Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
L ogan stood with the officers in Anderson’s hut. The radios were squawking nonstop. He had a map open of the terrain of the hills and mountains near the village. An hour had passed, and he was gearing up to leave to track Jess. Tension was running high. Anderson was in touch with Bagram HQ for the Army. Chris was in touch with FOB Bravo, with the Master Chief of their platoon. The chief was in touch with SEAL HQ at Bagram. Two Apache helicopters had been sprung loose from Bravo and were on their way over the Hindu Kush mountains right now. They would use infrared to see if they could pick up any heat signatures of humans or mounts on this side of the mountains. SEAL HQ was asking the CIA unit at Bagram to give them a drone over the range. Everything was moving at light speed.
Logan stilled his frustration. If the CIA had stopped playing favorites, stopped their damned fight with DOD, and had just given them a drone when they’d first requested one, this kidnapping would never have happened. Now, they were playing catch up.
“All right,” Anderson said tightly, glancing at the two SEALs standing on the other side of his desk, “Lowrey, you’re staying here to coordinate with Randall as he tracks Jess and her kidnappers.”
Chris nodded, his voice grim. “We’ll have our radios. We both have sat phones, which are going to be even more important. I’ll be coordinating between Logan and the rest of you. I’ll be the hub to the comms wheel.”
Rubbing his beard, Anderson nodded. Three senior sergeants were with him as well, the hut seeming small with all the big, muscular men crowded into it. “Okay, your Master Chief Carter is going to handle the CIA end of this deal, and their drone.”
Chris had out a notepad and pen and was scribbling down the info. “Roger.”
“And we’ll work with the Apache’s and any other aircraft assets that we can call into this search,” Anderson said, glancing off to his right at his communications Sergeant Terry Henderson.
Henderson, Logan’s height, sporting a red beard and floppy cammo cap, nodded. “Roger that, sir.”
“Then, that’s it,” Anderson said, straightening, on edge. He looked over at Logan. “You got that ruck ready to go?”
Logan nodded. “Yes. I’ll hitch a ride to the hills. There’s an old man who lives up there that’s a horse trader. I’ll pay him for a horse and then pick up their tracks. If we’re lucky, maybe he even saw something this morning.”
“Good,” Anderson murmured. “Let’s roll. Sergeant Henderson? Drive Randall to the base of the hills.”
Logan was more than glad to get out of the stuffy hut. He’d laid out all his gear right outside it. Henderson went to pull the Humvee around from the rear of the hut. Logan’s adrenaline was flowing strongly, his heart clamoring, but he had to stuff it down. He would be no good to Jess if he let his emotions run wild; worry about her being beaten, raped or worse. All of those were possibilities. He felt his gut knot painfully, hefting his seventy-pound ruck as the Humvee rolled around to a stop in front of him, and throwing it in the vehicle. The two other sergeants helped put the rest of his gear in the rear seat.
Chris approached, searching Logan’s eyes. “Stay safe out there. SEAL HQ says there’s the possibility that two hundred odd of Khogani’s soldiers are already located in this area.”
Logan nodded, hauling on his forty-pound Level4 Kevlar vest. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. Reaching out, Logan shook his friend’s hand. He and Chris had gone through BUDs together. He was his swim buddy. That gave them a powerful and unspoken connection.
“Just keep those damned radios active,” Chris muttered, stepping back as Logan settled into the passenger side of the Humvee. “You have extra batteries. Right?”
“Absolutely. Don’t worry,” Logan said. He lifted his hand in farewell and shut the heavy door, giving Henderson the nod to take off. Logan had two radios on him. There was a short-range one, and then there was the satellite phone, which could bounce signals anywhere in the world. Normally, Logan would have two other backup radios on him, but he couldn’t be carrying that much gear on this outing. Henderson was the comms sergeant for the Special Forces team, an expert in his field. Chris, although not comms, would keep the SEALs in the mix by being point man while Logan tracked Jess. The urgency to get something done was eating away at Logan’s normally massive patience. The sun has just crested the Hindu Kush mountains, spreading warm rays into the chilly valley below.
