Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

  He spoke in a loud voice that rang up and down the street. “Going for a stroll, ladies? I understood my good friend General Khan was taking good care of you. Surely you’re not thinking about leaving him?”

  The older woman, Barbara Adams, walked toward him until she was inches away from his face, and she bellowed a reply, “Fuck you, shithead. When my people find out what you’ve done, you will hang.”

  “Yes, of course, when your people find out. Perhaps they never will find out.”

  “You think so? As soon as they pay the ransom and we get back, I’ll make sure your army hunts you down like rabid dogs.”

  “Yes, of course, after they’ve paid the ransom. And what makes you think General Khan will release you then? Did you not realize how valuable you are to him? His men have a hard and lonely life. What they need most of all is women, and there are few females around here not married when they were young. Believe me, you will be much in demand.”

  He shouted a command to his men, and they raced forward to surround the women with their rifles leveled. Lights were coming on in the town, and men were starting to emerge. Stoner lay in the dirt, watching beneath fence, his brain fizzing with anger, knowing he was powerless to do anything. Except lie there and watch as they led the women away to wherever they were keeping them imprisoned.

  His body ached, his leg was on fire, and he felt as weak as a kitten. But the adrenaline was surging through him, and he made a vow.

  I'm breathing, and I have bullets in my guns. Which means I can keep going until I get them out. Until Sara is safe! Unless they kill me first.

  Chapter Six

  He pushed himself to his feet, intent on going after them, but strong hands grabbed him and held him back.

  "Forget it. You’re not going."

  Greg had a firm grip on him, and Noyan had taken hold of one arm. Nadiri blocked his escape, and it was like a huge boulder confronting him. When he tried to push past, he failed.

  "I have to go. We have to know where they're taking them."

  "I can do it."

  They looked at Javed, standing tall and proud. He had a cruel, warlike expression on his young face. "I have a rifle, and I have my dagger. If anyone tries to stop me, I can deal with them."

  They didn't have any argument with that. He'd already proved himself to be very adept at sneaking into places unseen, and his readiness to use the knife on more than one occasion.

  "Go after them," he murmured, "But, Javed, make sure they don't see you. We don’t want to lose you.”

  He chuckled. "Those fools wouldn't see me coming if I wore a fluorescent jacket."

  He skipped away into the shadows, and all they could do was wait. The town was quiet, but Stoner was very aware that time was limited. Colonel Rahman had told the women the Haqqanis would return by midday, and he estimated they had around three hours. Three hours before the street came alive with heavily armed fighters, and they were overwhelmed. Javed took a long time, almost an hour, but suddenly he was there, appearing in their midst, grinning.

  "I found them. They pushed them into the entrance to a cave, and the Afghans stayed to guard it. I couldn't get any nearer. There are too many of them. Unless you want me to go back and kill some of them."

  “No, no, you’ve done enough.”

  Noyan patted him on the head. “You have done well. Now listen, we have a small chance, if we all go. Soon, the others will be back, and we will have no chance. By the way, did you see my children, a boy and a young girl?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll find them,” Stoner reassured him, “I suggest we get started. Javed, lead the way.”

  They followed him in the direction he’d seen them take the women, their eyes everywhere. Sweeping the town, looking for hostiles, but they saw none. Every man had left with Khan, and if civilians remained, they were wise enough to stay out of sight. They reached the end of a row of houses, and Javed cautioned them to silence. He pointed around the corner of the building, the entrance to a cave at the foot of a low, rocky mound. Men guarded the entrance he recognized as Colonel Rahman’s Afghan Special Forces. Too many of them, yet time was short if they were to mount a rescue. They had maybe two hours, perhaps less.

  Stoner had made a quick assessment of the situation. "We have one chance, and that’s to hit them hard and fast. Go in shooting, and frighten the bastards to death. They call themselves Special Forces, but they’re just rookies. Opportunists and thieves, and if they run, we won't even need to fight them."

  "I will lead," Nadiri grunted.

