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

the highest authority. The details are all in here. Sergeant Trainor is also aware. Shahzad would never expect us to trust a girl.”

Koenig snorts. “I’ve spent fifteen years trying to understand these people. Don’t think I ever will.”

“They want us off their land, Captain.” Grissom closes his eyes and leans his head back against the tree trunk. “That’s all they want.”

“We’d better get going.” Koenig turns and signals Hubble. “Let’s roll.”

I get to my feet and sling my rifle. Trainor stands ten feet away, staring at us.

Grissom’s decision to brief Trainor on the peace deal strikes me as odd. On the one hand, it ensures that should he be killed, the deal will live on in Trainor’s skull. On the other hand, in Shahzad’s clutches, there was additional risk she might reveal what she knew.

“Wait one, Captain,” I say.

“What is it now, Breed.”

“We have Talis on our trail. We should try to delay them.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

I call Hubble and Ballard over. “How many Claymores did you use at the blocking position?”

“Four,” Hubble says. “All we had.”

“Okay. The rest of us carry one each. We’ll give them to Ballard. Fishing line out of our survival kits. He can plant them next to the trail every four hundred yards or so. Should keep the Talis guessing.”

“The chances of their hitting one are low,” Koenig says. “The chances of their hitting all four are nil.”

“That’s true,” I say, “but if they hit one, it’ll fuck them up. Keep them guessing.”

“We should do it,” Ballard says. “Not much extra work for me.”

“Okay,” Koenig agrees. “Make it fast.”

Each of us hands Ballard a Claymore. A curved metal case packed with explosives and ball bearings. A separate kit that includes a battery and firing wire. We hand Ballard the Claymores and all the fishing line from our survival kits. He will use it to create makeshift tripwires. When one of the mines explodes, the ball bearings will be scattered through a sixty-degree arc.

“Let’s go,” I say.

We move out, in the same order as before. Ballard hangs back, searching for places where the Claymores and tripwires can be concealed. He lays the traps every quarter mile. If the Taliban trigger one, they will be much more careful where they step. The mines may force them off the trail.

“Aren’t you the creative one,” Trainor says.

“I think of things,” I tell her. “Don’t you?”

“Not like that. How long have you been a consultant?”

“A little over a year.”

“For these guys?” The girl sounds skeptical.

“No, in the Philippines.”

“Sounds like paradise. How long over here?”

“This is my second day.”

Trainor stops and turns to me. “You’re kidding me.”

“I was in the army for a long time.”

“They brought you in to run the show.” Trainor turns back to the trail and keeps hiking.

“Don’t say that too loud.”

“Huh. Not like it’s a secret.” Trainor snorts.

I force myself to keep my head on a swivel. Scan the dark bulk of Parkat. The girl is a distraction. “What about you, smartass? What’s your story?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why’d you join the army?”

“Couldn’t get a job. My parents made me promise I’d get a degree, so I picked something I was good at. Languages. Nobody would pay for a twenty-two-year-old kid who spoke Farsi. So I joined the army. Surprise. They gave me more training and shipped me here.”

“Why Farsi?”

“My grandmother and mother were Iranian. Moved to Colorado after the fall of the Shah. When I was a kid, I loved the Arabian Nights. When I got older, I read a lot of Kipling. Everything to do with this part of the world. It was fun, exciting, romantic.”

“Kipling wrote for boys.”

“Did he? I love The Man Who Would Be King. And Kim. Kim was a spy.”

I say nothing.

“I always liked doing boys’ things,” Trainor continues. I’m impressed by her wind. She synchronizes her speech to her breathing. Speaks just loud enough for me to hear. “Grew up on a ranch in Colorado. Learned to hunt, shoot, ride. Army basic training was easy for me. But nothing prepared me for what it’s like over here.”

“A lot of soldiers find that,” I tell her. “Hunting isn’t the same when the animal you’re after shoots back.”

Kaboom.

We all jerk. In unison, we look back along the trail. Far away, around the curve of the mountain, black smoke boils from the napalm fires. Closer, about three quarters of a mile away, a small puff of gray smoke. A Claymore.

I key my squad radio. “Good work, Kilo. One less to worry about.”

“Your idea, Sierra. Let’s hope it keeps the little pricks guessing.”

“Was it your first mine or your last?”

Ballard has set only four.

“The first. But they will be more careful now.”

We turn back to the trail and keep hiking.

“How do you think Colonel Grissom is doing?” Trainor asks me. There is genuine concern in her voice.

I’m terrible at cheerful bullshit. “Not good,” I tell her. “He wasn’t in shape for this kind of terrain to begin with. Now he has a head wound, blood loss, a fractured skull, and one hell of a nasty concussion. I’m amazed he’s still on his feet.”

“He’s a brave man,” Trainor says. “A lot tougher than he looks.”

“I hope so.” I can’t hide my skepticism. “If he can make it to the bridge, we’ll blow it behind us. Then we’ll have a chance.”

“A chance.”

“If he gets over that bridge, I’ll carry him to the LZ.”

Trainor looks back at me. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Watch where you’re going,” I tell her. “Let’s talk about you. How did the Mujahedeen take you?”

“I try not to think about it,” Trainor says. “I was an idiot.”

“Tell me.”

“Why do you want to know? There isn’t much to tell.”

“You’re not an idiot,” I tell her. “So there is something to tell.”

10

Robyn’s Capture

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 1000

“There is something to tell.”

We hug the lower tree line as much as possible. Trees don’t flourish on large swathes of the rock slope. We cross those areas bare-ass naked. Trainor walks in front of me,