Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan

by Eric Meyer

  * * *

  To his credit, the kid never faltered. Stoner felt guilty, sitting behind the useless steering wheel of his Jeep while Ahmed was out in the open. Exposed to the full fury of the blizzard, and with only Archer to keep him company. Kilometer by kilometer, they plowed through thick snowdrifts, often with visibility reduced to only a few meters.

  Somehow, the boy managed not to drive into a ravine, or to bury them in a deep drift. His upper body was rigid with concentration, and only his head turned continually, looking for obstacles. Looking for danger. The dog seemed to have a sixth sense. Sometimes it would bark, and its nose would point in a certain direction. Almost without thinking, the boy would shift the wheel a fraction to avoid whatever unseen obstacle the dog had perceived.

  They passed the roadside bar, almost hidden beneath a thick snowdrift, without stopping. After another half-hour, he banged the horn, and Ahmed halted. He climbed out of the Jeep and ran forward.

  "Kid, you need to warm up inside the vehicle. The heater is on and you can thaw out. Let me drive the tractor for a while."

  The boy stiffened. "I will continue to drive. I must. I will reach the hospital, never fear. Mr. Stoner, I don't mind the cold. I'm used to it."

  His face belied his words. His skin was blue, and he shivered constantly. In the end, they compromised. He found a couple of blankets Greg didn't need for Marina, and he put one over the boy's shoulders. Then he placed the other over the dog. There was no way Ahmed would allow anyone to take over the task of driving the Fordson. He'd evidently decided it was his sacred duty. He was also brave beyond words.

  The boy drove on through the blizzard with no complaint about the biting cold. They were covering little more than ten klicks in an hour, and the going was painfully, agonizingly slow, but they had no alternative. Every kilometer was a step nearer to the medical care Marina needed so urgently. He glanced over the back seat.

  "How is she?"

  Greg shook his head. "Not good. All I can do is keep her warm, there's nothing else."

  "The bleeding?"

  "I managed to stop it for now, but it's anyone's guess when it’ll start again. I guess it all depends on the terrain."

  "Yeah, I get it." It was impossible to see many of the deep holes in the road, and sometimes they bumped into one so hard it threatened to reopen her wound. It had happened once already, and there was nothing they could do to prevent a reoccurrence. Except keep going, keep plowing on to reach the hospital in Ghazni.

  He tried to work out how long the journey would take. From the far end of the Torgan Valley to Ghazni, the nearest town with a hospital was around fifty kilometers. Theoretically, the journey should take five hours at their current speed. Yet they'd already stopped twice to shovel away deep snowdrifts that blocked the road, and it was anyone's guess how many more they'd encounter. Then the tractor slowed, and he glanced ahead to see another drift blocked the road, two meters high.

  They stopped, and he told Greg to stay with the girl. He had the shovel in his hand, and he went forward with Ahmed to start work on the drift. The dog walked with the boy. They'd become inseparable. Stoner shoveled away the first of the snow and stopped when Archer growled softly.

  "I hear voices," Ahmed murmured.

  He trusted the boy's hearing. Because of his youth, it would be sharper, better.

  "What kind of voices? What are they saying?"

  Ahmed climbed to the top of the drift. Stoner joined him and realized they'd been lucky. The soldiers had set up a roadblock only fifty meters in front of them, but the heavy snow had hidden the noise of their approach. If it weren't for the drift, they'd have driven straight into the jaws of a trap. There was no question it was a trap intended for them. A half-dozen soldiers wearing green Afghan National Army uniform, stood shivering in their greatcoats. They'd arrived in a vehicle, an old Soviet built Zil 131 that they'd parked a few meters away.

  It was the vehicle that interested him most. The big six-wheel-drive infantry truck could cross most types of rough terrain at speed, enough to carry Marina to hospital in Ghazni, if they could take the vehicle from them.

  The soldiers weren't alone. There were two other men with them, and they weren't army. Black turbans, pants and coats, scarves and gloves from several different armies, and they carried RPG launchers.

