by Eric Meyer
Inwardly, he smiled, for he was anything but fit.
Although I have a gun, I'm breathing, and I have bullets in my gun. I can keep going. I’ll empty the magazine into the hostiles in a last, suicidal fusillade of bullets. Before they tear me apart with their assault rifles.
He watched them carefully as he emerged from the tunnel. They were still standing well back, giving him no chance to make his play. Barbara emerged beside him, and he had a flash of inspiration. He put his head close to hers and murmured, "Pretend to fall. I need to get them close."
She gave him a slight nod and proceeded to put on a command performance. Her body twisted, as if a muscle had failed in her leg, and she fell heavily to the floor, shrieking in agony. The Afghans acted on instinct, charging forward in a group to catch her, and bring her out of the cave for her execution. Stoner was no danger. His face battered like a casualty from a major traffic accident, his pant’s leg bloody from a bullet wound, he looked like a man already on borrowed time. In their haste and inexperience, they ignored him.
He could hardly believe the ruse had worked so well. Four pairs of eyes concentrated on Barbara Adams, and it was a simple matter to slip out the Tokarev He put one bullet into each man, each shot well aimed, two in the head, two in the heart. Four bullets, four dead bodies. He had a brief image of a big man on a motorcycle, dispensing justice. No, this wasn’t justice. This was war. He helped the Congresswoman to her feet.
"Barbara, go back to the cell and let them out. I'll hold Rahman’s men off."
He tucked the Tokarev back into his waistband and snatched up an assault rifle. A Kalashnikov AKM, the modern variant of the iconic AK-47. It fired the same size round, the Russian military grade 7.62mm. Men were shouting panicked questions from nearby, no doubt wondering about the reason for the gunfire. He hunched in the shadows of the cave entrance and watched them rush toward him. Five men, blundering into him like the rookies they were. He flicked the selector to full auto, pulled the trigger, and hosed them down with a long burst from a full magazine. Thirty bullets for five men, an average of six rounds apiece, and they were bunched up like newborn pups. Amateurs, and they paid the price for their inexperience in full. One moment they were running, the next tumbling into the dirt, riddled by his bullets. Sara came beside him and watched the carnage for a few seconds. Her expression was unreadable. She wrenched her eyes from the bodies and looked at him.
"What do you want me to do?"
“Pick up a rifle. There’ll be more of them soon, and we’ll need to defend ourselves. See if you can find spare magazines, and give the other two rifles to anyone who can shoot. Go for it."
"I’m on it."
Seconds later, women were scrambling out of the low tunnel, and Sara handed out the two spare rifles. He took out the Tokarev and gave it to Barbara. "The magazine carries eight rounds, and I fired four. You’re welcome to the rest."
Her expression was grim. "I’ll put them to good use."
The ground in front was clear as the remaining hostiles fled for cover. He shouted across to Greg, hoping he was still in position behind the building.
"Greg, it's me, Stoner. Are you still there?"
"We’re here. Hey, Stoner, we've been waiting what seems like forever. How come it took you so long?"
He smiled to himself. “I must be getting old, Greg. We’re coming out, me and the women."
"All of them?"
A pause. "The survivors, not all. Cover us."
He ran into the open and slowed to a jog because of the leg. But he made it to cover behind the building. Sara was beside him, and the rest of the women arrived, led by Barbara Adams. Blum stepped out and gave him a wide grin. Archer barked and rushed at him, attempting to lick him to death. The two Afghans, Noyan and Nadiri stood watching, aloof and dignified.
The boy was ecstatic, and he rushed to pat him on the back. Stoner noticed something surprising. He wasn't just congratulating Stoner. He was celebrating their escape with the dog, and Archer responded with a series of wet licks. Boy and dog were getting on well, and that was just fine by him.
If a man’s able to enjoy that kind of relationship with a dog, he can't be all bad. Now I need to convince the other two, Noyan and Nadiri. That’s going to be long and hard.
Noyan approached Barbara, and there was none of the Afghan macho in his expression. He was a worried father, looking for his kids. “Did you see them? Two young children, a boy and a girl?”
She gave him a flinty look. “Excuse me, who are you?”
