A cave?
She approached it, the Colt 1911 in her right hand and the radio in her left, leaning down a bit to peek inside, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, the smell of mildew and the cooler temperature washing over her. It felt like heaven, especially on her burning face, and she took a lungful of cold and humid air, fighting the dizziness rapidly overtaking her.
She looked behind her and then back inside the cave, the interior of which widened and curved into darkness. Biting her lower lip, Vaccaro considered the trade-offs. The cavern would keep her out of sight, plus she could spot people coming in, as they would be backlit while she remained in the dark recesses. But, on the other hand, she would be trapped, without an escape route.
Making her decision, she stepped inside, her exposed skin goose bumping from the drop in temperature as she said, “Hook Three Two, be advised Red One One hiding in cave at north end of clearing. Anything that moves out there is hostile.”
“Roger that, Red One One. Three minutes out. Pop smoke.”
“Roger,” she replied, reaching for her last MK-13 flare. She hesitated before pulling the rings at the ends of the five-inch-long cylinder, realizing doing so was a double-edged sword that would signal the incoming crew as well as her pursuers.
“So be it,” she said, pulling on the rings and tossing the flare as far as she could before vanishing into the cave.
95
Lock and Load
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Wearing a green David Clark headset, John Wright tightened the grip on his Heckler & Koch UMP45 submachine gun when he heard her voice.
Suddenly everything felt as if it was moving too slowly, including this damned helicopter. Never mind that it was the fastest troop transport model at KAF. It still didn’t get him to her now, when she needed him.
Not in three fucking minutes.
Focus.
So he did, checking his weapon, making sure he had a full magazine of thirty .45 ACP jacketed hollow-point rounds plus one in the chamber—plenty of punch to counter the enemy’s AK-47s. He ran a hand over his armored vest, fingers checking the four spare magazines and assorted grenades tucked into various compartments. Drawing the SIG Sauer P220—also in .45 ACP—he performed a quick ammo check, including the spare magazines clipped to his utility belt. In total, Wright had almost 175 rounds—a bit overkill for such a short mission, but he wasn’t in the mood to take any chance of this op going sideways, especially when he knew he could get in trouble for not checking with Duggan first. But sometimes it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially if it helped to ensure the safe return of Laura Vaccaro.
“Two minutes!” the pilot warned.
Wright looked over at Gaudet, who nodded, turned to his marines, and shouted, “Lock and load!”
Then, looking back at his superior officer, the gunnery sergeant said, “We’ll find her, sir! We’ll find her!”
96
Bad Omen
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“Find her! Down there!” Pasha shouted, when he connected with Jamil’s men at the next switchback. He had spotted the red smoke in the clearing below as the sound of helicopters echoed in the range.
Jamil’s men shot down the hill with impressive nimbleness, like mountain cats on steroids, careering past trees and rocks, leaping from boulder to boulder with feline agility. Pasha tried to keep up, the Dragunov slung behind his back, his hands clutching a more manageable AK-47, though neither weapon could do much damage against the incoming Americans. The same was true of Jamil’s team, which lacked RPGs.
Their best shot was to locate the pilot and either take her alive or silence her, then retreat before the rescue team arrived.
But to do so they needed to hurry.
By the time he reached the clearing, Jamil had already spread out his men—all fifteen of them—across the long and narrow overhang and had set them to searching the tree line and the edge, some vanishing in the red haze hovering like a bad omen.
“Where are you?” he mumbled under his breath, his eyes searching the clearing before settling on the rocky outcrops at the edge of the gorge, recalling how she had hidden in a similar area two nights ago.
97
Hold Your Breath
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Vaccaro waited. The cave dampened the noise of the incoming helicopters, making it difficult to assess how far away they were.
She was tempted to head back out but decided to wait. The rescue crew knew she was hiding here, plus her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to have the upper hand on any—
A figure came into view, partially blocking the tall, narrow triangle of light that pierced the first dozen feet of the cave and formed a twilight zone bordering the darkness in which she hid. The silhouette was classic Taliban: baggy pants and tunic, plus the evident profile of an AK-47 with its long, curved, high-capacity magazine. He was sweeping the weapon back and forth, searching for a target in the darkness.
Holding her breath, Vaccaro lifted the Colt 1911 and fired two rounds into his center of mass. The flashes revealed a glimpse of a disfigured face, large hooked nose missing a nostril, brown teeth, and—interestingly enough—very green hair and beard. He looked like a cliché caricature of a bad guy—only he was real. Very real.
The insurgent arced back while squeezing the trigger of the AK-47, carving a track into the cave’s ceiling and splashing the interior with stroboscopic yellow light. He finally collapsed, as dust and debris rained down on him.
Very real, indeed, she thought. And now very dead.
Darkness returned, but not before the reports had shown her a wide crevice to her left, a deep fissure in the rock wall that seemed wide enough to hide in.
* * *
Standing by the edge of the clearing, searching for the woman pilot behind rocks, Pasha saw the flashes and heard the shots. Two singles followed by the brief rattle of an AK-47 coming from inside what looked like a cave at the end of the clearing.