  Taliban or ex-Taliban, no question, guns for hire. Maybe rockets for hire would be more accurate.

  Whichever it was, they weren't good news. There was only one reason why army regulars would have mercs along. They were freelancing. Working for one of the many drug traffickers or warlords who plagued the region. Right now, there was one particular drug trafficker who had a powerful reason for wanting to prevent them from coming after him. Massoud. Even though he'd left them with no transport, he was no fool. He knew they'd come after him, eventually. The presence of the two mercenaries with RPGs was a statement. He intended they'd never reach him.

  He left Ahmed to watch them with the dog at his side and walked back to Greg. The Russian’s eyebrows rose as he approached. "Trouble?"

  "Like you wouldn't believe."

  He explained about the roadblock, the soldiers, and the presence of two missileers. Greg nodded. "Massoud."

  "Yeah, Massoud. He's not taking any chances. There's only one way past them, we have to take them."

  "Kill all eight of them? That won't to be easy. There're only two of us."

  "Nope, it won't be easy. Still, that's what we're gonna do."

  He went back to Ahmed and persuaded him to stay with Marina. He thought he detected a look of relief in the boy's face when he climbed into the warmth of the Wrangler. Greg pulled out the Dragunov and checked the load. His face was white; these men were trying to block him from rescuing his wife from an Islamic hell. He wore the killing face.

  Stoner inspected his M4 A1 and the big Colts. Before they left the shelter of the Jeep, he had an idea. "We could even up the odds some. You have those grenades?"

  The Russian smiled. "Canvas bag in the trunk. One moment."

  He went around the back and opened the tailgate. He pulled out a khaki bag emblazoned with U.S. military ordnance markings. Stoner didn't ask, just took two M61 fragmentation grenades, stuffed them into his pockets, and Greg followed suit. They walked forward to the snowdrift and peered over the top of the snow wall.

  "Here's how we'll play it," the American murmured quietly, although the heavy snowfall blotted out any chance of his voice reaching the soldiers, "The danger is the RPGs. If we give them the chance, they'll murder us. I'll get close and toss the first grenade. When it detonates, I’ll throw the second grenade close to the soldiers. You stay here and start shooting as soon as it starts. Make sure none of them gets away. If they do, we're screwed."

  Greg was thoughtful for a few moments, but he saw the sense of it. Despite his father's training, he'd never been a soldier. At most, he'd chased down rapists and murderers on behalf of their enraged families. His targets were invariably drug or drink fuelled brutes. The men in front of them were trained soldiers, professionals. He nodded his agreement, and Stoner plastered himself with snow over his black coat and pants. It was strange the way the wet snow mingled with the black fabric to give a mottled, gray effect to his clothing. He'd seen pictures of Arctic combat fatigues worn by Special Forces operators, and it looked almost the same.

  Stoner slid away to the end of the drift, his movements swift and smooth. Greg watched him move out and snake across the snow-covered terrain. He was astonished when the American seemed to disappear into tiny clefts in the ground. It was like he was a ghost.

  For the first time, he appreciated how good the man was. Whether he'd be able to kill the men with the RPGs was another matter. He'd have to get in close, very close, too close. For every second, he'd run the risk of one of them seeing him. The tables would turn, and he'd become a target for every assault rifle.

  He blinked; Stoner had disappeared. For several minutes, he feared he'd fallen into a hidden
ravine. And then he reappeared fifty meters to the south of the enemy position. The ground that stretched in front of him was smooth, and he had the absurd thought it looked something like the icing on a cake. Yet he started snaking across the smooth white surface. If it weren't for the continuing snowfall, he'd have been in full view of the soldiers. Yet even though he was partially hidden, he faced formidable problems before he closed on the target.

  At anything up to twenty meters, he'd be in danger from the fragments of metal when the grenade exploded. More than thirty meters, and accuracy would be almost impossible. There was something else. To hit the target at that range, he'd have to stand to make an accurate throw. The moment he climbed to his feet, they'd be sure to see him, and the bullets would fly. Greg gripped his Dragunov and waited for it to begin.

