Read The Mullah's Storm Online
Authors: Tom Young
The Mullah's Storm (23 page)
He checked his compass again, its floating dial rotating in oil. Snow pellets struck the compass face and shattered, the white molecules skating across the glass. Parson had a hard time holding the instrument steady. He read his course under the lubber line, checked it against the trees and other landmarks. Tried to think. Very little magnetic declination here, close to one of the earth’s agonic lines. Closed the compass and kept moving.
Parson began to make out a sheer cliff rising beyond the trees, close enough to vertical that it wasn’t all covered by snow. A rock face black as a gun barrel. No climbing that in our condition, he thought, even if we were equipped. Just have to move around it, watch the heading and pace count, and try not to fuck up the navigation.
He didn’t want to stop and study his map out in the open. When they finally reached the copse of pines, he felt better about calling a halt. Parson kneeled in the snow beside a tree, unzipped a thigh pocket to reach for the map the SF troops had given him. Heard a noise. Rasp of paws on snow crust. He looked up as a wolf bolted away, kicking up crystals. Fur the color of smoke. They had come within yards of the animal without seeing it.
Parson opened the map. Snow fell into it and collected in the creases. The map shook as he held it. Parson was trying to save his GPS batteries; he could count on only about fifteen hours even in warm weather. He turned on the unit just long enough for it to initialize. The GPS fix checked with the map. Parson turned off the receiver and placed it back in his pocket.
He surveyed the terrain and decided to pass west of the cliff. That direction amounted to the least bad option; any path he chose went uphill. And he based that call purely on slope, not on tactics. He had no idea where the enemy was.
The snow sounds changed from hissing to ticking. Some of the flakes that struck his coat bounced rather than shattered. More ice in the snow now, and it came down in ropes. Maybe some warmer air aloft, Parson guessed. Probably not good news. Brittle snow would make more noise as they walked.
As they rounded the cliff on the side of the mountain shielded from the wind, the snow on the ground became shallower. The accumulation barely reached the tops of Parson’s boots. The walking came much easier after hours of slogging through deep snow. Limestone talus crumbled under his soles like terra-cotta, and when his feet slipped they scraped away snow and rocks to reveal frozen earth the color of dried blood. Gold plodded along in the snowshoes he’d given her. She left oval tracks that paralleled his own. He wished he had a second set of snowshoes. Right now he lacked the materials and energy to fashion another makeshift pair.
Parson stopped to catch his breath on a swale of level ground. