Tom Young - The Renegades

As the first helicopter approached the ledge, Parson wondered if that aircraft carried Gold. The lead Pave Hawk thudded over the ledge and threw billows of grit into the air. Parson turned his face from the stings, waited for the pitch of the rotor blades to change. The other chopper orbited the mountain, its metal skin bronzed by moonlight.

The lead aircraft touched down and throttled back to idle. Two pararescuemen swung themselves out of the HH-60, brought a litter from inside their helicopter. Both wore black knee pads over their fatigues. As they ran toward the Mi-17, Parson saw they had name tags Velcroed to their upper sleeves. The cloth tags carried a straightforward acknowledgment of the dangers at hand: Rank. Last name. Blood type.

The PJs placed the litter on the floor of the downed helicopter, then lifted Sharif onto the litter. As they moved him, the wounded flight engineer clenched his teeth, but said nothing. Parson and Reyes picked up Conway’s partner. The men hauled both patients into the first Pave Hawk. Parson looked around the cabin; Gold was not there.

Rashid and the crew chief unloaded the PKM and lifted it from the fighting position they’d built. “You guys head out on the first chopper,” Parson said. “I’ll put Aamir on the other one.” Rashid did not argue; he seemed to want Aamir out of his presence. He and the crew chief heaved the PKM onto the Pave Hawk. Rashid ran back for his flight bag, then climbed aboard.

Reyes followed them inside. He fussed over his patients, conferred with the other pararescuemen.

The Pave Hawk’s engines whined louder. Parson sheltered himself inside the Mi-17 from the blowing dust. Conway’s dog cowered in its kennel, and Parson felt sorry for her. The dog had lost her master, and she seemed to know it. The animal barked over the noise of the HH-60’s departure. Aamir sat on a troop seat, looking down at the poncho that covered Conway.

Parson kneeled beside Aamir, drew his boot knife. Aamir’s eyes widened. He tried to slide away from Parson.

“I’m not going to hurt you, dipshit,” Parson said. He grabbed Aamir’s boots, cut the duct tape that bound them, but he kept the copilot’s hands tied. “Stay in your seat till I tell you to get on the next helicopter.” Parson knew Aamir had no idea what he said, and he wished Gold were already by his side.

With the lead Pave Hawk off the ground, the number two helo settled onto the ledge. Parson was eager to see Gold emerge from the aircraft. He’d let her deal with Aamir, get more of his story. Sophia would do a good job of that. She could put people at ease, calm them down. He’d watched her long enough to realize language skills were only half her powers. The other half was her manner, her approach, stuff you couldn’t teach. So many situations went smoother—even safer—if you could just get people to chill out. Not really a big part of Parson’s skill set, he had to admit.

Gold jumped out of the Pave Hawk right behind the PJs. Met him inside the Mi-17. “Sir,” she shouted over the engines and rotors, “are you okay?”

“I’m all right,” he said. “Here’s our guy.” He took Aamir by the arm, pulled him toward the door. “Just get him seated. Tell him if he gives you any trouble, he’ll get his ass kicked again.” Gold led Aamir to the Pave Hawk without speaking.

The pararescuemen from the second aircraft helped with Conway. Parson tucked the poncho under the dead man’s shoulders, took Conway’s feet. When they lifted him, a few drops of blood dripped from the creases of the poncho. They carried him to the Pave Hawk, stumbling and sidestepping with the weight.

Then Parson gathered up his helmet bag, survival vest, and Conway’s pack. The PJs loaded the dog and kennel, and Parson boarded last. He sat beside Gold and fastened his seat belt. Now she was talking to Aamir. In the pale glow of a utility light mounted on the helicopter’s ceiling, Parson saw Aamir’s expression change. The tight set of his lips relaxed as if he’d found some thread of relief.

The aircraft lifted off. The pulse of rotors coursed through Parson’s body like his own heart pounding. Turbulence jounced the chopper as soon as its wheels left the ground, but it climbed unencumbered by downdrafts. In the clear air of a country without industry, the moon lit the sky a deep garnet. Parson wondered when a fighter plane or gunship would come along to blow up the crippled Mi-17.

“Do you think Black Crescent has his boy?” Gold asked.

“I don’t know,” Parson said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I talked to the national police. They said he hasn’t reported the kidnapping, and he had a clean record up until now. No connections with bad guys.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, either. You know what’s a shame? He’s actually a damn good pilot.” So much about this sucked, and to Parson’s mind, what sucked most was the waste of talent. Aamir hadn’t started out as a criminal. But he’d been dealt a bad hand, and he’d played it the worst way possible. And now he was going to jail. It occurred to Parson that once again, he and Gold were escorting a prisoner. Different circumstances from last time, thank God. But bad enough.

He wondered how Rashid was coping in the other helicopter. The poor guy had lost two aircraft and a number of crew members all within a matter of days. Enough loss to get any aircraft commander to turn in his wings, but Parson doubted Rashid would do that. He’d come too far, worked and studied too hard, to throw it all away.

Gold and Aamir spoke again. The copilot’s lips trembled, and a tear fell from his cheek. But then his face dried up, and they talked in what sounded like matter-of-fact tones. Maybe Gold was filling him in on Black Crescent, the videos, the statements from Chaaku. Parson couldn’t think of much in that to offer hope, but the guy needed to know. And the more he knew, the more likely he could help. The more dots out on the page, the more likely the dots would connect. Son of a bitch better help, Parson thought, after what he’s done.

That judgment was getting way out of Parson’s field. He was an aviator, not a cop. The Air Force had an Office of Special Investigations for just this sort of thing. He supposed the OSI boys would want a long sit-down with Aamir. Parson hadn’t noticed any OSI types around Mazar, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Some of them wore civilian clothes, and they had a way of turning up anywhere.

Up ahead the terrain flattened, and the lights of Mazar glowed like crystals on black velvet. So power had returned, at least for part of the city.

At the moment, the city looked so peaceful that Parson could hardly imagine Mazar had been the stage for one of the worst massacres in Afghanistan. Gold had told him how the Taliban tried to take Mazar in 1997 and got routed. Hundreds, maybe thousands of Taliban troops were killed in combat or executed as prisoners. When the Taliban rolled back into town the following year, they went on a payback frenzy for days, charging down the streets in pickup trucks, blasting away with automatic weapons. Witnesses told of bodies decomposing in the streets and dogs eating corpses. Thousands of Shiite Hazaras died before it was over.

The Pave Hawk banked and descended to set up an approach for landing. Parson tried to make his mind stop wandering, but his mind always wandered when he was tired. He looked forward to a shower and a good long rest before dealing with all this shit again in the morning.

When the chopper touched down, the bump startled him awake. Parson realized he had dozed off, leaning on Gold’s shoulder.

Aamir watched the TV screen with a look of pure, undistilled hatred. In the secure room at command post, Gold sat with him as he viewed the first of the videos from Chaaku and Black Crescent. She hated to show him statements from the sword-wielding terrorist who might very well have abducted his son. But Aamir never hesitated; in fact, he wanted to get on with it.