Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

  To his credit, the pilot did everything right, autorotating the aircraft toward the ground, switching off the fuel supply, and activating the onboard firefighting systems. The emergency alarms wailed, and Ivan heard someone shouting, one of the crew, but it didn’t make any sense. Besides, what was there to say? He and his two men strapped in tight and waited. They didn’t have long to wait. The gunship hit the ground hard and tilted over to the side. The momentum carried it further, and it tilted all the way, rolled over onto its back, and stopped. Inside the cabin, they could hear the noise of systems spooling down, and the tick of cooling metal.

  They unstrapped and climbed down from the aircraft. The crew was emerging from the front, and neither looked injured. They walked away in case the fuel exploded.

  “There was nothing I could do. It came out of nowhere.”

  He patted him on the arm. The man was as white-faced as an Afghan could get. “No one blames you, and you got us down in one piece.” He grinned, “We’re alive. That’s all that’s important.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, we’re alive.” He pointed to the north, “Afghanistan is that way.”

  “I know.” He was thinking about the women trapped in Chilas. About Congresswoman Adams, and Stoner, and Blum.

  Did I leave them in the lurch? No, of course not. There was nothing else I could do. Well, maybe I could have done a bit more. So what do we do now? Walk back to Afghanistan?

  He thought again of the people in Chilas under attack by a horde of Haqqanis.

  Congresswoman Adams, Stoner, and his old girlfriend, Sara Carver. Greg Blum. Damn, even that fucking dog, what was his name? Archer, yeah!

  He took out his satphone. “I need to connect to a feed from one of our UAVs. It should be over Stoner’s position by now. At least we can see what he’s up to.”

  * * *

  Henry Bishop, CIA Head of Station Kabul, picked up the phone. “Bishop.”

  “Uh, Sir, this is the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Battlelab in Creech Air Force Base, Nevada. We have a query regarding your request for discreet aerial surveillance of Northeast Pakistan. It’s about…”

  “You what!” He bellowed the question and lowered his voice, “What did you say?”

  “We have a request for surveillance over Northeast Pakistan. I thought you authorized it, Sir.”

  “The hell I did. Are you sure it’s in my name?”

  “Yessir, no question.”

  Bishop thought to himself, and a single name was at the forefront of his mind.

  Ivan! I’ll string him up by the balls for this. I could lose my job. Christ, I’ll be lucky to find work sorting mail for USPS.

  “Cancel it! Recall that drone, immediately.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m damned sure. Get it back. Now!”

  “Yessir. Right now.”

  * * *

  He watched the screen of his state-of-the-art satphone. With the ability to connect to any live feed anywhere in the world, it was a combat information center in miniature. Able to control the forward area of battle in a small, six-inch-high screen, which right now was dark. He pressed button after button, and even considered calling Creech Air Force Base to get them to check the status of the drone. He decided not to bother. He knew what had happened. Henry Bishop had happened. The Head of Station had found out about the unofficial mission and terminated the order. Stoner could be in serious trouble, terminal trouble, and Ivan was blind.

  What do I do?

  Gorgy and Akram were waiting, and he wondered if they’d head to Chilas to help Stoner, even if he ordered them to do the opposite. They’d fought side by side with Rafe Stoner in the past, and that kind of bond was hard to break. He still hesitated, and the pilot looked impatient.

  “We need to leave, before they come looking for the wreckage and spot us.”

  “Do you carry weapons in the cabin?”

  “In the lockers, yes. We have rifles, and an M-60.”

  “Plenty of ammo?”

  A shrug. “Enough to fight off a minor attack. Ivan, we have to…”

  “We’re going back.”

  He saw Bukharin and Latif visibly relax.

  “Back to where?”

  “Chilas. Get every gun and every bullet you can find out of the gunship. They need our help.”

  “But…”

  “Do it! I’ve had a bellyful of standing on the sidelines. We’re going to war.”

  “To Chilas?”

  “That’s where the action is. We start walking now.”