“Abbas Noyan, their father. Khan’s men took them.”
Her expression changed. “I see. I’m so sorry, Mr. Noyan, but no, we didn’t see any young children. Perhaps…”
“They aren’t dead. I know they’re not dead.”
“No, of course not. Perhaps they’re hiding them in another part of Chilas.”
The first shots thumped into the ground around them. Stoner aimed the rifle at the man who'd just gone into the cave and emerged when he found they were gone. He’d seen them and started shooting. Wildly aimed shots, but the noise drew more of Rahman’s men, and the bullets came thick and fast.
Stoner pulled the trigger and hit him with the first three bullets. Which was fortunate, as there was no fourth bullet. The magazine was empty, and he slammed in a replacement.
"There’ll be more of them soon. We need to get out of here. Abbas, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to look for your kids later.”
“It may be too late.”
“It will be too late if we stick around here. Look, I promise I’ll help you. And I won’t give up until we find them. Is that a deal?”
After a short pause, he nodded. “Deal.”
He looked at Greg. “Have you seen anything we can use for transport? These women can’t walk out of here.”
Blum was staring toward the road that went to Chitral. “Like that, you mean?"
A bus was driving toward them, painted in the garish colors of the jingle trucks, but this was a passenger vehicle, and the driver blasted his horn for them to step aside and let him pass. When they stood in the road and pointed their assault rifles at him, he brought the bus to a halt. He looked out of the driver’s window.
"Sirs, how can I help you? Did you want to go somewhere?"
"We sure do. That’s why we’re taking the bus."
He raised his hands in outrage. "You cannot take this bus. It belongs to the Imperial Transport Company of Northeast Pakistan. We have been carrying passengers since the days of the British Raj. If you take the bus, there will be serious consequences."
Stoner fixed him with an icy glare. "Pal, there’ll be serious consequences for you if you don't get out of the way.” He pointed the rifle at his head, “You have five seconds."
He nodded. “Help yourselves. The bus is yours."
They climbed aboard, and Barbara demonstrated yet another of her many and surprising talents. "I'll drive."
She was already sitting in the driver's seat, examining the controls. Stoner threw her a questioning glance.
"Are you sure? These things are not like driving a regular car back home. It has a manual shift and a clutch, and there’s also the steering wheel. You’ll find it’s like an overloaded truck."
"I can handle it. Mister, when the massage work went quiet, I volunteered to drive the local school bus."
His eyebrows shot up. "A masseuse driving a school bus?"
“You’re damn right. Never had an accident.”
He shrugged. "Knock yourself out. The rest of you get down on the floor, except for the shooters. There's only one way we’ll get out of here, and that's to blast our way through."
Barbara started the engine and simultaneously forced the gearlever into low gear with a screech of tortured metal. He’d no doubt they'd lost several teeth from the cogs in the gearbox.
Barbara turned her head and grinned. "Sorry, folks, I forgot the clutch."
With brisk, businesslike movements, she stomped on the clutch, slam
med the lever into low gear, revved up the engine, and let go the clutch. The big old bus lurched forward, jerking like a drunken kangaroo, and they were heading along the street. Except Chilas had a single way in, and a single way out.
Stoner shouted, "You’re going the wrong way! Turn around."
"I got it."
She wrenched the wheel and swung the bus around as they reached the outskirts of the small town, knocking masonry from adjacent buildings. She stomped on the gas, and the bus was heading west, out of Chilas. They passed the cave where the women had been imprisoned, and the shooting started. Rahman’s surviving troops sheltered behind nearby buildings, and a storm of bullets tore through the thin vehicle body. They replied with assault rifles, eight in all. The firing slackened when the Afghans learned they were facing a tougher enemy, and they kept their heads down. Then they were past, roaring out of town, and Stoner reloaded.
"I think we made it. Damn, that was close."
"Too close for some," Sara said, moving beside him, "We lost two. Two of our people are dead."
He walked back down the bus, and behind the driver, two bodies lay in a heap on the floor, ripped apart by long volleys of incoming fire.
"They were aiming at the driver. They’d have had more of us, but it's lucky they’re lousy shots.”
"Not lucky for them," she murmured.
