by Fritz Galt
He watched as more orange bursts erupted, this time at the other end of the runway.
Al-Qaeda was striking back on several fronts.
Ferrar scrambled toward the blue rays that seeped into the cave. Then suddenly he heard a whisper from just behind him.
It could have been Bolton, but he wasn’t sure.
Colt froze and Ferrar knelt quietly with his rifle poised by his side, ready to fire into the darkness.
In the reflected blue light of dawn, he glimpsed a shadow running yet deeper into the cave.
“After him,” Ferrar ordered.
Colt crouched low and began to pursue the shadow.
They had to come up with something. They wouldn’t lose Gopher, Pug and Mox for nothing.
Curse the operation.
“Aaaieee!”
Colt’s frame stiffened, rose upward and staggered back, a knife hanging out of his neck. Warm blood spurted onto Ferrar’s combat uniform.
He eased Colt to the cave floor and dove headfirst into a shadowy form that had emerged from the walls.
He butted into the man’s abdomen and met firm resistance. God, these guys were tough.
He regrouped for a second attack and charged forward, propelling the man into the wall.
He didn’t stop there. He came up with his knife drawn and sliced into the fighter’s gut. The flesh turned taut, then quivered. Ferrar jabbed deeper, seeking the heart. Face to face, Ferrar smelled the man, held the man off his feet and wished to kill every man like him.
The man’s hand tightened its grip on Ferrar’s gas mask, pushing his face away. Then the hand suddenly relaxed, ripping off Ferrar’s mask as the man slumped to the ground.
Ferrar dumped the hulk against the wall. Behind him, Colt lay still, his gas mask askew and his eyes open wide. His face bore no expression, even the slightest emotion, as the first sharp rays of sunlight pierced the cave.
Ferrar whipped his mask fully off his face and inhaled the peppery air. Then he gathered up his assault rifle, clenched his teeth and sprayed the depths of the cave with a prolonged burst of automatic fire.
At the Kandahar airport, Paul Stevens crouched to avoid stray bullets as marines moved in and took up positions around the terminal.
Mujahedeen from the Afghan Northern Alliance accompanied the marines and were the first to storm the building. Their submachine guns shattered glass, and then blazed away inside.
Covering one ear to hear his radio, Stevens knelt beside a row of empty petrol barrels. His hands were frozen from nervous anticipation as well as the cold, and he felt the radio slipping from his grasp.
Then he felt a slap across his back. He jumped forward, rolled over one shoulder and landed on his feet in a fighting stance.
It was Joe Capella, his subordinate.
“Cripes. Don’t creep up on me like that,” Stevens said, wiping the dust off his face with the back of his sleeve.
“Any word from the cave?” Capella asked, unfazed.
Stevens returned to his crouched position.
“Yeah, I got word. They’re picking us off one by one. Gopher, Pug and Mox were hit. That leaves three inside. I don’t know what the hell’s happening up there.”
“Damn these al-Qaeda bastards. They’re mean suckers.”
Another set of footsteps approached.
Stevens spun around. From the polished army boots, he looked up to see a dark, grease-painted face. It was the Marine Commander Colonel Richard Paxton.
“We’ve got the airport secured,” Colonel Paxton informed him.
“Good work,” he said, cautiously rising to his feet. “Except, our men are suffering casualties up in the mountains.”
“Time to send in reinforcements?”
“I think so,” Stevens said. “They need close air support, and fast.”
Colonel Paxton raised a radio to his lips. “Scramble fighter jets and choppers from Zebra Base. We’re flying in to Tora Bora.”
Chapter 2
Deep inside the cave, Ferrar took his finger off the trigger of his chattering rifle and listened to the echoes. They continued to resound in three directions.
Then his radio vibrated against his thigh.
Flattening against a wall and pulling the dead al-Qaeda fighter up as a shield, he whispered into his lip microphone, “Speak.”
It was Bolton’s voice over the airwaves. He sounded like he was calling from miles away, and his words were barely audible.
