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

his decision. “One-Five Bravo, do not engage.”

I made mine. “Update firing solution.”

“Wind 10, right-to-left, three-quarters,” Tarback said. “Deflect two-point-seven.”

I did a mental calculation, shifted my hold-off. Took up the slack in the two-stage trigger.

Wondered if I was making a mistake.

Koenig yelled into the mike. “Breed. Do not engage.”

I reached the moment of my natural respiratory pause and broke the shot.

The carcass jerked, the screaming stopped.

A cry rose from the Taliban and the villagers. I cycled the bolt, chambered another round.

Koenig knew I would not stop. “Goddamn you, Breed.”

Fired.

One of the women dragging the prisoners went down. I hit her center mass and watched the burqa crumple like a hollow suit of clothes.

Cycled the bolt a third time.

Fired.

The second woman’s head jerked. No blood. The explosion of her head was contained by her clothing.

Men pointed at our position. At eight hundred yards, we must have looked like specks to them.

“One-Five Actual,” Tarback called. “Request immediate exfil. We are moving to LZ now.”

Fired again. A miss. The third woman ran.

Cycled.

Fired.

The round caught the woman in the back, between her shoulders. She pitched forward and lay motionless.

I drew back the bolt. The magazine was empty. I fished in my pocket, took out a loose round, and loaded the rifle manually.

Tarback packed the spotter scope. “Let’s go, Breed.”

I took aim and put the last round into the second carcass. To make sure the man was dead.

Tarback grabbed my back plate and hauled me to my feet.

We ran like the devil was at our heels.

Because he was.

Lieutenant General William Anthony didn’t rise to greet me when I entered his office twenty-four hours later. The great man’s adjutant, Colonel Tristan, gave me a dirty look. Left us alone and closed the door. I felt like I was standing in the presence of Caesar. There was no soldier I admired more.

My salute could have cut paper.

The general acknowledged my salute but turned his attention back to the files on his desk. “Stand easy, Breed.”

“Yes, Sir.” I clasped my hands behind my back and shifted to parade rest.

“We go back a long way, don’t we?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I was your first CO. You are, quite simply, the best.”

“You trained me, Sir.”

General Anthony met my eyes. “Don’t be modest, Breed. You have an aptitude. All I did was develop it. I was a lieutenant colonel when you passed selection. Our careers have progressed together. Afghanistan, Iraq, back to Afghanistan. It’s been a long war.”

The statement didn’t call for a response. I said nothing.

“We have to stop this incident from spinning out of control.”

“Sir.”

The general raised his hand. “Wait, Breed. Hear me out.”

I bit my tongue.

“You shot three Afghan women and two American POWs.”

I had no spit.

“Your report is clear. The women flayed the POWs and were dragging the naked remains through the streets. Lab work indicates one of the men was dead when you put a bullet in him. Maybe you couldn’t tell from eight hundred yards. The other was still alive, but unlikely to survive. The facts of the case are not in dispute. Lieutenant Koenig… the Officer in Charge… and your spotter, tell the same story.”

“General, I have stipulated the contents of the report are accurate.”

“Koenig ordered you not to engage. You violated the Rules of Engagement. The comms were recorded.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Breed, the administration wants me to convene a general court-martial.”

I felt light-headed.

The general paused. Set his jaw. “As the convening authority, I have negotiated a solution with the administration. No one wants the embarrassment. The public can’t handle how dirty this war is. The army will allow you to resign with an honorable discharge and a full pension. The matter will be suppressed. It will never be spoken of again. It did not happen.”

“An Afghan legend, Sir.”

The general shook his head. “You’re already a legend, Breed. This matter is time sensitive. You can take half an hour to think about it in my outer office. I must have an answer before you leave the building.”

“You can have my answer right now, Sir.”

“I thought so.”

I saluted, turned to leave.

“Breed.”

Hand on the doorknob, I stopped. Turned to look at the general.

“I would have done the same.”

I nodded. Jerked the door open and stepped out of the army.

“Bagram. Everybody out.”

The loadmaster slams the flat of his hand against the side of the container. The boom rattles my brain. With a groan, I raise myself on one elbow.

I pack my shit and hop off the container. The loading ramp has been lowered, but it’s still dark outside. I walk onto the tarmac.

“Breed.”

Warren Koenig. Shit.

“Koenig.”

I don’t like Koenig. Never did. It isn’t that he’s an asshole, he’s just... mediocre. Bell curves are ubiquitous in nature. You find them everywhere. Elite units are no different. Once you weed out ninety-seven percent of applicants through selection, the remaining three percent describe a bell curve. It’s inevitable. Captain Warren Koenig was not an apex performer among apex performers. On an operation, a man like Koenig can get you killed.

“General Anthony sent me to meet you. He’ll see you at 0700. There will be a team briefing at 0800.”

“Suits me.”

“Wear this.” Koenig hands me a civilian contractor ID card, laminated, with a metal clip.

“Old photo.”

“It was on file. Let’s get you to quarters. You have some time to collect your gear.”

Koenig leads me to a Humvee and we pile in.

“Breed, that situation with the women. The ones you shot.”

I haven’t spoken to Koenig since I left the army. I do not want to speak about that incident now. “What about it?”

Koenig starts the engine. “I was doing my job. I followed the Rules of Engagement.”

“I followed my conscience. Forget it.”

“Alright. Some things have to be said.”

Bagram’s airstrip is twelve thousand feet long, enough to land the largest American and Russian transport aircraft. Masses of support buildings, hangars, and housing facilities form a small city arranged next to the runway.

Koenig parks the Humvee next to a block of cheap housing. Four rows of close-set, bungalow-style huts. Pretty standard for Bagram. Quarters are luck of the draw.

“Team’s hand-picked,” Koenig