"No, not lucky for them."
Sara grimaced. "The woman next to me took a bullet, but it was just a flesh wound, and it took a slice out of her side. The bullet struck about four inches from me."
"They almost hit you? Are you sure you’re okay?"
"Relax, I'm okay. Stoner, do you think we’re going to get out of this?"
He shook his head. "It depends what lies ahead of us. Let me think about this."
He wasn't thinking about whether they'd get out. He was mad with rage. Once again, they'd come close to killing his girl, and he fought down his fury. All he could think of was to kill them.
Rahman, the Afghan traitor connected to the President, Griggs, the treacherous former SEAL who’d deserted to continue blazing a path of butchery. Ishaq Khan, the man who'd brought them together, molded them into a bunch of sadistic murderers, and led them under the banner of the Hammer of God. His story was some deity had spoken to him personally and told him to slaughter the innocents. All that mattered to Khan was killing, to further promote his agenda of bloody conquest.
Hiding like a yellow coward under the under the banner of Islam, like so many before him, a smokescreen to hide the truth. The truth was murder, torture, and rape, with a first course of pillage and loot. Just like the men Stoner had hunted for so long in Afghanistan, admittedly for money.
This time I’ll do it for free. First, get the women to safety, and then it’s time to settle accounts. Despite Sara’s concerns, I’ll see it through. Kill Khan. Kill Rahman. Kill Griggs.
They were five klicks west of Chilas, and Barbara was driving like crazy. He started to relax, but it was short-lived. Ahead of them, he saw a line of open back trucks, led by an SUV. In the exhilaration of getting out of Chilas, he'd forgotten Khan. Forgotten he was due back soon, and now they were here, in front of them. The lead truck overtook the SUV, slowed, and swerved across the road to block it. Men poured out, aiming their guns at the oncoming bus. Barbara didn't need to ask, and she brought the bus to a halt. They were five hundred meters apart, not close enough for accurate shooting, but one of Khan's trucks mounted a 12.7mm heavy machine gun, a Zil.
"You want me to turn around?"
He weighed up the odds, considered their options. Fight or flight. Fighting Khan's men was impossible. Eight rifles against fifty were absurd odds. Which left the other option, to flee. That meant turning around and driving back to Chilas. Driving into a trap. Beyond Chilas were just mountains, and no roads. Yet they had no choice.
“Turn around. We’re going back.”
They had one thing in their favor. Rahman’s men were a bunch of pussies. Hit them hard enough and they’d run.
"And then?”
“We don't have a choice, Barbara. Take us back to the town."
She made a tight turn and gunned the bus back toward Chilas. Khan's convoy followed, maintaining the same distance of five hundred meters. They had them beat, so why hurry? All Khan need do was follow them into the town. Sandwich them between his troops and Rahman’s men, and chew them up and spit them out.
Stoner put his arm around Sara. "I'm sorry. It's not working out."
She gave him a brave smile. “You did your best. Can we can get out of this?"
He didn't reply, and she grimaced. "Right, I guess this is the end. At least we know where we stand. Things couldn't be any worse."
He looked up and saw the aircraft heading in toward them. She was wrong. Things were about to get a whole lot worse.
“Fighter! Down, all of you.”
* * *
Captain Pervez Ashraf scanned the skies, searching for the intruder. In the tandem seat behind, Senior Sergeant Hussain fidgeted nervously. It was a tight fit, after they’d retrofitted the single seat fighter to carry a crew of two. Sergeant Hussain was also nervous, perspiring heavily, and the closer they got to the target the more he sweated. And stank. Ashraf concentrated on locating the intruder. They'd told him it was a rotorcraft approaching from the north, from Afghanistan, and it was somewhere in the mountains.
Northeast Pakistan was a region that consisted of hills and mountains, and helicopters could easily fly along the valleys, to avoid radar detection. Like now, when his eyes swept the screen in front of them and there was no sign of anything untoward. No hostile craft, in fact, no craft of any kind.
Which wasn't surprising, this region was the usual haunt of insurgents, Islamic extremists, and criminals on the run. No one came here, at least, no civilized people, and why would they? A barren area, and all it had to offer was poverty and misery.