Ferrar pressed the receiver more tightly to his ear. “Repeat that.”
All he could tell was that Bolton was in dire straits. Why? There was no attack underway at the moment. Or was there? He ripped the night-vision scope, gas mask and radio headset off and listened carefully to the dead space in the cave. He picked up a distant cry.
Every fiber in his body told him to escape while he could. Except that his lifelong rival Tray Bolton was still alive inside the cave, screaming his head off.
“Our birds are in the air, sir,” Marine Commander Colonel Richard Paxton informed Stevens, his CIA counterpart.
Stevens looked up as a squadron of F-18 Hornets and a black cloud of Huey and Super Cobra attack helicopters buzzed over the Kandahar airport against a brightening blue sky.
Then crackling noises and a terrified shout came over the radio. He held it away from his ear.
Wild yelling and scuffling ensued, followed by several gunshots.
“I can’t hold out,” the deep voice gasped, this time more clearly.
It was Tray Bolton, whispering into his radio microphone.
Bolton’s words continued more clearly. “George Ferrar has trapped all of us in this chamber…then he started firing…we’re all dead.”
“Good lord. Ferrar’s gone postal,” Capella exclaimed. “What the hell has gotten into him?”
Ferrar was no longer a dependable asset. Stevens turned to Paxton. “How soon before the air cover arrives at Tora Bora?”
“Due there in three minutes.”
“Smoke Ferrar out of the cave,” he ordered. “You have permission to take him dead or alive.”
Ferrar trapping the others in a chamber and executing them? He could scarcely believe it himself.
Ferrar spun around as shouts and gunfire erupted from the depths of the cave. With grudging feet, he headed in that direction.
Fierce echoes had drowned out Bolton’s precise words. But the gist was clear. He was in trouble and needed backup fast.
Picking up his speed, Ferrar ran along the walls, using his fingers to guide him in the increasing gloom. His night-vision scope, gas mask and radio headset ripped off and hanging around his neck, he only had instinct to guide him.
The smell of gunpowder burned in his nostrils and his eyes filled with water. Suddenly, his boots slid on a wet substance and he came to a halt. Reaching down in the darkness, he found parts of Mox’s body.
He couldn’t make out Mox’s partner Pug anywhere, but a thin trail of warm blood led around the corner.
Feeling a cool rush of adrenaline, he stood and followed the cave wall deeper into the complex. Several dark corners later, he was at a junction. He reached down once again and felt the cold stone floor for droplets of blood.
Then he heard a metallic click.
A chattering of bullets sprayed from the muzzle of an automatic rifle.
He felt a heavy object topple against him, its surface sticky. It was Pug, his hand feebly attempting to pull his pistol from its holster. Then his helmeted head flopped lifelessly back into Ferrar’s face.
Ferrar stumbled backwards and fell under the weight of Pug and the lead bullets that riddled his body.
Peering over Pug’s shoulder, he made out the faint outline of their assailant against a blue ray of light. The orange glow of a cigarette briefly illuminated the man’s face.
Fair-colored hair, smoke drifting from his rifle, a grim look of determination on his face—it was Bolton.
What the hell?
Bolton had just fi
red on his own man. Had Pug turned on them?
“Ferrar? Is that you?” came Bolton’s bass voice, conveying an odd mixture of calm, curiosity and menace.
Then Ferrar saw something in the grim lines of Bolton’s face. Bolton’s intentions were suddenly all too clear. The entire unit was marked for elimination.
Pug’s body gave a final shudder. Ferrar’s last comrade had expired.
Embers of Bolton’s cigarette flared once again and reflected off his raised rifle.
Ferrar furtively tried to slide his rifle from under Pug’s body. It was stuck. He freed a leg and managed a judo kick that connected with Bolton’s groin.
“Aargh!”
Ferrar picked himself up and made a frantic bid for the cave entrance. Behind him, Bolton unleashed the full force of his automatic weapon.
All around Ferrar, rocks chipped off the ceiling and showered him. He bounced off unyielding walls toward the light.