  Stoner almost made it. He reached the thirty-five meter mark, and Greg saw him stand, run forward, and make the first throw. At that precise moment, one of the soldiers looked around and instantly perceived the threat. A man appearing out of nowhere, and running toward them, meant only one thing. They were under attack. He unslung his AK-47 and took aim.

  Stoner saw him but didn't check his run. His arm came back, and he bunched up his body like a baseball pitcher. He launched the grenade and dived flat into the snow. A burst of 7.62mm bullets sliced through the air over his prone body, and another soldier joined in, managing to get off three shots before the explosion. The effect was devastating. The two mercenaries with the missile launchers started running, straight into the blast zone. They died instantly, their bodies torn apart by hot metal fragments. The rest of the soldiers had scattered.

  Greg could see one uniformed body lying in the snow, but the remaining five men had disappeared into the violent cloud of white dust thrown up by the blast. After less than a minute, it settled, and he saw them. Five shapes, all lying prone in the snow, staring in the direction Stoner had gone to ground. Snow covered their uniforms as it continued to settle over them. He sighted on the first man, squeezed the trigger and fired. The old Dragunov was as accurate as ever, and the man jerked as the bullet smacked through the side of his head to enter his brain.

  His rifle did not mount a sound suppressor, and as the echoes of the grenade explosion died away, the single shot cracked into the gathering silence. Stoner wasn't finished. He jumped up, ran forward, and tossed another grenade. This time, the enemy was ready, and they took cover, burrowing into the snow as hot metal fragments whistled over their heads. One man had taken a fragment in the leg, and he started to crawl away, leaving a thin red trail behind him. The others were talking quickly to each other, and it was obvious they weren't about to lie in the snow to await their deaths.

  To his horror, Greg saw one of them head for an undamaged RPG launcher lying on the surface of the snow. If he got his hands on the weapon, he could shoot from the prone position, and Stoner would die. If they had spare rockets, they'd locate the Wrangler suspended behind the tractor and pound it from a distance. He shuddered as he thought about what the explosive rockets would do to Marina and Ahmed. His thoughts turned to his wife Faria.

  They'll kill her. Unless...

  With an effort, he calmed his anxiety and took aim at the man moving toward the launcher. A hail of lead smacked around him, forcing him to duck before he took the shot. They'd seen the danger, and there was no way they'd allow him to pop a bullet at them. All he could do was wait for the more experienced Stoner to make his move. Then he'd prop his rifle over that snowdrift and start shooting, no matter what.

  Stoner had gone to ground after the failure of the second grenade to kill the rest of the soldiers. He was lying in a narrow slit in the ground, no bigger than a farmer would make with a hoe towed behind his tractor. It had to be enough. The flurry of snow that descended over the soldiers camouflaged him as well. To help it along, he'd pulled handfuls of snow over him, and he knew he was as invisible as he'd ever be. He waited for them to make a move, to make the first mistake. It was the most important weapon in the armory of a Special Forces operator. Patience. Let the suckers make the first move. Then bite their fucking heads off.

  At first, nothing moved. Millimeter by millimeter, he raised his head to check on the Afghans. A man was inching toward a dark shape on the ground, and he recognized it as a launcher. If he reached it, and if they had spare rockets, it would be the end. They were hunkered down, protected by several AKs, and they could fire their rockets at will.

  He was in trouble. The only way to take the shot would be to rise at least partway off the ground. Two of the Afghans had rifles pointed his way, and they'd have ample time to drill him full of holes while he tried for the man going for the missile. He was out of grenades; all he had to fight with was his rifle and pistol. He made up his mind. He needed a diversion.

  Using tiny movements, he plastered more snow over his body, then propped the rifle so the barrel was visible to the enemy. Then he pulled the trigger repeatedly, to empty the clip at the man crawling toward the RPG. There was no need to take aim; he wasn't looking for a hit. Not yet. Immediately, his pals opened fire. Bullet strikes kicked up fine snow around him. He had their attention; it would have to be enough.