  Chapter Eight

  The dust cloud in the distance was an ominous sign. They were coming back, Khan, Griggs, together with their murderous rabble. They’d arrive soon, and all they had were a few rifles, and an insufficient supply of ammunition. The Haqqanis had no such problems. They were heavily armed, and in addition…

  It came to him then. “They must have rifles and ammo stored here, maybe a machine gun or two, somewhere in the town. We need to find out where.”

  Greg cocked an eyebrow at him. “Stoner, we can only fire one rifle apiece, and I have the sniper rifle. Sure, we could use a few more bullets, but that’s about it. Fingers on triggers we don’t have.”

  “We have the women. Each of them can fire a rifle.”

  “The women?” He chuckled, “They won’t even know which way to point the muzzle when Khan attacks.”

  “We’ll show them. All they need to do it put up a hail of bullets. If Khan’s men get near enough, some bullets are sure to find targets.”

  “Except we don’t know where they have these bullets stashed.”

  “Khan and Nadiri have a Haqqani prisoner. He’ll know.”

  Their eyes met, and both men grinned. Greg nodded. “Now would be a good time to ask him.”

  This time, there were no screams. The prisoner told them what they needed to know within seconds. No doubt Mohammed Nadiri's hard face staring down at him in grim anticipation of the fun he’d have beating it out of him influenced his decision. A short time later, the men were handing out 7.62mm AKM assault rifles to the women. They'd found a total of sixty AKMs in wooden cases, and thousands of rounds of ammunition, much of it already loaded into spare magazines. They also found a machine gun. Not much of a machine gun, a scratched and battered Russian-made PK 7.62mm that looked as if it had fought its way across Asia, the Mideast, and all the way back. When Stoner tried the action, he found it worked. They'd have no way of knowing how effective it was on sustained automatic fire, but time would tell. Either it would spew out bullets, or it wouldn't.

  They directed the women to their positions, split into four small groups. Stoner and Blum each commanded a group, as did Nadiri and Noyan. While they were waiting for the enemy to arrive, they went through the procedures of dry firing rifles, demonstrating function of the fire selectors, how to detach and reattach magazines, and how to clear blockages. Greg came up with an idea.

  "What are we doing here? There’re enough rifles for the women to have spares if they need them. Hand them out. They're doing no good stored inside wooden cases."

  They distributed the spare rifles and repeated the drill of dry firing and loading and unloading magazines. When they were done, he made doubly sure they understood the function of the safety lever. The last thing an experienced shooter wanted was to have a rookie pull the trigger by accident. Especially when they were standing right behind, with the barrel pointed at their back.

  Stoner went around each of their positions, and when he was ready, he ducked down behind cover with the four women of his group. One was Barbara Adams. Another was Sara Carver. For some reason, Javed had attached himself to him, and he had also attached himself to Archer. From his upbringing as a typical Afghan Muslim, with a terror of large, black German shepherds that bordered on a deep-seated phobia, dog and boy had become firm friends.

  "Javed, keep Archer with you, and stay out of the firing line."

  His face fell. "I can help, Mr. Stoner. I can use a rifle and k
ill the enemy."

  He'd seen evidence of Javed's murderous skills, and had no doubt he’d deal a world of pain to the Haqqanis.

  It wasn’t going to happen. He had good reasons for wanting him to stay away from the fight. The first was because an underage kid had no place in a fight like the one that was coming. The second was Archer. Archer’s power and effectiveness had little place in defense. But if they needed his special skills to track and take down a man, they must keep him in reserve. Keep him safe. Keep them both safe.

  “I want you to look after Archer.”

  Reluctantly, Javed agreed and stepped backward. Archer followed, and when he looked around, the boy was smoothing the dog's fur, like they were buddies for life.

  They didn't have long to wait. The first indication of the coming attack was the noise of engines approaching, but they stopped before they came into sight. Nothing happened for some time, and he could almost smell the Haqqanis making a stealthy approach to the town. Except it didn’t seem right. He called softly to Greg, ten meters away with his tiny group of women.

  "I’m going forward to see what they're doing. Something’s not right."

  "I hear you. We’ll cover you.”