In the fierce early morning sun rays landing on Kandahar Airport, Stevens heard an anguished scream over his radio.
“That was Bolton,” he cried.
Then they heard wild, reverberating machine gun fire. Ferrar must be finishing off his comrades, trapped inside the cave.
Another scream came over the radio.
The tortured, dying wail carried out over the airfield and disappeared into the desert scrubland around him. The CIA had just lost the son of its Director to a madman, a rogue operative and the worst of its kind—a traitor.
“Good God,” Stevens said, disbelieving. “Ferrar has just killed Bolton. He’s wiped out our entire unit.”
Al-Qaeda seemed to be everywhere. They had even infiltrated the ranks of the clandestine Central Intelligence Agency.
“Anything I can do to help?” Colonel Paxton offered.
Stevens rose to his feet. “Decimate the cave. Blow Ferrar to oblivion.”
George Ferrar heard a roar emanate from the cave entrance. It buzzed like a dragonfly, a sound that was curiously out-of-place in the Afghan wilderness. Suddenly the entire complex started to shudder.
Dust and debris shot into the cave. Missiles began to thud all around the entrance.
Bunker busters. He came to an abrupt halt in the cave.
The ground heaved below him with each horrific explosion.
The Americans were trying to destroy the cave with earth-penetrating explosives. He’d hoped for close air support, but this was a little too close for comfort.
A second wave of missiles zeroed in with even more deadly accuracy, shaking the entire mountain like a giant earthquake.
Then he caught the black specks of helicopters rising over a distant hilltop. Fighter jets zoomed overhead, their wings glinting in the sunlight. Lines of cannon fire traced through the sky across the face of the mountain. Were al-Qaeda troops emerging from a second exit?
Who were they trying to kill, al-Qaeda or him? He resumed his sprint toward the entrance.
Bolton was just behind him, his bullets ricocheting around madly.
Ferrar’s only hope of escape was out the main entrance. But with American jets dumping ordinance there, he had to choose between a bullet in the back and one in his chest.
Gathering his last reserve of strength, he rushed toward the blinding light.
Air. He needed air. Coughing, he burst through plumes of dust and explosives and lingering tear gas.
Rubble began covering the last glimmer of daylight. Below the cave, the cliff led straight down to the valley floor.
He clawed his way over the broken rubble that smoldered from exploded missiles.
The nose of an American Super Cobra helicopter rose to face straight at him.
“It’s me, guys,” he yelled, waving his hands above his head. He knew that he couldn’t be heard, only seen, but he didn’t know what orders they were under, either. “Hold your fire.”
The cannons on the hovering gunship began to rotate, spitting shells that narrowly missed him. One of its wings released a TOW missile straight toward the cave. A mushroom cloud billowed just to one side.
Had the whole world gone mad?
Behind him, he heard Bolton’s feet approaching around the last corner. He clawed toward freedom, and possible death.
The attack helicopter rotated toward him, adjusting its aim.
Ferrar sprang through the bright opening and rolled down the heap of rubble. Holding his breath, he vaulted out over the edge of the cliff.
In an instant, the cold air howled in his ears and stung his eyes. Through the blur, he made out upward-rushing rocks. He pulled a cord by his shoulder and looked up to see if his parasail had deployed.
Only the sky spun dizzily above him. He looked down. A second, larger helicopter was circling directly below him, its blades sucking him closer. Then the canyon walls erupted in another hail of shells, rockets and bunker-busting missiles.
An avalanche crumbled from above. He was going to bounce off an unforgiving wall, then hit the ground hard.
Finally, over the sounds of battle, he heard a gentle, airy puff. His heart took another beat. Then the suspension lines yanked taut, knocking his helmet forward over his eyes.
His parasail had opened.
His feet swung upward, inches from rock. His canopy had snapped open just before he splattered the hills of Tora Bora.
The Cobra had been descending with him, trying to catch up with his fall. With the sudden break in Ferrar’s plunge, the attack helicopter had to maneuver quickly to check its descent and face him head on.