  Leaving the empty rifle in position, he rolled out of his hiding place and edged toward yet another tiny slit in the ground nearby. By the time the snow had settled after the fusillade, he was in the new position. This time, he was able to crawl toward the missile lying on the ground, on an interception course with the Afghan soldier, who was crawling forward with the same aim. The other man was much closer, but he didn't have two Desert Eagles strapped to his waist. Stoner got nearer, and then stopped. Everything depended on a single shot. The moment he pulled the trigger, he'd come under fire, and if he missed, they could pin him down while the man in front of him retrieved the launcher. Then they'd kill them all. Marina, Ahmed, Greg, and he'd have failed.

  He steadied the barrel of the big automatic on a rock. It was a tough shot, given the poor visibility and the range from which he had to fire. Even worse, he was bitterly aware of the stakes. Everything depended on that shot. He didn't even begin to think how he'd handle it if he missed.

  There's no way I'm gonna miss. This guy's going down!

  The other man crawled closer and finally stretched out a hand for the RPG. It was as far as he got. The big automatic boomed once. When the slug hit the Afghan, it was as if a truck had hit him. He rolled over to lie on his back. There was no cry of pain as the bullet hit him. Fifty calibers were like that. However, the noise had alerted the hostiles to the threat. They got it wrong, assuming the shot came from the rifle.

  The area around his M4 A1 erupted in flurries of snow as scores of bullets sought him out, except he wasn't there. While they had their fun, he edged toward the RPG and finally got a hand on the barrel. Gently, gently, he crawled away. He had a way to finish this.

  "Stoner!"

  He cursed. Greg was calling him from the direction of the snowdrift. Probably worried in case he was dead, but if he answered, the soldiers would know his exact location, and everything would go to hell. If he didn't answer, Greg was liable to do something stupid. He was a good man, an honest man, but he was no soldier. He saw the barrel of the Dragunov appear over the top of the snowdrift, and he knew the Russian was about to take on the soldiers. Even though it would expose him to their fire, and they'd kill him. Snow was no barrier to bullets, and any second they'd see him and start shooting. All he had left was a single option, one way to keep them all alive. He holstered the Desert Eagle.

  Stoner prayed to all the Gods of war the launcher was undamaged, as he catapulted to his feet. At the same time, Greg's head appeared above the snowdrift and fired two shots. Stoner aimed the launcher and fired the moment it pointed at the target. The missile sailed away into the air and streaked toward the men. And missed. The impact was ten meters away from them. All it did was scare them into dropping flat, as metal fragments and debris rained down over them.

  The explosion
opened a window of opportunity, and he took it. He snatched out the two big automatics and started to run, firing as he raced forward. The magazines carried seven shots each, and he'd just fired off one. He had thirteen left, more than enough, provided he was lucky. The Afghans jerked around at the new threat and started to swing their weapons around to gun him down. He kept running at them, a vengeful, fifty-caliber fury. Running, firing, running, firing. Each time one of them managed to draw a bead on him, the heavy shells smacked into him, and he went down. He almost reached them; only three meters separated him from the last man left alive.

  The soldier was more experienced than the others. Less likely to cave under fire, and he'd hidden behind the body of one of his comrades, sheltering from the terrible bullets of the Desert Eagles. Stoner's pistols both clicked on empty, and the soldier smiled as he rose to the kneeling position. He brought up his rifle, but it was as far as he got. The 7.62mm Dragunov bullet went into the front of his head and exited the back. Blood and brains spattered onto the snow, and the man fell forward.

  He looked up as Greg vaulted over the snowdrift and ran toward him. "Are you okay? I thought we’d lost you."

  "I'll be okay if we can get that Zil truck started. Take a look at it. See if you can start the engine. I'll go see how Marina and Ahmed are doing."

  The boy opened the door as he ran up to the Wrangler. Before he could ask, Ahmed said, "I think she's okay, Mr. Stoner. The bleeding hasn't started again. What happened?"