Henderson drove him to the mud-and-rock hut of an old Afghan called Qaseem. Logan was out of the Humvee before it rolled to a stop. There were two corrals with several Afghan ponies in them. Qaseem, stooped over with age, with white hair and beard, and wearing a black turban and brown wool clothing, came out of his hut. He had dark, shining eyes. As he approached him, Logan said nothing, knowing he’d have to rely on Henderson’s Pashto to speak to the old man.
Henderson came up and gave the Muslim greeting and salutation, launching quickly into the need to buy the strongest, best gelding in the lot for Logan, explaining that the horse would need to be able to carry nearly four hundred pounds of man and equipment.
Logan saw the man’s eyes light up. And then he started jabbering excitedly, pointing again and again toward the mountain in the distance. Logan saw Henderson’s face take on a surprised expression. The sergeant turned to him.
“We’ve caught a break,” he told Logan. “The old guy saw four Hill tribesman gallop by with a woman in tow. He said the woman had black hair and looked military. Her hands were tied to the saddle of the horse she rode.”
Logan stilled his sudden hope. Any strong emotions were a detriment. “Did he see her? Was she all right?”
Henderson nodded. “They passed within two hundred feet of his house when he was out feeding the horses early this morning.” Henderson looked at his watch. “This was one and a half hours ago.” He turned, pointing up at the slope of the mountain. “You’ll probably pick up the horse tracks leading somewhere up there.”
Hope bled through Logan, despite his best efforts. Qaseem folded his long, arthritic hands together, gazing up critically at Logan, as if sizing him up for a horse he had in mind. He turned and spoke quickly to Henderson.
“Okay,” the sergeant said, gesturing for Logan to follow him, “the old dude says he has a black gelding that’s half Arabian breeding, and is a little taller than the other horses. He thinks it’s the best choice for you and the weight you’re carrying. The horse has staying power.”
“Okay,” Logan said, following the old man around the house. There were at least six horses in the two corrals. And only one black one. It was probably about six inches taller than the other Afghan ponies. None of them were tall as American horses, having been bred with the harsh region’s rugged terrain and sparsity of food and water in mind. They were all short backed and sturdy. “What’s he want for it?” and he pointed toward the animal, busy eating dried grass that had been thrown into the corral earlier.
Henderson spoke to Qaseem. The old man babbled excitedly, throwing his hands into the air.
Logan knew horse traders were wily salesmen. It wasn’t lost on the Afghan that they were in dire need of a good horse. Qaseem would make them pay through the nose because he knew they were in a helluva hurry to track the Hill Tribe soldiers. He heard Henderson bickering back and forth for the animal. There was a bridle hanging off one post and Logan grabbed it, slipping between the rails, heading for the steed. Let Henderson squabble with Qaseem.
The black gelding was powerful looking, his hind quarters thick and well developed. Logan knew plenty about horses, having been raised on them in Wyoming. Putting the bridle on the animal, he quickly ran his hands down each of the horse’s front and back legs, looking for problems. There were none. Afghan horses generally went barefoot; never shoed, horseshoes being just far too expensive for desert folk. Logan picked up each leg, thoroughly checking the hooves, making sure there were no stones lodged in the frog, the vital rubbery cushion of the hoof, or in any cracks. The black looked like a good choice, indeed, and Logan led him over to the wooden gate.
“Tell this guy I only want the bridle,” Logan said. “I don’t want a saddle.” He saw Henderson grin.
“What? No wooden Afghan saddle with rusty nails to stick in your ass as you ride?” and the sergeant chuckled.
Logan opened the gate, pulling the horse out of the corral. “Got that right.” From time to time, on some assignments, Logan had had to ride with a damned Afghan saddle. The things were put together with nothing but nails. The nails would work loose and, sooner or later, stick in the rider’s butt. There was no way, with the kind of climbing Logan was going to do with this horse, that he wanted a lousy Afghan saddle to deal with. He’d grown up riding bareback, and he was going to do the same right now.
