COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Pasha kept sending them, wave after wave, their boots stomping across the uneven terrain, marching right over the disfigured and bloody remains of their fallen comrades.
The first and second waves never made it past a hundred yards before the explosions consumed them or the machine gun emplacement near the mouth of the passage cut down the few that escaped the shower of steel.
The air stank of cordite and the coppery smell of blood and burned flesh, replacing the pine resin fragrance of just moments ago as the third wave scrambled ahead. Its ranks were filled with more seasoned warriors, though they were still mostly kids, just a few years older than he and Akhtar had been the first time they drew blood.
The men charged ahead without fear, confident in their cause, certain that Allah was on their side. They fought for their homeland, for their beliefs, just like their fathers had fought against the Soviets, with an iron will.
But they still didn’t get far. A third hidden charge ignited the hillside, the burst deafening, ripping through cloth and flesh.