  "They died. Let's take a look at her."

  The girl was semi-conscious. Her eyes flicked open when he climbed into the SUV.

  "Stoner."

  "Yeah, it's me. How do you feel?"

  "Never better."

  He chuckled. "That's good. The kid said you're recovering well. Marina, we're hoping to use the truck those soldiers came in. They won't need it anymore. It's nearly over. We'll have you tucked up in a hospital bed in a couple of hours, and a night or two in the hospital should fix you up."

  Her forehead creased in a frown. "You're a bad liar, Stoner. You're talking to a surgeon. I'm not going to make it, you know that, and I know it. Leave me here, and go to Mehtar Lam to save Faria. Please..."

  She lapsed into unconsciousness, and he bent down and whispered in her ear. Maybe she'd hear him. "I won't leave you. Marina, you're gonna live, if I have to kill every single one of Massoud's goons to make it happen."

  Her breathing was ragged, worse than before. She was running out of time. He looked up as Greg plowed through the snow and reached the Wrangler. His face was grim.

  "I've checked out the Zil. It's a no-go. During the firefight, a bullet sliced through the hood and smashed the distributor. It's an old Soviet job, and sometimes it's possible to tape those primitive things back together. Not this time, I'm afraid, there's too much damage. The only way to start that engine is with a spare part."

  "Fuck!" He wracked his brains for a way around the problem, "What about the Wrangler? We could take the distributor we need from the engine."

  "Not going to happen. The Wrangler is modern; it uses electronic ignition."

  "The tractor?"

  Greg raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "It's totally different. It would take an engineering workshop to make the alterations. We're stuck with the tractor."

  Stoner felt a burning anger of frustration, but he knew there was no way around it. "We'll keep going with Ahmed's tractor. Wait, there's something I need, in case it happens again. Trouble, I mean."

  He ran to the heap of dead bodies and swept up the two RPGs. He stashed them in the trunk with the packs of spare rockets. Then he shouted to Ahmed who was standing nearby.

  "Time to move out, kid. Take us to Ghazni."

  "Yes, Sir, Mr. Stoner." The dog barked twice and followed him to the Fordson. Greg climbed back into the Wrangler, and with a jerk, they started forward.

  He estimated they should reach Ghazni in a couple of hours. He wanted to ask Greg if she could last that long, but he kept quiet. The answer may not be what he wanted to hear. After an hour, the first wisps of smoke from the chimneys of Ghazni appeared in the sky, dark gray lines barely visible through the falling snow. Dawn wasn't far away. They were going to make it. She was going to make it. That was when the engine of the tractor died, and they rolled to a stop.

  He ran forward. "What is it? What happened?"

  "Gasoline," Ahmed wailed, "I thought we had enough, but I used some to fill up the Jeep."

  "Shit. If it's in the tank, we can get it out again. Bring the empty Jerry cans, and a hose if you have one. We'll siphon the gas."

  "Everyone in Afghanistan carries a siphon hose, Mr. Stoner."

  He ran to the tractor and brought back two Jerry cans, together with a two-meter length of rubber hose. The American set up the apparatus, sucked up the first of the gas, and began to fill the first can. The boy brought two more cans, and slowly, they began to fill, too slowly. He looked at Ahmed and felt pity for the kid.

  The boy was blue with cold, and slivers of ice had formed on his eyebrows and nose. He wanted to help him, to offer once again to take over the driving, but he knew what the answer would be, so he kept quiet.

  The boy has pride, the stubborn pride of a lion. No way will I take that away from him. Besides, we’re almost at there, and when we arrive, we can thaw him out with hot food and drink.

  He tried to wipe off some of the snow that covered both boy and dog. Archer barked and wagged his tail, enjoying the fuss. Ahmed brushed him off.

  "I'm okay, Mr. Stoner. Really."

  "Yeah, I know you are, Ahmed. Is there any way to speed up transferring the fuel?"