  He ran doubled over, keeping to the low walls that bordered the small rear yards between him and the enemy. Beyond the edge of the town, he saw the vehicles halted almost a kilometer away. The reason for the delay was obvious, and he knew they were in a lot more trouble than they’d realized.

  Ishaq Khan was no fool, and he'd worked out a straightforward frontal attack would lose him more fighters than he was prepared to sacrifice. Somehow, they'd come up with another Technical, a Toyota truck with a 12.7mm DShK heavy machine gun mounted on the bed. Already, Greg was sniping at them, and men began to fall.

  Some were clustered around the rear tire of the Technical, trying to change the wheel. They'd jacked up the truck and were working when the jack started to topple. Men rushed forward to jam balks of timber and chunks of stone underneath the chassis to stop the vehicle collapsing. They shouted and cursed each other, their voices carrying on the wind. He watched them for several minutes and saw Greg take down three of their men. They hit the deck and worked prone, breathing in the dust. Greg made life miserable for them, continually sniping whenever a head showed itself, but a last they bolted the wheel in place and removed the supports.

  They’d be planning to use the DShK to spearhead the assault. Hosing down everything in range with a curtain of lead, and the fighters would come in behind. Moving from house to house, the defenders would be swamped by heavy machine gun fire, .50 caliber-sized bullets ripping through stone, thick timber, and steel to tear them apart. But they didn’t hold all the advantages. The Dragunov had hurt them, and they were nervous. When they came, they wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic.

  He raced back to their positions and called Nadiri, Noyan, and Blum to describe what he'd seen.

  "If we don't stop that Technical, we’ll lose."

  "We need an RPG," Noyan said at once, “A single rocket would turn that machine gun into scrap metal."

  "Except we don't have an RPG."

  Nadiri was thoughtful. "We could shoot up the tires. If we manage to hit at least one, it would slow them down. If they've used their spare, it could stop them dead."

  "Except the Technical will be in position, in front of us. They don't need to move it to shoot up our positions. Those guns have a range of two kilometers or more. We don't have anything capable of dealing with it."

  "Then deal with the men."

  He looked at Greg. "What you mean?"

  "Remember when we loaded up the GAZ we packed four Claymores. If we position them where we expect the Haqqanis to come, we could do some wicked damage. Maybe enough for the rest of them to think twice about carrying on."

  "They’re still in the GAZ?"

  "Yes."

  "Get them."

  Blum nodded, and he called Javed to help him. The boy ran out with Archer close behind, and Greg grinned. Archer was his dog, and he was pleased to see him doing his bit to improve Muslim and canine relations, a small step for mankind, but still a start.

  Greg and Javed reappeared carrying the four green painted Claymore mines, Archer trotting along behind like a cautious rearguard. The mines looked like rectangular steel boxes, like biscuit tins, with a metal stake attached to push into the ground. The immortal words ‘Front Toward Enemy' on the case made certain there'd be no mistake about where to stand when the shit hit the fan. He positioned one on either side of the track. The remaining two he stationed one each next to the paths that led behind the parallel rows of houses flanking the main street. There were no alternatives, and if the enemy did manage to find another route, they’d lose. All they could do was what they could do, and no more. He ran the thin, almost invisible cables back to his position in the rear yard and settled down to wait.

  They didn’t have long. They'd replaced the faulty wheel, and the engine of the vehicle roared into life. The hood of the Technical appeared, the crew standing behind the gun, ready to open fire. The range was long, still almost a kilometer, too long for accurate fire with AKs and M4s, but not for the DShK. The gun opened fire, and the heavy slugs smashed around their positions. The enemy had ammunition to burn, and they fired repeatedly. Sheets of 12.7mm bullets buzzed around them, crashing into the stonework, and in some cases ripping through it. Twice he heard screams, both times women's voices. There was nothing he could do. They were pinned down. The Technical was still five hundred meters away when the Haqqanis came on foot, keeping close behind it the vehicle for cover. The heavy machine gun kept on firing, and all they could do was hug the ground while it got closer. And closer.