Henderson pulled out some US dollars and put them into Qaseem’s open hands. The Afghan was grinning, most of his front teeth missing. “Okay, stud, you got yourself a horse. This old dude just made himself a hundred freakin’ US dollars for that beast,” and he shook his head.
Qaseem smiled, nodded and bowed to them.
“He gave us intel,” Logan said, walking the horse around the house to the Humvee. “That’s worth any amount of money.”
Henderson agreed and helped him by opening the Humvee door and holding the black gelding while Logan shifted his heavy ruck over his shoulders, belted it up, and settled his black baseball cap on his head above the wraparound sunglasses he had on to shade his eyes from the day’s mounting glare. Logan threw a leg up and over the animal’s sleek black back. The sergeant brought over his M4.
“Okay,” Henderson said, “you’re ready to roll.” He patted the horse’s rump. “Stay safe out there?”
Logan nodded. Clamping his long thighs around the horse’s barrel, he muttered, “I will,” and clapped his heels to the horse’s flanks. The black leaped forward.
Logan easily picked up the tribesmen’s mounts’ tracks about two hundred yards from the horse trader’s hut. The black horse was frisky, eager, but Logan held him tightly in check, wanting him to conserve his strength. Soon enough, Logan knew as he followed the trail at a loose trot, they’d be climbing the damn steep, rocky mountain rising up in front of him. He wanted to hurry more, but he also had to remain aware that Khogani and his men could have set up an ambush for anyone trying to track them.
The slope of the mountain consisted of loose rocks, brush and a few spindly trees. Over the course of years, Afghan wood cutters had scoured the lower mountain slopes, cutting every worthwhile tree down to sell as firewood to the villages. They knew nothing about ecology or the long-term wisdom of not clearing a slope bare of trees, Logan thought, as he continued to follow the tracks. There were traces of the tribesmen’s passage in leaf debris and brush that had been ridden over, branches newly broken and easily followed. Looking up, the mountain towered thirteen thousand feet tall above him. From nine thousand feet upward, it was coated with thick early-September snow. There were two wadi , ravines, that Logan spotted. Which one had Khogani taken? Wadi were easier to traverse than the raw, cutting rocks of the slope. They were also filled with brush and trees, making them easier to hide in.
The radio piece in his ear crackled to life. It was a woman Apache pilot calling in to Lowrey. Logan could hear the faint beat of the combat-assault helo’s blades cutting through the thin air at fifteen thousand feet. Pulling his horse up, he listened closely to the conversation. He took out his radio, keying the mic close to his mouth, giving his code sign. What Logan didn’t want is to have the approaching Apache’s spot his body heat and send auto cannon rounds into him and his horse. They had to know where he was located so they’d mark him as a friendly and take him off the enemy combatant list. He gave his GPS coordinates to the copilot of the Apache.
Taking a drink of water from his CamelBak, Logan sized up the steep slope above them. His horse was now breathing harder, sweat starting to make his black fur look shiny beneath the sunlight streaming down from overhead. The temperature on the mountain was much lower than in the valley. Logan was glad to have his heavy H-gear jacket on. Another issue was going to be finding his horse a water source. That was going to prove tough. Logan knew some of the limestone caves he saw dotted along the snowline of the mountain would have pools in them. And the snow melt at that height would leave puddles here and there. But that was all still a long climb away.
