Killing Ground. Don Pendleton
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TOOK ANOTHER ten minutes for two of the other Special Ops squads to reach the ambush site. With the fighting over, there was nothing left for them to do but help Bolan and the Chinook crew load casualties into the bulky gunship, which had touched down on a plateau eighty yards to the north. It was a sobering task. Of the twelve commandos who’d been attacked, eleven had been slain, their bodies riddled with far more kill shots than had been necessary to take them out. The twelfth commando was also near death and had passed out after confirming that the unit had been attacked by enemy forces who’d clearly used the hidden tunnel to slip undetected within striking distance.
As for the Taliban, six men had been cut down just off the trail near the rocks and dwarf spruce that they’d taken position behind once the first shots had been fired. At least two more were reported to have gone over the side during the ensuing firefight. There was no way of knowing, at this point, how many men had managed to retreat back into the tunnel before Bolan’s arrival. The Executioner had inspected the blasted opening shortly after the explosion and confirmed that it was too collapsed and choked with debris to be of use. The AH-6J Little Bird had set out to comb the surrounding mountains in hopes of spotting anyone using another way out of the tunnel. Bolan doubted that anything would come of the search. One of the arriving squad leaders was of a similar sentiment.
“Fuckers are like cockroaches,” Captain Rob Kitt said. Kitt was a pallid, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties. He wore a headset-equipped helmet bearing the same camo pattern as his fatigues. “If you can’t stomp ’em before they slip through the cracks, forget about it.”
“You got that right,” another of the commandos said. “Hell, we could punch these mountains with bunker busters from now till doomsday, and there’d still be tunnels left for them to scurry through.”
While the last of the U.S. casualties were being carted off, Bolan and Kitt, each clutching a high-powered flashlight, took a closer look at the slain Taliban fighters and their weapons. In addition to AK-47s and the ASG-17 grenade launcher Bolan had prevented from being used on the Chinook, the terrorists had carried out their attack with knockoff G-3s as well as at least two well-worn M-16s that looked as if they dated back more than twenty years to America’s campaign to support mujahideen forces opposed to the Soviet occupation.
“Ain’t that a bitch,” Kitt murmured as he inspected one of the M-16s. “Killed with our own goddamn weapons.”
“The Kalashnikovs are just as old,” Bolan said.
“Probably scavenged off dead Russkies,” Kitt theorized. “We’ll haul ’em back to Bagram along with the bodies. Maybe AI can find something that’ll clue us in on where they set out from.”
When the captain’s headset squawked, Kitt excused himself and wandered off, leaving Bolan to muse over the fallen enemy. All but one of them looked to be in their early twenties, wearing black turbans and dark, loose clothing, much of it bloodstained with gunshot wounds. The oldest victim, and by far the most heavily bearded, had a scar along his right cheek and was missing two fingers on his left hand. When Bolan’s flashlight caught a gleam of metal beneath the folds of the man’s shirt, he leaned over and found an automatic pistol tucked inside his waistband. Like the C3s, it was handmade, a crude approximation of a U.S. Government Model 1911. Bolan had seen footage of Taliban camps where children worked by candlelight manufacturing such guns as a means of supplementing the insurgents’ arsenal. The weapons were notorious for jamming or even exploding when triggered, and Bolan wondered if that had been the cause for the man’s missing fingers.
Bolan had begun to search the man more thoroughly when Kitt returned.
“That was Little Bird,” he reported. “No luck tracking down any stragglers.”
“What about O’Brien?” Bolan asked. “Did they get to him?”
“We’ve got a problem there,” Kitt replied. “They went to ridgeline and can see where he tripped the mine, but there’s no sign of him.”
Bolan’s expression darkened. “He was shot through the neck. There’s no way he could have pulled through.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Kitt said. “My guess is the snipers took the body as some sort of consolation prize.”
Bolan’s stomach knotted with rage. If he’d had it all to do over, he’d have reacted the same way once the ambush had broken out, but that did little to ease his mind over the notion that Howitzer O’Brien had been left behind to fall into the hands of the enemy.
4
Remnants of a late-season hurricane had wandered far enough inland to lash Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains with a torrential downpour that left Stony Man Farm, like many other estates scattered throughout the Shenandoah Valley, drenched and wind-battered. Barbara Price, mission controller for the Farm’s Sensitive Operations Group, was out helping the blacksuit security force tend to the damage. Sloshing through rain puddles, bundled up warmly against the late-autumn chill, the blond-haired woman gathered up snapped twigs and broken tree limbs that lay strewed in the orchards and added them to a growing heap in the truck bed of one of the Farm’s Ford F-150 pickups.
“Could have been worse,” one of the blacksuits told her as he stomped on the debris, compressing it to make room for more. Like the others, he had a web-holstered 9 mm pistol concealed beneath his down-lined ski vest and gave no appearance of being anything other than a hired farmhand. “A little colder and the trees would’ve iced over. If you think this is a mess…”
“We’re not out of it yet,” Price said, casting an eye on the dark, leaden clouds still massed over the valley. There was more rain in the forecast, and she could only hope the temperature wouldn’t dip low enough to threaten the trees further.
As Price gathered up the last of the fallen branches, a rumbling sounded overhead. It wasn’t thunder, but rather the familiar, mechanical drone of an approaching helicopter. Moments later, a small Bell 47 two-seater dropped below the cloud line and approached the camouflaged runway that lay between the orchards and the dormant planting fields.
“I’ll let you guys finish up,” Price said. She took a large thermos from the front seat of the truck and made her way to the runway. By the time a bulky, middle-aged man wearing a rumpled trench coat had disembarked from the helicopter, she’d filled the thermos cap with coffee.
“Not exactly fresh from the pot,” Price said, holding out the coffee. “It’s still hot, though, and way too strong.”
“Just the way I like it.” Hal Brognola, SOG’s director, mustered a wan, close-lipped smile. “Thanks.”
By the time he’d taken his first sip, Brognola’s smile had faded. Price knew it had nothing to do with the coffee. She’d been there to greet Brognola enough times after his return from Washington briefings to know from his expression that the President had just confided in him about some active global threat that would require placing the Farm’s elite covert operatives directly in harm’s way.
“Afghanistan?” she guessed as they strode from the runway. When Brognola eyed her, she went on, “I spoke with Striker earlier. He filled me in on the ambush.”
“The ambush is just part of it,” Brognola replied. “And so is the whole matter of this missing soldier.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention,” Price said. “Let’s have it.”
“It has to do with the Afghan National Army and this whole call for pulling out Western troops.” When they reached the main house, Brognola led the way up the front porch, nodding to the blacksuit stationed near the front door. The security agent stepped aside, holding the door open. As they proceeded inside, the SOG director told Price, “At the same time we took this hit at Safed Koh, the ANA was routing a Taliban squad up to the north near Jalalabad.”
“They’ve been on a roll lately, haven’t they,” Price said. It was more of a statement than a question.
“That’s just it,” Brognola said.