Текст книги "Collateral Damage"

Автор книги: Kaylea Cross

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Three

The sound of feet shuffling around in the next room woke Safir. He rubbed a hand over his tired, burning eyes and rolled to his side on the thin pallet, squinting to see in the darkness. Faint light illuminated the edges of the rug hanging in the doorway that served as a partition between the bedroom and the main room in the humble mud brick house he was staying in. The murmur of distant voices reached him, the men gathered to pray outside.

He pushed himself up and tugged on his cleanest tunic before rising and entering the main room. An elderly woman scrambled up from her position of prayer, modestly covering her face with her scarf and averting her eyes.

Safir walked out into the cool morning air and joined the others for their dawn prayer. He was exhausted from his long journey from Karachi to back here in the mountainous tribal region, a journey made even more perilous by all the intelligence agencies hunting him and the large bounty on his head.

His mentor, Rahim, had been dead for two months and Safir was taking no chances with his own safety. As it turned out, Rahim’s most trusted man, named Jihad of all things, had been an American spy.

To this day no one knew how far the American treachery had extended into their network. After the betrayal had come to light Rahim had cleaned out their ranks. Since his death Safir had continued to cull anyone who might pose a risk to him and their future operations. His life’s purpose now was to continue the fight his mentor had begun.

He tried to clear his mind as he prayed but found he couldn’t concentrate. Though he loved his religion, he was not as devout as Rahim had been. Perhaps because he’d been educated abroad in the UK before returning home to Pakistan.

He struggled with the notion that he should be more strict and literal in his interpretation of the holy Quran. But Allah was all-powerful and knew the truth of what lay in his heart: a fierce and righteous determination to wage war against the West, both here and on their shores. He hated the western powers for occupying Muslim land, for killing innocent Muslims and having the gall to call them terrorists.

The U.S. and British intelligence services had ruined his life by branding him a terrorist, then taking away his passport and forbidding him to return to the U.K. Now he would get his revenge.

Perhaps he wasn’t the experienced and devout leader his men expected or even wanted. But what he lacked in religious zeal and field experience he made up for in brain power and cunning. In university he’d been captain of his chess team. Strategy was his area of expertise, among other technological tricks he could use to his advantage. This fight was about to take on a slick, more sophisticated edge and his extensive network of resources to draw from was a huge tactical advantage.

The next battle in the newest chapter of this war would take place later today on his command. Waged not by men, but by computers and the power of social media. In a few days he’d have more money, weapons and manpower to continue strategic strikes both here and abroad.

Qasim, his best friend, a British-born Muslim who had also been stripped of his citizenship after MI6 put him on the terrorism watch list, walked toward him. “Did you hear back from Omar yet?” he asked in a low voice, speaking English so the others couldn’t understand.

“This morning. He’s in.”

Qasim grinned. “That’s good news.”

“Very good.” They’d all met while attending Cambridge a few years ago, and shared the same political and religious views. Omar worked for Boeing in the Seattle area. His placement within the company and his location were nothing short of ideal for Safir’s purposes. “I’ve never met a more talented hacker in my life.”

“Think we can trust him with something like this? It’s hard to control him from this far away.”

Safir snorted. “You’re underestimating the draw of the five hundred thousand dollars we offered him.”

“I just hope he’s as reliable as we think he is,” Qasim muttered.

Safir slapped him on the back once. “He is.”

He waited for the men to gather their prayer mats before approaching Behzad. Nearly all the men were older than his twenty-four years and he was careful to treat them with the respect due to his elders, even though there was no question that he was in command. Behzad was a local farmer and his host for the duration of his stay here, a man in his mid-fifties who could barely read or write. He was still one of the wisest, kindest and purest men Safir had ever known.

“Has there been any news since we last spoke, Uncle?” Safir asked him.

The man’s time-worn eyes warmed a fraction at the respectful way Safir addressed him. “I have heard from one of the neighboring villages that one of your followers may have found someone on the inside to help us.”

Safir’s interest sharpened. “That is welcome news.” One of the reasons Rahim had been so effective and deadly was because he’d been born and raised among the enemy in the U.S. He’d looked like one of them. Talked like one of them. Had been trained by their military. He’d understood how they thought, how they operated. To know they might possibly have found an insider willing to trade information and help them perpetrate the attack he was planning—for something as simple as money—sent a flare of excitement through Safir’s veins.

