Strigoi

by John O'Brien

  She pauses to look at the number and answers. “Connell here.”

  The conversation is brief and one-sided, with Lynn’s only response a “Thank you” before hanging up. Without a word, she delves into her laptop and begins typing with a flurry of quiet clicks. The image on the projection screen blurs and is replaced by a video in which three fatigue-clad soldiers kneel inside an adobe structure with a white flag bearing the shahada,, the Islamic declaration of faith, hanging from a wall in the background. A beam of sunshine from an open window strikes the back wall, highlighting the flag. The soldiers have their hands tied behind their backs and their heads hanging down. Behind and to the side of each, men stand clad in black with their faces covered, AK-47s aimed at the back of the soldiers’ heads.

  A deep, heavily accented voice orders the soldiers to raise their heads. The two on the sides slowly obey, revealing fearful expressions with scabbed cuts and dirt smeared on their faces. One of the men has a dark stain that has spread across one shoulder of his fatigues, his face pale beneath the grime.

  The soldier in the middle keeps his head lowered as the voice repeats the order more firmly. The soldier doesn’t look up, but even at the camera’s distance, I can see his jaw clenching.

  “Don’t do anything rash, son,” I mutter, expecting the soldier to explode into action or start a tirade. “That’s only going to get you killed.”

  “What do you mean? He’s resisting like he was taught, right? Like we were all taught,” McCafferty asks.

  “Yes, resist, but in ways that won’t get you outright killed without accomplishing anything. The way he’s clenching his teeth, he’s one of those who turns angry when scared, and in that anger, lashes out. It’s a way to deal with fear,” I explain. “I guarantee when they forcefully lift his head, his face will be red. He should resist, but not do anything more than that in his current situation.”

  “Why are they having them lift their heads anyway?”

  “My guess is so they can be identified,” I respond.

  McCafferty nods, her eyes never having left the screen. All of the gazes around the table have been glued to the projected video.

  The deep, accented, gravelly voice says something in another language. Another masked man in black enters the picture from the side. A long, curved saber slides from a sheath with a harsh swish and faint ring of metal. In a fluid motion, the sword is swung, the metal blade reflecting the radiated light as it slashes toward the soldier on the right, the obstinate man’s comrade being threatened. Everyone in our room is holding their breath, thinking we’re going to witness the consequence of disobedience. The sword halts, a drop of blood dripping down the soldier’s neck where the point rests.

  “Raise your head. I won’t ask again,” the voice states, the threat of what will happen unneeded.

  The soldier raises his head, his face beet red with a vein at his temple protruding. More guttural words and the sword is sheathed with a flourish, the man exiting the picture.

  “Lynn, do you have a verification of that language?” I query.

  “Pashto, southern dialect,” she answers.

  “Thought so, and do we have the capa–” I start.

  “Voice print analysis is inconclusive. It’s not matching with anyone on file,” she interrupts.

  I nod, smiling with the realization that I was going back to my old habits.

  “By now, you know we have your soldiers. Our request is a simple one. Leave our country. We have been fighting longer than most of your soldiers have been alive. Stop wasting the youth of your nation in a war you cannot win. Stop killing your sons and daughters like the ones here. We are not unreasonable. Declare to the world that you are leaving our country, show the first signs of doing so, and we will free these sons. They will be free to go home to their mothers. You have eighty hours to comply,” the voice states, and the video abruptly ends.

  “Well, that sets the clock ticking. I’ll bundle this up quickly and we’ll plan en route. Pack your bags, and Jack, give me a list of things you’ll need for when we arrive at the AC-130. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. We have time, but not a lot,” Lynn says.

  “Lynn, when was this video taken…I mean, originally?” I ask.

  ‘I just received word of it on that phone call,” Lynn answers.

  “Your source is either late getting it to us, or just now receiving it. But it wasn’t just released,” I state.

  Lynn looks toward me quizzically.

