The Mullah's Storm

by Young, Tom

  “How are your hands?” he said.

  “Still hurt a little.”

  That worried Parson. If she admitted any pain at all, it must be awful.

  “I bet you hate those ragheads as much as I do now,” he said.

  Gold didn’t answer for a long moment. Then she said, “This is hard to forgive, but I have to try.”

  Forgive? Was she serious? “I couldn’t forgive them in a thousand lifetimes,” Parson said. What was that saying he’d heard from infantry guys? Let God forgive them. We’ll arrange the meeting.

  Gold looked straight at him. “Hate will hurt you more than it hurts them,” she said.

  Parson wondered if Gold—or anyone—could really have that kind of inner peace. After torture, no less. Maybe she just had to play mind games with herself to do her job.

  “I gotta hand it to you, Sergeant,” he said. “I don’t see how you do it.”

  “They’re not ragheads to me, sir. Muslims were perfecting algebra when we were burning witches.”

  Parson wished he had more of her knowledge. She could probably give one hell of a background briefing. But that would have to wait until they were safely back at Bagram. In the unlikely event that ever happened.

  The icy snow began to form a crust on top of the powder that had already fallen. It broke like a membrane and crackled underfoot. Parson tried to walk quietly, but it was impossible. Doesn’t matter, he decided. If the bad guys can hear me, I can hear them.

  He did not hear the wolf. It just materialized out of the fog, three steps in front of him. Hair raised along its spine. Lips curled in a silent growl. White fangs. Yellow eyes.

  Parson expected the creature to run like before, but it stood motionless. Then it sprang like it could fly.

  Flash of teeth. The wolf hit Parson in the chest and knocked him backward. As he stumbled, he smelled wet dog odor, but sharper. The animal bit hard. Parson felt canines through his sleeve, pain in his arm like the scrape of a nail. Ripping cloth.

  The animal jerked Parson to the left. He swung the M-40. No leverage, just a weak blow to the wolf’s side. Parson went down on one knee.

  The animal whirled, snapped at Parson’s throat. Mouthful of razors. Parson jammed his elbow into its chest. Felt the thrashing muscles. Why wasn’t Gold helping?

  The body armor did him no good now; it just slowed him down. He swung the rifle again. Wider arc this time. The stock cracked against the wolf’s head. The predator leaped back up like pain meant nothing.

  Parson swung once more. The butt of the weapon slammed into the animal’s muzzle. The wolf yelped. A tooth dropped from its bleeding jaws.

  Before Parson could swing again the wolf had him by the leg of his flight suit. Yanked him all the way to the ground. Pounced for his throat again. Parson blocked with the M-40 in his left arm, pulled his boot knife with his right.

  The animal moved like quicksilver. Red teeth in Parson’s face, dripping and snarling. The wolf’s foul breath was like a dog’s but sickly tart, like it had fed on carrion.

  Parson sank the blade into the wolf’s neck. Twisted. Stabbed again. The animal sprang back. Parson brought up the rifle with one hand and fired.

  The bullet caught the wolf in the chest. The creature fell into the snow, one hind leg kicking.

  Parson turned to see Gold on the ground, a wolf on her arm. It had her sleeve in its teeth, and it was twisting its head side to side. She jammed the barrel of her AK into its cheek. Fired. Spray of blood and fur. She sat up and fired as another wolf flew at her. It fell beside her in the snow, blood gushing from the wound in its neck.

  Parson pulled the Colt from his survival vest. Thumbed the hammer. Another wolf came toward him at a hard run. Parson pulled the trigger. Thought he missed, but the wolf crashed into him dead.

  He turned, looked, waited for the next attack. No sound but the whimpers of a dying wolf.

  Then he saw another one, running away down the mountain. It stopped by a boulder and looked back. Maybe four football fields away.

  Parson holstered the pistol and racked the bolt on the M-40. Twisted the sling around his left arm for a steadier hold. Kneeled and aimed. Centered the crosshairs just above the wolf’s eyes. Not a critical shot now. No more point in being quiet, either. So let’s just see how good this weapon really is. He pressed the trigger.