“I was told your man will report back to you later this evening.”

Safir nodded and set a hand on the man’s sturdy shoulder. Stiff with arthritis but wiry and strong due to a life of working this harsh land to provide for himself and his family. Few westerners could ever relate to such an existence, not even the farmers in the Midwest, but the Pashtuns were as much a part of these mountains as the land itself.

No amount of bombs would take their homeland from them, and the Americans and their allies had lost the will to stay here. More and more foreign soldiers left every week. It was only a matter of time before they were all gone and in the meantime Safir planned to take advantage of their weaker numbers.

“I will return tonight with more good news, God willing,” Safir told him, sharing a smile.

Behzad nodded, his smile fading. “My wife and I will say a special prayer for you. We grow weary of their aircraft hunting in these mountains. Our people have buried too many of their family members this past year.”

“I know you have.” American drones, bombers and gunships had indiscriminately wiped out so many innocent lives in their quest to hunt the so-called “insurgents”. It only enraged the local people and strengthened their resolve to fight to the end.

And the end was near, at least for the West.

Safir left Behzad to tend to his animals and fields lower down in the valley and took the trail down the hillside that would lead him to the next village. He carried no radio, no phone or any other electronic devices the enemy might track, only his rifle and pistols. If anyone aroused suspicion or tried to get in his way, he would shoot first and ask questions later. After he moved to a secret location to oversee the coming operation, he would return to Behzad’s house and celebrate a much-needed victory in this fight.

****

In the briefing room Liam leaned back in his chair and fought a jaw-cracking yawn as the colonel reviewed the upcoming mission. Liam was flight lead for the mission. He and one other Chinook crew would fly teams of ST6 and Rangers from Bagram to a valley high in the eastern mountains of the tribal region.

After inserting them, they’d divert to Jalalabad where they would wait until they got the call for the exfil at a different LZ west of the insertion point. Enemy activity in the region had been increasing recently and chatter from the intelligence community warned that Taliban forces and their insurgent allies were planning a major attack in the coming days. The forecast called for clear skies, light winds and the moon was waning, a mere sliver in the sky tonight. Perfect conditions for a covert op deep in enemy territory.

During a lull in the briefing Liam flashed back to when he’d bumped into Honor a few hours ago. He hadn’t seen her in so long, running into her today had been one hell of a shock. He’d noticed immediately that she’d lost weight.

Her strawberry-blond hair was longer than it had been last time and there’d been shadows beneath her aquamarine eyes. The haunted, almost stricken look in them when he’d first seen her had knotted his guts. She’d tried to ask him about his injuries but he’d brushed her off because it was none of her business. He was no longer her concern. He’d moved on.

Or so he’d thought. The second he’d seen her, he’d experienced the entire avalanche of emotions all over again. Though mostly just anger and resentment now.

His co-pilot, Freeman, leaned over to murmur to him. “You hear that last bit about the DAPs?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You were off in space, man.”

He’d only caught part of it, but it was enough. The Direct Action Penetrators were Black Hawks essentially modified into badass gunships. They’d only be able to escort the Chinooks two-thirds of the way to the drop zone due to the target’s high altitude. A fairly common occurrence here, which was why Chinooks were used for these types of missions anyway. Not only were they big enough to transport a large number of personnel and equipment, the sheer lift capacity of its engines and dual rotors allowed them to fly at higher altitudes than the other helos. Maybe they weren’t the prettiest birds, but they got the job done.

“Business as usual,” Yates, his FE muttered under his breath on Liam’s other side.

Liam wasn’t worried. If everything went according to plan they’d only be without the DAPs for fifteen, twenty minutes tops and the relative darkness would provide an added measure of camouflage for them during the time when they were most vulnerable to enemy fire.

He shifted his weight and stretched his left leg out, the constant ache in the back of his thigh and hip easing from an annoying five down to a two on his personal pain scale. While he’d first been recovering the nerve pain had gotten upwards of an eight for a few days. If not for the pain meds he’d taken as a last resort to maintain his sanity, he might have resorted to biting down on a stick to cope with it.