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but walked around the corner, and broke into a run. Greg, Noyan, and Javed followed, running right behind him. Stoner limped along in the rear. They got halfway to the Afghans before they saw them and threw up their guns to open fire. Too late, Noyan and Nadiri opened fire, sending volley after volley at the startled hostiles. Greg and Javed joined in, and bullets hammered into the enemy. They scattered as expected, but they didn't go far.

  The area was a mess of big, scattered rocks that had tumbled down the hill over the centuries. Which gave them plenty to hide behind, and they took cover and started to return fire. The attackers had to dive to the ground to avoid sheets of bullets buzzing overhead like angry wasps. The gunfire was intense, leaving them no choice but to edge back behind the stone building. Nadiri popped up to fire the occasional shot, but the Colonel’s men were well entrenched, and a few rifle shots weren't about to dislodge them.

  He was thinking hard, and the minutes were slipping away. Something else was slipping away, the opportunity to get the women out. He called them closer and told them what he was going to do.

  "I'm going to allow myself to be caught. If they don't kill me, they'll put me inside the cave with the other prisoners. I’ll have a gun concealed in my clothing, and I’ll use it to get them out. It’ll have to be something small, something they won't find."

  He was staring at Javed, who squirmed with embarrassment. Slowly, reluctantly, the boy delved under his robe and pulled out the tiny handgun. Stoner had noticed it a couple of times during the journey, a slight bulge at his waist, a Soviet era 7.62mm Tokarev, small, flat, and easy to conceal. The preferred weapon of Soviet Commissars in the old days of the Red Terror, and people estimated they'd killed tens of thousands of suspects with the tiny weapon.

  "I want it back," he said, "I stole that gun from a drug trafficker, and he never realized it was gone. Not until it was too late."

  "I’ll give you your gun back.” He glanced at Noyan. “I want you men to start shooting while I work my way around to their flank. When I get near, they’ll be shooting at me, and I'll throw up my hands and pretend I’m wounded. They’ll take me prisoner, and I’ll be inside.”

  Greg looked appalled. "You’re assuming they won't kill you out of hand."

  "I doubt it. They may shoot me later, but not at first. It’ll take them time to make up their minds. Besides," he grinned, "I’ll be another hostage. How could they resist taking me prisoner?"

  "Easily."

  If he heard Greg’s comment, he didn't reply. Greg shook hands, "I still think you’re crazy, but good luck, buddy."

  "I’ll be seeing you."

  He shook hands with the other two men, and finally with Javed. "Don't get yourself into any trouble, kid. At least, not any more trouble than you’re already in."

  "Just bring me back my gun, Mr. Stoner."

  "That’s a given. It’s time to go. Let them have it."

  They poked their guns around the corner and started blasting. They weren't hitting anything, but the men on the receiving end would assume it was the start of an attack. The Afghans returned fire, and Stoner made his move, trying to run and managing a fast limp. He made it to the end of the buildings, and there was a strip of ground he had to cross to reach the first of the hostiles. They were behind the rocks, firing at a furious rate, and he waited until they looked away to reload. He raced across the ground, intent on reaching them before they’d reloa
ded their weapons and filled him full of holes.

  A few meters before he reached them his leg gave way again, and he tumbled to the ground. He crawled on, and one of the Afghans saw him. Saw a wounded man, and that much was true. The wound had opened, leaking blood into the dust.

  The man threw his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, but didn't fire. He muttered something to his friend and shouted over to Stoner.

  "Put down your weapon, and come toward us. Make it quick before we shoot you."

  He left the rifle in the dust and crawled on. They grinned at him as he reached them, and one man aimed a swift kick at his bleeding leg. Every nerve in his body telegraphed awful pain to his brain, and he had to clamp his teeth together to prevent a scream of exquisite agony.

  "Where are your weapons?"

  He shook his head. "Just the rifle I left out there on the ground."

