What the hell?
She looked up the trail, confused. He had been with her a moment ago.
Doubling back, she found him just beyond the bend in the footpath, sitting with his back against a rock and the UZI pointed up the trail.
“Aaron? What are you doing?”
“I’ll hold them here,” he said.
That’s when she spotted the blood on his shirt.
“You’re hurt!” she hissed, dropping to her knees, hands pulling up his shirt.
“We don’t have … time for this,” he said, swallowing, reaching for a map in his pocket and shoving it in her vest. He also clipped to her belt the radio she had taken from the Taliban.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“You need to go.”
“No way. I’m not leaving you here with those bearded grim-fucking-reapers,” she said, finally getting a look at the wound. It was an exit wound the size of a lemon, to the left of his belly button.
What kind of caliber was that? she thought, running her hand behind his back and locating the entry point, cringing when she found it just over his right kidney. The large round, probably hollow-point, had traversed his body, tearing him up. “It went through clean,” she said, trying to sound reassuring, as she reached for her individual first aid kit inside her survival vest and slapped coagulant patches on both ends.
The Kidon reacted like the pro he was, not even blinking at a field treatment she knew burned like hell—on top of what had to be a very painful belly wound. Rather, he just kept the UZI aimed at the path, focused, steady, managing his breathing.
An assassin to the end.
Unfortunately, no amount of training or field experience could counter a sudden and very large loss of blood—plus the trauma to his lower abdomen. Aaron was already pale and sweating profusely.
He’s going into shock.
“I just stopped the bleeding,” she said. “Come. I’ll help you up.”
“We’re wasting … time,” he insisted. “Get out of here. Take that map … Call your people. It has the spot … where they’re … taking the components.”
She ignored him and, with considerable effort, helped him to his feet, forcing him to come with her down the trail until they reached the same clearing surrounded by pines.
“No use,” he said, pointing at the path behind them.
Vaccaro saw the trail of blood. Even with the coagulant patches, he was still bleeding. A lot.
“I … can’t…” he mumbled, collapsing by a large boulder at the edge of the precipice. “I’m sorry … Red. But you need to get that to…”
He cringed, bending over and cursing under his breath before sitting back up and resting the UZI on the rock, aiming it at the trail. “Get out of here. Now.”
“Aaron, I can’t leave you in—”
“I’m done…”
Vaccaro just knelt there next to him as he started to tremble.
“Dammit,” he cursed. “Leave … or all of this … is for nothing.”
She heard distant shouts, followed by the cries of men. It sounded like they were in severe agony.
“Taliban,” he whispered, lips quivering, “Cutting survivors.”
She felt a chill at the thought of those bastards getting their hands on Aaron, on her.
“That weapon,” he continued, “can’t become … functional … Bastards will take it to … Israel … or America.”
Vaccaro felt paralyzed at this turn of events, angry at the choices laid out in front of—
Aaron grabbed her by the lapels and pulled her toward him. “Get … out … of … here.”
Putting a hand to his cheek, she said, “I’ll never forget you.”
“Good,” he said. “I guess my lines and my timing weren’t so bad after all.”
“No,” she said, tearing up. “They were just … wonderful.”
“And now for my best line yet. Go now, Red.” He pointed at the drop behind him.
“Down that cliff?”
“Safest … way.”
She eyed what looked like at least a seventy-degree precipice of bluffs, with trees growing out of the side of the mountain. It dropped about a thousand feet to a wooded plateau, reminding her of the one she had tumbled down the night before.
“Go … now,” he said, his skin ghostly, eyes fixed on the trail.
The Kidon didn’t have long, and he knew it. He professionally turned away from her as more cries echoed down the mountain, evoking images of Nasseer and Hassan castrating that man the night before. It was now payback time.
“Don’t … worry,” he mumbled, the UZI’s stock pressed against him as he reached for a grenade. “Taking … the bastards with me … and then … meeting Ela and the kids … It’s time.”
The comment took her momentarily aback, and it also made her think of her father. She could hear him screaming at her to get going. There was nothing she could do for this man, but there was plenty he could do for her, for the mission—if she acted quickly.
“Good bye, Aaron Peretz,” she said.
“Never stop fighting … Red One One. Never,” he said, winking before turning around to face the direction of the threat. “And make your life matter.”
Stunned by his words, Vaccaro stared at Aaron’s very large and very bloody figure as he kept the muzzle of his UZI aimed toward to enemy.
Which will be here any moment.
Realizing there was nothing left to say—nor the time to do so—she began feetfirst, facing the wall, pressing the toes of her boots over small protrusions on the rocky wall while grabbing exposed roots and branches.
You can do this, Red.
Vaccaro looked down. She focused on small niches to use as footholds, letting the strongest muscles in her body do the heavy lifting while using her arms as fulcrums, reserving their strength for guidance and to keep her upper body against the wall.
She soon developed a rhythm, foothold after foothold, using rocks, roots, trunks—anything that could help slow the pull of gravity, managing her descent.
Branches snapped as she pushed through, scratching her, but she ignored them—just as she forced herself to ignore the shouts echoing in the clearing, now a couple hundred feet above her. Gunfire followed.
Aaron putting up a fight.
She picked up her speed as the reports intensified. She rushed past dozens of trees growing out at an angle straight off the side of the incline, using their roots, branches, and trunks to clamber down, losing sight of the clearing.
A blast reverberated across the mountainside, silencing the gunfire.
Vaccaro paused, aware of what it meant.
And just like that she was alone again.
She felt a lump in her throat at the thought of him, of what could have been.
Never stop fighting, Red One One. Never.
And make your life matter.
She persisted, determined to honor his sacrifice by protecting this vital intelligence he had given her—intelligence she vowed to deliver.
Or die trying.
Pressing her lips together, fueled by the ultimate sacrifice made by Aaron and his Shinwari friends, she persisted, ignoring her burning muscles, her throbbing hamstrings and calves, and the cuts on her hands and face as she crawled through the thicket.
* * *
The blast pushed Pasha back as the man huddling behind a boulder, surrounded, detonated a grenade. Four of his men lay on the ground next to the man’s mangled body, one of them trembling.
He had to give that infidel warrior credit for surviving a shot from his Dragunov, plus putting up one hell of a fight. He had taken out several of Jamil’s men with marksmanship-level shooting of his UZI, before running out of bullets and then killing four more with the grenade.
But there was no sign of the American female pilot.
Pasha reacted quickly, shouting orders, directing Jamil and more than a dozen of his men down the goat trail, watching Jamil’s half-disfigured face under a mound
of green hair disappear around a switchback while Pasha kept two soldiers with him.
Zahra walked past them and approached the edge of the gorge, peering down.
“What is it?” he asked, joining her.
“Look,” she said, pointing at several broken branches a couple dozen feet below. “I think she might have gone this way.”
“Stand back,” he said, before grabbing an AK-47 from one of Jamil’s men and emptying a clip into the vegetation lining the side of the hill. Zahra joined him, unloading a fusillade that mowed down the brush.
* * *
The gunfire erupted above, raining down, zooming past her, smacking trees and ricocheting off rocks, before her right cheek burst in pain. Blood suddenly covered the side of her face.
“Aghh!”
Vaccaro let go on instinct, falling back, crashing against a tree trunk, bouncing and falling again, plummeting through pine branches, bending some and breaking others as the skies, the trees, and the boulders traded places.
Her hands slapped wildly at anything to break her fall. She finally snagged a root with her right hand, hanging for a moment before planting her right foot over a rock.
She paused and took a deep breath.
Jesus.
She wiped the blood off her face as bullets continued to zoom past her. Relieved to still be able to see out of her right eye, Vaccaro managed to reach a branch with her left hand, letting go of the root and swinging under a wide trunk growing at an angle out of the side of the incline.
Her face throbbing, taking the pain with her jaw clenched, she wedged her body into the space between the pine tree and a narrow ledge. Rounds pummeled everything, some tearing into the trunk above her, others whooshing past her, clipping the vegetation below her.
And the firing stopped just as fast as it had begun.
* * *
“Do you think we got her?” Zahra asked.
“Can’t see a damn thing,” Pasha replied, staring into the wooded drop. “For all I know she may not even be down there but over on that trail.” He pointed in the direction where Jamil had vanished. “Only one way to be sure,” he added, and he ordered his two warriors down the cliff.
“What about this?” She pointed to the rucksack strapped to her back. “It’s the priority.”
Pasha frowned while watching the men climb a dozen feet down the hill. “That’s why I need to comb every square inch of this hillside. She knows the way here.”
Zahra shook her head and pointed at the GPS on her wrist. “Fine, but she doesn’t know the way to Qais Kotal.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. They captured one of my guys alive. Remember?”
Zahra frowned and said, “Then we need to divide and conquer. I’ll go to Akhtar and get the bomb operational and out of here. You ensure that pilot doesn’t talk.”
“But Jamil’s men…” Pasha said, actually feeling concerned. “I can’t trust them alone with you. They wanted to stone you.”
“That’s why I need to go solo,” she replied. “Besides, I work better alone, especially when the other choice is being in the company of assholes.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Then I need the coordinates.” She offered him her GPS.
It only took him a moment to enter the coordinates and explain the route. “Go,” he finally said, heading down the cliff. “I’ll catch up to you.”
As he watched Zahra rushed back up the trail, Pasha peered down the precipice again.
I am not through with you yet.
* * *
Vaccaro persisted, pushing herself through the pain, just as her father had done, refusing to give up, reaching the bottom of the rocky incline nearly out of breath, becoming weaker.
She knew they were coming, could hear them high above her, their shouts echoing in the void between them. And she had to assume others would be heading her way from the trail beyond the bend in the mountainside.
It’s now or never, she thought, reaching for the radio and dialing the military air distress frequency of 243.0 MHz, hoping like hell someone would be listening at the other end—someone other than the Taliban.
93
Ooh-Rah!