There were still pieces of shrapnel in him from where those rounds had torn through the chin of the aircraft that day. Two nurses down in Kandahar had spent the better part of forty minutes pulling bits of metal from his skin and muscle before sewing the multiple lacerations up. The tiny bits they’d been unable to get to eventually worked their way through his skin. Seemed like he pulled little slivers out of his leg at least once a week.

He’d been lucky it hadn’t been worse than soft tissue and cutaneous nerve injury. No broken bones, no major blood vessels affected or spinal damage. Command had given him a few days off to heal up and he’d been able to go right back into the fight without any rehab. The docs had him doing extra leg workouts at the gym four times a week to keep his quads, hamstrings and glutes strong in an effort to counteract the injuries. He was strong and healthy except for the slight limp he’d probably have the rest of his life. Small price to pay compared to a lot of guys Liam knew.

The colonel turned the briefing over to the ops guys and Liam made notes about the exact route he’d fly, the various waypoints and vectors and altitudes ops would expect him to hit. He could change them at his discretion if a situation warranting it arose but he’d stick to the plan as much as possible. Once the various crews had their assignments, call signs and radio frequencies, the colonel took questions. There weren’t any, so everyone was dismissed.

Liam, Freeman and Yates walked out to the Spec Ops area of the airfield to meet with their two crew chiefs, who’d already been out inspecting the aircraft, checking fuel levels, the rotors, engines, avionics and other systems. “Anything to report?” Liam asked Grady, the youngest member of the crew, just twenty-two years old.

He slid his shades up higher on the bridge of his nose to help block the glare of the bright sunshine overhead. “No, sir. She’s good to go.”

Liam and Freeman gave them the intel on the upcoming flight, then left Yates while they reviewed the rest of their checklist. Freeman paused when Liam didn’t follow him past the hangar toward their barracks in their secure compound. “Where you headed?”

“Gonna go file our flight plan now. You go ahead, I’ll catch a nap when I’m done.” He preferred to fly more rested than he currently was.

“Okay. See ya later.”

Alone, Liam walked over to the ops center to file his initial paperwork. He completed his flight plan and listed the names of the crewmembers scheduled to be on board with him. He stepped outside onto the tarmac, and froze when the faint but unmistakable crack of automatic gunfire came from the eastern perimeter.

He stood outside the door along with several others, everyone’s gaze fixed on the eastern fence line. Security Forces personnel were already rushing into position to engage the shooters, somewhere out of Liam’s view. His hand automatically dropped to the holster on his right thigh, drawing his Beretta. His M4 was back in his barracks but he never went anywhere on base without at least his sidearm.

The volume of fire suddenly increased sharply. Liam glanced to the north just as something exploded on the far end of the tarmac. The ground shook beneath his feet as a good-sized fireball erupted into the air.

RPG. “Take cover!” he yelled.

Men scrambled all around him, looking for a place to hide. Liam ducked behind a Humvee parked close to the ops center entrance and got on one knee, weapon raised in case a close enough target appeared. Another explosion detonated to the north, closer this time.

Sirens began to wail around the base. More gunfire, getting closer now. Peering around the bumper of the vehicle he saw five men wearing black tunics and turbans storming the northern fence line, armed with rifles and at least one RPG. A suicidal and ultimately futile attack that would see them dead long before they got to the fence.

He’d no sooner thought it than another rocket slammed into the tarmac about forty yards to the left of his position. The blast hit the tarmac and back of a Pave Hawk, destroying its tail rotor. Seconds later another rocket impacted beside it, hitting one of SOAR’s birds.

Not an accident, Liam realized with a start. They were trying to take out as many aircraft as possible and they seemed to know which ones were Spec Ops models. Each one cost tens of millions of dollars and couldn’t simply be replaced with the next incoming transport.

He quickly glanced around him. Two 47-Gs were parked near the target zone. He spotted a Night Stalker crew chief he recognized and raced over to him, grabbing the kid’s upper arm. “Find another gunner and come with me. We’re getting that Golf outta here.”

