Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
Q ader Khogani trained his binoculars on the village sitting on the slope below him. Beside him, his thirty-year-old captain, Afir Wazir, lay quietly, eyes squinted. It was early morning, fog pooling just above the valley floor and clinging to the slopes of the Hindu Kush. Below the hill, he heard the snort of some of the horses. He had five of his best men with him on this planned attack.
“There she is,” he grated. The woman they had tried, and failed, to kidnap before. It hadn’t been a total loss as far as Qader was concerned. At least they’d killed one of the men on the well-drilling team. His full mouth puckered as he kept the glasses trained on the tall American woman. He smiled a little. “She will make a nice profit, and a fine slave to the warlord in Pakistan,” and he chuckled.
Afir rubbed his black beard and scowled. “Sell her for money? Why not give her to the Taliban, instead? They could have her beheaded on video and it could be put up on the net? Think of the power of that? How it would draw new recruits to them? Swell their depleted ranks?”
Snorting, Qader muttered, “She’s far more valuable to us as merchandise.” He lifted the binoculars from his eyes, studying his second-in-command. Afir was a member of the Hill Tribe as all Qader’s men were. He had fought the Americans since he was sixteen years old and had the battle scars to prove it. His father had fought the Russians. Above all others, Qader relied on the wily Afghan to plan their strategies and attacks, but often grew impatient with his prattle. “We need the money, Afir. You know that.”
Afir’s thin mouth flexed. “My lord, I realize you have two hundred soldiers to feed. Not to mention grass for their horses and bullets for their weapons. It’s no easy task. But this woman, if we can capture her, would help the Taliban’s efforts greatly.”
“They,” Qader ground out, “have not offered me money, Afir. They think we OWE them. I owe them nothing,” he spat. “The Pakistani warlord has promised me a million US dollars if I bring her to him. He has already put one fourth of the amount as a deposit into my bank in Pakistan. She will disappear through the cracks of his country, never to be found again. He will be happy, and I will be happy. That’s all that matters.” Plus, Qader was being pressured to bring the American for sale within the next two weeks. If he didn’t, the deal was off, but he’d said nothing to anyone about that. Not even to Afir.
Afir frowned. He was a strategist at heart, and still had nagging reservations about the whole matter. It was time to bite the bullet and voice them. “My lord, you must consider the reaction of the Americans if we kidnap her. They will not sit idly by. They will throw their Apache helicopters into the sky. They will use electronic surveillance of all kinds: satellites, drones, cell-phone eavesdropping.”
“Let them. I have a plan.” Qader handed Afir the binoculars so he could watch the woman’s morning routine himself.
Afir nodded, realizing with a sinking feeling his lord was going through with his plan. It was always about money. Apart from the expenses he had just mentioned, there were also costly medical supplies, the restocking of weapons, and pay for the soldiers. They didn’t work for free. Although they owed Qader allegiance, he was still expected to pay them for being taken from their crop-raising duties on their farms. Families had to be fed, too. It was a lot of responsibility on the twenty-nine- year-old’s shoulders. Afir wished he had a simpler answer than kidnapping the American woman. She would cause trouble of the worst kind. His stomach knotted.
“My lord,” he rasped, binoculars still pressed firmly to his eyes, “did you see this? There are SEALs there now since our last raid. On top of the twelve-man Army Special Forces team they already had.” Afir handed the binoculars back to his boss, dread filling him. Qader scowled, rubbing his beard in thought. He had ridden his men in from the northern part of the valley two days ago. This was their first opportunity to observe the village since their attack on it weeks ago. SEALs. He hated and feared them. They were the most dangerous of all the American black ops groups.
Qader scowled, watching the two SEALs. “They’re snipers,” he hissed.
“Brought in because we attacked the village,” Afir muttered, shaking his head. He’d been against the attack, but Qader had been certain his band of men could pull it off. They hadn’t expected the Navy Seabees to fight back as well as they had. Qader had said they were only well drillers. What did those men and that woman know about fighting, he’d scoffed. Much more than Qader assumed, Afir thought. He could never bring it up to his lord, or he could have a bullet put through his head. No, best to remain silent. But with the SEALs there? This was a major complication.