As he rode higher, following the tracks into the second of the two wadi running thousands of feet upward, Logan heard even better news over his earpiece. The CIA had finally released a drone, and it was heading their way. The punctuating beat of two Apache’s was much closer now. He spotted them through the thickening woods that surrounded the wadi . Calling in again, he gave his new GPS position, seeing the helos flying a thousand feet above the mountain’s slope. He hoped against hope they would spot Khogani riding with Jess in tow. But he knew the Taliban and Hill soldiers weren’t stupid. They hid in caves during the day when they spotted the Apache’s around, only leaving their safety and moving on after the helos had left. Generally, Logan knew, the Taliban didn’t travel at night because they didn’t have the night-vision capability the Americans did. For now, though, the air cover would force Khogani to stop and make camp somewhere underground. And that’s where Logan figured he could intersect the group. And rescue Jess. IF she was alive. He tried to push the thought away as he urged his hard-breathing horse up the wadi . He wished he could send her a telepathic message that he was coming for her. That he would find her. His heart ached with fear. Over losing Jess. If only… if only the Apache’s, now slowly flying the slope half a mile away, would pick up on the group. If only….
***
Jess heard the familiar thunking of Apache helicopters blades. She was sitting behind a rock wall, barely able to look around it to see the huge cave opening. The arrival of the helicopters had put fear into the faces of Khogani and his men. She watched as they all slunk to the rear of the cave. A young Hill tribesman, a teen, was in charge of watching over her. He had no beard yet, being still so young, but the AK-47 he held in his arms as he stood nearby, watching her, kept Jess sitting quietly.
She’d eaten the dried bread, drunk more water, and was relieved to see Afir did not come over to her anymore. He hated her. She could feel his rage cutting straight through her. Lifting her hand, she touched her aching cheek. It was hot and swollen now. The young teen soldier watching her became nervous, looking anxiously toward the opening as one Apache helicopter flew by just above their cave. The heavy beat of the blades reverberated punctured invisible pressure waves throughout the hollowness where they hid. Jess wanted to slip her ankle binding, run out, scream and throw her hands up, hoping the pilots would see her. If she tried, though, she knew she’d be killed long before she ever reached the lip of the cave.
Khogani was crouched with two of his soldiers, scowling. The Apache’s put the fear of God into them. And well they should. But fearsome as they were, they couldn’t look into caves with their instruments and see the Taliban hiding there. Jess kept her eyes down, trying not to stare at any of the men. She didn’t want to invite their attention any more than necessary. The heavy echoing of the Apache continued shuddering through the cave like boxing gloves pummeling all of them. Jess could feel the thumping ripples moving through her body; they were that powerful. The horses were not there to panic; they were kept elsewhere. What would Khogani do? Was he staying here? Were they moving out? Jess felt the constant leak of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Within minutes, the Apache was past the area, moving on. Jess saw relief in the faces of all the soldiers.
As she moved a little to stand up, her ankle tied to the rock, the young soldier lifted his AK-47 in her direction. She held up her hands slowly, trying to signal that she needed to stand for a while. He looked wary. Right about now, Jess wished she had that heavy armored vest on that she’d been cursing only days before. She had to go to the bathroom. Not knowing Pashto, she felt fearful, scared to try and talk to the kid.
“What do you want?” Khogani demanded, walking up to her.
Relieved, Jess said, “I have to go to the bathroom.” She saw Qader shrug.
“Go where you stand.”
Humiliation sheeted through Jess. “But…”
Qader grinned over her discomfort. He told Shekaib, the beardless welp, to turn around and not look. The woman’s face melted with relief. Shaking his head, he turned away, stalking back to his soldiers. There was planning to undertake before they left the cave.
Jess, feeling vulnerable, found a packet of tissues in her cargo pants’ pocket. Shekaib turned his back to her. For the moment, she was alone in the cave, all the soldiers having disappeared down one tunnel. She looked around again, confirming that it was just her and the teenager. She wondered if she could overpower him. He had an AK-47. She wished she had the training, any training, to know how to attack the kid and grab the rifle out of his hand. Jess wasn’t even sure she could bring herself to kill him, if it came to that. It tore at her. As quickly as she could, she went to the bathroom, pulled up her cargo pants and zipped them up. As she pushed the packet of tissues back into her right-thigh pocket, her fingers struck something else. Her heart picked up in beat for a moment. Moving her fingers into the corner of the pocket, she realized it was her Swiss Army knife! They’d patted her down briefly upon capture, but either hadn’t found the rounded, compact tool, or hadn’t thought it a weapon. And the blade, when extended, was two inches long. Plus, it was sharp and would be able to cut through the rope around her ankle in a split second.