  But they weren’t entirely powerless. Greg had his Dragunov sniper rifle out of the case and loaded. Between bursts of fire he propped it on the top of a low wall, took careful aim, and fired a single shot. The front of the truck dropped several inches. He’d scored a hit on the newly replaced tire. But not enough to stop the vehicle, and it carried on, bumping up and down on the now uneven wheels. Greg popped up again, and another round hit the Toyota on the other side. Now both front tires were in shreds, but still the vehicle kept on moving. The gunfire intensified, and they were lucky not to take any more casualties. And then everything changed.

  The fighters were coming within range of the Claymores, and he held the detonator ready. A crowd of snarling, bearded men charged into the town. He watched them come abreast of the Claymore through a gap between two cottages. Almost. And then they were there, a vengeful rabble, and he hit the detonator button. The mine detonated, and steel ball bearings ripped through the enemy, taking them unawares. They didn't fall back, but neither did they advance. The survivors, about ten of the twenty who'd attacked, threw themselves to the ground, and didn’t move. Another group of Haqqanis tried to approach from the other side, and again, he waited for the right moment. When it came, he punched the button a second time. More steel ball bearings tore through them, but they knew something was wrong, and were waiting for it. They fell back, leaving just three of their number bleeding out on the ground, and four men limping and favoring hits to their limbs and bodies. They regrouped and waited for the Technical to finish flattening. Bumping along on the remaining strips of rubber and steel rims of the front wheels, the vehicle came closer. And closer. The DShK resumed firing, and a relentless fusillade pinned them down. They had no defense against the powerful weapon. Except…

  The Claymores were still in place. Designed for anti-personnel work, they were also effective against light-skinned vehicles, like a Toyota truck. Right now, the truck was almost abreast of the two remaining mines. Quickly, before it went past, he hit the last two detonators, and the truck was sandwiched between the simultaneous hurricanes of flesh-flaying steel from both sides.

  It stopped instantly. The driver had been hit by a large number of the steel bearings, and the gun crew was no longer visible. The blast and subsequent shower of metal had t
orn into them and thrown them off the bed of the truck. What remained of their bodies lay broken and bleeding at the side of the track. The Toyota was dead, wrecked by the high explosive and hurricane of deadly fragments. Even the deadly immensity of the heavy machine gun was little more than scrap. He wanted to think Griggs had been amongst the gun crew, but somehow he knew it wasn't to be. Griggs was the kind of man who'd fall into a heap of pig manure and come out smelling of roses.

  A stunned silence had descended on the town, and he stared around, wondering why.

  The enemy has taken a terrible beating, but these people aren't finished. They fight for the Hammer of God, Ishaq Khan, and for loot. For those reasons, they'll climb over the bodies of the dead and keep coming at us in an insane urge to kill.

  Even as he had that thought, he heard heavy gunfire, but this time from the other end of town. In a flash of revelation, he realized what they'd done. The main attack from the front was designed to divert their attention, while the serious attack intended to infiltrate the town and finish them off was coming from behind.

  He leapt to his feet, grabbed the PK machine gun, and he was running back, shouting at Greg to follow him. The women ran alongside, and one was Sara Carver, a trained soldier. Another was Barbara Adams, who knew how to handle a rifle. He realized they’d lost two of the women, and Greg only had two with him, which meant more casualties. He’d heard the screams but couldn’t put faces to the missing women.

  He didn't make the end of the town. Griggs and his party had fanned out and taken cover in the houses on both sides of the street. They ran into a curtain of gunfire and had to take avoiding action. Stoner moved fast, so did Greg, and Sara pulled Barbara down. But two more women took hits before they could dive into cover. They were inside a cottage, and he knew instantly they'd made a mistake. He’d led them into a trap. Gunfire was coming from the other end of the town, where more of Khan's men had gone past the wrecked Toyota. They were chasing down the remainder of the irritating women who were holding up the assault and looking to kill the men who led them. If there’d been any precautions about keeping valuable hostages alive, they’d disappeared in the fury of the attack.