  “The sunbeams in the video. If we’re to assume that the video was shot on location in southern Afghanistan, then it would have been nighttime if it was just created. I’m guessing that it was made yesterday around four in the afternoon, their time. That would account for the odd time they gave in hours remaining. Normally, it’s some function of twelve or twenty-four. My guess is that they plan on executing them at midnight the day after tomorrow,” I explain.

  “Fuck! I should have seen that right away,” Lynn exclaims, muttering something about losing her shit, the need to get her act together, along with the poor family lineage of some resource of hers. “Well, that puts us on a tighter timeline. At the hangar in twenty minutes.”

  * * * * * *

  Perched partway up a barren rocky ridge, I glass down into a delta of green below. During the flight over, Lynn looked at the video so many times, I swear I could see it replaying continuously in her eyes. She measured sunlight angles and compared them with approximate times of the day based on the light quality, trying to get a fix on a latitude. She was able to narrow it down some, but I’m pretty sure the locations she provided were a result of throwing darts at a map while blindfolded. The result of my mentioning that to her got it promptly placed onto my “never say that again” list.

  The night prior, we’d dropped on the other side of the steep line of ridges at my back and then worked our way across the rough terrain, arriving at our current location before light. I had expected for us to be scattered across the better part of central Asia, but the HALO insertion went off without a hitch. So, plus one for us.

  Although we’ve extensively trained together and each of the team members has proven themselves in combat, I still feel a little nervous about all of us being untested as a team on the ground. We aren’t in a situation where we can call a timeout and discuss our mistakes. We’ve all had extensive training, but everyone except Greg has an infantry company background. That mindset is to use firepower, maneuvering, and numbers, whereas small teams use stealth to close the distance and then use focused fire at the endpoint if necessary. My concern may be for naught, however, as they’ve shown nothing but professionalism so far. We landed in a neat package, hid our chutes, and marched across the ridges without being discovered. I pulled out of line a couple of times to check on our tracks, and found that Henderson had done an admirable job at covering them—so I stopped checking up on him.

  Hidden within boulders and sharp folds along the slope of the long ridgeline, the valley below has contrasting features. Green plots checker the bottom along a dirty river flowing through the middle of a narrow valley. On both sides of the fertile valley, barren slopes steeply rise to culminate at sharp crests. Below our position, the river forks around an elevated peninsula, creating a delta of greenery. And, near the delta, surrounded by fields, sits the first of our target villages.

  It’s only one of several settlements along the valley determined to be the most likely locations where the soldiers are being held. We have until tomorrow at midnight to scout the others if this one doesn’t pan out.

  Focusing on the hamlet, I note that it’s not much different than others I’ve observed scattered across the land. Adobe-type structures line a central avenue, which is also part of the central road stretching the length of the valley. Each of the houses has small walled compounds in the rear, some with drying clothes fluttering on lines. With each hot breath of wind, curtains billow from open windows and doorways. Most of the people are out in the fields, doing farm stuff. Seve
ral sit in shaded areas, with smoke drifting from pipes or rolled cigarettes.

  There’s no activity I see that indicates captives are being held here. However, there is an enclosed compound at the far edge of the village that has my attention. The walls aren’t fortress tall, just above head height, but the fact that it’s separated from the rest of the town makes it a point of interest. The house within is single-storied with an open courtyard surrounding it. Like some of the other houses, there are clothes hung out on lines, fluttering in the breeze. But, while the other houses seem to be composed of one or two rooms, this one sprawls with a few of them. Parked in front is a mid-sized older pickup. There are a couple of men on top of the roof, and while they don’t appear to be armed, they are certainly acting like sentries. Their weapons could be stowed below the low wall encircling the top.

  “Well, what do you think?” I ask Greg, lowering the binoculars.

  “If they’re here, that compound is the only real choice,” he answers.