“We must find out where they are going to be,” Afir said. “What is their routine?” Because there was no way Afir wanted to fight with SEALs. Qader’s men were poor riflemen anyway. They often fired their AK-47s on full automatic, tearing through a magazine of bullets in seconds. Stupid. A complete waste of good and expensive ammunition. But the SEALs… well, they fired slowly and only after acquiring their target. They wasted no bullets and when they pulled the trigger, they killed. This was a very bad situation to put them in, and it put Afir on edge.
“Bah! They are human! They bleed too, Afir. I do not fear them!” lied Qader.
Afir did. “My lord, let us stay here today and tomorrow? Watch them? Time the Special Forces who guard the Americans in the southern end of this village? There will be an opening, an opportunity, to snatch her out from beneath them. It is simply a matter of timing.”
Qader growled but said nothing, watching the two SEALs walk into the village. One had a sniper rifle, a Winchester .300 magnum. He knew the weapon well and hated it. The other SEAL carried an M4. “They must be a sniper team. They always work in pairs.”
“Not always,” Afir cautioned. “We must see where they go. They have a hide, somewhere. The only question, is it in the village or not?”
Qader watched them disappear. He wished he was at a higher elevation, to better keep eyes on the SEALs’ movements. “Most likely,” he said, “they are going to take the highest point in that village. It would be Behzaad Sahar’s home. It is the tallest building.” He swung his binoculars to the two-story rock house dotted with small glass windows here and there. The roof was topped with a four-foot-high wall of rock and concrete all around. And it could very well be where the SEALs had chosen to set up their hide. They would be well protected by the one-foot-thick wall and still have a full visual on the entire village from that location.
“The real question is this, Afir: Are the SEALs on sniper duty night and day? Or only night? Only day?”
“We do not know, my lord. And we must find out. Otherwise, we are opening ourselves up to many casualties very quickly.” He heard Qader grunt. But he didn’t dispute his experience and wisdom. SEALs were to be avoided at all costs. Especially on something like a kidnapping. It was a delicate operation. It relied on precise timing.
Qader handed him the binoculars. “You watch. I am hungry. We’ll eat.” He slowly slid backward, making sure his head would not be seen over the rise of the hill.
Afir felt trepidation. Qader’s approach to getting what he wanted was charging in on horseback, guns blazing. He felt his leader’s restlessness, his need to get this kidnapping done. Everything felt pressured, but Afir didn’t know why. It was a gut feeling, something he always paid close attention to. Surely, his leader would not do the same thing he’d already done? Not this time, with SEALs in the vicinity? Shaking his head, he swallowed his worry.
Jess wearily wiped the sweat off her brow with the end of her shemagh . The scarf would be wet and dirty by the end of the day. The sun’s rays were slanting in the west. It was over a hundred degrees, and she could feel the grit rubbing her skin raw here and there. She climbed into the blue Toyota pickup and set her hardhat on the seat. A trouble-shooting call had come in from Max, who was on their backhoe. He was digging a ditch alongside a new field the villagers were creating so they could plant more crops and have more food between them. It was a mile away. Pulling out her CamelBak tube, she sucked more water down, her throat parched. Through her sunglasses, pulling her baseball cap down and shielding her eyes to cut the glare even more, she saw the backhoe stopped in the distance, its bucket down on the ground. Eli Gardner, their mechanic, hopped in the truck with her. The radio on her shoulder came to life.
“Jess? Where you going?”
It was Chris, on sniper watch on top of the roof. “Got a problem with the backhoe. I’m driving out to the area where our mechanic will check it out.”
“Okay. I’ll be watching you through the scope.”
