Read The Mullah's Storm Online
Authors: Tom Young
The Mullah's Storm (29 page)
Scanning through his goggles, he noticed that the troops were no longer following the insurgents’ trail. The tracks and drag mark were long gone now. How long ago had the team diverged from the tracks? He had been too tired to notice. But he realized Najib and Cantrell had gambled that the jihadists were, in fact, headed for the old fort. And the team evidently planned to approach it from a different direction than the jihadists. Parson marveled that the SF soldiers could still think tactically.
The troops halted once more for a map check. While Najib and Cantrell examined their chart again, Parson scanned with his NVGs.
The cloud ceiling was well defined. It glowed overhead like a layer of cotton. Still too low for flying these ridges, but at least it wasn’t hugging the ground. Good visibility underneath. Parson saw where the slope dropped away beneath him and flattened into a vale of rolling hills.
As he turned a focus knob, a meteor blazed out of the overcast and punched into the valley floor like a tracer round. Parson had witnessed meteor showers during clear weather, but he’d never seen a shooting star in the soup before, and he’d never watched one strike the ground.
“Did you see that?” he whispered to Gold.
“I did.”
Then it must have been bright for her to see it with the naked eye. Parson wished she could have seen it on NVGs.
The team descended the slope a few feet at a time. Parson stumbled through the snow-covered limestone scrabble, trying to stay alert enough to watch his footing. He knew going down a mountain could be more dangerous than going up. Especially at night, in a blizzard, too tired to tell reality from illusion, and cold beyond reason. He could concentrate on only two things: follow the others and don’t drop the weapon.
The troops stopped their descent about halfway down the incline, then began moving parallel to the ridgeline. They looked through their NVGs as if they expected to see something. But when Parson scanned through his own goggles, he saw nothing other than terrain. That didn’t surprise him. The stone and mud-brick buildings of Afghanistan had a way of blending into the landscape even without a coating of snow.
The ridge tapered off to a finger that led onto an open vista. Through the goggles, Parson saw why someone might put a garrison there. It wasn’t the highest ground, but it commanded a good view of the region. And just like Najib had said, there was a river down there, providing a good water source.
The soldiers stopped. Parson and Gold kneeled by Cantrell.
“Do you see the fort?” Parson asked.
“A few hundred meters this side of the river,” Cantrell said.
At first, Parson didn’t recognize anything man-made. He had trouble steadying the NVGs because of his shivering. But eventually he discerned what looked like right angles among the wrinkles of snow. So Najib had been right. The guy was dependable, Parson thought. You had to give him that. Muslims who fish can’t be all bad.
Parson was about to turn off the goggles when a light source blossomed in the lower edge of his field of view. The shades of green shifted as the NVGs’ electronics adjusted. Then the bloom went away and the pixels darkened to a deeper emerald.
“I just saw somebody light a lamp or something,” Parson said.
Cantrell looked through his own monocular. “I don’t see it now, but I believe you,” he said. “They probably lit it and then covered it up. Stupid.”
“What now?”
“While it’s still dark, we’ll set up to hit them.”
Cantrell spoke as if he were talking about getting into a deer stand before light, not sizing up a battle he might very well lose. The men gathered around Cantrell and Najib. They spoke in low tones, gestured, double-checked their weapons and radios. The comm sergeant hooked up the Shadowfire, and Parson saw Cantrell whispering into the handset.
He figured Cantrell was making a fairly routine call to Task Force. Cantrell was where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing. But Parson knew his own status remained that of a downed and missing flier. Isolated personnel. He decided to check in with search-and-rescue. He pulled his GPS receiver and Hook-112 from his flight suit pockets, hoping his body heat had kept the batteries from getting cold-soaked. He removed his pack, opened the flap, and felt for his flashlight. He held the light down inside the pack, covered its lens with three fingers, turned it on. Placed the GPS and 112 inside, and opened his fingers just enough to allow a sliver of light onto the switches.
His hands were numb, so he took off his right glove. When he placed his right hand near the shielded glow of the flashlight, he saw that the skin at the tips of his fingers was turning whitish purple. He knew then that he might lose some of those fingertips.