  “I suppose we’ll have to take a look. Maybe we’ll take a stroll down for a look tonight. But anything we do will have to be accomplished quickly as this is only one of several locations we have to scout before midnight tomorrow.”

  “And call in the big boys if we find them?” Greg queries.

  “Maybe. They’ll bug out if they hear someone coming, so there’d have to be a chopper and quick response team airborne to chase them down,” I comment.

  “That kind of sounds like you’re thinking of heroing it up and bringing us in if we find them,” Greg says.

  I shrug, looking down at the village, heat waves rising from the stark terrain.

  “If they hear anything, they’ll most likely kill the hostages and flee into the mountains. As much as I like the thought of the cavalry charging in, I’d rather their mothers get to see their kids.”

  “You know Lynn said we’re to identify and call it in?”

  “Did she say that? I wasn’t listening,” I say, reaching for my canteen.

  “Oh boy, you’re going to be fun, aren’t you? Just do me a favor and let me know when you radio to tell her so I can have popcorn on hand.”

  “Who said anything about a radio call?”

  I see Greg give me a sidelong glance. “She warned me about you.”

  I sigh. “Okay, okay. I’ll call. Fuck, I didn’t realize I had my mom here,” I mutter.

  “What was that?”

  “I said ‘It’s warm here.’”

  ‘Uh huh. Sooo, is the plan to lay low here, do a quick check tonight, and move on to the next town?”

  “That’s what I was thinking. This was kind of a low percentage operation to begin with, so we may not find them in time,” I answer.

  “Unfortunately, that’s probably true.”

  Silence settles between us. I glance over at the others nestled within cover. Gonzalez is lying in the shadow of a boulder, her hand behind her head staring at the sky. McCafferty is next to her, coiled up on her side trying to sleep. I can’t get over just how tiny Allie is. The fact that she’s kind of timid around people makes her seem even more so. But, she’s steady as a rock, which seems in direct contrast to her personality.

  Farther to the side, lying in cover atop a protruding ledge, are our two snipers. Henderson is lying behind a long gun, his eyes going periodically to the scope, while Denton lies beside him, spotting. They blend in so well with their surroundings that I wouldn’t see them if I didn’t know where they were.

  The heat is oppressive. Not the humid kind of stifling, but it feels like we’ve been placed inside an oven. The arid heat sucks every bit of moisture, and the fucking sand is everywhere. I swear that shit is alive and seeks out the shade inside my shirt and boots. Every time I shake it from me, a dune forms underneath. When I try and scrape it from my ears, I’m not sure if I’m pulling any out or just adding to it. I’m not even going to mention what occurs in my sinuses.

  Tapping the control pad on my watch, I radio the others, “We’re going in to scout out that compound tonight.”

  Watches are set and we try to get some rest. The heat makes that damn near impossible; dozing catnaps are about all we manage.

  * * * * * *

  With the sun behind the tall ridge, shadows cover the valley. Lying prone on the ground, the sand crawling between my T-shirt and skin, I look at a magnified view of the village. The coolness of the evening has brought a few outside to sit in front of the abodes or in their walled backyards. Wisps of smoke curl as food is prepared, the linen that was hung out to dry brought in. There hasn’t been much activity at the compound other than the guards on top switching every couple of hours. So far, we’ve only identified four, but those may just be the day shift personnel.

  I glance over at Henderson and Denton inching their way along another rocky ledge extending from the slope. That one is much closer to the village and looks to have good line of sight into most of it. I initially held them back from the location because it was too close and anyone peering down from it in broad daylight would be easily seen, but once the shadows fell over our side of the mountains, I sent the two of them over for better observation and to cover our entry once night falls.

  The heat and being covered in grit cause me to once again reflect on why in the fuck I’m doing this. It’s like I always forget just how miserable it can get. I’m not “need a walker” old, but I’m not young anymore, either. As much as I keep thinking about lolling about in a hammock, I wonder why I keep dodging that kind of life. I suppose it’s the same reason why I haven’t crawled back into flying aircraft—I’m afraid that I’ll be bored with it, and I would hate to lose my love of flying. I know, kind of a paradox there.