  He shook his head. They filled the first can and poured the precious fuel into the tank of the Fordson. Then he tossed the remaining three empty Jerry cans with the siphon hose into the trunk.

  "We'll do the rest when we get to Ghazni. Let's get moving."

  They had a few bad moments when the engine refused to start. The boy assured them it was only a matter of time before the gas pumped through to the carburetor, but they all knew there was a chance of another problem developing. He was working out how they could carry Marina the remaining distance to the town. Suddenly the engine coughed, a thick cloud of smoke belched out of the exhaust, and it started.

  There was no time for celebration. Ahmed jammed the Fordson into gear and Stoner had to scramble to jump into the driving seat of the Jeep as they started to move. Fifty minutes later, they entered the outskirts of Ghazni. A sign in both Pashtu and English directed them to Ghazni Provincial Hospital. Ten more minutes and the building was only two hundred meters in front of them.

  Ghazni Hospital was a modest sized building, painted a sickly shade of turquoise green. At that moment, he didn't give a damn how big it was or what color it was painted, as long as they had an ER room. He spotted another sign in two languages. Emergencies.

  He didn't need to tell Ahmed. The boy had seen it, and he swung the wheel over, drove a short distance, and stopped right outside the door. Inside, medics and nurses were bustling around their patients. When one man saw the extraordinary contraption outside, an ancient tractor dragging a once shiny black, and now shot up and wrecked Jeep Wrangler, he rushed out to take a look. Minutes later he was examining Marina, and almost immediately he called for others to help him.

  The building still bore the marks of a recent Taliban raid. The attack had commenced with trucks piled with explosives and driven by Shaheeds. They hit Ghazni Police Station, as well as the local Afghan Security Headquarters. The suicide bombings devastated many other targets in the town, killing and maiming more than three hundred people. They also destroyed fifty-two government buildings, as well as a museum and a library. The hospital didn't escape unscathed. Some of the debris and bomb fragments sliced chunks off the building, killing two doctors as well as the patient they were treating.

  Two paramedics inserted a line her arm, gently lifted the girl out of the vehicle and onto a gurney. There was no n
eed to inquire about the cause of the wound. In Afghanistan, bullet wounds were as common as grazed knees in a U.S. playground.

  As they raced inside, a nurse ran up with a drip stand and connected it to the line in her arm. A harassed and tired-looking surgeon approached and snapped out orders. Seconds later, the gurney had disappeared into theater, and the doors slammed shut. Stoner turned to speak to Greg, but he was remonstrating with the girl behind the desk.

  "I need to make a call. It's urgent. Where's the nearest phone? I have to hire a car. It's an emergency! My wife, they'll kill her."

  The woman stayed calm. "There's a public phone on the wall just inside the door, right where you came in."

  He started to run toward it, but Ahmed stopped him. "I have a phone."

  "Thanks, but I doubt there's a cell tower around here. Not one that's back in operation after the Taliban attack. I'll use the public phone."

  His face was white and the skin stretched, betraying the absolute terror he was suffering for the fate of his wife.

  "It's a satphone."

  He stopped. "A satphone? Why didn't you tell us you had a satphone?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Blum. You didn't ask."

  He took the proffered phone and tried and failed to call the operator. He was shaking his head in an agony of frustration. "I asked for the number of the local car hire company, and she said she didn't understand what I was talking about. What the fuck do I need to do to get a car in this place?"

  The girl behind the desk looked up. "Sir, you don't need to shout. This is a hospital. People are sick."

  He ignored her. "Jesus Christ, I just need a number." He was almost literally hopping up and down, desperate to go to his wife before they killed her.

  This time she was pissed. "I told you to keep your voice down." Before he could argue, she said, "Besides, there isn't a car hire company in Ghazni, not anymore. The Taliban attack destroyed their building. It was next to the police station."

  The Russian shook his head, agonized by his inability to make the call, to find out what was happening to her. Stoner had an idea. He asked the receptionist if there was a vehicle workshop in the town. One that still functioned, and carried a stock of tires. She nodded her head.