  The wolf’s head exploded. Parson lowered the rifle, ejected the empty brass. Chambered another round. So that jarhead armorer did his job, he thought. This thing is accurized and cold-barrel zeroed true as Gospel.

  “You all right?” Parson asked.

  “I think so.” Gold checked her legs, pushed up her sleeves to examine her arms. Parson saw nothing worse than deep scratches. He raised his own pant legs and pulled off his gloves to look at his hands. Same as Gold, scrapes and punctures bleeding only a little. The skin across his knuckles was cracked and sore from the cold. Lucky. We probably should get rabies shots when and if we get back, thought Parson.

  He pulled his knife from the neck of the wolf he’d stabbed. He wiped the blade, clicked it back into his boot sheath. It seemed everything in this place—inhabitants, climate, terrain, flora, and fauna—wanted him dead. But he wasn’t angry with the wolves. They were killers by birth, not by choice. Just doing what predators do. That, Parson understood. He even felt a bit guilty about that last one he’d shot at long range. It hadn’t been entirely necessary, but now at least he knew more about what his rifle could do.

  “Keep a good watch for a minute,” Parson said. “Be ready to shoot.”

  He dropped his rucksack, took out his first-aid kit. Opened the Betadine, unscrewed the cap. Gold held her weapon with her right arm while Parson painted the scratches on her left arm and hand. She neither flinched nor looked down at her injuries while he worked. She shifted the rifle, and he repeated the process for her other arm and her ankle and calf. Then he treated himself, put away the first-aid kit, pulled on his gloves, hoisted the pack and M-40.

  “We’d better go,” he said. No telling who or what the sound of gunfire would attract. He hadn’t wanted to shoot, but the wolf attack had given them no choice. Nothing for it now but to move. They left churned and bloody snow, cartridge casings, dead wolves behind them.

  Parson’s heading took them higher, but not across the spine of the ridge. He knew that was good in some ways. Keeping near the top but not on it placed them at what the Air Force survival school called the “military crest,” where they would not be silhouetted against the sky. But there wasn’t much sky to see now. Just mist roiling with snow and ice pellets, as if the air so full of hard particles had scoured away the horizon itself.

  After a time, the map led them over the real crest. By then the fog was so thick that Parson didn’t worry about getting spotted. When he cross-checked his position with the GPS receiver, he noted that the elevation was above eleven thousand feet. Might as well use the altitude to some advantage, he thought. Parson pulled out his radio and turned it on.

  “Razor One-Six,” he called, “Flash Two-Four Charlie.”

  “Flash Two-Four Charlie,” Cantrell answered, “Razor One-Six reads you loud and clear. Delta.”

  The code word by itself, not even used in a sentence. Cantrell sounded exhausted. Parson changed frequencies and called again.

  “You guys all right?” he asked.

  “We have some KIA,” Cantrell said. “And some wounded.”

  So that’s why he was past caring about radio procedure, Parson thought. He paused, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you still at the same location?”

  “Affirmative. Contact’s over.”

  “We’ll come to you. It’s just a couple miles now.”

  “Keep your radio on, then. Call me before you get to my perimeter.”

  “Copy that. Flash Two-Four Charlie out.”

  Parson left the earpiece in his ear. If these guys were bloodied and on a hair trigger, he sure didn’t want to blunder into them. He led the way down
hill, placed his feet carefully. The snow was thicker on this side of the mountain. While he was still within a few hundred yards of the top, he noticed what looked like two perfectly straight, leafless limbs jutting from the snow. Too symmetrical not to be man-made. He lifted his rifle and looked through the scope.

  Gun barrels. Some kind of artillery.

  “Don’t move,” Parson whispered. Gold stopped a yard behind him.

  He clicked off his safety and scanned with the scope. Combs of snow along the artillery barrels. The rest of the mechanism covered by accumulation. No one in sight. No tracks.

  “It’s okay,” Parson said. “Just an old triple-A piece.” Some kind of small-bore antiaircraft gun, he guessed. A weapon designed to be towed by a vehicle. Rotted tires topped with a plume of snow. Parson wondered how they ever got it up here. Maybe behind horses.

  “Did something like that shoot us down?” Gold asked.

