Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

What Laidlaw and his staff saw from 0-degree angle on high and through the drifting smoke and the hum of tiny jihadi insects that buzzed and bit and were otherwise invisible, was the dark ripple, which was the crest of a ridge, running diagonally across the screen. On it a tiny, almost antlike movement that signified ambulatory life was held under the white, glowing cruciform of a center-lens indicator. A whole lot of meaningless numbers-Laidlaw wasn’t good on tech stuff-ran across the border, the top, and the bottom of the image, and it took some getting used to. A compass orienter floated about the screen, establishing direction. With practice, you adjusted to the stylizations of the system, the 0-degree foreshortening, the brown-to-black-to-gray color scheme, the scuts of dust that blew this way and that, all the interfering digital reads and indicators, and learned to determine the difference between the two marines and the longer, squirmier forms of the goats, spilling this way and that.

“How much longer?” asked the colonel, meaning how long before the satellite continued its way around the earth and Whiskey 2-2 passed from view for another twenty-four.

“Only about ten minutes, sir,” S-2 said. “Then they go bye-bye.”

They knew that these semiabstract forms against the opacity of the large monitor were Whiskey 2-2 and not some group of actual goatherders by virtue of the cruciform that kept the camera nailed. It signified the presence of a GPS chip and a miniaturized transmitter in the grip of Cruz’s SVD. The satellites told the chip where it was and the transmitter told the world what the satellite told the chip. This simplified the problematic issue of target acquisition and identification and meant that when the satellite was in range, it could eyeball the guys the whole way. But Whiskey 2-2 didn’t know this and both S-2 and Colonel Laidlaw felt a little uneasy about it. It was, in effect, spying on their own men without permission, as if an issue of trust was involved. The colonel justified it by telling himself it was necessary in the case of an emergency evac, if Lance Corporal Skelton, hurt or killed, couldn’t get to his radio and sing out coordinates. They could call in Air Force Warthogs and ventilate the area with frags and 30-millimeter while guiding in marine aviation for the extract if Whiskey found itself in a firefight.

“Who’s that?” someone said.

“Hmm,” said S-2.

“Where, what, info please,” said Colonel Laidlaw.

“Sir, ahead of them on the same axis, on the hilltop a little back, I’m guessing maybe a half mile out to the west, that is, to the right.”

To spare the colonel the agony of translating the directions into an actual location on the gray wilderness of the monitor, S-2 ran up to the screen and touched what the exec had seen first. No goats, that’s for sure. No, it was a group of guys, slightly whiter against the dull sage of landform, only they were lengthier than goats and not moving, which meant they were in the prone. If they were facing in the right direction, they were on line to intercept 2-2’s line of route.

“Taliban?”

“Probably.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Shouldn’t be. They ran into Taliban patrols twice yesterday and once earlier today. To the Tals, they just look like goatherders.”

“Yeah, but those guys were on their feet, standing, eyeballing, moving in their own direction. These guys are setting up. This could be an intercept.”

The marine officers continued to watch the monitor as the drama played out in real time before them. Laidlaw lit another cigarette. S-2 didn’t say anything snarky. Exec didn’t suck up. Sniper Platoon leader, twenty-two, refused to speak. It just happened.

The group ahead of 2-2 seemed to squirm, then settle. Damn, why hadn’t the staff seen them come in; maybe their direction of origin would have been an indicator.

“How much time?” asked Colonel Laidlaw.

“Two minutes.”

“Sir, I can reach Whiskey on the HF-90M. Give ’em a heads-up.” That was exec.

“Sir, all due respect, but if you do that, Skelton has to hunker down, peel off his caftan, unstrap the radio, and talk into the phone,” said S-2. “All those are tells. If these guys are bad or there are some other bad actors, say in caves, we’re not picking up on, that gives Two-Two away for sure. The mission goes down. They get whacked for sure, or end up in a running gunfight.”

“Shit,” said the colonel.

“I don’t like the orientation. Those guys are prone, they’re setting up to shoot. Could the Agency have a team in there?” said Exec.

“I got negative from liaison on that not an hour ago,” said S-2. “This is the only area op.”

“Let it play out,” said the colonel, “goddamnit.”

They watched. The two small forces drew inexorably together, the raggedy fleet of goats spilling across the landscape on the ancient track in the hills, and the six possible ambushers set up orthodox Camp Lejeune-style for a shoot, legs neatly splayed, maybe one up on his knees working binocs, the others bending into scopes.

“I don’t like this one fucking bit,” said the colonel. “Where’s our goddamned Hellfire when we need it. I’d like to punch those bastards out, whoever they are.”

“They’re probably birdwatchers from the National Geographic channel,” said S-2. “Or maybe missionaries from the World Orphan Relief League. Or-”

But the question was answered. Two-two had reached its point of maximum closure with the unknown force on the hilltop and lay exposed to them.

From twenty-two miles up, the satellite watched with God’s indifference as it picked up the spurting warp-speed blurs of muzzle flashes from the prone team, signifying high-rate-of-fire weapons.

“Ambush,” said the colonel.

ZABUL PROVINCE

SOUTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN

1605 HOURS

It was raining goats. They flew through the air amid blasts of earth debris, some whole and bleating, some sundered and spraying blood, some atomized. The weather had become 100 percent chance of goat-red mist, gobbets of blasted flesh, unraveling intestines, the unself-conscious screams of animals suddenly sentient to the prospect of their own extinction.

Then Skelton launched. He pinwheeled fifteen feet through the air, his face a study in wonder, spinning, legs and arms extended, defying gravity as he sailed.

Ray lurched in that moment, saving his own life, for surely the gunner was shooting right to left, semiauto, had missed twice, hitting goat, the huge.50-caliber detonations unleashing waves of energy that flipped other goats airward and splattered them, then scoring a hard one that took Skelton solid, and then pivoted the huge weapon on the bipod another half a millimeter to plant one in Ray. But aiming for center mass, he was behind Ray on the action curve, and time in flight from half a mile out didn’t help and the express train hit Ray on the outer surface of the right thigh. It hit no bones, broke nothing full of coursing fluids, and delivered nothing but energy.

Ray flew. He left the earth behind. He’d seen-and hit-enough guys with a.50 to know what the phenomenon looked like. Usually the delivered energy is so high-in the 5,000-foot-pound range-that a frail sack of blood and struts like a human being will flip through the air, sometimes as far as 30 feet, limbs askew, and land in a pile of wreckage. So it was with Ray, and he seemed to be in midair for a long while, and had a full measure of time to miss his mother and father, who had given him exactly what he wanted and needed, love and support and belief, and as well to miss the Marine Corps, which took over when his parents were called away, and which had given him so many opportunities to do that at which he excelled, and then he hit the ground in a stir of dust and stones and sprigs of leaf and twig. He spat out a missile of phlegm and grit, thanked God he hadn’t landed on his back where such an impact would have driven the alien SVD into his flesh, possibly breaking some ribs and bruising his spine.