The others are already at the resort, as we’ve all taken to calling it, most having stayed. Lynn has basically moved in and is planning to make it her home, to the point that she’s put her house in Florida up for sale. If it weren’t for the kids, I’d contemplate doing the same. The seclusion of the valley, the fresh air, the gorgeous scenery, and the absolute quiet is such that I’d never leave.
On the short hop to Salt Lake City from Seattle, I again contemplated my life’s direction—as I pretty much do every time I leave. I have enough money to live for a while, and although I probably wouldn’t see the kids more often, I’d at least be around more. They’re all nearly grown and the girls will be out of school soon, heading down the path of their adult lives. We’ve spent a lot of great moments together. Maybe it’s me who’s not ready for them to move on.
Walking into the resort, Greg is coming down the central staircase like a slow-moving boulder rolling down a hill.
“The fuck?! Did you actually get bigger when I was away?” I exclaim.
“You were gone? Oh, um, well then, welcome back…I guess?” Greg responds.
“Oh, come on, you missed me. It’s okay to admit it,” I say.
“Yeah, the wind was a little stronger than I thought and it pulled the round off target,” Greg replies.
The aroma of food wafting through the foyer catches my attention, or should I say, my stomach’s.
“Damn, that smells good,” I state.
“Well, thanks. It’s a new shampoo I’ve been trying out,” Greg responds.
“No, you big lummox—the food.”
“Lynn received our assignment a little bit ago and we’re just waiting on your slow ass to arrive. Thought we’d stuff our faces first,” Greg says.
Walking into the kitchen, I throw my bags against the wall and greet the others sitting around the large table. After getting caught up and over-stuffing myself, we head into a conference-style room to plan. Lynn sets some folders on a polished table, fires up several laptops and an overhead projector, and pulls out maps from one of the large map drawers. As she arranges items, we take seats around the polished table.
“Okay, this just came down the wire and we picked it up,” Lynn begins, passing folders around the table. “A platoon was hit on a patrol in the Kandahar Province in southern Afghanistan. In the ensuing firefight, the platoon was forced to withdraw and several soldiers were cut off. Air strikes were called in and reinforcements landed to secure the area. However, there are four MIAs, believed to have been captured by the ambushing forces, who have withdrawn into the rugged mountainous region north of Kandahar.
“Drones were dispatched shortly afterward and are combing the area, but have yet to pick up any sign of the missing soldiers. That leaves us to believe they haven’t gone far and may be holed up in the cave systems or one of the villages nestled in the few fertile villages. Given the time of the withdrawal of enemy forces and when the drones sectored the skies, we’ve limited the area where they may be located, and that’s where we’ll begin our search. You’ll find the zone marked on your maps,” Lynn briefs, pulling up a satellite image with an inscribed red circle.
“We’ll start here and work–” Lynn taps a pointer on the projection, but is interrupted by her cell ringing.
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. Several 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 won’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.
The doors of the SUVs open and four bearded men step out, looking once around the area before marching into the house. Four of the men who came from within vanish inside with them, the other ten taking up positions around the house.
“Data sent,” Henderson states.
“Everyone mount up. We’re going in,” I radio. “Henderson, Denton, remain in place and provide overwatch.”
We go through last-minute checks, donning our NVGs as darkness settles.
“Otter six, Falcon. Facial indicates some of the bigger players in the game.”
“Copy that. We’re moving in. The timetable we established is twenty-four hours off. Our party is happening tonight, not tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure this is the location,” I reply.
“Response forces are moving up on standby, ready for your call,” Lynn notifies.
“Keep them out of this valley. I don’t want to hear a single thump from a rotor,” I state. “Oh, and tell them thank you.”
“Copy. A request has come down to take them alive if possible,” Lynn radios.
“We’ll see,” I respond as we begin our descent.
* * * * * *
Dim lights spill out onto the central avenue from behind curtains and drapes across the doors. I can’t imagine many of the villagers feel very easy with such an armed presence—things like that tend to attract rockets and missiles. They may support the rebel cause, or just be innocents trying to live their lives, but either way, the tension behind those curtains has to be high. Especially knowing that American hostages are being detained. At this point, I’m near certain they’re being held in the compound.
“McCafferty, take us around the outside and bring us to the back wall,” I radio.
Without a word, McCafferty leads us up to the outer walls of the back courtyards. This way we’ll be able to proceed without being observed by the guards on the roof. If we ventured into the surrounding fields, we’d be more visible as we approached. Allie watches toward the front, alert for anything that might slip over the walls or appear from around the corner of the villa ahead. Gonzalez focuses on the fields to the front quarter while I cover directly to the side. Greg will keep our backside clear. The nice thing about having an overwatch is that we can get a moving account of where everyone is, so I’m able to keep my mental map updated and plan accordingly.
Lynn has a bird’s eye view, but a distant one, being so high above. Fly too low over the area and the drone of those engines would reach into the valley and reverberate off the steep hillsides. We can’t afford for those in the compound to have any hint that we’re in the area, or the hostages will suffer the consequences.
