On Fire. Lindsay McKenna

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СКАЧАТЬ Bravo.

      The Chinook’s two engines powered up, the shaking intensifying. The smell of kerosene aviation fuel filtered through the nearly dark tube of the oddly shaped helicopter. Mike told his SEAL team to double-check their gear and make sure they had at least eight mags in their H-gear. Everyone began checking. Mike strapped his Kevlar helmet on tighter, making sure his night vision goggles were locked on the rail system on top of it. So much could go wrong. He needed to hurry to save Khat and felt slight relief as the Chinook began a rolling start down the runway. The roar was ear-splitting, but the helmets protected their ears from the worst of it.

      “Okay, listen up,” the LT said over his radio, “Bagram is reporting that Khogani is with this group waiting inside the treeline. I’d sure like to nail his ass, so let’s keep a sharp lookout for this bastard.”

      Mike wasn’t surprised. Khogani was the leader of the Hill tribe, the ancient enemy of the Shinwari tribe. He also worked actively with the Taliban. Khat had taken out fifteen of his men as a sniper yesterday night in the Hindu Kush Mountains. Khogani wanted revenge. Mike was sure the hill tribe leader would put his best trackers on trying to find any footprints Khat had left behind as she’d fled her sniper hide and made her way back toward FOB, forward operating base, Bravo on foot. Drops of blood could leave a trail. Or, if she was injured in the head, not thinking clearly, she could have left an easy trail to follow, too. He didn’t know much about what had happened and it gnawed at his heart. His soul. He loved her. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Khat had covered his back as he’d rode ahead of her on the mountain trail, leading a pack horse. He had been a quarter mile ahead of her when she’d radioed and told him she’d spotted Taliban on horseback on their trail. If she didn’t stop them, they’d catch up, killing both of them.

      Mike had tried to help, but he’d been on a narrow path where he couldn’t turn around the horse he rode, much less get the pack horse turned around. He’d had no choice, dammit, but to kick the horses into a fast trot and get off that trail three miles down the slope of the mountain, in the dark. And then it had started to rain, on top of everything else. Khat was left to protect both of them, alone. Twelve hours later, he’d ridden into FOB Bravo. They’d lost radio contact. But she had never come back to the base. The next morning, after getting an Apache helicopter broken loose from other combat demands, they had found Khat’s horse dead up on a ridge in the Hindu Kush. But no sign of her.

      It was a special hell for Mike. They’d found no trace of Khat’s body. But he sensed she was alive. And it was only when a man by the name of Mohsin, from the nearby Shinwari village had ridden twenty miles to Bravo, to tell them that an American woman Marine had walked into their village, wounded and in dire need of help and medicine, that Mike found out it was Khat. The villager had warned them that the Taliban had followed her, that they were amassing outside his village to attack it in order to find the American woman soldier.

      The SEALs at Bravo had sprung into action, to try to save her and protect the people in the unarmed village. Would they get there in time? His throat ached with tension, unshed tears and terror. He loved Khat. He’d die for her. She deserved to live, not be murdered by Khogani and the Taliban. God, let them arrive there in time!

      The Chinook took off from the lip of the runway into the evening air, engines roaring. Mike looked at his watch, his heart doing a slow, dreaded pound. This helo would make the infil point in approximately fifteen minutes. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and his heart centered squarely on Khat. He had to force his love for her out of this equation for now. He was responsible for his men and to his LT. If they couldn’t fight off Khogani, then Khat would possibly be lost in the firefight. Mohsin, the man who had rescued her, kept saying she was dying. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pinched the ridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Would there be time enough before Khogani’s forces attacked the village?

      Nasreen moved restlessly about the room where she cared for Khatereh Shinwari, the Marine. She had heard from her mother, who lived next door, that Taliban were poised at the edge of the forest, waiting to ride into their village. Controlling her fear, she looked anxiously to the SEAL woman who lay unmoving, her face so pale Nasreen thought she had died. Wringing her hands, she worried about her husband, Mohsin, who had ridden off many hours earlier for FOB Bravo to get help for this military woman. He’d never returned. Had Mohsin been caught by Khogani and tortured? Did he speak of the SEAL woman to their enemy? Is that why the Taliban were there, watching, waiting to attack the village? Her husband had not returned. Oh, Allah, have mercy upon us!

      She heard more of the villagers, their voices turning to shouts. Rushing to the other room, Nasreen pulled open the door. Through the gathering dusk, she heard noises. Unseeing, she looked up toward the sound of the beating blades of a helicopter. And it was close! Gasping, she heard one of the men from the village scream out a warning. Shots were being fired! The Taliban fighters were charging toward their village. They would all be killed!

      * * *

      THE CHINOOK LANDED just outside the village. The SEALs piled out of it on a run, in a crouch, fanning out into a diamond pattern, and hurtled toward the closed front gate. Mike was in the lead, and he heard the bark of orders in angry Pashto from the tree line. The Taliban were attacking. They had to get inside the walls. On his orders, the SEALs moved swiftly forward like silent ghosts. The thunder of many horses shook the ground in an earthquake as the Taliban fighters swept across the fields toward the village. There was wild AK-47 fire filling the air, the muzzles winking red lights in the gloom of the dusk, looking like fireflies.

      Two SEALs got the gate open. The other six filtered in, quickly shutting and barring the massive entrance. The LT order a diamond pattern within the village, the best way to protect those inside it. The SEALs positioned themselves within the four-foot-thick mud wall that surrounded the homes, rifles resting on the top of it, sighting through their scopes, watching the charging insurgents draw near. Mike was near the gate. Down on one knee, he had his M-4 jammed against his shoulder, sighting any rider with an RPG. If one of those got fired at them, lives could be lost. A hole blown into the wall of the village would create a breach, allowing their enemy inside.

      “Focus on RPG riders,” he told his men in a calm voice.

      The Taliban hit with ferocity. The hundred or so riders swirled around the walled village, firing their AK-47s. The horses were at a gallop, thundering around and around. The SEALs calmly picked their targets and fired. There was no wild shooting on their part; just cold, hard sighting and firing. They did not waste bullets. Taliban riders were falling quickly. They did not have night vision goggles, nor did they have night vision scopes on their rifles to see through the dark like the SEALs did as night fell.

      Mike heard and felt a blast to his left. Dammit! An RPG had been launched against the village wall. He wasn’t sure if it had blown through the wall or landed inside the village, destroying homes. Seconds later, SEAL Travis Cooper came over the radio with his Texas drawl.

      “Wall breach, north. We can use some help over here.”

      Mike ordered his other man to stay where he was. He sprinted down the wall, M-4 up. Several riders leaped their horses through the wall breach, firing everywhere. Sonofabitch! He saw Travis and his other SEAL buddy against the wall, methodically firing as the horsemen forced their balking, crazed horses through the hole.

      Mike ran around one home. The people inside shrieked in terror. Stopping at the corner, he rested his M-4 against it; he picked a Taliban soldier riding hell-bent-for-leather down the street and firing indiscriminately into the houses on either side. One shot from Mike’s M-4 and the man flew off the horse. The horse stumbled, fell and rolled. It got to its feet, shaking its head, dust rolling off its body. A second riderless horse came careening around another corner. When it saw the other loose horse, it trotted up to it. Mike had an idea.

      “Travis, СКАЧАТЬ