Tom Young - The Renegades

He heard Rashid in the helicopter, interrogating Aamir.

“Did you find out where he was trying to go?” Parson asked.

“A bandit camp four kilometers north,” Rashid called.

“So they might have seen where we crashed.”

“Yes,” Rashid said. He gave a command in Pashto, and the crew chief began to work at the hardware that attached the door gun to the aircraft structure. The weapon represented a blend of Russian and American technology: a PKM automatic weapon installed on a Dillon Aero mount. The crew chief detached the PKM from its pintle, wrapped a belt of ammunition across his shoulder. He and Rashid carried the weapon out of the helicopter. They spoke, pointing to terrain beyond the aircraft, apparently considering how best to set up a field of fire.

The lay of the land both hindered and helped, Parson judged. The Mi-17 had come down fairly high along the mountainside, on a flat shelf. The ledge overlooked a steep draw studded with gullies, scrubby hawthorns, and stones the size of aircraft tires. Bad guys would most likely attack from below. Infantry troops always loved the high ground, to fire on the enemy from an elevated position. Though Parson had never been a grunt, he knew any rifleman would call this a good spot.

But from an airman’s perspective, it sucked. A helicopter coming to pick them up would have to fly into the wind cascading over the ridge. Mountain wave turbulence could roll a helicopter inverted. The rescue might have to wait until the wind calmed.

“Hey, Reyes,” Parson called.

“Yes, sir,” Reyes answered from inside the cabin.

“We’re thinking we might have the wrong kind of company pretty soon. I know you got patients to treat, but keep your rifle close.”

“Always, sir.”

The passenger who’d spoken up earlier climbed out of the helo and stood beside Parson. The man had short-cropped brown hair tinged with gray. Salt-and-pepper stubble on his cheeks. He wore a beige equipment vest like the ones Parson had seen on photographers, except this one read USAID across the back. A shoulder patch said VIRGINIA TASK FORCE ONE.

“Do you know how to shoot?” Parson asked.

“Gulf War,” the man answered. “First Cav.”

So maybe this guy was useful. Parson stuck out his hand. “Michael Parson,” he said. The man gave a firm handshake.

“Jake Conway.”

Parson briefed Conway on the situation with the weather and the chopper pickup. Then he climbed back inside, found Aamir’s pistol on the aircraft’s center console. After checking the chamber and magazine of the Russian-built weapon, he handed it to Conway.

“This will have to do,” Parson said.

“At least we know it works,” Conway said. He placed the Makarov in a vest pocket.

While Parson and Conway spoke, Rashid toiled silently. He helped the crew chief pile stones around the PKM to set up a better fighting position. Occasionally he looked inside the helicopter, regarded Aamir.

“May I let the dog out and give her some water?” Conway asked.

“Up to you,” Parson said. “If it runs off, we can’t go chasing it.”

“She won’t do that.”

Conway disappeared inside the Mi-17. He emerged a few minutes later with the Belgian Malinois on a leash. He also carried a bowl and a bottle of water. The fur on the animal’s back remained bristled, but the dog made no sound. The Malinois looked at Parson, wagged its tail once, and lay on the ground, head upright, ears perked.

“Here you go, Ingrid,” Conway said as he placed the bowl in front of the dog. He cracked open the water bottle, poured some into the bowl, took a swallow. The dog lapped as Conway handed the bottle to Parson.

Before Parson could take a sip, the dog stopped drinking. It looked up, muzzle dripping, at something downslope. Parson shaded his eyes with his hand, saw nothing but shale, dust, and gnarled vegetation.

The animal kept staring. Wind tousled the hair raised along its spine. The dog emitted a low growl.

Gold and the Marines remained inside their two Cougars and watched the village, especially the house flying the Taliban flag. She half expected gunfire to chatter from the stone huts. But she heard only the Cougars’ idling engines, the flag’s fluttering, and the rush of wind whipping dust across the path.

“Sergeant Blount,” she said. “Let’s not dismount your men just yet.”

“What do you want to do?” Blount asked.

“I guess I better go ring the doorbell,” Gold said. “Let’s not look any more threatening than we have to.”

It was pretty hard for two armored vehicles full of Marines not to look threatening, Gold knew, but she could at least not make things worse. She put down her rifle and removed her helmet. Taking an idea from Ann and Lyndsey, she even untied her hair.

“You’re walking out there unarmed?” Lyndsey asked.

“If they open up on me from the inside, my rifle won’t help,” Gold said. She realized she was taking a chance. But the whole point of counterinsurgency was not to intimidate the locals. The bullets you didn’t fire were the most important.

Blount seemed to get it. “Hey, gunner,” he said. “Lower your weapon.”

“Sergeant?” the gunner asked.

“I didn’t say take your hands off it. Stay ready to shoot. Just don’t point it at the houses right now.”

“Aye, aye, Sergeant.”

“Let us go with you,” Ann said.

Gold thought for a moment. “Watch me go to the door,” she said. “If it seems safe, then you two follow me.” In her work as an interpreter, she had visited many Afghan villages, but she’d never sauntered right up to a hut flying the enemy’s flag. She felt she’d entered some gray area between brave, creative, reckless, and stupid.

“I don’t like this one bit,” the gunner said.

“Nobody asked you,” Blount said.

“I don’t like it, either, for what that’s worth,” Gold said. “Let me out.”

The ramp at the back of the Cougar whined open. Lyndsey raised her gloved fist, and Gold tapped it with her own. Gold added one more instruction: “If it looks real good, bring the bag of sugar.”

The sun hurt Gold’s eyes as she stepped down the ramp and onto the ground. She’d left her shades in a pouch on her MOLLE gear, one more little thing to look a bit less formidable. Also, she wanted to make eye contact when she spoke with the villagers.

At the back of the Cougar, she took a deep breath and scanned her surroundings. No one in sight. Just more chickens. Another cat, sleeping on a doorstep. She began walking toward the house with the flag.

Gold tried to move as casually as possible. Too fast a pace might have appeared aggressive. Too slow might have seemed like stealth.

This could be a trap, she knew all too well. Back in 2009, she’d served at a base in Khost where CIA spooks planned to meet with a hot contact. A Jordanian doctor claimed to have access to al-Qaeda’s number two, Ayman al-Zawahiri. Gold wasn’t in on the meeting; the Jordanian spoke Arabic, not Pashto, and so her services had not been required.

She was walking to the chow hall when the doctor detonated himself. Gold knew what had happened the instant the blast wave took her breath away. The suicide bombing killed seven agency people. For her, not being needed on that day meant not needing to die.

Now she wondered if her next step might bring an explosion or the crack of a tracer. The wind felt good against the back of her neck; the day was bright but cool. Her head had cleared from the IED blast earlier, and she felt focused on her mission. Not bad for a last moment, she considered, as long as the end came quickly.

It did not come at all. She reached the door, glanced back at the MRAPs, and knocked. “Salaam,” she said.