  "Of course, we have two shops. The nearest is two streets away."

  She gave directions, and he thanked her. He looked at Greg. "We can put new tires on the Jeep. All we have to do is fill up the tank, and we can drive to Mehtar Lam. But we need to make sure Marina is okay before we leave."

  Greg's eyes were haunted. "You think that heap of shit Wrangler's going to start after they shot it up in the valley? There's no way. Besides, I won't wait for anything or anybody; I'm going to get her out."

  He shook his head. "How? You gonna catch a scheduled American Airlines flight in this pisspot town to get you to Mehtar Lam?"

  "I'll find a way."

  He mumbled and cursed, raced outside, and then came back again. He was a man who'd lost his reason. Terrified with what they'd do to his wife. Stoner was just as worried. He'd once loved Faria more than anything in the world, but she'd chosen Greg, and he'd accepted it. Not willingly, but that was all in the past. Now Faria faced execution, and Marina was lying on a surgeon's slab.

  What if these medics can't patch her up? They may need me to arrange for specialist help. I still have contacts I could call on in Kabul. Marina is at least receiving some care. Faria is in deep shit now, about to suffer the cruelest form of execution on the planet. Thanks for that, Prophet Mohammed.

  "The Jeep's your only chance, Greg. I don't want to leave the girl, but the workshop is close, so I'll give you a hand to get it fixed. Ahmed, stay here, and bring me a message if anything changes."

  "Changes?"

  He stared back at him, and the boy gulped. "Oh. Yes, I will do that."

  He had to jog to keep up with Greg, and they reached the repair shop within minutes. The manager, who had his head inside the hood of a rusting Toyota, looked at them with some disdain and a calculating look in his eyes. Stoner had seen the type in Iraq. The moment they knew you were in trouble, they were the big shot bazaar merchant and haggling for every cent. He explained what they wanted, and the man sucked in his breath, as expected.

  "Not possible, not until next week. We're very busy. Come back then, and I'll see what I can do."

  "Now look, Mister," Greg started to speak.

  Stoner pushed him to one side, dragged out the two Desert Eagles, and pushed the barrels into the man's belly. "Bring the tow truck around, and take the Jeep back to your shop. Get it fixed, now."

  "Yes, yes, I'll do it myself." He wiped a bead of sweat from his face and tried to regain some of his authority, "There's no need to threaten me. You can put the guns away."

  "After you've done the job. First, two front tires, and fill up the gas tank. Make sure the engine runs."

  "I'm not a gas station!" he retorted.

  "You are now, pal."

  He rushed away, and a couple of minutes later returned with the tow truck. He drove in the direction of the hospital. Stoner holstered his pistols, and they jogged back to the hospital. The mechanic was already unscrewing the hitch bolt to release the tractor. He muttered and swore as he worked, but he worked fast and slid a wheeled trolley jack under the Wrangler to take the weight.

  "He knows what he's doing," Stoner said, as much to reassure the desperate man beside him as anything.

  "As long as he's quick."

  "He'll be quick. He wants to keep breathing the fresh clean air of Ghazni."

  "I guess. Fresh, clean air?"

  He shrugged. "I made that bit up."

  Ahmed had been watching from the doorway to the ER room, so he'd hear any news that came out of the theater. He looked across to the mechanic at work next to his precious Fordson model F, with a frown of concern on his young face. Stoner walked over to him.

  "Any news from inside?"

  "Nothing. I will find you to tell you if anything happens. I mean..."

  "I know what you mean."

  Greg followed the tow truck back to the shop, and Stoner decided to join him to discover the full extent of the damage. The Afghan manager was still muttering and swearing, sucking in deep breaths of horror at the difficult job with which they'd presented him, and still calculating his final bill and doubling it.

  Stoner decided it was time to find out how serious the problem was, and he walked up to the sweating, cursing man.

  "How bad is it, pal? How serious?"