Ashraf still felt pissed after the gunfire that shattered his canopy, and he’d returned to the airfield to derogatory sneers from his fellow pilots. The F-16 was an advanced fighter interceptor. A little dated these days, but still a potent aircraft, and a force to be reckoned with. To break off the mission with a shattered canopy, courtesy of some insurgent on the ground armed with a battered Kalashnikov, was a severe blow. The humiliation heaped on him by the other pilots made his anger burn with furnace-like heat.
He glanced again at the screen, and there was still nothing. Automatically, his gaze swept the ground five thousand meters below. After the last time, he was careful to take note of any insurgent activity on the ground, and a moment later, his prayers were answered. He saw the familiar winking gun flashes of rifle fire, and he began to descend. When he reached two thousand meters, he could see them. A bunch of insurgents in a series of trucks, with an SUV in the lead, and they were trading bullets with a bus. Not any bus, he concluded whoever was inside had hijacked it, for they were pouring out rifle fire at the other hostiles. This choice was a simple one. Hit the bus first, and go on to take the string of vehicles. Or take the convoy first.
He briefly thought again about the helicopter they’d sent him up locate and destroy. The thought was brief, and he muttered a curse. The helicopter could wait. The people on the ground had already proved they could be dangerous to military aircraft. He’d made up his mind to hit the bus first, but at the last moment, with his thumb over the fire button, he spotted a more serious threat. The convoy of vehicles, including a truck with a mounted heavy machine gun, a 12.7mm DShK, designed for anti-aircraft use. If they opened up on him, he'd lose a lot more than a canopy, like his aircraft, and probably his life. He twitched the stick a fraction and swung onto the new target. At an altitude of one thousand meters, he hit the fire button. The 20mm M61A1 Vulcan 6-barrel rotary cannon roared, and he stitched a line of cannon shells into the target.
The first shots were fifty meters wide, but he guided the aircraft in, and less than a second later, the truck-mounted heavy machine gun dis
appeared in a billow of smoke and fire. A moment later, the vehicle exploded when several of his bullets hit the gas tank, and black smoke and flames belched out of the wreckage. He pulled the stick back hard and shot the Falcon straight up into the sky, jinking from side to side in case they were armed with missiles, but nothing came toward him. When he reached five thousand meters again, he performed a wing over and started back down for a second attack run.
This time, they were all ready, and a score of assault rifles blazed away at him. He smiled; he'd use different tactics. At two thousand meters, he found the fire button again and stitched a line of bullets along the convoy. At such a distance, the fire was less than accurate, but it was enough to see the enemy vehicles take hits. He didn't go low, staying out of effective range of the guns on the ground, and wary for missiles. He flung the aircraft in a tight loop, barreling away from the target and pulling back on the stick to soar back into the air.
The G-force of the sudden, high-speed turn almost made him blackout, but he gently eased off the turn and continue to climb. This time, he stayed at a safe height while he surveyed the damage. It was then he noticed the man with the shoulder-launched missile, a Soviet-era 9K32 Strela-2, NATO codenamed the Grail. If he got too close, they'd launch. In which case he was in danger of taking a missile into the exhaust of his jet engine. He circled, gaining height, and surveyed the ground below. The bus hadn't moved, and he decided to take it out. He'd approach at low level from the east, keeping far away from the hostile convoy and their missile. Stitch a long line of bullets into the bus, and pull up before he reached the danger zone, staying out of the effective range of the missile.
He flew higher, heading east. They'd assume he was leaving the scene. He chuckled.
No way, the Pakistani Air Force is about to pay you another visit.
When the bus was just a dot in the distance, he flung the aircraft around, pushed the throttle forward to the stop, and kicked in the afterburner. The aircraft broke the sound barrier, and the sonic boom would be rolling across the countryside. He lined up the bus in his sights as he drew nearer. He'd give it a long burst, rip it into scrap, then pull up and return to base. Tell then he hadn’t seen the helicopter, but he’d destroyed an important insurgent target. There was no need to tell them the rest of it. That he’d decided the last thing he needed was to tangle with ground-to-air missiles. His thumb was on the fire button, and he estimated he make the decision to open fire in the next second.