The man whipped his head back and forth as he searched for someone to bring along. “I don’t see any gunners—”

“Then grab someone from maintenance, I don’t care,” Liam snapped. “Anyone who knows how to pull a trigger will work. Go.” He shoved him toward the closest hangar and took off for the Chinook sitting there like a lame duck.

Another Night Stalker pilot saw him heading in that direction and ran to help, climbing aboard to take the co-pilot seat beside Liam. Together they raced through the pre-flight checklist and got the engines going. The sound of the gunfire at the fence line grew muffled beneath the roar of the powerful twin engines. From his view out the cockpit window he could see other people firing near the fence line, trying to take out the insurgents while others followed Liam’s lead and jumped aboard remaining functional aircraft.

The rotors were going full tilt when the young crew chief arrived with two other soldiers and raced up to the cockpit. “Got us two shooters.”

Liam nodded. “Raise the ramp.” He had to get them in the air, fast.

The kid disappeared into the back to do as instructed as Liam eased the cyclic forward to tilt the rotors. As the Chinook nosed forward he pulled up on the collective, pushing them into the air hard and fast. To his right another Golf was taking off as well.

Once the belly of the helo cleared the top of the closest building Liam wheeled it around to face the threat and climbed, giving them a bird’s-eye view of the battlefield. Beyond the gates, more personnel on armored vehicles were returning fire from the .60 guns mounted atop them, firing at the attackers.

“Shit,” his co-pilot muttered when they got their first good look at what was happening. Four groups of at least twenty or more tangos were charging at the gates and there were at least a dozen vehicles approaching in the distance.

The other Chinook mirrored his movements, coming up about ten meters to his port side. Liam got on comms to his makeshift crew and spoke through the mic in his helmet. “All right, let’s give these bastards a taste of their own medicine.”

Turning his head to look back at the others in the belly of the aircraft, shock punched through him when he saw the end of the strawberry-blond ponytail poking out from beneath the bottom of the right forward gunner’s helmet.

Chapter Four

Feet braced apart on the helo’s deck, Honor struggled to put on her safety harness, wincing as one of the straps dug into the wound in the top of her right shoulder. Something had hit her when one of the rockets had exploded, a piece of shrapnel or something, she wasn’t sure.

She’d been running away from the hangar when the RPG exploded and sent her flying backward. The next thing she knew, Ipman was leaning over her, his face a mask of concern until she’d mumbled that she was okay and reached for his hand. A few minutes after that she’d heard someone shouting that they needed gunners and she’d raced after the crew chief with Ipman, who was currently manning an M240 in the back.

Thankfully she’d been wearing a helmet from the time the first alarm had sounded, but the bang to the back of the head had still given her a doozy of a headache. The flesh wound burned like hell though and she could feel the blood trickling down her back. Her elbows were scraped up and she’d have a big multi-color mark on her left hip where she’d hit the ground. All that was nothing compared to one victim she’d seen being carried away from the scene closer to the impact site, a soldier with his arm blown away at the shoulder.

Filled with hard, cold resolve to end this attack, Honor loaded a belt of ammo into the M184 minigun as the Chinook soared upward away from the base. She’d primarily fired M240s in the past, but even though she wasn’t technically qualified on this weapon she knew how to operate it. Besides, there’d been no time to hesitate and no one else around to do the job. When the crew chief had shouted for gunners, it was either get on and pitch in or allow the attackers to take out vital aircraft.

She consciously slowed her breathing and scanned out the right shoulder window, trying to get a better look at the threat they were facing. It felt surreal to be in this position, weirder still to know she’d unknowingly hopped on Liam’s bird with the Night Stalker crew chief. She’d always wanted to fly with him and never had the chance, but not like this.

Liam expertly pulled them up over Bagram and banked hard right, taking them out over the desert. Honor braced a gloved hand against the window frame and kept her eyes trained on the ground below.

“Contact, two o’clock low,” Liam’s voice announced over the ICS in her helmet.

Ignoring the throb in her head and whatever was going on with her shoulder, Honor immediately focused on the area and spotted a group of eight old pickup trucks speeding toward the base, each spaced wide enough apart that a regular machine gun would have a tough time hitting them. But hers wasn’t a regular machine gun.