  Both men ran their hands over his clothing, but they didn't find the Tokarev tucked beneath his groin, between the tops of his legs. He hadn't expected them to find it. He’d hidden it in the one place where these macho Afghan men would feel embarrassed about groping another man. In their society, homosexual relationships were regarded as perverse and punishable by death. Yet practiced by so many.

  * * *

  He was watching the action on the ground at Chilas. The images beamed back from the Predator drone were clear and graphic, and it was all going wrong, as wrong as it could possibly go. He’d watched them attack and seen them thrown back by enemy gunfire. He’d watched Stoner race toward the enemy, a suicidal charge, and he didn’t have a clue what was in his mind. Only that he was running to his death. As if he was holding out his arms to welcome some dark spirit to come and take him.

  He felt guilty. He’d pushed him into going into Pakistan, and so far all he’d done was pay a fat bribe to have the use of the Afghan Mi-24. Now they were in trouble, and the end would come soon. There were just too many of them.

  The real shock had been the identities of the hostiles and their leader. The last man he’d have expected to see shooting at Stoner and his pals, Colonel Rahman and his trainee Special Forces unit. Tasked by the Afghan President to support the effort to free the women, he had it on video. The bastards had changed sides, sold out to the enemy, and the reasons didn’t matter. They were there, shooting at Stoner. He was obviously wounded and in trouble. Soon, the rest of the Haqqani insurgents would turn up from wherever they’d gone, and the operation was about to descend in a bloodbath.

  They’d have to kill the hostages to prevent them pointing the finger at Rahman’s men. They’d have to kill all of them to save their own skins. They could pay ransoms until hell froze over, and it wouldn’t make a scrap of difference. An American Congresswoman, dead, and her entourage, dead. Stoner, the man he’d sent out on many dangerous missions, and he always got a result. Dead. Ivan’s instructions were clear.

  ‘Do not have any involvement across the border. Do not get into a fight with the Paks. If Stoner can’t handle it, that’s too bad. Over in Pakistan, he’s not our responsibility. Keep Islamabad happy. Don’t upset the delicate diplomatic status quo.’

  His mind was racing, and he made a decision that surprised even him. He took out his cellphone and called down to Gorgy, waiting with his armored Land Cruiser.

  “We’ll be leaving soon. Make sure you’re ready. I don’t want Akram holding us up because he’s humping some whore in a local brothel.”

  “I’ll go get him.”

  “You do that. Ten minutes, no more.”

  He ended the call and keyed in the number for his tame pilot.

  “Captain Stori.”

  “Ivan. I want you in the air in thirty minutes.”

  A pause. “That could be difficult.”

  “Otherwise you can return that little payment I made into your retirement fund.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good. Make sure you’re fueled and fully armed, ready for anything.”

  The man chuckled. “You sound like you’re going to war, Ivan.”

  “You got it in one. Thirty minutes.”

  They parked behind a civilian maintenance hangar and walked over to the Mi-24 waiting on the pad. Captain Stori saw them approaching, and a moment later the twin Isotov TV3-117 turbines whined, and the rotors began to turn. They walked through the side portal, and Ivan entered the cockpit. Stori was running through his preflight checks, and the gunner was leaning against the seat smoking a dubious looking cigarette. Akram grinned, recognizing a spliff when he saw one.

  The Captain nodded a greeting. “We’ ready to go. All I need is a destination to give to the tower.”

  “Chilas.”

  The expression changed. “Chilas? But that’s in…”

  “I know where it is. My people are in trouble, and they need help. Are you carrying a full complement of ordnance?”

  “Uh, well, yes, but…”

  He grabbed the arm of the gunner. “What about ammunition for the minigun?”

  “Yes, of course. Do you have clearance to use it for this mission?”

  “One hundred thousand clearances, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Stori, get this thing into the air.”

  “Very well.”

  He adjusted the collective, gunned the engines, and the heavy gunship rose into the sky. The gunner was still protesting.

  “I cannot fire on a target without specific orders from the mission controller.” He looked at the Captain, “Sir, who is the mission controller?”