“This way!” he shouted to Jamil’s men, as the helicopter loomed into view. But to his surprise, what emerged from below wasn’t a Chinook. The twin rotors belonged to two Apache attack helicopters rising like a pair of demons, their stub wings loaded with death.
The Noorzai warriors turned their AK-47s toward the gunships and opened fire.
Pasha understood the senselessness of the attack, as their rounds ricocheted off the crafts’ armored skin.
Painfully aware of what would come next, he broke into a run, toward the cave’s entrance.
98
Grand Scale
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“Thirty seconds!”
Wright watched the Apaches approaching the clearing, their rotors spiraling in the red smoke oozing from a single flare.
Gunfire erupted from multiple places along the tree line, primarily from the left and center sections.
The response was brutal and overwhelming as the gunships unleashed a mix of Hydra and APKWS 70mm air-to-ground rockets, lighting up the side of the hill before sweeping it with their M230 chain guns. It was destruction on a grand scale, unequivocal and swift, quenching any visible resistance by the time the Chinook’s rear ramp lowered.
Wright scrambled out first, his UMP45 up and ready, scanning the long ledge through its sights.
99
Ladies First
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Vaccaro spotted another figure near the entrance as gunfire intensified outside, followed by explosions that shook the entire mountain, and for a moment she feared that the cave would collapse.
She lined him up in the Colt’s sights, but before she could fire, the figure tossed something inside, which skittered over the rocky floor.
She jerked away on instinct, pushing her body inside the adjacent crevice until the walls wedged her torso. In the same motion, she brought both hands to her ears, clo
sed her eyes, and opened her mouth.
The blast inside the enclosure pounded her, compounding her head wound as she collapsed on her side, trembling, losing her grip on the Colt, which slid away, disappearing into a crack in the cave’s floor.
Dammit!
On her knees, nauseated, breathing deeply, the headache so powerful she could barely see, Vaccaro gutted up, her eyes veiled with grit and an unbending resolve—a determination she had seen glistening in Aaron’s dying eyes.
Reaching deep into her core for any shred of energy, swallowing the lump in her throat, her fingers curled around the handle of her SOG knife.
* * *
Pasha had tossed the grenade into the cave as the hill ignited behind him, tearing some men to pieces while setting others ablaze, running and screaming figures collapsing near the arriving Chinook while the Apaches steered out of the way and hovered overhead.
His back pressed against the wall next to the entrance, Pasha waited for the blast, which shot out of the jagged opening like a cannon shot. He rushed inside through the inky smoke swirling by the entrance, ignoring the smell of cordite and the soldiers scrambling out of the rear of the helicopter and spreading across the ledge. Surviving Noorzai warriors opened fire, engaging the marines, making a final stand.
Darkness engulfed him, but rather than pausing by the entrance, where he knew the light forking through the ingress would betray him, Pasha scampered inside and quickly shifted to one side while firing at waist level.
Through the flashes, he noticed Jamil’s green-headed figure on the ground, mouth wide open in a final scream, dead eyes staring at the cave’s rugged ceiling, fingers clutching his Kalashnikov in a death grip.
I know you are in here.
Reloading—and realizing that those marines would soon be coming up behind him—Pasha pushed deeper, stepping over Jamil, committing himself to finishing this, one way or another. The soldiers outside would have the place surrounded by now, as intense gunfire, a mix of AK-47s and American carbines, foretold the final battle.
But Pasha’s battle was in this murky and damp chute, against this woman, this blatant violator of Sharia law who could also be carrying the secret of Qais Kotal, betraying Akhtar’s ultimate hideout.
Not on my watch, he thought, moving slower now, his eyes peering into the obscurity, ears listening intently to every sound, filtering the racket outside, focusing on the—
A shadow separated from the wall to his right, surging toward him and stabbing his chest before he could bring his weapon around.
Stunned, Pasha stepped back as the figure vanished. His hands, trembling momentarily from the shock, dropped the Kalashnikov and he stared in disbelief at the rubber handle of the blade, protruding from his chest, just below his neck.
Instincts overcame surprise, forcing his mind to ignore the knife. It wasn’t going anywhere, and the fact that he could actually think meant it hadn’t cut into anything vital—plus, pulling it out could cause him to bleed out. What he needed was a weapon in his hands, but reaching down for the AK-47 by his feet could expose him to another attack by the woman pilot.
So Pasha did the only thing he could: he drew the old Makarov, gripping it just as the shadow reappeared, firing once as a crippling pain in his groin made him drop to his knees.
* * *
Vaccaro had used whatever reserves she had left to surprise and stab the insurgent, but she lacked the strength to retrieve the SOG knife or to follow up on her strike as the man stepped back in obvious shock, dropping his AK-47.
As she felt her strength leaving her, draining from her core, the last thing she could think of doing before collapsing was to kick the bastard in the balls.
Resting most of her weight on her left leg, she brought her right boot up in between the rebel’s legs as a gunshot cracked between them.
Her right shoulder went numb as she fell, landing on her back.
The insurgent dropped to his knees, staring at her, pistol in hand. She could see him clearly now: young, with angry brown eyes, a camouflage bandanna wrapped over his hair, her SOG knife still protruding from his chest.