She swung the muzzle of the six-barreled minigun at the trucks, pulse pounding in her ears as her thumbs made contact with the triggers. To Honor’s three o’clock, another aircrew engaged the tangos. She watched as rounds burst from the forward weapon in the Black Hawk’s starboard side, hitting one of the trucks.

“Let’s light ‘em up,” the crew chief said from behind her at the left shoulder window. He opened fire on the targets below just as the guns mounted in the beds of the pickups fired up at them. The Chinook pitched upward as Liam took them out of the path of the bullets, then banked hard and dropped as more fire came at them. Honor’s muscles were rigid as she braced herself.

The moment she had a clear view of the targets on the ground she aimed the muzzles of her weapon at a group of three trucks still speeding toward the base and hit the triggers. All six barrels opened up with a loud buzzing noise.

Brrrrrrrt. Brrrrrrrt.

The hail of lethal fire streaked downward like a deadly lightning bolt. But her aim was off.

Her initial burst missed wide of the far left truck. It swerved, veering toward the one closest to it. Both trucks took a sharp turn and chose a different path. Honor clenched her back teeth together and readjusted her aim. This time when she pulled the trigger, her aim was dead on. Her sweep hit the ground beside the first truck an instant before hitting the vehicle. The barrage of bullets pulverized the target, which burst into flames even before she’d struck the next vehicle, turning it into a burning pile of metal.

Honor engaged the next target. She didn’t think about what she’d done, didn’t allow herself to think about the people she’d just killed. They were targets to be eliminated, a threat bent on unleashing death and destruction on her fellow soldiers, insurgents who would have attacked the base and killed countless service members if no one stopped them.

She took out two more trucks before she ran out of targets.

Still scanning the ground for more, she became aware of how hard her heart was slamming in her chest, of how fast and shallow her breathing was and the cool film of sweat covering her upper lip and back. Pulling in a deep breath she battled her body’s reaction to what she’d just done and kept searching for another target to engage. Behind her the crew chief was firing at something out the port side. To her right, Ipman was still manning his own weapon at the end of the ramp but not firing.

On the ground below them the vehicles from the wave they’d stopped in its tracks lay burning, clouds of black smoke streaming into the clear air. She had no idea how in hell the attack had even happened but there had to be some sort of catastrophic breakdown of security to result in such a thing.

“More targets approaching from the northwest.” Liam’s voice was calm and unhurried as he swung them around and headed in that direction. A few moments later he spoke again. “At least one triple-A in sight.”

Honor’s heart rate jacked up. A vehicle-mounted anti-aircraft gun, capable of shooting down bombers and fighters…as well as big, slow-moving Chinooks. Her hands sweated inside her gloves as she shifted her weight and adjusted her stance, thumbs still hovering over the twin triggers. They had to destroy the AAA before it fired at them.

The crew chief called over his shoulder at her and Ipman. “I got nothing yet. You?”

“Negative,” they both responded.

The pulse from the powerful twin rotors beat against her eardrums despite her ear protection, the big aircraft vibrating as it flew toward the new threat. She shoved back the alarm trying to rise inside her, refused to allow herself to be afraid. Liam was one of the most skilled and experienced pilots in the United States military. She had to trust his ability to get them close enough to take out the AAA without becoming a target themselves.

“Got a visual of the target,” the crew chief suddenly announced.

Honor didn’t bother glancing back at him, too intent on locating the target. Liam turned them again and at last she spotted the AAA. It was old, probably left over from the Russian occupation, and likely Chinese-made. The crew chief opened up his weapon on it just as Honor took aim as well.

Something streaked toward them.

“Incoming,” Liam warned, and put them into a climb so steep Honor had to grab at her harness tether to stay upright. She winced as the straps dug into her flesh wound. The sudden increase in G-forces made it feel like her stomach had been shoved down into her abdominal cavity. Before she could do more than grit her teeth and hold on, someone in the cockpit fired the chaff and flare launchers on the Chinook’s fuselage.

Streams of white smoke and bright white light streaked through the air in front of her. The lumbering Chinook pitched hard to port, dropped, then rose suddenly in another steep climb. Honor gripped the handle on the doorframe and held on, praying the evasive maneuvers were enough. Nothing exploded, which she took as a good sign and then the crew chief opened up again with his minigun.

