurus .357 that couldn’t reasonably be here. He shrugged inwardly and decided to take them. A dozen tight, springy stripper clips let him load sixty rounds for easy feeding. One could carry extra magazines for the Smelly, but typically, the magazine was left in place and ammo fed from strippers into the top. The clips were phosphate finished and looked recent, though they were worn from use.

With that accomplished, they paid the man in rupees, thanked him profusely, and accepted both a modern sleeve for the rifle and a burlap wrap to hide that. Then it was back outside and into the car. It was time to test-fire the weapon.

They drove out of town and found a quiet area with rolling fields. On a broad, stalky-green area about 200 meters from the road, Kyle found a boulder, and propped two smaller rocks on it as targets. “Spot me,” he told Wade.

“Of course,” Wade replied. He uncased the spotting scope and got comfortable on the ground.

Kyle dropped prone, extended the bipod and set its length, checked the sling and stock in case he needed to shoot from rest, and did a full check of the weapon. His life would depend on it. “Good enough” wasn’t good enough.

It snugged comfortably up against his cheek, and the bolt and safety worked very smoothly. He loaded one round. With curly green stuff against his face, he eased lower and closer. The Zen of rifle. It was a joke of his. Become one with the weapon. Be the bullet.

The trigger pull was still long, but steady. It fired crisply, and recoiled more than he expected. The .303 was a respectable round, and this wasn’t a heavy rifle. The “BOOM!” rolled out and echoed pleasantly.

He missed, throwing up chips from the boulder.

Wade was on it, though, and said, “Five inches low, three inches right.”

“Stand by,” Kyle replied. The original sights had been a midmounted tangential ramp and a post in front. They were adequate for battle, but not for precision. The new rear sight was mounted to the receiver ring and was click adjustable. It wasn’t any brand Kyle recognized, but it ought to work well enough.

He clicked up and left, said, “Ready,” and loaded one round. Consistency was essential to a good sight-in.

As that shot echoed and more chips flew, Wade said, “Barely low, one inch right.”

“Stand by,” he said. He corrected again, leaned in, and fired.

The rock shattered in bits.

“Second target,” he said. One round.

That rock joined its neighbor in igneous heaven.

“Good enough. Your turn.”

“Suits me,” Wade said. He might have to take the shot, and they might wind up mixing weapons. He needed familiarity, too.

There was one small piece of the second target left. Wade flopped down, eased in, loaded, squeezed, and shot. The now-pebble jumped high into the air and disappeared. “Damn, sliced,” Wade quipped.

“I’m happy,” Kyle said.

Nasima had been silent. Now she said, “I am impressed.”

“Thanks,” Kyle said. “But we’re trained for much farther than that.”

“Yeah, do we want to resight for farther?” Wade asked.

“Adjust the vertical. Zero for three hundred.” Wade nodded, and whipped out a calculator and notepad. “Assuming one eighty grains and twenty-four sixty at the muzzle with a two hundred yard zero, which is the figures I have here, plus two point five inches at one hundred, sixteen point eight inches low at three hundred. Zero at three hundred.”

“Right,” Kyle agreed. The projectile would hit high on a closer shot, rapidly drop after three hundred, but would be within a human silhouette for the entire flight. After 350 yards, he’d need to aim higher, on the head or above it, for a center of mass shot.

They discussed some finer points of trajectory for a few minutes, and potential deflection from wind. “It should do the job,” Kyle said.

“Hope so,” Wade said. “Because I don’t think this is ‘match’ ammo.” He held up a round and indicated with his finger. “That turning on the throat was done with emery paper. The rim is a bit beat. And the shoulders are not fire-formed.” That last referred to fitting cases to a chamber by shooting them, forcing them to shape. “Looks like standard ball.”

“Ah, hell,” Kyle said.

“Go back and complain?”

“Nah,” Kyle said. “It should be consistent enough, if it’s standard ball. The work was good. We don’t want a scene. Let him keep the extra buck fifty.”

“Sure, though it makes me itch,” Wade said. “Bet that what took so long was the emery cloth and polishing?”

“No bet,” Kyle replied with a shake of his head. “Now, we’re using iron sights on this. I’ve got the scope from the Barrett to use for intel and spotting, but you’re going to have to do most of the spotting for me with your scope.”

