Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“You’ve got a full mag,” he said, slamming the rifle against Jonathan’s chest. “Fire low and in short bursts. Now come on. We’ve got to get our guys before Haq takes care of them.”

Jonathan stared at the elder Haq’s corpse, then at the rifle in Hamid’s arms. The scope of the operation came to him in its entirety. Hamid worked for Division, and Division had used Jonathan as cover to put their operative in place to kill Abdul Haq.

A volley of automatic-weapons fire rattled through the cave. Hamid poked his head into the dim passage. “Stay on my tail. When I move, you move. Ready?”

Jonathan nodded. He was shaking badly.

Hamid slid the barrel of the machine gun around the corner. With crisp, practiced movements, he leaned into the cave and fired at the ceiling. The lightbulbs shattered. Darkness was immediate. There was a breath of wind where Hamid had been standing and a voice called from down the passage, “Come on!”

“Shit.” Jonathan ducked into the tunnel. Gunfire lit the cave. Bullets struck the wall above his head and a shard of rock stung his cheek. Bent double, he ran as fast as he could, his shoulder scudding the wall. Staccato flashes of machine-gun fire illuminated their progress like frames from a stuttering projector. He saw Hamid a few steps ahead, raising his weapon. A rifle responded, the noise deafening, and for a second Jonathan glimpsed the tall, turbaned figure of Sultan Haq, the Kentucky hunting rifle pressed to his shoulder. Jonathan threw himself to the ground as rock burst from the wall above his head.

“In here,” shouted a voice to his left.

Jonathan commando-crawled the last few meters into the opening and rolled onto his back.

Hamid popped a glow-bright bracelet. “You okay?”

Jonathan tried to speak, but his throat was too tight and he had no idea where his voice had gone. He moved his jaw and finally formed a word. “Yeah.”

The captured American soldiers stood in a semicircle facing him. The lifeless body of a Taliban fighter lay at their feet, his head twisted at a grotesque angle. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I’m glad to see you,” said one of the soldiers, who had a captain’s twin bars sewn to his collar. There was a Ranger tab on one shoulder and jump wings on his chest. “When we heard the commotion and saw old Muhammad here freak out, we figured it was our only chance. I take it you came for Abdul Haq. You get him?”

“Dispatched with prejudice,” said Hamid. “You boys are gravy. Consider this your lucky day.”

“A-fuckin’-men,” said the captain.

“How you guys holding out?”

“We’re good to go.”

“Outstanding.” Hamid handed a roll of medical gauze to each man.

Jonathan got to his feet, confused. “Is someone hurt?”

Hamid peeled away the bandage to reveal an olive-green metallic canister. “Sorry, doc. Had to use your equipment to smuggle in what we needed.” He turned to the soldiers: “Four grenades is all we have. Two antipersonnel. Two Willy Petes. You guys got any extra clips?”

“Just the one,” said the captain. “You?”

“One spare, and the doc’s AK has a full mag.”

“You mind?” One of the soldiers, a sergeant, reached for Jonathan’s rifle.

“Be my guest.” Jonathan handed over the Kalashnikov.

“I take it you got a plan to get out of here,” said the captain.

“There’s a SEAL extraction team waiting in Kunduz,” said Hamid. “I got off a signal that I was going in, but I didn’t get confirmation that they were inbound. With all these mountains, it’s doubtful they got a good read on my GPS. Otherwise, they’d have been here by now.”

Jonathan felt his stomach sink. “What does that mean?”

“It means there’s a fifty-fifty chance no one’s going to be waiting for us when we get out of here.”

“How many Tabbies are out there?” asked the captain, “Tabby” meaning Taliban.

“I counted fifteen armed,” said Hamid. “You can add on a couple of camp followers. And then there are the thirty-caliber machine guns on the jeeps. That’s what worries me. Any of you got a good arm?”

“That’d be me,” said the sergeant.

“What do you think, cap?” asked Hamid.

The captain extended an arm into the passage. There was no fire. “They’re waiting for us to show our faces. Doesn’t look like they have night vision, so we’ve got that in our favor. We’ll cover and roll, make ’em keep their heads down until we can chuck a grenade their way. We need to force them outside the cave and into the open where the chopper can hit them.”

“If the chopper’s even here.” Suddenly Jonathan wanted a machine gun very badly.

“Have faith, doc,” said Hamid. “When you get out, keep your head down and your legs moving.”

“Let’s do this.” The captain tapped his sergeant on the shoulder. The sergeant nodded, then ducked into the passage and opened fire. The Rangers ran out first, then Hamid, and last Jonathan. He’d made it five steps when there was an explosion in the main entry chamber. He glimpsed a body launched into the air and heard a scream. A grenade. Keeping a hand on Hamid’s back, he kept moving. The corridor grew light. The Rangers kneeled at the mouth of the passage, firing. Jonathan heard a smack, and one of the soldiers collapsed.

“Man down!” shouted the captain.

A second grenade exploded near the doorway and the Taliban fighters escaped outside. Jonathan rushed to the wounded Ranger. He could see blood spreading from a chest wound. He felt for a pulse. Nothing. Then, a faint tremor.

“How is he?” asked the captain.

“Unconscious. He needs attention fast.”

“Can you carry him?” asked the captain.

Jonathan nodded. Bending double, he hoisted the soldier onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “Let’s get out of here.”

The officer ran toward the doorway, followed by Hamid and the sergeant. Jonathan took a breath and staggered into the large chamber. Exhaustion, adrenaline, and the din of combat blurred events. He saw the captain firing in disciplined bursts. He saw Hamid cross the chamber, throw open the exterior door, and lob a grenade. He saw the sergeant bolt upright, with half his head shorn away, then stumble backward and fall to the ground.

And then Jonathan was at the door leading to the clearing, the captain and Hamid next to him. From high in the sky came the dull, rhythmic chop of a helicopter. A moment later, an earsplitting roar louder than anything Jonathan had ever heard filled the air. The ground shook. Men screamed.

“Gatling gun,” said the captain. “Let’s move!”

“What about the sergeant?” asked Jonathan.

The soldier lay a meter away, his brains spilled on the ground beside him.

“He’s gone.”

Hamid opened the door and tossed the last grenade. There was a flash of light, and a stream of white smoke curled into the air. The captain ran ahead, turning every few feet and spraying the area with machine-gun fire. Hamid pushed Jonathan out the door.

“Run to the far side of the plateau. Don’t stop for anything.”

“You don’t have to tell me that twice.” Jonathan jogged unevenly behind him, head down, his only thought that he must deliver the wounded Ranger to safety. He sensed rather than saw the helicopter hovering overhead. Geysers of dirt and crushed stone erupted from the Gatling gun’s rounds, spraying his face. Dead Taliban lay everywhere. To his right, the pickup trucks burned magnificently. Afghan fighters dashed across the clearing, seeking shelter from the withering cannon fire.

The helicopter touched down at the far end of the clearing. SEALs jumped to the ground and ran toward them. Jonathan transferred the wounded Ranger to their care, then pulled himself into the open compartment. The captain hauled himself in next to him. “You did good, doc,” he shouted, barely audible above the rifle fire and rotor wash. “We could use you on our team anytime.”