Hesitating, Jess’s mind whirled with options. She was alone with Shekaib. The boy still had his back to her. If she could jump him? Overpower him? He was thin, and two inches shorter than she was. Her heart was pounding now. Adrenaline was surging through her as her fingers wrapped more surely around the hidden knife.
Suddenly, Jess heard male voices. Her head snapped to the left. Khogani was stalking out of the tunnel. She pulled her hand out of her pocket, seeing the boy turn around, scowl at her and then gesture for her to sit back down. The moment was gone. Jess felt terror mixed with desperation. She should have acted sooner! She’d had the opening. Why hadn’t she taken it? Sitting down, she pulled her knees up toward her body, resting her head on them, one arm around her shins. Her emotions were roiling. She didn’t want to kill anyone. It wasn’t in her. Who had she been kidding? Even though she was a prisoner, she knew she couldn’t find it in herself to kill a child. Okay, so he was in his teens, but he was someone’s son. He had a mother and father. Probably sisters and brothers. Her mouth was dry, and Jess swallowed hard against her tightening throat. She hadn’t joined the military to kill. She’d joined following in her parent’s footsteps to help those who had so little. Tears burned behind her tightly shut eyes and Jess felt like crying. She couldn’t. She didn’t dare show these bastards any weakness.
Her heart turned to Logan. Inwardly, Jess knew he was out there looking for her. The Apache’s were proof of that. He was a sniper, and he knew how to track. Could he find the hoofprints of Khogani’s men? Follow them? Jess didn’t know, her heart lurching first with terror and then hope, and then back to terror. As she felt through her fear, Jess tried to assess her options. That left only one choice open to her: escape. Somehow, she was going to have to wait for an opening and then run. In doing that, Jess knew without a doubt, that if they caught her, they’d kill her.
She heard the rumble of thunder. Lifting her head, she saw the sunlight was gone. Outside the cave entrance, it had darkened and suddenly began to rain heavily. Jess knew the mountain weather was in a constant state of flux. The fresh, clean scent of the rain entered the dry cave, and she inhaled it deeply. As she watched the veil of rain thicken, almost blotting out everything outside the cave entrance, Jess wondered if she’d ever see it rain again.
Logan was in touch with the lead Apache pilot. They’d carefully, in a grid pattern, moved across the slope of the mountain where Khogani was assumed to be hiding. They’d turned up some deer, a fox, but that was all. He wiped his brow, settling the baseball cap on his head once again. Right now, he was stopped to give his mount a momentary breather. The sky was turning stormy. In the mountains, it would rain or snow without any warning. Mountains made their own weather. Logan knew that better than most. And, without a doubt, any rain would wash away the prints he was following.
Cursing, he dismounted and continued to look for clues in the form of bent blades of grass or small, freshly broken sticks. He was still two thousand feet below the top of the wadi . The prints were disappearing as the plops of raindrops began to descend over the area. He tugged on his horse, leading it over to a small group of evergreens. The sudden downpour was heavy, covering the area with a veil and Logan was unable to see anything, even his hand in front of his face.
A bolt of lightning struck down the slope. His horse jerked and jumped. Logan spoke quietly to the frightened animal, settling a hand on its neck, feeling it quiver with terror. Where was Jess? His mind rolled over the possibilities. Was she safe? Had they beaten her up? Grimly, Logan didn’t want to think about rape. He hoped like hell that they’d leave her alone. Sex slaves’ prices dropped if they became damaged goods. If Khogani followed that maxim, then he’d keep his hands off Jess.