Slowly, with apparent effort, he stood and aimed the semiautomatic at her face.
* * *
John Wright had rushed ahead of everyone else, making a beeline for the cave at the end of the ledge, the one Vaccaro had mentioned in her last transmission.
A man emerged off to his right, AK-47 in hand as he opened fire from a distance of fifty yards, shooting from the hip.
Good luck with that, Wright thought, the UMP45’s stock pressed tight against his right shoulder, iron sights in front of his shooting eye perfectly aligned with the target’s center of mass. He squeezed the trigger twice without breaking his stride, the .45 ACP slugs finding their mark.
Wright kept his momentum as the rebel dropped from sight, focusing on the wide crevice in the rock wall, on the place where she—
A single gunshot flashed from inside the cave.
No!
He pushed even harder, kicking his legs, reaching the entrance seconds later, running inside and screaming, “Laura! Laura!”
* * *
Vaccaro blinked when she heard her name.
John?
Was she imagining it? Did John Wright just call her name?
The shout prompted the insurgent to turn around and fire twice at the figure of a helmeted marine backlit by sunshine, the flashes splashing the walls with yellow and orange light.
* * *
Wright felt a sting in his right leg and a punch on his armored vest as the man shot his pistol twice. Doing so, however, marked the target for the veteran captain, who didn’t blink while firing twice into the rebel’s center of mass, before the bastard could fire a third time.
The insurgent just stood there, in apparent shock, before collapsing on his side.
Wright ran up to him and grabbed the pistol, a Makarov, flipping the safety and tucking it into his vest before kneeling by Vaccaro’s side.
She lay on her back, a hand on her wounded shoulder, a QuikClot patch on the right side of her face, where he could see a cut across her forehead and right temple.
Slinging the UMP45, he reached down and picked her up, ignoring the pain in his leg, cradling her against his chest while whispering, “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got—”
“John,” she whispered.
“Don’t talk,” he said, carrying her out of the cave. “Save your strength.”
The moment he cleared the entrance, he shouted, “Medic! Medic!”
The two Canadian operators rushed to his side, hauling a stretcher between them. Gaudet and his marines had already secured the clearing and had formed a perimeter while the medics helped Wright lower her into the stretcher.
“Sir!” one of the medics said, pointing to his leg. “You’re bleeding!”
“Later, son!” Wright replied. “Ladies first!”
One of the Canadians cut through the right side of her shirt, exposing the wound on her shoulder, which fortunately seemed superficial. The other medic applied a patch of QuikClot before bandaging it enough for the return trip.
“John,” Vaccaro said again, coming in and out of it.
“Don’t talk,” he said, kneeling by her side while one of the paramedics worked an IV into her right arm and the other looked at his leg. “It’s going to be—”
“Listen!” she snapped, lifting her head and grabbing him by the lapels of his utility vest, getting his undivided attention. “The map … John.” She let go of him and tapped the side of her vest before resting her head back on the stretcher and closing her eyes.
“Flesh wound, sir,” the Canadian medic working his leg reported, squirting on an antibiotic cream, followed by a QuikClot patch.
“Thanks,” he replied while frowning at the sudden heat on his wounded leg, before reaching into Vaccaro’s pocket and pulling the map out. It was stained with blood. “What about this map?”
“Marks … the … location �
� of the bomb.”
100
Legends
QAIS KOTAL. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
The entrance to the underground facility was located almost two-thirds of the way across the pass, beyond an arch-shaped rock formation rising twenty feet over the snowy trail. It led to a narrow corridor that wound its way between soaring walls of icy granite before reaching the massive metal front doors.
The choke point, thought Akhtar, as he greeted two dozen warriors charged with defending this secret and sacred location, named after Qais Abdur Rashid, father of the Pashtun nation and thirty-seventh descendant of King Saul.
“We’re here, Professor,” he said, without turning around.
In true Afghan costume, Akhtar removed his gloves, using his left hand to shake hands while placing his right hand over his heart, gesturing respect.
According to legend, Qais discovered this place in the sixth century, shortly after meeting the Prophet Muhammad, who inspired him to seek a secluded place of worship “near the heavens.” Over the centuries, kings had used it as a retreat, a place to escape the dangers and worries of the world. Military leaders saw it as a strategic hub connecting central and southern Afghanistan, while mullahs and sheikhs sought it as a place of prayer and meditation. But in recent times—at least for the past five years—it had been among the preferred hiding places of the current leader of the Pashtun nation: Osama bin Laden. And like prior chiefs throughout the history of this country, Akaa was being persecuted by the powers of the world. His predecessors had been hunted by the powers of the world—all of whom eventually regretted their decision to invade this landlocked nation.
And now the Americans.
Akhtar stepped through the long and winding corridor formed by walls of black granite—typical of the region—leading to the large, ornate, heavy doors, which, like everything else here over the centuries, had been brought up on the backs of mules. The doors protected the entrance to the central hall, a cavernous opening used as a hub linking man-made caves that served as a prayer room, sleeping quarters, a kitchen and dining hall, and a few private chambers and offices.
Without Fear Page 39