Parson fumbled to turn on the equipment. His fingers had no more feeling than if he were pushing the buttons with a stick. He exhaled into his fist, but that didn’t help. When the GPS powered up, the thing took forever to figure out where it was. Parson worried that its batteries had grown weak, but finally it showed present coordinates. Gold had to plug in the radio’s earpiece for him, though he managed to press the transmit button by himself.
“Any aircraft,” he whispered, “Flash Two-Four Charlie.”
“Flash Two-Four Charlie,” a British voice answered, “Saxon is on station.”
“Can you tell me conditions at Bagram and relay a message to the AOC there?”
“Affirmative. Stand by.”
Parson imagined his English counterpart pulling a Mont Blanc from the pen sleeve of a heavy RAF flight suit. Hurry up, Nigel. Put your tea in the cup holder and copy my location. God, to be in a warm place like that flight deck.
When Saxon called back, Parson gave his coordinates. He said nothing about the fort and what the team was planning.
“Saxon has your numbers,” the British flier said. “Bagram weather is ceiling nine hundred, visibility one-half mile. Temperature minus ten Celsius, winds two-zero-zero at fifteen knots.”
Better than anything Parson had seen for days. “Flash Two-Four Charlie copies all,” he said.
“Are you ready for extraction if Bagram can launch helos?” Saxon asked.
“Negative,” Parson said. “Still low weather at my location. I’ll call you when it improves.”
“We’ll be here, mate.”
“Flash Two-Four Charlie out.”
After Parson put away his radio, he looked up to see the SF troops and ANA soldiers inspecting gear, dividing up into squads. The Afghan troops prayed together. One placed his bare hands around a small book, then wrapped the book in a silk cloth and put it in his pocket. The Americans shoved fresh batteries into their laser sights and NVGs. Whispers and soft clicks. Faint whine from something electronic.
The soldiers melted into the darkness as they moved to positions closer to the fort. They walked so quietly that Parson could not hear them after they got about four steps away. When he watched them through NVGs, they seemed just spectral flickers growing smaller with distance. Some vanished altogether on the far side of the fort ruins.
Cantrell and one of his riflemen kept to the higher ground for an overwatch position. Parson and Gold stayed near Cantrell. Working together, they dug into the snow behind a rock shelf above the valley.
“We’ll give them the business just before dawn,” Cantrell said.
“You might be able to get some help by then,” Parson said. “They just told me the weather’s improving at Bagram.”
“There’s usually some kind of close air support standing by for us whenever visibility allows.”
Parson wished he could foretell the outcome of the next few hours. He held to no superstition; he’d never flown with any of the usual good-luck charms like a rabbit’s foot or a girlfriend’s scarf. No talisman could help; it all came down to talent, competence, and chance. He didn’t discount some force guiding the latter, but he doubted anybody could fathom the intentions of that force.
He placed his hands inside his parka, hoping to save at least some of his fingertips. The numbness had given way to a stinging sensation, and he knew that wasn’t good. He closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep.
The cold woke him, his own shivering. When he checked his watch, he saw he’d slept about forty minutes. Nothing close to what he needed. His fingers hurt worse.
He fumbled for his NVGs and turned them on again. The snowfall was lighter now, and when he looked through the goggles he could make out the fort’s arches and towers. When Najib had said “old fort,” Parson envisioned something from the Soviet war. Now he realized Najib thought in timelines far longer. This thing had been old when the British evacuated. Each wall had rows of embrasures. For firing muskets? Or maybe even crossbows, Parson thought. He picked up his laser range-finder and pressed the button, forced himself to hold it steady. The nearest tower was 856 yards away.
“Who built that thing?” he asked Gold, shivering.
She shrugged. “They call this country the graveyard of empires,” she said.
Sure as hell it has been the graveyard of too many people, Parson thought. Maybe us, too. He wondered whether Marwan’s band had joined more insurgents there. Until now, the two sides had been about evenly matched in numbers. Now there was just no telling.
“What would you do,” Parson asked, “if you knew you might not live to the end of the day?”
“You mean like today?” Gold said. “I’d do the best I could at whatever I was doing.”
She would, thought Parson. The idea of getting killed didn’t bother him much. He believed he’d already outlived his luck. But the idea of getting captured again sickened him. That’s just not happening, he thought. I have plenty of ammo now, and I’ll save the last round for myself.
He wondered how that would be accounted in the hereafter. You weren’t supposed to take your own life. But in this situation, you weren’t doing it because you
wanted
to die. He decided the accounting was unknowable, like the number of jihadists in that fort.
wanted
to die. He decided the accounting was unknowable, like the number of jihadists in that fort.
Cantrell began whispering into the headset microphone connected to his MBITR. Parson could not hear the transmissions coming back. But he did hear Cantrell’s final order: “Fire at will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
R
ifle fire crackled as the soldiers killed sentries and lookouts. From his position hundreds of yards away, Parson saw figures running toward the fort, heard the thud of an explosion that breached a door. Viewed through night-vision goggles, the blast sent out globules of light like a spattering of burning oil. Then came the popping of AK-47 rounds and replies from M-4s. Deep booms of Najib’s shotgun echoed underneath the rifle chatter. Najib must have already gotten inside, Parson thought, if he was close enough for that weapon. Shouts in Pashto, Arabic, and English.
ifle fire crackled as the soldiers killed sentries and lookouts. From his position hundreds of yards away, Parson saw figures running toward the fort, heard the thud of an explosion that breached a door. Viewed through night-vision goggles, the blast sent out globules of light like a spattering of burning oil. Then came the popping of AK-47 rounds and replies from M-4s. Deep booms of Najib’s shotgun echoed underneath the rifle chatter. Najib must have already gotten inside, Parson thought, if he was close enough for that weapon. Shouts in Pashto, Arabic, and English.
Parson dropped his goggles and scanned through the rifle scope. Still not full daylight, just a suggestion of dawn. He wanted to fire, but nothing was clear but the reticle.
Another staccato wave of gunfire rippled from the fort. “Too much shooting,” muttered Cantrell. “This isn’t going well.” The SF commander made a radio call, repeated it. No answer, apparently. Then he picked up his M-4.
“Fuck this,” he said. “I’m going in there. If you see any good targets, nail ’em.”
Cantrell and the SF soldier who had remained with him took off at a trot down the hill toward the fort. They stopped to fire, then ran on. Parson could not see what they shot at. The two of them disappeared behind a crumbling wall.
“Let’s get down to that fort,” Parson said. “We aren’t doing any good up here.”
He took off his pack, stuffed his radio and extra ammo into his pockets. Then he pulled himself over the rock shelf and began running down the slope. He slipped and slid in places, but he never lost balance. Gold followed close behind, plowing through a mantle of dry snow light as foam. She held the AK tight across her chest.
A breeze kicked up out of the west and stirred the top layer of powder. The white ground seemed to undulate in the gray light. It made Parson a little dizzy, but he gripped the M-40 and ran, panting.
Rifle fire crackled in fits, but Parson no longer heard the bass slams of Najib’s twelve-gauge. Between the shots, he heard the murmur of the river below. He reached the fort, stood with his back to the cold wall. He motioned for Gold to follow him. Parson moved left and came to a wooden gate blown open.
The body of an insurgent lay inside the courtyard. A wounded ANA soldier nearby rolled onto his side and gestured. Parson and Gold started toward him, but the man pointed to the east wall. Shots echoed from inside.
The two of them scrambled in the direction the man pointed, though Parson wasn’t sure what to look for. They came to a mud-brick staircase open to the courtyard, the steps scalloped from years of wear. As Parson climbed them, he nearly tripped on the uneven footing, which was made even more precarious by a coating of snow. The steps led onto a row of battlements. When he reached the top, he heard the crack of a shot. A bullet smacked into the bricks beside his head. Grit sprayed into his nose and mouth. He tasted salt and lead as he dropped to the walkway behind a masonry ledge. Decent cover now but no room to move. He peered through a chink in the bricks, trying to see what had happened to Gold. She had been right behind him.
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