Mike Maden - River of Gods

“Then you’re in danger, too.”

“No. I have lots of friends around here, remember? They kill me, they have a civil war on their hands.”

“That won’t save you.”

“It has so far.”

“And does your father know that Vittorio is dead?”

“No.”

“Because if you told him, he’d just send another, right?”

“Yes.”

Pearce rummaged around in his memory for a moment. “Paolini. Aerospace manufacturing. Helicopters, right?”

She sighed. “And other things.”

Pearce glanced around the clinic again. Very well stocked. “And he’s your ‘donor base.’”

“He makes money killing people, so it is only right that his money should save them, too.” She pulled off her glasses. “How would you like some food?”

“Very much, thank you. I’m starving.”

“Then make us something. There are some fresh eggs and bread in that refrigerator, and a pan in the bottom drawer. I must go next door and check on the women.”

Pearce’s mouth watered at the thought of fried eggs. “Sounds like a plan.” He headed for the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl of eggs. Started to relax.

Until the explosion.

Afghanistan–Pakistan border

7 January

Pearce grabbed his M4 and a parka before diving into the UAZ. The distant explosion he’d heard was in the direction of Daud’s village. Distant jet engines split the air like rolling thunder, and black smoke smudged the crystalline blue sky above the mountain.

Pearce had given Daud’s radio to Hamid and told him to keep it close. “Hamid! Hamid! What is happening?” Pearce yelled in Pashto.

No response.

The snowstorm had passed, but the clear sky had only dropped the temperature. Pearce shivered in the cab, waiting for the motor heat to kick in. He slammed the gearshift through its paces, clutching as fast as he could to get up to speed. The ancient Russian jeep slipped and yawed in the snow as he gunned the throttle, but its four-wheel drive kept him moving generally forward.

Pearce called on the radio again, over and over. Nothing.

He wound his way back up the hill toward the village. Somewhere along the way he’d crossed back over the border from Pakistan. It was hardly a road, more like a clearing between trees. He followed Cella’s tire tracks from last night, hoping they were, in fact, hers. But he remembered a hairpin turn that he now took that brought him to a steep incline. Daud’s village would be about three kilometers up the road. He slammed the brakes and listened. Over the idling motor he could make out the heavy whump-whump-whump of rotor blades beating the air.

The road leveled out for a short stretch. As best he could remember this little patch was about three hundred meters from the village. He pulled off the road and hid the vehicle in the trees, killed the motor, and grabbed his rifle. The helicopter engine thundered overhead and voices shouted at the top of the hill.

Pearce checked his only mag, then squeezed the release latch, pulled back the T handle, and charged a round into the receiver. He wished like hell now he hadn’t left his fighting pack at Daud’s house. The only gear he had with him was his rifle, combat knife, and boots. He didn’t have time to pull on his body armor.

Pearce picked his way up the hill through the trees, keeping cover, careful to stay as far away from the road as possible. His face burned in the cold air that carried the smell of burnt wood and flesh. He crested the hill and dropped into the snow, which was covered in fine dust and ash.

He used his rifle scope to scan the smoldering village, a hundred meters to his right, across the road. His heart sank. Houses were flattened, and craters smoldered. Broken bodies, or pieces of them, were scattered on the ground. He counted twenty Taliban fighters laughing and joking as they picked through the smoldering ruins, nudging the corpses of Daud’s men. A few carried AKs, but most carried HK G3s, just like he’d heard last night. In the distance, a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter circled on over watch.

Pearce swung the scope around again. There. Khalid himself. The black-bearded muj was sharing a smoke with a U.S. Army captain wearing an Airborne unit patch.

Pearce tried to put the puzzle pieces together. Why would the Air Force level this village with JDAMs? That Army captain must have called it in. But why? Maybe Khalid told that captain that this was an AQ village. Shit. But Daud and his village were registered with the CIA as allies, and Pearce’s command knew he was hunting Khalid for running drugs and guns across the border. Hell, his command had authorized the mission. So who FUBAR’d?

He’d figure that out later. Pearce centered the target reticle on Khalid’s upper lip just below the nose, aiming for the “apricot,” the medulla oblongata. He slowed his breathing, preparing to pull between heartbeats.

He hesitated. Shooting Khalid now would be suicide. It wouldn’t bring Hamid or Daud’s father and mother back to life. Wouldn’t fix anything. If he wasn’t lucky, he might accidentally shoot the captain. It was a really bad idea.

Pearce’s rifle barked. Khalid’s face erupted in a cloud of pink mist and broken teeth.

That’s for you, Daud.

Pearce rolled to his left, then stood and ran in a half-crouch back down the hill through the trees. Angry voices shouted behind him. Rifles cracked. Bullets zoop ed in the air just above his head, snipping branches and spitting snow in front of him. Pearce’s lungs burned as he gulped down the frozen air, his legs pumping high through the thick cotton candy of loose snow until he reached the UAZ.

He yanked open the door, fired up the engine, and spun the jeep back out onto the road. He shoved the stick into first gear and leaped out, hoping the Black Hawk would take the bait and chase the UAZ while he dove through the trees down the perilous slope back to Cella’s compound. If the helicopter didn’t kill him, the run down the side of the mountain probably would.

Medicia Oltre Frontiere Compound

Afghanistan–Pakistan border

7 January

Two hours later, Pearce stumbled out of the steep tree line, back on the Pakistani side of the border. Bathed in sweat, thighs burning, breathless, he scanned the snowy path just beyond the clinic entrance.

Not good.

The blue steel gate was battered and twisted on the lock side, rammed open by something heavy and hostile.

Pearce dropped to the deck in a puff of snow just as a Pakistani soldier stepped into the open gate area. He wore heavy-weather camouflage gear and carried a G3 rifle.

Just like the rifles that Khalid’s men carried.

That was enough confirmation for Pearce. The Pakistanis, or at least some of them, were helping the Taliban. With allies like that, how could we possibly fail to win this war? he thought.

Assholes.

The soldier scanned the road carelessly, then stepped back inside the gate, out of view. Pearce dashed across the road, as far away from the sight line of the gate entrance as he could get. A stand of pine trees marched up to the high stone walls of the compound. Pearce used them as cover. When he reached the wall, he listened. He counted three voices in the little courtyard, but heard more voices shouting from inside the clinic.