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

west. Another A-10 arrives and plasters the mountainside. The second A-10 loiters, makes three guns passes after expending its bomb load. For an hour, the Taliban crawl into holes and cower behind rocks.

No more SAMs are fired. The Talis are saving them for easy pickings. Rescue helicopters, or unsuspecting low-flying aircraft.

For that hour, we hike at a pace as close to running as Grissom and Trainor can manage. When I see Grissom is ready to collapse, I order the team to slow their pace.

Koenig wants to speak. The trail isn’t wide enough for us to hike two abreast, so he lets Trainor pass, and walks ahead of me.

“Talk to me, Breed,” he says. “There’s a rope bridge between Kagur-Ghar and Lanat. How exposed are we?”

I choose my words carefully, speaking between breaths. “It’s four miles from here to Lanat. We’re beneath Kagur-Ghar’s south peak—the summit. It has a long north col. A saddle. The north peak is lower, with an old Soviet outpost on top. A ridge stretches two miles from the north peak to a ravine that separates us from Lanat. There’s the bridge.”

“How long to the bridge?”

“At least eight hours.”

“Eight hours!” Koenig spits. “For fuck’s sake.”

The rule of thumb for rough terrain is two hours a mile. In these mountains, with an injured man in the party, such an estimate is optimistic.

I jerk my head over my shoulder at Grissom. The colonel is moving forward with a determined step, eyes focused on the trail. Lopez has wrapped a bandage tight around his head. The fabric is brown with blood.

“Eight hours,” I say. “And another three to LZ Two, after we cross the bridge.”

“How many Hajjis left?” Koenig stares at the oily black napalm smoke obscuring the mountainside. “The air strike couldn’t have gotten all of them.”

“Don’t forget Shahzad’s main body. There are no easy routes over the west face and north ridge. They can’t flank us to the west. Odds are, they’re right behind us.”

“They’ll catch us.”

“We have to get to the bridge.” I’m doing most of the talking. Explaining my thinking to Koenig is a waste of breath. “If we cross first, we’ll blow it behind us.”

The desperation of the plan is not lost on Koenig.

The captain glares at me. Without another word, he shoulders past Trainor and resumes his place in the file.

Trainor stumbles against the rock face as the captain brushes her. Throws out an arm to steady herself. Annoyed, she stares after him, then turns and looks back at me. For a moment, our eyes lock. The girl heard everything we said. She’s alert, thinking hard. Unlike the colonel, who is fast becoming an automaton.

I jerk my chin at her. “Watch where you’re going.”

Trainor turns her attention back to the trail. I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but we don’t need her to sprain an ankle.

“You in charge of this mission, Breed?”

It’s the first I’ve heard her speak. A hint of a Southwestern accent.

“No,” I gasp. “Reckon I’m a consultant.”

“A consultant.” The girl stifles a laugh. “You’ve been here before.”

“Save your breath,” I tell her.

The sun has risen, low in the sky over the dark whaleback of Parkat. In its rays, the low fog shines like a silver ocean. I’m uneasy. Hubble and Ballard saw a Taliban patrol on that mountain. It is likely the mountain men are pacing us on that ridge. They are invisible against the black mountainside. We are exposed in the sunlight.

It’s a devil’s bargain. Inside the tree line, less exposed, our pace will be halved. On the rock slope, we move faster, naked for all to see. We have to move on the edge of the forest, use the trees to disrupt our silhouettes.

“You must love it in these mountains,” Trainor says.

The girl won’t quit. Well, if she can spare the breath, I can.

“How do you figure that?”

“Only reason anyone would come back… who didn’t have to.”

9 On the Run

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 0800

“Take five.” Koenig raises his right hand.

I’m not sure it’s wise to stop. The little rest you get from such a short break is never worth the loss of momentum. Your muscles cool down. There’s time for lactic acid, once flushed by circulating blood, to pool in your tissue. All the more painful to stir to life once you begin to hike again.

No, Deltas on long-range patrols eat and drink on the move. We stop only to urinate or defecate into plastic bags, stored in our packs. Waste is disposed of in a manner that will not reveal the patrol’s presence. I would hike sixteen hours over these mountains before stopping to sleep.

Koenig must be thinking of our charges. Unwilling to sit, I turn to Lopez and Grissom. The colonel sits with his back to a tree, and the sergeant is checking his wound.

I squat next to Grissom, rifle across my knees. “How are you doing, Colonel?”

“Fine.” The exhaustion in the colonel’s voice tells me he is anything but.

Lopez takes a flashlight from his pack. Shines it in Grissom’s eyes. “Look left, Sir. Look right. Up. Down.”

“I’m fine, Sergeant.”

“I don’t think so, Sir.” Lopez pockets the flashlight. “You’ve got a concussion. I can’t tell how bad it is, or whether it will get worse. Do you feel dizzy?”

“No.”

“If you start to feel dizzy or disoriented, let me know. This is rough country. Ain’t no shame in hanging onto someone.”

“Our mission,” Koenig says, “is to get you back safe. Did you strike a deal with Najibullah?”

I didn’t notice the captain approach. He stands over us, hands on hips.

“Yes.” Grissom shields his eyes from the glare of bright sunlight behind Koenig. “The peace deal, and the release of Sergeant Trainor.”

Lopez and I exchange glances. The photosensitivity is a side-effect of the concussion. Grissom’s pupils are not contracting when presented with bright light.

“Have you got the details of the peace deal in writing?” Koenig asks.

“No.” Grissom taps the side of his head, the bloodstained bandage. “Najibullah was adamant that nothing be put in writing until everything was agreed with