  “No, it was a missile that got us. But this thing could ruin your day, too.”

  He wondered whose it had been. Maybe Taliban, maybe Northern Alliance, maybe mujahideen back in the 1980s. He saw why they put it here. In clear weather this spot would have commanded a good view of the valley below. A gunner could have made short work of a helicopter or low-flying airplane.

  Parson slipped his way downhill and examined the weapon more closely. Rust exfoliated from the steel like dry bark. So this thing had been here a while. He wondered why they’d just left it. But then he imagined a Soviet helicopter popping up from the ridge behind him, catching the gun crew unaware. A two-second burst of fire from a Hind could have made short work of a triple-A emplacement.

  “Why do people fight so hard and long over hellholes like this?” Parson asked.

  “Free will,” Gold said.

  Parson moved around to the front of the weapon. Those mute barrels might point up at the sky for the next thousand years, he guessed. He steadied himself on the incline, then shuffled farther down the slope. Glanced back at Gold to make sure she was close behind.

  When Parson stopped to rest a moment, he noticed a patch of dry bracken sticking up through the snow. He placed his fingers around some of it, felt it crumble in his flight glove. Held his hand above his head and watched the tinder drift in the breeze. He noted that the wind had not changed direction in at least two days. That meant no change in the weather anytime soon.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Visibility improved a little as Parson and Gold descended the ridge. The mist opened up enough for Parson to discern the mountain spur tapering off toward the north. A white expanse dotted with thornbush and stunted trees. The surface crust reflected what little light there was, giving off a pale glow. Icy snow pelted his face like grit in a sandstorm. They didn’t have much time left before dark, and he fought the urge to rush.

  Parson stopped to size up the landscape. He thought he knew how to find the SF team. His current heading would take him toward what looked like a hogback along the next ridge. Easy to imagine a cave among the rock formations there. But he couldn’t see well enough to be sure. Of course, he wouldn’t see Cantrell’s men until they wanted to be seen.

  He guessed they were still above nine thousand feet. Below he saw an area that looked like easier walking. Steep but no boulders or brush in the way, just a slope thick with virgin snow. He started to take that route, but something at the back of his mind worried him. Why would there be a swath so smooth in terrain so rugged? Because that’s a damned avalanche chute, he told himself. You’re so tired you’re getting stupid. You better think fast and move slow, or tomorrow won’t be your problem.

  Farther below, he made out the narrow channel of the avalanche track, and beneath that, the runout zone filled with what looked like lumpy snow. Probably lumpy because of boulders and debris that had piled up there over the years.

  “We want to stay away from there,” Parson said.

  “What’s wrong?” Gold asked.

  “Anytime now, all that snow up here,” he said, pointing, “is going to wind up down there.”

  Parson picked his way parallel to the ridgeline, away from the slab of snowpack poised to blast its way downhill. Something will kill me someday, he thought, but not that. As he walked, the topcoat crunched under his boots like broken glass.

  He glanced back at Gold. She held her rifle close as she followed him, one step at a time. At a point when he paused to choose the path for the next several yards, he looked over his shoulder and saw her watching him, waiting for his decision, silent.

  The body armor he’d taken from the insurgent weighed on him and he wanted to ditch it, but he still had enough self-discipline to keep it on. Too valuable a piece of gear not to use. He wished Gold would wear it, but she had turned it down every time he offered.

  Parson eased his way down among the leafless scrub laden with snow. When he finally reached the saddle between ridges, he found ice fog hugging the ground. Snow to his knees, mist to his waist. From the lay of the land, he suspected a primitive road ran through where he stood, but the snow made it impossible to tell. All roads in this part of Afghanistan were long since impassable because of the blizzard. Normally, Parson would have avoided any line of communication like a road or a river. But now, between the storm and the insurgents, everywhere was dangerous. His situation made him think of the bomb-sniffing dogs he’d seen back at Bagram, never at rest, judging every breath they took for the whiff of a threat. At least he and Gold had the ice fog to cover them. When he kneeled, the mist hid him completely. He pulled out his electronic gear.

  Parson took a GPS fix and saw he was only a half mile from the position Cantrell had given him. He turned up the volume on his radio.