How was she doing? He wanted desperately to find her. Hold her in his arms. He couldn’t begin to imagine where she was at emotionally. She’d been reeling from so much already; losing Dan, being shot, becoming a marked target. Now this new horror. But Logan knew she was internally strong. And he relied on that, hoping that if she could escape, she would. The risk of doing so would be high. If she did, then Khogani would go after her. Shaking his head, the water dripping down his neck, leaking in beneath his jacket and vest, Logan took off his dark glasses, pushing them into a pocket. The gray mist, the wind and the thunder now moving away from the area told him that, shortly, the downpour would cease.
Worse, the tracks he had been following would be wiped out. Looking upward, he could barely see two hundred feet higher in the wadi . Water was beginning to wash down through it, soaking his boots. Logan knew he had to move because there could be thousands of gallons of water starting to plunge down the ravine. And just like in the southwest of the US, a flash flood could be the result. And it could be large enough, violent enough, to wash him and his horse away in it. Having no choice, Logan hunched over, water dripping off the bill of his baseball cap as he led the nervous horse up the steep, rocky bank. If he didn’t get out of the wadi shortly, they could both be found dead thousands of feet below, killed by the rush of water, pounded to death by the sharp rocks that comprised it.
As he climbed, slipping and grabbing on to thin pieces of brush growing on the sides of the slope, Logan worried about Jess. He couldn’t help himself. Their conversations, their loving one another, the laughter they’d shared, sank deeply into his aching heart. So many things could go wrong. And most of them, to Jess. All he had to worry about was an ambush or being spotted by Khogani’s men. Logan’s mouth thinned, the water running down in rivulets across his hardened face. The horse was grunting, scrambling, falling once to its knees on the muddy, slippery slope.
Above him, Logan could hear the roar of water coming. Shit! It was a wall of water rushing down, unseen, toward them! He clucked to the horse, grabbing rocks sticking up out of the earth with his gloved hands. The roar got louder and louder. It was going to be close! Making a lunge as his horse leaped and scrambled up beside him, Logan grabbed for its thick, long mane. He wrapped his fist into it. The horse was wild eyed, wanting to get out of the wadi before the wall of water hit and killed them. His back legs were like huge, pumping pistons, rocks and mud flying in all directions beneath his sharp hooves. Logan allowed the horse’s forward momentum and eight hundred pounds of muscle to drag him faster up the steep slope. He jerked a look back across his shoulder, seeing a ten-foot wall of water rushing downward, filled with soil, rock and trees, all being torn and ripped out of the wadi as it crashed thunderously down the mountainside. The air shook around them from the power of the runaway and violent wall of water.
The horse snorted, lifted his front legs, digging in with his rear. He was pulling not only Logan’s two hundred pounds, but the sixty pound ruck he wore. And that was enough to pull the horse off balance. It struggled, snorted again, made a jerky hop and then a larger jump forward. Logan felt the strain, the burning in his shoulder joint as the gelding made that last life-saving leap. Jerked upward by six feet from the horse’s staggering efforts, the rush of the water roared past them. Clucking to the horse, Logan was dragged up and over the wall of the wadi . The horse’s front legs collapsed beneath him, his muzzle hitting the mud and rocks, exhausted by his struggle to not die in the flash flood. Logan released the horse’s wet, slippery mane and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Damn, that had been too friggin’ close!
Staggering to his feet, Logan held on to the gelding’s reins. The horse was snorting, his sides heaving in and out like giant bellows. Calling to him above the roar and noise, Logan saw the horse respond, shoving shakily to its feet. The black shook himself, his body gleaming and rain soaked. Logan went over, patting the heroic animal. Looking down, he saw the horse had badly scraped both his front knees. Examining them closer, Logan saw a deep, bleeding cut on the inside of one knee. That wasn’t good. Now, the question that hit him was if his horse was now lame. He wouldn’t know until after the storm passed over them. They stood between four tall evergreens, somewhat protected, but not by much. The wind whipped through the area, howling at seventy and eighty miles an hour. The horse turned his butt toward the wind. Logan did the same, turning his back against the angry weather, and hung his head, waiting it out.