Hell To Pay

by Andrik Rovson

  “Weapons?” Sargent Williams asked, looking over the group, twenty hard men who all wanted to know the same thing, their faces serious but smiling at the freedom this mission profile offered.

  “Oh, that's the best part,” he turned to the group, “lock and load gentlemen. Everything you can carry and drop – specials, favorites, two foot Rambo knives and Daddy's big gun from the war, whatever you like. As many and much as we can carry in three Blackhawks.”

  “Shit, you're right Williams, this guy is a wizard.”

  “Thank me when we evac. This one's got a joker somewhere. I hope I'm wrong.”

  “But you'll get us out, right?” Sargent Williams was picking up the vibe Jabo had. It was too fast, too loose, no oversight. Once they were on the ground they'd be very alone – the downside of this wild west shootout.

  “A few bullet holes at most, no more than three,” Jabo looked the tall, hyper confident Black man in the eyes, showing only his senior NCO his misgivings.

  “Three is my lucky number,” Williams whooped, always ready to back him upl He wanted to break up the dark cloud that bothered his friend. The giant man did a fast hand jive with Jabo, ending in a side slap they missed. It felt like a bad sign.

  The ride was fast, rocking side to side instead of the higher, steady runs he was used to – cruising along far above the highest peak. But that wouldn't work tonight. They didn't want anyone to know they were coming. The Taliban had their own man-based radar, a collection of observers on scattered mountain tops, sharp eared natives who could hear, then visually track a helicopter at five miles. Add a rough course vector, 'Northwest, six miles, two helicopters', then combine that with two other reports from other locations and you had air coverage for a fifty square mile area with only eight to ten men, freezing their ass off on a mountain for a few days, spelled by the next poor soul.

  There was only one way to defeat it, doing what they were now, staying below the mountain tops, flying up the valleys hoping there wasn't any kid manning a heavy machine gun or worse a pair of 20mm anti-air guns. One explosive round hit could bring almost any helicopter in the US inventory down, and at their altitude and speed that would mean everybody died. The only thing going their way was the early morning hours, just before dawn. Everybody would be asleep or drowsy. By the time they woke up to what was coming their way they'd be gone, hopefully.

  “I'm getting a bad feeling about this one,” Williams looked at Jabo, talking over the intercom. They'd done all the planning their meager information and the radio warning allowed. Their LZ was opposite the point the Taliban were coming down the mountain. They would land minutes after the Taliban started spreading out on the valley floor, coming down from the mountains that rose up over the village, if the man who'd sent the signal was right. They could also end up fighting from the moment they descended.

  “Hurry, you hear that?” Asif was mad, hearing then seeing the helicopters rushing up the valley to flare and discharge a mass of men on the far side of the village. Their feast on the goats they'd found had turned out to be a terrible idea. Someone had called in the Americans! He'd fought their famed Special Forces over the last five years, usually it was a draw, with the Americans holding their ground, calling in air strikes if their powerful aircraft were close. Anywhere near their extended network of bases, meant rapid artillery fire which was extremely accurate, some said they could make it hit anywhere, using a laser beam, something he doubted – the talk of scared, bewildered men. Their technology would be useless here, too remote for aircraft to arrive before he had them surrounded, overwhelmed in a fast charge, and slaughtered. Victory went to the audacious who attacked as fast as possible in a powerful onslaught without mercy. It had worked before and it would work now.

  Going to his three lieutenants to explain his battle plan, they were all stout men but without much imagination or brains, they'd do what they were told, without improvising, which wasn't as useful as it might seem. War was brute force and not much more. Men fought, men died, and you kept at it until it was clear you'd won or you ran. Retreat was always a good alternative when the odds were against you. Now he had the high ground, a special weapon and most were men who'd lived in this area all their lives, all experienced except a few your recruits, but they'd follow the others – stout hearts, ready to fulfill their promise, to him, their absolute leader.

  “Go there, stay, set up along that wall, I'll drive them into your men. Don't fire until they're almost on you,” he saw the man was unsure what kind of distance that might mean. “Ten meters, understand, ten or fifteen paces.” That seemed to make sense to him, “Don't shoot until then, understand?”

  “Yes Asif, ten meters, I'll tell my men,” he turned to call out to his group, waving his arms, herding his group around to the south side of the village, crossing the crops the villagers had planted, watered and weeded for the last few months – soon a bumper havest of wheat and corn – enough extra they could sell their bounty to a grocery supplier who'd truck it into Kabul, over a hundred miles away. It meant money, and money meant independence from men, like him.

  “You two, we'll go here and here, then attack here after they've gone inside,” they didn't understand his thinking.

  “But they'll be inside the village, it's walls...” the man had always questioned his decisions, acting like he should have some sort of command. Asif gestured him to come closer. “Yes Asif?”

  “I want you to lead the attack, from the front, can you do this?” The cocky man swallowed then nodded, ordered to perform a task he'd wanted, he found it was different to actually be a leader. “Good, good, now join the group, Bandir will tell you what to do.” His eyes met his other commander who nodded. They'd need an inspiration when the time came, this man would do.