“Thanks,” Jess said, clicking off the radio. She knew the .300 win/mag sniper rifle was good for a thousand yards. Logan had gone out earlier with the A-team and were on the other side of the village, checking the area. She was driving out beyond the rifle’s range, out to the fields. But, it was still comforting that Chris could watch for enemy activity through his scope. Driving the truck down the bumpy dirt road, Jess saw nothing but flat desert in all directions. Hot air flowed in through both truck’s open windows, its air conditioner on the fritz as usual. She braked on the closest part of the road to where the backhoe was and climbed out of the truck cab.
“Wish’d this hadn’t happened so late in the day,” Eli said with a rueful grin, wiping his mouth, having just drank from his canteen.
“Yeah,” Jess agreed. They’d worked hard right through today in the unrelenting heat. All she wanted was to clean the grit off her sweaty skin, then go over and have her meal with the SEALs. Maybe tonight, Jess hoped, Logan could stay the night.
Jess studied the ground carefully as she walked with Eli, checking the soil. IEDs had been planted along the road here before. She wished that Sergeant Stapleton and his dog, Ace, were here. The dog could sniff out a bomb in a millisecond. They were away on the southern end of the village, though, working the area She walked slowly, her gaze skimming the ground for any disruptions of soil. Eli followed in her footsteps. They made it to the ditch where the backhoe was stopped. Max was standing next to where its dropped bucket rested on the ground.
“What’s up?” Jess called as she approached. Max looked unhappy. He was digging a ditch from one end of the long field to the other. It was part of the irrigation project they were working on along with the digging of the well for the village.
“Crapped out on me again,” Max said unhappily. “Bucket dropped. Broke a hydraulic line, I guess.”
Groaning, Jess moved around to the other side of the backhoe, getting down on her hands and knees, twisting her head upward to study the underside of the engine.
“Yeah,” Eli called, stretching out a long arm and pulling out a broken line, “you sure did. Busted an oil hose to the bucket, Max.”
“Shit.”
Eli pulled it down and out, showing it to Jess. “Bad news, boss. We don’t have a spare.”
“Bummer,” Jess muttered. “Can’t we find something in our boneyard supplies for a workaround?” They were very good at making do with other hoses. It wasn’t like she could just drive to a town and buy what they needed.
Eli studied it. “Not this one. I got lines back at the supply truck, boss, but this is a high-pressure variety. One of the main lines.” His face glistened with sweat, his teeth white against his darkly tanned face. “Looks like you get to go to Bagram, to Navy Supply, and pick us up a few. Lucky, lucky,” and he chuckled.
Mouth curving down, Jess muttered, “That’s going to slow our schedule down, dammit.”
Suddenly, her radio crackled to life. Chris came over the channel, sounding calm but urgent.
“Jess, tangos at two o’clock from the direction you’re facing right now. I’m alerting Lieutenant Anderson. We’ll get reinforcements out to you ASAP. Over.”
Jess damn near hit her head on the undercarriage of the engine block as she jerked out from beneath it. “Hold,” she gasped, leaping to her feet, straining to look beyond the bucket. There, in the distance, she saw six or seven riders galloping hard toward them. They had rifles, waving them in the air. Her heart flooded with terror. “Roger, get out here now . We’ll try and hold them off.”
Max and Eli overheard the conversation, both turning simultaneously toward the threat.
“Get under the backhoe!” Jess ordered them, pulling her .45. She unsafed it, moving around the equipment, glaring at the stunned, frozen Max. “Jarman! Get your ass under this backhoe. Now!”
Max jumped, dug in his toes, and ran toward the engine block. Eli was already under there, on his belly, his own .45 drawn, ready to fire.
Eyes widening, Jess saw the hard looks on the riders’ faces. Their horses were galloping swiftly toward them, rapidly closing the distance. She hurried around the bucket, sliding into the left of Max. What the hell? Were they attacking to kill them? She jerked a glance over her right shoulder, peering down the road. There was a desert-colored Humvee speeding toward them, a huge rooster tail of dust rising in its wake, telling her they were driving fast and hard to reach them in time. She turned, holding both hands on the .45 to steady it.