  “Razor One-Six,” he called. “Flash Two-Four Charlie.”

  “Flash Two-Four Charlie, go ahead on Delta.” Crisp as a landline. Parson changed frequencies.

  “We’re nearby. May we come on in?”

  “Affirmative. I’ll tell my guys weapons tight.”

  Parson kept on his GPS and started up the next ridge. He saw no one, but uphill he made out a cornice of rock that seemed to correspond to Cantrell’s location. As he approached, a black-gloved hand waved, motioned for him to continue. He found Cantrell and Najib behind a limestone ledge. Blood on Najib’s parka. Smears on his shotgun. Not his own blood, apparently.

  “Didn’t expect to see you again,” Cantrell said. “This must be Sergeant Gold.”

  Gold nodded. Took off her gloves, checked her fingers. The bandages showed yellowish stains from the antiseptic and blood. Her hands trembled slightly. Najib watched her, offered the drinking tube from his CamelBak. She drank and passed it to Parson.

  Cantrell examined Gold’s hands, then looked at her with something like reverence. He called over his medic. Gold took off her coat and pushed up her sleeve while the medic gave her an injection. The lines around her eyes seemed to soften as the morphine took effect.

  “Did you recapture the mullah?” Gold asked.

  “No,” Cantrell said. “We killed several of those assholes. They killed two of our men and wounded two.”

  Parson saw the bodies of two insurgents slumped among the boulders. Blood on snow. Casings everywhere. A dead black horse down the slope, its coat wet with melted flakes.

  “We thought we had them cornered in this cave,” Najib said. “But there must be another exit. The cave is empty now except for our own soldiers.”

  Parson looked around and at first recognized nothing as a cave entrance. But he eventually found a jagged hole in the rocks, not nearly as big as he’d imagined. The snow made it hard to tell, but Parson thought the opening was hardened with a row of rough masonry. Icicles hung from the top edge like fangs.

  Some of the troops were inside the cave. The medic tended the wounded. An M-4 stuck by its bayonet into the ground served as a pole for an IV bag. Plastic tubing ran from the bag and disappeared under a green blanket covering one of the injured men. Off to the side lay two other troops, ponchos pulled ove
r their faces.

  “Any idea where the insurgents went?” Gold asked.

  “Unless they have something else below ground, there aren’t many places they could have gone,” Cantrell said. “They can’t keep an old man and their wounded out in this weather for long.” He opened a canvas map case and pulled out a topographical chart. “We’re here.” He pointed with the stub of a pencil that had been sharpened with a knife. “The nearest villages are here and here.” Parson judged from the map’s scale that reaching any of those villages would take more than two days’ walking.

  “My men are searching for the other exit,” Najib said. “We will track them down from there.”

  “You’re going to follow them again?” Parson asked.

  “Task Force says take that mullah at all costs,” Cantrell said. “They’ll send help when they can.”

  Cantrell withdrew a black-and-white photograph from his map case. Printing along the bottom read: NATIONAL GEOSPATIAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY. A satellite photo.

  “I think the corner of this picture corresponds to where we are,” Cantrell said. “This village is the closest, and it doesn’t look demolished.”

  “How old is that photo?” Gold asked.

  “About three months.”

  Parson could tell little from the photo. Just an image taken from so high that the mountain ridges looked like folds of wrinkled corduroy. But he noted that it must have been shot on a perfectly clear day. On that day, anyone in his situation would have had a chopper ride within hours if not minutes.

  He shivered hard, and he couldn’t feel his feet. He stumbled over to the cave entrance, ducked through it, and sat down near the wounded. Inside, it felt only a little warmer. He opened his ruck and found an MRE. Cut open the package and pulled out the heater pouch. Unscrewed a water bottle and dripped water up to the pouch’s fill line, which wet a packet of anhydride powder. When the chemical reaction began, he wrapped the pouch in his handkerchief so it wouldn’t burn him. Then he placed the pouch and handkerchief beside him, untied his flight boots and took them off. Peeled away the filthy socks. His toes were a glossy white. When he pulled off his gloves, he saw that his fingers were, too.