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Captain John Wright was running—running like a damn Olympic sprinter—and so were a dozen of his men. They reached the tarmac just as the Chinook’s twin Lycoming turboshafts spooled into action, turning the massive rotors.
The distress call from Red One One had arrived just minutes ago, picked up by the same Black Hawk helicopter that was returning with the wounded CIA man, and was relayed to KAF.
“Hold that bird, soldier!” Wright shouted, as his marines scrambled up the rear metal ramp.
Inside, four Royal Canadian Air Force crewmen, two of them medics, hovered over their equipment. Door gunners, one on each side, loaded their M240s with 7.64mm belts. Beyond them the pilot and copilot worked the instrument panel between them, throwing switches and turning dials.
One of the gunners stepped up to the cockpit to inform the pilots of the Yankee invasion. The copilot unbuckled his harness and headed toward Wright.
“Sir? What are you doing here?”
“You’re going into a hot zone,” Wright said. “You’re gonna need some muscle on the ground.”
“But we have no notice of marines—”
“Look,” Wright said, as his men made it inside and helped themselves to the flip seats built into the sides of the massive helicopter. “She saved our bacon out there yesterday. No way we’re abandoning her now. We owe her.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, eh?” he said, before returning to the cockpit and updating the pilot, who looked over his right shoulder and shook his head at Wright before returning to his controls.
Wright took his seat next to Gaudet, who was checking his M4A1 carbine, as the twin Lycoming turboshafts unleashed their combined 9,500 horsepower, whirling the rotors into clear disks, lifting the craft off the blacktop. Wright noticed two Boeing AH-64 Apache helicopters tagging along as escorts.
“All set?” he asked.
Instead of replying, Gaudet turned to his men. “Marines! Are you ready to kick some ass?”
All eyes met the gunnery sergeant’s, followed by a unanimous, “Ooh-rah!”
94
So Be It
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Vaccaro ran down the side of the mountain toward the closest large clearing that could be used as an exfiltration point, ignoring her throbbing face, which burned like hell after she had patched it with QuikClot. But at least the blood had stopped, allowing her to see clearly out of her right eye.
But she had bigger problems: the Taliban.
She could hear them in the distance, beyond the bend in the trail as it curved around and up the mountain.
Bastards get an A for effort, she thought, pushing herself, reaching deep into her reserves to gain as much distance from them as possible, to prevent another failed rescue attempt—though this time she had warned KAF of hostiles in the area. Two Apache gunships accompanied the Chinook, call sign Hook Three Two.
She kept the channel open, using it as a beacon for the incoming rescue crew, which was still ten minutes away—the time she had to find an area large enough for the large helicopter to land.
With luck, she hoped to keep enough distance from the posse behind her that the Apaches could lay down a wall of destruction to enable a safe—
A round ricocheted off a boulder in a burst of pulverized rock, followed by another one hammering a stone pine to her left.
Cutting right, she decided to take her chances down another steep incline, this time sliding on her back, feetfirst, pressing the heels of her boots against the terrain, creating enough friction to manage her semicontrolled plunge.
Her back stung as she skidded down the abrupt grade, so she half stood, committing herself to almost running down the slope but taking the pressure off her back and passing i
t to her legs while she accelerated, widening the gap.
The increased speed, however, came with added risk of losing her footing and tumbling forward, especially as she started to get dizzy, as she briefly lost focus.
Mustering control and blinking to clear her sight in spite of her pounding right temple bringing tears to her eyes, she used her hands to snag low branches, fighting to keep her balance while kicking up dust and making a lot of noise. But at least no one was taking potshots at her.
For now.
She continued, clamping down the pain, remembering the long line of female warriors before her, drawing strength from their iron will, from their unwavering determination to persevere against all odds. She thought of the WASP, of Jackie Cochran and Nancy Love, of their leadership and sacrifice. She recalled their bravery, as well as that of all the women who’d ever served their country, even if that country had failed to recognize their selfless sacrifice for decades. Her thoughts then drifted to Aaron, to her rugged Mossad assassin—a real-life Kidon—who had managed to ignite something in her before sacrificing his life so she could live.
So Vaccaro pushed herself for the sake of her nation, for the sake of the oath she had vowed to keep. She persisted in honor of those who had come before her and out of respect for those who had given their lives for her—to protect the bloody map in her vest, marking the location of a weapon that was unthinkable in the hands of these fanatics.
After a few hundred feet the terrain leveled off into another plateau, this one wider—large enough for the Chinook—with a rocky outcrop at one end where she could hide and wait it out.
Feeling steadily weaker, the throbbing in her head nearly unbearable, Vaccaro brought the radio to her lips and, nearly out of breath, said, “Hook Three Two … Red One One has found … a clearing large enough. Home in on my … beacon … Beware … hostiles in the area.
“Red One One, Hook Three Two, roger. Five minutes out.”
As she heard the reply, Vaccaro noticed a wide fracture in the near-vertical wall of rock next to the outcrop—hairline at the top but widening enough for a person to sneak through as it reached chest level.
Without Fear Page 38