  Stori opened his mouth to reply, but Ivan got there first. “You’re looking at him, and his name’s Ivan. Get behind the gun, and make sure you’re ready to open fire.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t fuck around, Lieutenant. Otherwise Ivan will have his men throw you out the door when we reach three thousand meters. It’s a long way down, but mercifully quick without a parachute.”

  He climbed down into the gunner’s seat in the nose. Ivan watched him flip switches to active the electric Gatling gun and bring the targeting systems online. Satisfied, he went aft to the cabin. Gorgy Bukharin and Akram Latif looked relaxed.

  “I think the crew will behave. All we need do is reach Chilas, find the enemy, and the gunner will hose them down with the minigun. Stoner is down there, along with Greg Blum and two Afghans. Without doubt the women are prisoners somewhere in the town, otherwise they wouldn’t be there. So watch your aim. We’ll keep this simple. Overfly the town, blast the enemy, and land to pick up Stoner and his people.”

  “There’s a big problem,” Bukharin pointed out, “How many women are we talking?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno, maybe sixteen or so.”

  He waved a hand around the cabin. We can fit maybe ten in this cabin. Any more and she won’t get off the ground.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we come to it. Okay, that’s it. Lock and load, and remember, double check what you’re aiming at. You knock off a U.S. Congresswoman, and you may as well tie rocks around your neck and jump into the sea.”

  “What if we hit Stoner?”

  He thought about the man who’d become almost a friend. “Same thing, but it’ll be me who pushes you in.”

  The pilot’s voice came into the headset. “Pilot to gunner, stand by. Ivan, we’ve crossed the border, ETA fifteen minutes.”

  “Roger that.”

  * * *

  The mobile missile defense system, hidden in a clearing outside of Tirich Mir, picked them up immediately. Their brief was to watch for intruders from across the border. Islamabad had grown impatient with so-called hot pursuit missions. To detect and stop them, they’d stationed the mobile radar where they’d least expect it. The operator called his officer, a junior lieutenant named Ghulam Noon who scrutinized the screen.

  “You’re certain there’s no return from IFF?”

  “None, Sir. Analysis shows it’s a Hind, an Mi-24. Afghan Air Force, no question.”

  He nodded. Of course it was Afghan Air Force. The other Coalitio
n partners didn’t fly Russian aircraft. He picked up the phone and called the coordinator in Peshawar.

  “We have a hostile aircraft. The flight projection suggests it came from Kabul, and it’s inside our territory, destination unknown.”

  “No IFF, no identification, friend or foe?”

  He sighed. He wouldn’t have made the call if it were a friendly. “No, Sir.”

  “Very well. Give me the speed and heading.”

  “You want us to shoot it down, Sir?”

  “Negative, Lieutenant Noon. Your missile battery is not fully operational.”

  “We can have it online in minutes, Sir.”

  “We have an Air Force, and they’ll send up a fighter to take care of it. I understand you’re returning to base soon.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very well.”

  The call ended abruptly, and Lieutenant Ghulam Noon replaced the receiver. He went outside and trained his glasses on the sky. He couldn’t see the intruder yet, but he was hoping for some excitement, a Pakistani Air Force interceptor shooting down this impudent intruder. A real show, something to dispel the boredom of this posting. He continued to scan the sky.

  * * *

  Captain Pervez Ashraf was about to go off duty when the alert siren sounded. He ran to the operations hut, and Senior Sergeant Hussain was waiting for him at the door.

  “They want you in the air, Captain. Right away. We have an unidentified intruder crossing the border from Afghanistan.”

  He fought back his irritation. There’d be no point in taking it out on this man.

  “Sergeant, I’m not next in line. I came back with a damaged aircraft, and they stood me down while they were fixing the canopy.”

  The NCO frowned. “That was earlier, Sir. Lieutenant Ali signed off sick. That puts you first in line.”

  “What was his problem?”

  He smirked. “He didn’t tell me, but judging by his breath, I’d say it was the mother of all hangovers.”

  Shit.