by Eric Meyer
Chapter Twelve
"It's time to finish this. Stop here."
The driver glanced at Massoud." Are you sure? The American and his friend could come after us at any moment."
"I'm relying on it." He turned to the man in back and pointed to a low wall at the side of the road. "Assad, you will position the PK machine gun there, behind the wall. We'll halt two hundred meters further along the road. I have a surprise for Mr. Stoner."
He bent to the floor of the truck and picked up an RPG launcher, with a rocket already loaded. The ubiquitous RPG-7, ugly, dark and lethal, was the most widely used anti-armor weapon in the Third World. The Russians produced them in prodigious quantities and sold them to groups who wanted to ferment trouble and revolution, especially against the West. They left truckloads of the devices behind after the ill-fated venture in Afghanistan. In effect, they armed the Taliban ready to take over the country and inflict decades of death and misery on its long-suffering population. As if the decades of destruction and misery they'd inflicted weren't enough.
Armed with an RPG-7, any Mujahidin fighter or soldier for one of the warlords who ran the country could become a walking artillery piece. With an effective range of two hundred meters, the man could hide out of sight, then pop-up and destroy lightly armored vehicles. The warhead would blast a GAZ jeep into little pieces of scrap.
The Unimog stopped, and the machine gunner climbed out. The driver drove on, stopped at the side of the road, and Massoud squeezed through the sacks of opium to the back. The rear door had a window fitted in the top half, and he used the butt of the RPG to smash a hole through the toughened Perspex. He poked the rocket out into the open and aimed through the PGO-7 optical sight. His vision was perfect, and the snowfall had started to ease When the GAZ came alongside the hidden machine gun, he'd opened fire. It was unlikely anyone would survive the blast, but Assad would finish off any survivor with a burst from the machine gun. A score of 7.62mm rounds would be more than enough to kill anyone trying to escape his ambush, although he decided to play it safe. He shouted to the driver.
"Rafiq, take a spare ammunition box to Assad. You will act as his loader."
The man looked aghast. He'd enjoyed driving the Unimog, with its powerful engine, comfortable seats, and astonishing suspension. It also had a very efficient heater, and he'd been warm for the first time in many hours. Outside it was very, very cold.
"Massoud, is that necessary? Surely it would be better if I stayed with the vehicle, in case we need to move in a hurry."
"Get out there now." He gave the man a hostile glare," If you don't hurry, I'll leave you out there until tonight when I come back for the next load. Believe me, I can manage without a driver."
"Yes, Sir, I'll go now."
He grabbed the dull green ammunition box, jumped down to the snow, and began plodding toward the machine gun. Massoud watched him through the broken window, and silently fumed when after only a half dozen steps, he slipped on a patch of ice and gave a pleading look back at the Unimog.
"I think I may have sprained my ankle, Massoud," he shouted.
"Rafiq, I don't care if you've broken your fucking neck. Get behind that wall and help Assad. Perhaps after this is over, you should consider alternative employment. I could find you work as a watchman on one of my remote plantations in the mountains."
The man was already on his feet. "No, no, that won't be necessary. I can manage."
He plodded on, and Massoud looked down at his launcher, making sure he had the rocket correctly positioned. When he had the American's vehicle in his sights, he'd make certain there were no mistakes. He had the range set for two hundred meters. The moment the American's vehicle appeared, he'd destroy them, obliterate them from the earth. The machine gun was just a fallback position, no more than insurance. It shouldn't be necessary. He’d strike the final blow.