“Don’t shoot until they do,” she ground out to her men. “Rules of Engagement. You have to wait.” Sweat was running down her temples. The sandy soil was hot beneath her belly. Her breath was uneven. Jess was scared as hell, but she couldn’t show it. None of them, until a couple of weeks ago, had faced attacks from an enemy. It was a jolting experience, and she felt the thunder of the horses’ hooves through her body as they approached.
“ETA two minutes,” Chris said calmly over the radio. “Maintain your position.”
SEALs sounded so friggin’ casual about something like this! Jess felt anything but . She compressed her lips. “Get ready,” she warned her men. “Slow fire. We don’t have that much ammo on us. You have to make every shot count.” Jess had never shot and killed a person in her life. Now that she could see the bearded faces of the riders even closer, their turbans and their rolled hats, their earth-colored garments flying around them like ragged wings, she saw the hatred in their eyes. That scared her even more.
The first bullets snapped and struck the metal around them.
“Fire!” Jess ordered, taking a bead on a man riding a gray horse. Her hand bucked hard as she fired. The .45 was known for its wicked recoil, but she was familiar with it. The first shot missed. She sighted and fired again. The man went flying backward off his horse, his hands and arms flailing like windmills.
More bullets tore into their position. Dirt spat up, blinding them temporarily. Jess cursed, wiping her eyes, unable to see. The horses galloped at a distance around the equipment. More bullets poured into where they lay, hugging the earth, flattened against it. The harsh explosions of the .45s all going off hurt her ears. She lost part of her hearing as horses reared and moved frantically around the backhoe. They were surrounded. And the Taliban were firing from their horses, down at them. The bullets thudded into the dirt, close to their faces and feet. Dust rose from the horses dancing around, blinding all three of them. They were like fish in a barrel, pinned down as they were.
Jess felt a sting in her left upper arm. It suddenly went numb. She ignored it, twisting onto her side, raising her .45 and shooting at one of the riders firing toward them. Her pistol roared and bucked. The man screamed and jerked backward off his frantic horse. Jess heard other rifles firing, a very different sound. The horses running around the backhoe suddenly left. She looked up, dirt and sweat on her face, seeing the Humvee approaching. The throaty sound of M4s filled the air. All- American-sounding weapons! Sharp relief tore through Jess. She watched what was left of the raiders, galloping at high speed for the hills due east of their position.
She shakily pushed out backwards from under the backhoe, getting to one knee, looking around the area, .45 at the ready to fire. The Humvee skidded to a halt, Special Forces men with weapons bailing out. The first person she saw rushing around the backhoe was Logan. His eyes were slitted and focused. She gasped. He was in complete combat mode, his M4 up, ready to fire. Max and Eli joined her side, holstering their pistols and wiping their faces. They looked at one another in disbelief.
“Jess?” Logan knelt down next to her. “You’re wounded.”
“What?” She frowned. Logan reached out, gripping her lower left arm. She looked down and saw that the upper arm of her cammies on that side was soaked with blood. Shock rolled through her. Logan slid his M4 across his chest as he searched her face. No wonder her arm felt numb.
“I’m okay,” Jess said, meeting Logan’s gaze, her voice sounding hollow to her. “I didn’t even know I’d gotten hit.”
Mouth thinning, Logan called into his shoulder-mounted radio to Sergeant Tony Cutter, the 18Delta Corpsman from the Special Forces.
“Hey Cutter,” he said, speaking into his mic, “can you get over here ASAP? Got a GSW,” GSW was military shorthand for gunshot wound.
“Roger.”
Jess sat back on her heels, worried. “Are they all gone?” she asked, unable to see much with the backhoe in the way.
“Yeah, they hightailed it,” Logan reassured her. “They’re checking out the two guys you three shot. How are you feeling?” Terror moved through him. He could see where the bullet had ripped through the sleeve of her upper arm. Logan knew it wasn’t fatal, but he could see the shock setting in in Jess’s green eyes. She was covered with dust, streaks of sweat through it.
“Why did they hit us?” Jess demanded, putting her pistol into its holster.
Cutter came trotting around the backhoe, his medical ruck on his back. He zeroed in on Jess and knelt on her left side as Logan moved away and stood above them, pulling his M4 off his chest, at the ready once again.