  “Let's go, they're moving, we'll rush inside the village and set up a perimeter, call in when you hit your sectors. GO GO GO!” They hit the ground, one man in three assigned to lug the big equipment bundles, in addition to his eighty pound pack. Made to slide over the ground with a hard plastic skid, it was easier than it should be, a combat innovation from some grunt who'd tired of carrying all that weight. Laziness was more creative than good intentions.

  Williams had one sector, Benito, the flying gymnast in their little stunt, another and Parker, a Tech Sargent was given the easiest sector, near their LZ, tasked to keep their escape route open. Jabo took the side opposite their opponent's approach if they tried to overrun the village immediately. They ran like their lives depended on it, taking some light fire, more harassment than aimed, like they wanted them to hurry not stop them. They got inside the village and spread out, finding useful walls or house tops to turn into makeshift defensive positions, all within four minutes.

  “Okay, we're all in place, get ready for an attack.” His leaders checked in, everyone was where they should be, happy with what they'd found. Any group of five men could hold off at least twice or three times their number, making any determined attack fail long enough to draw support from one of the other three sectors. The tactical radios would let them shift men around while keeping enough to deal with a secondary assault. They didn't need someone like Jabo to win a fight like this. Their opposition had made it too easy, what was wrong?

  “Williams, are they moving on you? Benito?” he got two quick 'no's

  “They've stopped moving, I think I see a mortar being setup, but that won't last long, I've got a two man snper team I can deploy to shoot back if they stay exposed.” Williams sounded confident but guarded. “Something ain't right, they're not even trying to get close. If they attack from that distance we'll kill them all before they get near the wall.”

  “Same here, my group stopped around four hundred meters out. I want them to rush me,” Benito's cheery tone showed no worries, what Jabo should have felt, but he still had a nagging worry that wouldn't go away. His area seemed to be empty, which made sense. The steep mountain side was a dangerous place to start any sort of attack, repulsed, they'd have no where to
go but up, without cover, exposed the moment they started moving up the trail they'd come down.

  “What do we do?” Williams asked, “they're just sitting there, waiting for us I guess.”

  “We hold, if they move out we'll chase them, keep close on two sides and a trail. I'll try to get ahead then we'll come at them from three sides – front back and one side.” It was pure speculation at this point. Something was up and they had no clue what was coming next.

  “Fire toward the back, where we came in, three rounds, then hold, be ready to fire more, exactly where I want, understand?” Asif's men nodded, a group he'd trained then flogged, not with a whip, but repetition. They had practice rounds the exact weight of these special ones. All it took was more shotgun shells to recycle them. They were so good he was sure they could hit within five feet of any landmark he pointed out – if they could see it...

  The low whump of the big mortar made every man in the valley turn his head toward the distinctive sound, Jabo's men, Asif's three attack groups and the villagers who'd awakened to the sound of helicopters then watched, scared then assured by the large number of Americans who'd come to their rescue. No Taliban would be taking them over today, to kill and ravage – stealing what they called taxes.

  Three small explosions sounded near Jabo's group, behind them. A cloud of odd looking smoke rose, drifting their way. “What the hell?” One of their men didn't understand what was happening, standing up, almost playful to watch the smoke engulf him, how he usually reacted in exercises, enjoying the way smoke swirled, but normally it was a definite color, not a dead gray and yellow cloud like this, not smoke but... dust.

  “What is happening?” called the man next to the one who'd just disappeared in the slowly moving cloud. They all heard a strange howl, higher pitched than a man should sound like, like a girl being attacked, the sound of panic and terror followed by ghastly screams of pain.

  “Masks, NOW! Masks,” Jabo grabbed his mike, “It's some kind of chemical attack, instant, deadly or extremely painful, everyone put on your masks. Hurry.” Jabo tugged down his mask, sucking in his breath to check the seal, then he turned to see his men doing the same. They'd be safe, if it wasn't a skin irritant. Their damp, sweat soaked uniforms wouldn't do more than slow the chemicals from penetrating. Nobody had used chemical weapons in this conflict since the Russians, regularly using Sarin to wipe out resistant spots, killing everyone indiscriminately, but a change in the wind direction could send it back on your own people, killing them as efficiently. Men who'd brought thin leather gloves pulled them on, Jabo dug into his med kit and found a set of heavy latex gloves, sterile no more, they'd offer some cover for his hands. Most wore the heavy scarves the natives preferred, a ready mask on a dusty day, now cover for bare necks.

  A scream then others rose from the houses where the rounds had fallen. The people who had no masks or training to deal with something like this were getting a heavy dose. A man staggered out of a door, then fell, his eyes popping out, his tongue thick and extended, coughing and gagging, his entire body shaking violently then he stopped, dead.

  “Get them out,” Jabo lifted his mask for a second, yelling in his mike, calling out to the other team leaders, go West, to the LZ, we may have to call in evac and a couple of gun ships, something. “Go, everyone get the hell out of the village.”