  The man looked at his hands for any sign of the pistols and was relieved when they weren't in evidence. "Serious? It's bad enough, sure, the front tires are shot, and metal fragments destroyed two of the hoses. However, I know of a Wrangler in the town. They broke it for scrap. There'll be tires and hoses we can use to make repairs, but these parts are rare. Very expensive."

  "I'd sooner have new stuff."

  "In Ghazni? Tell me you're joking."

  He sighed. "Yeah, I'm joking. How long?"

  Another round of sucked in breath, curses, hisses, and appeals to the Prophet. "The end of the day."

  "We need it now, buddy, 14.00, and not a second later," Greg shouted.

  He spread his hands. "Where can you go in this weather? The snow has made the highways impassable. " He saw their expressions and hurried on, "Okay, okay, I'll do my best, perhaps 16.00, any earlier is impossible. The man who owns the wrecked Jeep is out of town right now. I cannot obtain the hoses until he's back."

  Stoner nodded. "Gas it up, and make sure it's ready to go the moment he comes back. You can use the spare wheel, that'll save time."

  "I'll do my best."

  The American nodded and looked at Greg. "There's nothing we can do here. We're only getting in his hair. We need to get back to the hospital."

  They strolled back. Ahmed shook his head. No news. He gave the boy a handful of dollars and told him to take the tractor and fill the tank with gas. He'd need to get it home eventually. The dog jumpe
d up next to him, adjusted his long body into the awkward position he adopted, and the tractor chugged away. Greg watched them leave. The Russian's face was ghastly. He'd aged several years in as many hours.

  Stoner touched him on the shoulder, and he started. "What?"

  "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  The reply was slow in coming. "I need your help."

  "To get her out, yeah. I'm with you on that one."

  "Not just that. It's that fucker Habib Daud, the Imam in Mehtar Lam who's got it in for her, him and his fanatic religious police. I'm gonna kill him. It's the only way we'll be safe.

  Stoner thought what it would mean.

  Leave Marina, how can I do that?

  "I'll go check on the girl, see how she is."

  He strode away and found a doctor. There was little change. They'd stabilized her for now, but she was still in the theater. It was touch and go. She could go into heart failure, develop a critical infection, anything.

  What do I do?

  He went back outside to find Greg. At that moment, the tractor appeared around the corner. Ahmed braked to a halt, and the dog barked. "It's full of fuel, thank you, Mr. Stoner."

  "I'll buy you a gas tanker for what you've done, my little friend. Now you should think about getting home soon to your sisters."

  "What about Marina?"

  "She's in good hands. Leave as soon as the snow eases."

  "I can drive through the snow," he retorted, his young voice stiff with pride, "The Fordson model F can drive though any conditions." The dog barked agreement. "Where will you go now?"

  He looked at Greg and back at the boy, who was patting the dog. Then back at Greg. They'd been friends, once. Before the split over Faria, the girl he'd loved, and for whom he would have died. There was nothing he could do for Marina, and he looked at Greg.

  "We're going in the same direction as you. To Mehtar Lam. I expect we'll be ahead of you."

  The boy grinned. "There is an old Afghan story, Mr. Stoner, about a tortoise and a hare. I heard it once."

  "Sure, but I'm not certain it came from Afghanistan. If you pass us on the road, stop and give us a tow."

  He grinned. "My Fordson model F will not let you down, Mr. Stoner."

  "I know that. Wait one moment."

  With the last of his small change and bills, Stoner emptied the vending machine inside the hospital of drinks and snacks. He handed him armfuls of chocolate bars, bags of nuts, snacks, and cans of soda.

  "Make sure you give some to the dog."

  The boy nodded his thanks, climbed into the driving seat, and the dog jumped up next to him. With a cheerful wave, and two loud barks, they drove away.

  He looked at Greg. "I'm in. As soon as the Wrangler's fixed, we'll head to Mehtar Lam and spring Faria from that prison. Afterward, I reckon we have some killing to do."

  "Amen to that," Greg Blum murmured, "Thanks."

  "Better not let the Mullahs hear you say that," he grinned.

  The Russian grimaced. "Fuck 'em."