As the helo leveled out Honor grabbed the rear of her weapon and searched for a target. The instant she saw the AAA she hit the triggers, unleashing hell on the mounted weapon. Between her and the crew chief, the AAA disintegrated in a matter of seconds. Torn to shreds by the hail of fire it exploded in a fireball.

A wave of satisfaction raced through her. Yes!

Liam turned them to the starboard this time and maintained their altitude. Honor glanced toward the tail. Out the opening above the closed loading ramp Honor could see another Chinook and two Black Hawks engaging other targets, already burning in the distance.

“Heading back toward base,” Liam announced. Everyone was silent as the minutes ticked past while they circled Bagram, searching for any more threats. Honor saw nothing but open desert and the scattered, burning remains of the failed attack.

“No other targets reported,” Liam said. “We’re returning to base.”

Honor uncurled her fingers from around the handles of the minigun and let out a deep breath of relief that it was over. But then biology took over.

Now that the threat was neutralized and she knew she was safe, the adrenaline that had been flooding her system began to wear off. The wound in her shoulder started burning like someone had aimed a blowtorch at her skin and her headache came back full force. Her breathing was shallow and she could feel the slight jerking of her muscles as she began to shake a little.

She stayed silent, struggling to get a grip on her nervous system and even managed to flash Ipman a thumbs-up when he called over to her. She became aware of the warm, sticky blood still leaking from her shoulder, of the throbbing in her battered elbows and already stiffening hip. She’d definitely need at least a band-aid once they were on the ground. Outside her window the dun-colored scenery passed by in a blur, a slight numbness beginning to take hold of her. At least it dulled the pain.

She’d just killed people. Probably dozens of them. Sure it had been justified but she’d never taken a life before and—

“Girard. You good?”

It took her a moment to realize the other crew chief was speaking to her. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him and gave him a thumbs-up as well. He was grinning at her. “Good shooting.”

Honor forced a smile and turned back to stare out her window for the remainder of the flight. While hovering over the base she could see the emergency crews dealing with the fires the rockets had caused, and others rushing the wounded toward the hospital. She knew they’d taken casualties in the attack, she just hoped there weren’t many. She’d have someone look at her shoulder when things calmed down.

Warm air rushed through her window. Within a few minutes they were coming in to land on the tarmac near the hangar she’d been in when the attack had started.

After hovering for a few seconds just above the ground, the wheels touched down. Then one of the pilots hit shut down and the sound of the engines immediately changed as the big rotors began to slow. Ignoring how clumsy her hands were, Honor undid her safety harness and removed her helmet. Her hair and face were damp with sweat. The pounding in her head seemed to double.

She rubbed the back of her neck to ease the tension there and turned toward the aft of the aircraft as the crew chief lowered the ramp, wanting to get out of there as soon as humanly possible. She didn’t want to see Liam, wasn’t up to another awkward conversation at the moment.

The acrid smell of burning metal grew sharper as she moved stiffly across the deck. There’d be a debriefing and paperwork and God knew what else to complete. She might even catch hell for doing what she’d just done, though she was pretty sure they’d go easy on her due to the circumstances.

She couldn’t handle facing Liam again though. Not while she was dazed and shaken and off her game.

Ipman was waiting for her at the bottom of the ramp when she stepped onto the tarmac. He ran a concerned gaze over her. “You okay?”

She nodded and kept walking, wanting to put as much distance between her and Liam as she could before he climbed out of the cockpit. She’d go see Erin at the hospital soon enough, have her friend look at her shoulder, maybe check her head to make sure she wasn’t concussed. She felt a little fuzzy. “You?”

“Yeah, good.” He ran a hand through his sweat-slicked black hair. “Man, that’s something to tell my kids when they’re older, huh?”

“Yeah.” It was certainly something she’d never forget.

He eyed her as they headed for the hangar. “So how was the minigun?”

“Efficient,” she murmured, trying not to think about it because every time she did the images of those pickups exploding into flames seemed more vivid.

His mouth stretched into a wide smile. “Fucking-A.” He chuckled under his breath, staying at her side as they stepped out of the sunlight and into the blessed shade of the open hangar.