The night is quiet; even those within the adobe walls are keeping their voices down. There are a few chirps from insects in the fields, but otherwise it’s just us as we creep along the outer walls. As far as we know, there are twenty-two men in the compound: twelve in the courtyard with two on the guns, two on the roof, and eight inside. There may be more, but we haven’t observed them. Henderson and Denton are continuing to keep us updated with clear lines of sight to the rooftop.
Everything is cast in a green glow with no observable thermals. McCafferty is guiding us slowly, taking a few steps to listen and watch before moving on. There isn’t a single crunch of our boots on the soil, our weight being slowly transferred for each step. Any misgivings I might have had previously are dissipating. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say I was with one of my old teams.
I’m thankful, and a little surprised, that we haven’t discovered any dogs within the village. Those can become problematic. There are ways to take care of them, but that amounts to a separate operation unto itself.
At the corner of the compound wall, the top of which is over our heads, we halt in place. Our two on overwatch can’t see the back of the house, but they reported that a couple from the front group of armed men ventured that way and haven’t returned. That means they’ve either set up shop in the back courtyard or entered via an out-of-sight doorway.
McCafferty snakes a fiber cable over the wall. Shielding the light of the screen with my body, I watch the projected images. There are two armed men standing together in the middle of the courtyard, only partially paying attention to their surroundings. Several darkened windows adorn the back of the house, with a wooden door to one side. There’s a faint glow toward the front where light is leaking from the windows there.
“Can you take out the rooftop?” I call the two snipers.
“As long as they don’t suddenly find a coin on the ground at the wrong moment, we should be able to,” Henderson answers.
“Should? Should is reserved for guesses,” I reply. “I need a little more than that.”
“We can take them,” Denton cuts in.
“Line it up and go on my command,” I order, retrieving the fiber cable.
I motion for Greg to kneel. McCafferty climbs onto his shoulders from where she crouches below the wall.
I tap Allie on the back of her leg, asking if she’s ready. She looks down and nods, her 6.5mm carbine held at the ready.
“Standby…3…2…1…Go,” I radio.
McCafferty rises, swinging her carbine over the wall. I barely hear four shots from her weapons, like the sound was being absorbed by a large wad of cotton.
“Two on the rooftop down,” I hear Henderson call.
“Down,” Allie whispers.
Greg rises from his position, lifting McCafferty over the wall. She had planned to use her hand on top of the wall and swing over, but Greg’s strength against her light weight caused her to miss her handhold. She went over with a soft squeak of surprise, landing on the other side with a soft crunch.
I turn to look at Greg, the NVGs hiding my irritated look.
He shrugs. “Sorry, I may have misjudged that a touch. She’s a light one.”
A few seconds later, she radios, “Clear.”
“If you vault me over like that, you’ll need a proctologist to remove my boot,” I whisper.
“You’ll need to go on a much needed diet before I can lift you like that,” Greg responds.
I struggle with an appropriate comeback, but lose the battle.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
Henderson informs us that the ones in front are still gathered together and haven’t moved. With Greg’s gentle nurturing, Gonzalez and I land in the back courtyard, then Greg scales over on his own. McCafferty is against the wall, watching the house and the corners. Two bodies lie motionless in the middle of the dirt yard.
“I thought I was going to the moon there for a second,” McCafferty whispers after we join up.
“We’re going to need to get some cheeseburgers in you when we get back. I’ve lifted heavier kittens,” Greg replies.
“Oh man. I could really go for a cheeseburger about now,” Allie says.
“Save it, you two. Remember? Mission stuff going on,” I comment.
“Falcon, Otter six. In the compound,” I radio Lynn.
“Copy that,” Lynn replies.
My habits coming to the forefront, I alter our positions and lead the way across the darkened courtyard. We’re about to head inside, and I feel more comfortable in front. We practiced our urban training in this manner—in all combinations, to be frank—so it’s not like I’m forcing myself into a new role in the middle of a mission.
Greg and Gonzalez drag the bodies and place them against the house wall in case some of those in front decide they want to take a nature walk. I’d thought about taking out those in front first, but the chance of commotion is too great, so we’ll deal with those later. At the door, there’s a large enough gap at the bottom to slide the fiber under. The room on the other side is dark, with boxes and other items stacked on shelves.
Withdrawing the cable, Gonzalez grabs the handle, pulls it tight to minimize sound, and slowly turns. It rotates fully.
“Amateurs,” she whispers.
I mentally chuckle; I’ve said the same on numerous occasions. She slowly pushes the door open so there’s no draft that could move curtains further inside. Once there’s enough of a gap, I slide through, my carbine coming up.
We slide silently through the house down cramped hallways, checking the rooms as we pass. The back of the house is without light and empty of people. The furnishings of the rooms indicate that people live here full time and I’m tempted to search for intel, but that can come later with any follow-up forces. Brushing past beaded curtains, we near the front of the house.