“Roger that,” Wade nodded.

“Are we done here, then?” Nasima asked. She’d been quiet through the technical discussion, but appeared impressed.

“Yes,” Kyle said. “What now?”

“Now we try to find your target,” she said.

“I’m dying to find out how,” Wade said.

“We ask questions,” she said. “The key element is to ask the correct questions of the correct people.”

He knew that much. “I guess we’re in your hands,” he said. Because he had no idea where to start.

“I have an idea,” she said.

They returned to the car, hid the weapons carefully in the trunk and climbed back in. Nasima started the engine and pulled back onto the road.

Shortly, she pulled over. Hopping out lightly, she asked something of a woman on the street. A pointed finger and directions were returned.

From there, they drove across town and sat waiting near a mosque. It was a stunning piece of architecture, and the two Americans gaped like tourists. Even in this backwater, the mosque had arches, minarets, rich blue tiles, and other exquisite decorations. Lunch came from a passing vendor with a rickety wooden cart, and Nasima disappeared inside for nearly an hour while the men sweated in the sun, under their lungees, trying to be inconspicuous. She emerged, they climbed in the car, and off they went again.

They crossed town three or four times, Nasima stopping to ask questions. They circled a good piece of the outskirts and then headed west again, up into the hills.

“We’re seeking a small village nearby,” she said, “where three tribes have been fighting. One is known to have been involved with the Taliban during their reign. We will seek one of the others and ask of their enemies.”

“Good, just ask carefully,” Kyle said.

She turned and gave him a look that would freeze a blowtorch. “I have some experience avoiding trouble, Kyle.” Her tone made it clear she didn’t like being patronized.

“Right, sorry, nerves,” he said.

“It is okay,” she said, and softened slightly.

“How will we find the final information?” Wade asked. “I’d think we don’t want to ask about it at all.”

“And we won’t,” she nodded. “We’ll see who is afraid, and hasn’t been warring recently, or who is deferring to the others. The Taliban are bullies. Others avoid them.”

They stopped at another ultramodern petrol station in a tiny town that was a scattering of huts. The station was the most modern building they’d seen all day, and was a local hangout of sorts. The Americans stayed in the car, Nasima went in. When she returned, she was smiling.

“I have another lead,” she said.

“Oh?” Kyle prompted.

“I asked about safe routes for driving. I was told where to avoid, and why.”

“Ah,” he said. Yes, that was a classic way of doing it, and it wouldn’t have worked if he’d tried it. Nasima was very useful to them. They’d gotten far more than their money’s worth from her already.

It was evening when they rolled up into the hills proper. At dusk, they stopped at a convenient farm, paid a few rupees, and were bedded down in two rooms. Nasima had cautioned them against trying to leave the rooms and associate, and they stayed quiet. It wasn’t easy, though.

“Dammit, Wade, I want to know what’s going on!” Kyle fumed in a whisper. “She drives us around, asks questions . . . what happens when someone associates her with two strangers, and those two strangers with a dead leader in the area?” They sat in a room lit by a kerosene lamp, with bare dun walls and a packed earth floor. They’d rolled out ponchos and rucks as bedding.

“Chill,” Wade said. “We’re better off this way. We’ll have more warning of any trouble, and we have transport we control.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I had the illusion of control before. Now I have control, but it’s limited, and through a young woman who doesn’t know military matters.”

“Not formally, no. But she does have a knack for intel. I think it’s inbred here. So many factions and relations that you have to learn diplomatic ways of gathering data before you even greet someone at a party, in case you piss someone off.”

“True,” Kyle considered, sitting on his ruck. It sank under him, despite its fullness. “And I suppose I’d better sleep. Long day again tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’ve got watch. See you in four hours.”

“Right,” Kyle said. But sleep wasn’t easy with ghostly enemies haunting his dreams, prepared to knock down the doors and shoot him . . . and under all that was an image of Wade, being shot by a sniper, screaming in agony. Then everything shifted and Nasima was the target. His mind was recalling old hurts with new friends and confusing the images.

It was a long time before he slept, and it was restless when it came.


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Framed