Tom Young - The Renegades

“How is that?” Reyes asked.

“It sucks,” Parson said, “but it’s food.” He imagined his primitive manner of eating the Unimix was probably how the stuff usually got eaten. But even in his present circumstances, he was better off than most people who’d ever tasted it. “Do you want some?” he asked.

“I’ll pass,” Reyes said.

“There’s plenty if you get hungry enough.”

Parson supposed, after having delivered tons of Unimix in relief missions gone by, there was a strange irony that he wound up eating it. But he didn’t have time to ponder that.

He went back outside to resume his watch. The valley below still looked empty. Just a few stunted trees growing along a narrow stream. A canal extended from the stream at a right angle. Difficult to tell at a distance of a mile or so, but it seemed the weed-choked canal irrigated no crop. The Army Corps of Engineers had built dams and canals in Afghanistan during the 1950s, but most fell into disrepair. Maybe this was one of those relics.

Though Parson saw no threat, something still bothered the dog. She kept staring in the same direction, growling and whining. When Conway stroked her ears, it did little to calm her.

“Something’s down there,” Conway said. He held Reyes’s rifle. Parson noted that he always kept the muzzle pointed in a safe direction.

“Your dog’s not happy, that’s for sure,” Parson said. He envied the animal’s simple existence—fully aware of dangers within its view but with most forms of evil beyond its knowing. Living moment to moment with no plans and no concept of time.

Parson shaded his eyes with his hand, wished he’d brought binoculars. His hunter’s eye caught a ripple in the canal, and at first he thought of ducks feeding among the weeds. Were there ducks here? He couldn’t remember seeing any flying around. Their rapid wing beats would have distinguished them from other birds. And that stagnant canal water probably could not support fish big enough to create ripples like that.

“We got company,” Parson said. “Down in the canal. Right where the dog’s looking.”

Rashid gave an order in his native tongue. He and his crew chief swung their machine gun where Parson pointed.

“The dog is unclean, but is useful,” Rashid said.

“Reyes,” Parson called. “Gimme your radio.” Parson had his old-school survival radio in his vest, but the pararescueman’s newer PRC-152 had encryption and wider frequency capability. Reyes clambered out of the Mi-17 and handed Parson the radio and his headset. Parson dug his comm card from a flight suit pocket, ran his finger down the list of call signs and frequencies. He punched in the channel for the AWACS surveillance aircraft.

“What’s up?” Reyes asked.

“Hostiles down in the canal.”

“How do you know they’re hostile, sir?”

“Because they’re sneaking through that nasty water. They wouldn’t get in that shit without a reason.” Parson put on the headset, pressed the transmit button, and called, “Bandsaw, Bandsaw, Golay One-Eight.”

Several seconds went by. Just as Parson started to press transmit again, he got an answer: “Golay One-Eight, Bandsaw Three-Six, go ahead.”

So the AWACS was listening up, Parson thought, just like it was supposed to. At least that much was going right.

“Bandsaw,” he called, “Golay One-Eight is a downed Mi-17. Search-and-rescue is aware of our position, but they’re not the only ones who know where we are. Can you vector some close air support our way?”

“Spectre’s on station,” the AWACS answered. “I’m standing by to copy your position.”

That would work, Parson thought. An AC-130 gunship. Helicopters couldn’t land right now, but that monster could sure as hell orbit overhead and lay down some fire. However, it depended on where the gunship was on station. Parson transmitted his coordinates.

“Bandsaw copies all,” the AWACS responded. “Be advised Spectre Six-Four is about eighty miles from your position.”

Parson did some mental math. The gunship could head toward him at about four miles a minute, depending on the aircraft’s drag index. So it would take maybe twenty minutes to arrive, plus whatever time the crew needed to spot the target and set up on a firing run.

“Thanks for the help,” Parson said. “We’ll be here.” For a while. The wind blustered strong as ever. Through the blowing dust, Parson saw a distant, dripping figure climb from the canal and take cover behind a boulder. Then another, clad in black. And another, and another.

He gestured to Rashid. Parson pointed two fingers at his own eyes, pointed downhill, then held up four fingers. Rashid nodded, scanned left to right. He spoke in Pashto, and the crew chief shifted the PKM slightly, held his finger over the trigger of the big machine gun.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Conway asked. He was so focused on the enemy that he hadn’t noticed Parson’s signal to Rashid.

“Yeah,” Parson said, “and I’m worried about the ones we don’t see.”

The insurgents who’d come out of the canal held their positions. The terrorists were too far away to hit with the M4 and the crew chief’s door gun, let alone Parson’s sidearm. And the longer they stayed put, the more he worried about bad guys coming from other directions. Though Parson and the others had a nearly unobstructed view of the valley below, the mountain’s folds offered little visibility to the sides. Above, the top of the ridgeline loomed just a hundred yards or so uphill, with everything behind it obscured.

Reyes made one more check of his patients, then stepped out of the helicopter, holding his Beretta. He lowered himself behind the stone barricade Parson and Conway had built. Even with every able-bodied man now in a fighting position, Parson’s de facto fire team seemed a thin force for repelling committed jihadists. Nothing for it but to keep a good watch, and when the shooting started, try to keep them pinned down until air support could get here. The radio would be more important than the guns.

“Spectre’s inbound,” Parson told Reyes. “You can call in a strike better than I can, so you take the radio.” PJs weren’t forward air controllers, but they knew how to make an emergency call for fire.

“Yes, sir,” Reyes said. He took the PRC-152 and the headset from Parson. Reyes also retrieved a smoke flare from his tactical vest and prepped it. He removed the plastic cap from one end and pried up the pull tab. It was the same kind of flare Parson had elected not to use earlier, but he did not object. If it became necessary to mark their position so a gunship could lay waste to everything around them, sparks would be the least of their problems.

A flicker of movement down in the valley caught Parson’s eye. He turned his head to see a man dart from behind a boulder, run several yards, dive for the ground. The insurgent carried an AK-47. Another man leapfrogged ahead of him, holding what looked like a grenade launcher.

“All right,” Parson said. “Here they come.” He thumbed the safety on his pistol, placed an extra magazine on the stones in front of him.

The dog gazed down at the valley floor, sniffed the air. She growled, whirled, and barked, teeth bared at something behind her.

Parson turned and looked up at the top of the ridge. The wind stung his eyes. He saw figures crouching above him. There was a glint, or maybe a flash. And the smoking trail of a rocket-propelled grenade.

Gold still kept contacts with the Afghan National Police. She had spent a tour helping run a literacy program for new recruits, and she decided to see if anyone knew anything about this Lieutenant Aamir and his kidnapped son. At the moment, she could do little else to help Parson.