“Hey, Jess, what did you go and do? Play target?” Cutter teased, taking a pair of scissors and making a cut in the sleeve, gently pulling the edges open.
“Thanks,” Jess said, “now I’ll have to buy another blouse, Cutter.”
Chuckling, he took a dressing, wiping away the blood purling where the bullet had gone through the flesh of her upper arm. “Oh, I think this will earn you a medevac flight, Jess. And a Purple Heart.”
Making a face, Jess said, “I didn’t even know I’d been hit, Tony. It’s nothing,” and she watched the blond-haired medic grin a little. His face was glistening with sweat as he opened his ruck at his feet and pulled on a pair of gloves.
“Well,” he murmured placatingly, “let me noodle around here, and see? Just stay where you are?” and he took the scissors, fully separating the lower half of the sleeve from the upper.
She made a muffled sound. “You’re kidding me? Right?” and she looked down at the cleaned-off area. A neat little hole had gone straight through the lower part of her arm and missed the bone and the main artery. She saw Cutter check the other side of her arm.
“Yep, it’s a through-and-through,” Cutter said, pleased. He looked up. “Do me a favor? Hold out your arm? Wriggle all your fingers?”
The moment she lifted her arm, there was real pain and she grunted, scowling. She wriggled her fingers through it. “Satisfied?”
“Yep,” Cutter murmured. He quickly went to work, pulling out a syringe. “No nerve damage. That’s good news. Now, I’m going to put some Lidocaine around the bullet-wound areas and deaden it so you don’t feel any pain. I have to clean this sucker out and it’s going to hurt like a bitch if I don’t do this. You ready?”
Mouth quirking, Jess muttered, “Yes, go ahead.” She’d been shot. In all her time in the Navy, she’d never had to lift a weapon to defend herself, now she had done so twice, bare weeks apart. Today, she might have even killed two men. And then gotten wounded herself. She felt the pricks of the needle, looking away. Max and Eli had left her side and she could see everything going down on the other side of backhoe.
“What are they doing?” she asked Cutter.
“Checking the dead bodies for identification, maps and anything else they might have that will help us know who attacked you guys.”
She felt her stomach churn. “T-they’re dead?”
“Yeah. Yours then, huh? Good shooting. Okay, I’m giving this Lidocaine five minutes for it to take hold before I go to work.” Cutter took his stethoscope and listened to her heart and lungs. Then, he got up and came around, putting a blood pressure cuff on her upper right arm. Jess felt better just from Cutter’s presence and professionalism.
“Hmmm, you feeling a little dizzy?” he asked, writing down her blood pressure in a notebook he carried.
“Yes, a little. Why?” Even Jess heard the alarm in her own voice.
“It’s a little low. But that’s to be expected. It’s the effects of the shock.” He gave her a slight smile meant to make her feel better. It did. “Blood pressure usually drops after getting hit. No big deal.” He unwrapped the cuff and stuffed it back into his ruck. “You’re going to be fine.”
Jess closed her eyes as he settled at her left side, her stomach starting to roll.
“Okay, I gotta get to work here, Jess. You won’t feel anything….”
He scrubbed the hell out of the area. Cutter was right; she didn’t feel anything. The next thing Jess knew, when she opened her eyes, he’d already put a compress wrap around it, neatly covering the wound. “Thanks, Tony. You’re good at what you do.” She saw the twenty-seven-year-old sergeant smile, his gray eyes amused as he glanced up at her.
“Hey, 18Delta Corpsman are the angels on the battlefield. Didn’t you know that?” he teased, closing up his ruck and hauling it back onto his broad shoulders. “Feel like standing? Or are you still feeling lightheaded?
Jess wasn’t about to not walk. It was only a bullet wound in her arm! She gripped Tony’s outstretched, gloved hand and pushed up onto her knees. And as she did so, she saw black dots dancing before her eyes. Her knees suddenly felt squishy. And then it was as if a black veil fell over Jess’s vision. It was the last thing she remembered.