The fucking place is a maze, but we finally come to a room with light showing from a doorway on the other side. It’s difficult to see much of anything beyond the hanging beads, but there is a voice emanating from the room. We haven’t found any sign of the soldiers being held hostage, but I still don’t have any doubt that they’re here. With the others creeping behind, I edge toward the frame.
Peeking around the entrance, I see three men in robes seated on cushions, all looking toward one part of the room. Their postures seem calm and their expressions stoic. The voice coming from the room is intense, the words in heavily accented English. Easing to the other side, I gently move one line of beads. Three fatigue-clad men are kneeling on the floor, their heads lowered and hands tied behind their back. Behind them, four men have their weapons hanging loose, but more or less pointed at the three soldiers. It’s damn near the same setup as in the original video, the flag draped on the wall in the background. Out of sight, a man harangues.
Looking at the others, I indicate the number in the room and their positions. I point to Gonzalez and McCafferty, motioning that they are to take the four armed men behind the hostages. I don’t see how we’re going to take the ones Lynn wants alive, but I tell Greg that he has the three. I’ll cover anyone we don’t see.
“Henderson, Denton, be ready to provide support. Start thinning the herd outside once I give the go order.”
“We have given you our warning,” the man in the room states. “To show that we mean it, one will…”
“Go,” I sharply whisper in the radio.
McCafferty and Gonzalez sweep in, the beads clacking together from their swift passage. Muted shots fill the room, brass cartridges ticking across the dirt floor and off the walls. I follow in time to see blood splash across the flag with the rounds tearing through the four armed men, who stumble backward and leave smears of red as they slide down the wall.
Passing the startled men on the cushions, I flow into the room, telling the soldiers to get down, targeting the man who was talking and anyone else who was out of sight. The speaker, in mid word, is staring with a startled expression at his dead colleagues who were thrown backward from rounds slamming into their bodies.
“Gunners are down,” I hear Henderson call.
The man turns toward where we swept in, the stunned look permanently etched as my bullets stitch up the front of his robe. He falls against the camera equipment, his hands thrown outward as if they can stop the bullets tearing into him. He hits the ground amid a clatter of equipment, his eyes wide and unseeing, but still showing surprise. His robes turn red around the tears in the cloth, the stains of flowering blood growing larger. He draws in shallow gasps as his body fights, not knowing it’s already dead.
There’s no one else hiding in the room, so I turn back toward Greg. McCafferty and Gonzalez have each put a round into the gunmen to make sure they don’t rise to majestically save the day. The three in robes are all down, each with a chest wound.
“Best I could do,” Greg says with a shrug.
“More than they deserve. Stay with them. McCafferty, Gonzalez, with me. We have a yard to clean up.”
Looking out the window, there are a couple of bodies lying in the dirt. Others have taken cover and are shooting up toward the hillside, red tracers streaking off into the night with a chatter of gunfire. One man is racing across the open dirt yard, running for the house. They apparently haven’t realized that they’ve already been infiltrated and think an attack is just starting from outside the walls. The door is thrown open, an eager man with a fearful expression entering to warn those within, as if they wouldn’t have heard the gunfire.
“They already know,” I say, my bullets crashing into his chest.
His momentum carries him inside, his body twitching with each strike. He doubles over, his weapon falling to the ground, as blood pours from his mouth and splashes to the floor. He falls with a thump over the one who was speaking, the two of them looking like they are in the throes of some kind of orgy. The camera equipment in their midst doesn’t help that impression.
Outside, what is left of the gunmen have taken refuge behind the wall, where they’re focused on the darkened ridgelines beyond. The three of us sweep from side to side. Most never know what hit them as our suppressed rounds quickly eliminate them. The worry is that the villagers might be armed as well and will attempt to respond, but Henderson and Denton radio that they’re remaining in their homes.
Leaving Allie and Gonzalez outside, I reenter and have the soldiers rise. From inside my cargo pocket, I pull pictures from within a sealed plastic storage bag. I ask each of them to look up so I can compare their bruised faces with the pictures and, like before, match their coded responses to those written on the backs. Satisfied, I cut the ropes.
“Falcon, Otter six. We have three canaries in hand and three injured wolves. You can release the cavalry,” I radio.
“Copy. Forces inbound, ETA fifteen minutes.”
“You’re going home, your ride is inbound,” I inform the three soldiers.
“Thank you, sir,” one says, his eyes red and glassy.
“When you get back, you call your mom right away and tell her you’re okay. That will be thanks enough.”
It isn’t much longer before the still night is interrupted by the sound of rotors, the whomp, whomp, whomp growing louder. Gonzalez and McCafferty place IR strobes just on the outside of town and guide the helicopters in. Soldiers swarm through the village, gunships circling as they prowl in the dark. The hostages are gathered in addition to the three we injured, who don’t seem to be doing well.
As they pass on stretchers, I comment, “Oh, by the way, in case you haven’t realized it yet, the answer is no.”
“Okay, Falcon, our ride is here. Catch you back at base.”