Ferrar glanced down at the large Huey circling around below him. He was surrounded by choppers.
If he ever got out of this alive, he would kill Bolton. No questions asked.
On the Cobra’s armed wing, a rocket launcher aimed directly at him. Wildly whipping his parasail around, he was able to avoid the first rocket pod that streaked his way.
Despite the thin atmosphere, his parasail left him hanging high like wet laundry. He was an easy target.
He would have to fight back. But how?
He reached down to his hip and found his automatic pistol.
While tugging on his lines to avoid an aggressive machine gun assault by the Cobra, he flicked back the safety.
Terribly outmatched, he was never going to defeat a chopper that was built to withstand far more than small arms fire. Instead, he straightened his arm upward and unloaded a round of bullets into the parasail. The fusillade shredded an enormous gap in the nylon fabric.
He began to fall like a rock.
The icy suck of the Huey drew Ferrar closer. He and his sail would get caught in its blades, bringing down the chopper and sending them all to an ugly, mangled death.
He yanked hard on his lines, trying to circle away from the whirling danger.
With his quick descent, he had lost most of his ability to maneuver. He jerked again and again and finally veered slightly, his sail barely clearing the blades.
Passing before the Huey’s cockpit, he noticed a grim expression on the pilot’s face. He looked intent on crushing Ferrar against the rocks.
Oh no you don’t.
Ferrar pitched forward into a swan dive, trying to clear the oncoming Huey. His head and then feet cleared the bottom of the chopper.
Whew. Now he faced his next challenge. Nothing but air separated him from the unforgiving valley floor a hundred feet below.
Suddenly, as the large chopper passed overhead, he found himself plucked out of the air with a violent tug. He pushed back his helmet to see what had happened. The Huey had caught him. One of the chopper’s landing skids had snagged what was left of his parasail, leaving him to dangle from his tether lines.
Gingerly, he tested his neck, rotating it in both directions. Thank God it wasn’t broken.
Maybe he could free himself. He pedaled his feet, trying to disengage the sail. But it wouldn’t slide off the slight hook at the end of the skid. He was caught like a prisoner in a hangman’s noose, dangling from the gallows.
It was about time. They were friendly after all.
He stepped onto the end of the ladder and closed his eyes. The pressure of his weight on his own feet had never felt so good. He pocketed his pistol and shrugged out of his parasail harness. With frozen fingers, he began to haul himself up, step by step.
The chopper swung by the al-Qaeda cave. The entrance had been completely obliterated and was obscured by smoke. Bolton was nowhere in sight.
As a pair of strong hands pulled him into the fuselage, Ferrar found himself staring into the grim eyes of eight marines.
Their weapons were drawn and pointed at his face.
Chapter 3
Two hands were helping Ferrar up the ladder into the arms of a new, undeclared enemy—the U.S. Marines.
He had only one real option. He had to fall once more to freedom.
He twisted away from one hand, yanked down on the other and jumped off the rope ladder with the full weight of his two-hundred-and-ten-pound body.
But the hefty, sandy-haired marine at the other end of the strong grip was built like a brick. The lad’s neck muscles bulged and veins nearly popped out of his forehead as he hauled upward on Ferrar.
But, before the marine could brace himself completely, Ferrar spun around, throwing the young man’s shoulder out of joint.
With a blood-curdling cry, the marine pitched out of the helicopter, just as it banked to ascend out of the canyon.
Falling fast, Ferrar maintained his grip on the marine’s wrist, and together the two men plummeted toward the valley floor. Ferrar flattened himself out on a cushion of air and swooped down cleanly to guide himself underneath the tumbling marine.
The marine’s body slammed into him from above. Ferrar caught hold of the lad’s ammo belt and held on for dear life. With his other hand, he clawed at the marine’s shoulder for a parachute ripcord.
There was none. He groped the other side for a cord and found only the man’s dislocated shoulder. The young marine flinched and tried to push him away.