  Now it made sense. Someone had known Asif had some special munitions, the reason they'd put a team on him as quickly as he'd been identified. The paratrooper hadn't been called off because he busted his ankle, they'd withdrawn him because they didn't want to lose any of their regular army units to this special threat.

  As important as the Special Forces were, they were orphans in the regular military power hierarchy, not really part of the Army or the Navy – in between, and to their minds, a constant budgetary threat. That made them eminently expendable, in situations like this. Jabo remembered the Colonel and the Captain, feeding him a sob story about the money spent, turning this area into a example of the new kind of society they wanted to offer these people. Bullshit. They had a whacko who'd gotten access to some old Russian chemical weapons and knew how to use them, against anyone he ran into. No wonder he'd wiped out entire villages who ran off for the hills. Ten or fifteen rounds, correctly spaced would kill off most of the small villages that dotted this province, where extended families in one area were the rule. With this stuff, properly distributed, everyone would die, including his men, eventually.

  All this ran through Jabo's mind as he banged on doors, rousted villagers and shoved them, screaming through his gas mask at first, then pushing it back, out of the first contamination zone, yelling the word one of his men said meant 'run'. They lost about twenty people, kids, women, older people who were afraid and stayed indoors to die, their screams muffled or not heard. But plenty were screeching outside as they ran, not knowing where to go, so they raced around in the slowly diminishing dust cloud, sucking up more deadly chemicals. It was ghastly, turning to watch the ones they'd lost, all going mad, falling to writhe in pain and terror then stop, dead.

  “Good, see? They're coming out, right into our cross fire. Tell the men to start firing on my command, moving as they shoot, but give them a few more minutes, so we have everyone outside the village walls, where they can't escape our fire.” Asif's messenger nodded, running off to tell the other leader. It was going well, just as he'd planned. These old Russian mortar shells were incredible, but he didn't have many left. They'd wasted so many the first few times they'd used them, firing twenty when clearly three would do the job, killing a few then panicking the rest, so they turned into a mindless horde, ready to surround and do with what they wanted. Some had even called him a savior, absurd. He'd given them a taste of hell.

  “One more, in the center, to keep them going, then pack up the mortar, no more, understand?” His mortar crew nodded, their job done, they were too highly trained to use as fighters. They dealt with the deadly munitions and the mortar, able to put a round anywhere Asif wanted. The rest of the men would do the fighting now, if there was anyone with any fight left.

  Asif watched the soldiers running with the villagers, going back to the flat, open area where they'd landed their helicopters. He wished he could keep shooting the deadly gas rounds, but they were down to ten, enough for two, maybe three more villages. This would have to be a battle, man against man. They'd spend their efforts shielding and protecting the mass of people, not turning to attack his men. It would be a slaughter, since Asif didn't care how many villagers he killed, not if it meant he could get most of the soldiers as well.

  “Now, go, tell Bandir to attack, kill everyone he sees, no mercy, if it moves kill it.” His aide was aghast, they usually spared children, women, especially young women, but this, everyone? He backhanded his messenger and the shock of his bony hand made him freeze. Roused, he shouted he would tell Bandir the new orders. Asif moved up to his group, yelling for them to kill everyone, spreading them wide so they'd make a huge funnel, forcing the crowd and the soldiers back against his other men, hiding behind a long wall that extended South from the village, perfect to stand behind and shoot the retreating mass of people. No one would defy him when the word of this battle spread. Asif, the man who kills entire villages and all Americans who oppose him. Showing up, anywhere, would produce instant obedience and the gift of whatever he asked – anything.

  “You see that?” Williams had kept on his mask but pushed it up on his head when Jabo did the same. “They're getting ready to come at us there and there.” Jabo pointed to the long line of Asif's men, formed into two separate groups. “And look behind us, see that wall?” Williams nodded, as Benito appeared, making it an instant command conference.

  “Benito, five men, flank that wall anyway you can, go. I'll tell you when to shoot.” He nodded, pointing to men who hurried after him, then a man appeared from the village, dragging one of their drop packages, a tough man who waved and got another man, a villager who'd limped out of a house before
the others, like he was awake and alert to what was happening.

  Williams said he'd organize resistance to the men who were forming up to attack from their positions in a wide arc that covered the North side of the village. He'd lost one man to the gas and two were sick, able to fire but not move yet, their lungs hashed. Jabo told them to break out the one drop bundle they'd salvaged from the village. They'd have extra ammo and if it was the right one, some fire power that would even the fight. If it was the extra rations bundle they were screwed. That tight schedule had meant they couldn't spray paint the dull olive green packs, make it obvious what was inside. Cluster here we come...

  “Good, press in, don't give them time to set up any kind of defensive line. Harder, go, we have them on the run, we're winning, attack, Allah Akbar.” His shout was taken up by his men, then the other group joined in, over twenty fighters, with the special squad of five, hiding behind the wall to surprise the Americans when they fell back under the pressure of his men running into their scattered resistance.