  Turning to the others lying among the boulders and behind folds in the land, I’m struck by their youth and wonder when mine slipped away. I was young, and then I wasn’t.

  The shit we take for granted.

  I wonder if they’re the same as I was when I was their age, thinking they’re bulletproof; that mortality is something others experience. Most of the teams I’ve operated with in the past weren’t quite my age either, but they weren’t far behind. We were mostly people who served and decided we weren’t done. Greg is closer to my age, but the others are half as old. I wonder how they feel being dragged through the countryside by an old man. Perhaps they think I’m old-fashioned with outdated ideas.

  That may not be far from the truth.

  So far, they haven’t said a thing, nor have I felt any hesitation. And, these could all be thoughts to while away the time, meaning nothing to them.

  I had radioed Lynn, who is circling the area high overhead, about our intentions to check out the compound this evening and move onto the next town if we don’t find anything. I have to admit, it’s nice having our personal gunship on call. It won’t stop any initial bullets, but it will give any pursuers pause. I can totally envision us scaling these steep slopes, panting as we try to reach the crest ahead of a wall of steel churning up the hillside behind.

  Over the range of mountains opposite our position, eight black dots move across a deepening sky. They’re too far away to cause concern to the people below, but they remind me of just how alone we really are, and of other lives being lived in this desolate stretch of the world. Inside those metal enclosures, soldiers are either on their way to or leaving danger. I wonder why the wars these days are in such harsh areas. It seems like it’s either desert wasteland or dense jungle.

  Why can’t we fight in Fiji or the French Riviera?

  I track their progress and watch as a thin white trail rises from the ground. The dots separate with sharp turns and dive at the ground, vanishing below the crest. A minute later, plumes of dust and smoke rise, the helicopters reforming and moving out of sight.

  “Four vehicles approaching from the north,” Henderson radios. “It looks like we have two technicals front and rear with two large SUVs.”

  I turn and look to see a rising line of dust north of the village. I w
on’t have magnification as good as the two on the ledge, but I glass them anyway. The lead vehicle is a mid-sized pickup with a heavy caliber machine gun mounted over the cab—either a 12.7mm or fifty cal. Behind, partially hidden by the dirt being kicked up, are two Suburban-type vehicles. Trailing and nearly invisible in the dust is a near identical pickup to the first in the column. One person is clearly defined, standing behind the machine gun, with the heads of others visible sitting in the bed.

  “Falcon, Otter six, did you copy that?” I radio Lynn in the AC-130.

  “Copy, Otter six. I have them on visual,” Lynn responds.

  “Are we expecting friendlies in the area?” I query.

  “Negative.”

  “Do you have any idea where they came from?” I ask.

  “Negative. They just popped up. I believe they came out from one of the ravines.”

  “Roger that, six out.”

  Switching to our internal frequency, I radio, “Henderson. I want snaps of those in the SUVs, uploaded to Falcon.”

  “Copy,” Henderson returns.

  Dusk is closing in and the rest of the team is up and alert with the increased activity. I still plan to visit the compound tonight, but the additional personnel will make that a touch more difficult. However, armed bogies make the house much more interesting, and alarming.

  Four men exit the house and open the gate as the vehicles arrive. The valley is almost completely folded into the deep gloom of impending night. Without pause, the trucks drive through the gate and park, the two technicals reversing with their weapons pointed at the gate. Men scramble out of the beds and take positions around the SUVs. Most are wearing a mishmash of military gear and the loose-fitting clothing common to this area. All are carrying AK-47s, which they hold at the ready. The two at the mounted machine guns don’t leave their posts.

  “I count two machine gunners, fourteen armed personnel on the ground, two on the roof. Four of those on the ground came from the interior,” Henderson reports, adding what he and Denton see.

  “Copy,” I reply.