Open Season by Cameron Curtis (early reader books TXT) 📗

to his chin. Off the T, the hit is unlikely to be fatal. Especially if delivered with a small-caliber round.

Hubble and Ballard emerge from the tree line. They hug it, as I did, and run toward us. I drop to one knee and cover them with my M110.

The helos will approach from the west, follow the contour of Kagur-Ghar, and recover us. The first rays of the rising sun lend an orange glow to the fog that obscures the valleys. The mountains are snow-capped lumps of rock rising from a primordial soup.

Ballard unlimbers his high frequency ManPack. Its lightweight whip antenna folds like a walking stick for transportation. Deployed, it is five feet tall. He hands the handset to Koenig.

“Eagle One, this is Five-Five Actual.”

“Go ahead, Five-Five Actual.”

“We are at LZ. Say ETA.”

“Five-Five Actual, we are three minutes out.”

The exfil mission will have three helos. Two Apache gunships and a Black Hawk. The first Apache roars around the side of the mountain and passes overhead, its chin gun wagging. Slaved to the gunner’s optic as he scans the tree line. The second flies two thousand feet higher, providing cover.

“Five-Five Actual, this is Eagle Two.”

“Go ahead, Eagle Two,” Koenig says.

“Are you in contact?”

“Affirmative, Eagle Two. We are taking fire. Have thirty, twice fifteen hostiles two hundred yards south along the tree line. Say again, two hundred yards south my poz.”

“Copy that, Five-Five Actual. Two hundred yards south your poz.”

“Give us a gun run. Keep it south of the LZ. You are cleared hot.”

“Copy, cleared hot.”

The Apache banks and pulls hard for a guns pass. In the distance, I watch the Black Hawk come into view.

A puff of smoke spurts from the tree line. Extends into a long contrail, reaches for the Apache.

“Eagle Two,” Koenig yells. “RPG.”

Frozen, the breath caught in my chest, I watch the contrail and the Apache converge. A red and black flash marks the impact. I squint as a black piece of metal breaks away from the helo. The tail boom and rotor drop like a rock. The pilot’s cabin, weapons platforms, and engine housings continue onward. Without the horizontal stabilizer, the torque of the main rotor rips the fuselage apart. Pieces rain onto the mountainside.

Koenig is aghast. “Jesus Christ.”

The second Apache dives on the clearing, chin gun blazing. It rakes the tree line.

Another puff of smoke.

“Eagle Three,” Koenig calls. “RPG.”

We watch the contrail reach for the Apache.

The pilot banks sharply, and... the missile turns to follow him. The contrail traces a wide, sweeping arc in the sky.

RPGs don’t turn.

Intel suggested Taliban had begun to protect drug and weapons caravans with surface-to-air missiles. We dismissed the possibility. We were wrong.

“Son of a bitch.” The pilot reverses his bank, stands the gunship on its side. He pulls as hard as he can, breaks in the opposite direction. Fires countermeasures—decoy flares to confuse the SAM’s seeker head. Pairs of flaming spheres pour from the tail of the Apache. Two… four… six flares. The decoys burn hotter than the helo’s engines.

The contrail continues to curve, but the Apache turns inside it. The contrail disappears into the distance.

“Eagle One from Eagle Three.”

“Go ahead, Eagle Three.”

“Those are not, repeat not, RPGs. They’re SAMs, guiding on infrared. Back off two miles.”

“Roger that, two miles.”

The Apache and Black Hawk begin a long orbit south-by-east.

“Five-five Actual, this is Eagle One.”

“Go ahead, Eagle One.”

“We are being called off. Make for Secondary LZ.”

“They can’t leave us,” Trainor exclaims.

“Roger that, Eagle One.” Koenig’s voice is flat.

Helpless, we watch the helos depart to the south and disappear behind Kagur-Ghar.

“Alright,” Koenig says. “Pack your shit. We have to stay ahead of those Hajjis.”

We’re fucked.

8 Broken Arrow

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 0500

We’re fucked.

“Alright, Breed.” Koenig stares at me. “This is where you earn your pay. We need to get to LZ Two by seventeen hundred hours. What’s your recommendation?”

Koenig has a talent for pissing me off. Our breach of the target house went off without a hitch. I don’t know what happened outside, but he and Lopez were spotted. Had it not been for that blunder, we’d have gotten away clean.

“LZ Two is on Lanat,” I tell him. “Covering those four miles in twelve hours is enough of a problem. We need to shake the bad guys.”

I jerk my chin toward Grissom, stare Koenig in the eyes. “How do you expect to shake Taliban with Grissom and Trainor along?”

Shadows flit behind the distant tree line.

Flashes of light. Bullets whack into tree trunks.

Takigawa returns fire.

Koenig wrestles with an emotion halfway between frustration and fear. “You’re the genius. You tell me.”

Capitulation.

Eyes narrow, Trainor glares at us.

I turn to Hubble. “Where did you spot that Taliban patrol?”

“Humping toward Parkat twenty-four hours ago. They should be well on the other side of that mountain by now.”

Further down-range, the way Talis move. But—they will rush back.

“Give me comms,” I tell Koenig. “I want the long-range transmitter.”

Koenig’s squad radio is no more powerful than mine. We all carry FM band radios capable of communicating a mile. Useful to communicate between team members, but too weak to reach Bagram. Ballard carries the high frequency transmitter and separate satellite gear. Koenig nods to him.

Ballard gets Anthony’s headquarters on the high frequency radio. An advanced 25-Watt ManPack with a range of four hundred miles, weighing six-and-a-half pounds. His choice is understandable. The sight of a comms sergeant holding up a satellite antennae tends to draw enemy fire. The HF whip is more discreet. He offers me the handset.

Fireflies light the tree line. A bullet clips my rucksack. Hubble raises his rifle and opens fire.

“Two-One Alpha, this is Five-Five Sierra.”

“Go ahead, Five-Five Sierra.”

“Troops in contact. Require immediate, repeat immediate air strike, LZ One. Grid reference—Yankee Romeo 815 621. Broken arrow.”

Broken arrow. The code for friendly aircraft in the vicinity to respond—because an American unit is about to be overrun.

“Five-Five Sierra, that is danger close. Confirm you are calling air strike, your poz.”

The Taliban start toward us, firing from the hip. A bullet skips off a stone at Trainor’s feet. She cringes.

“Confirmed. Burn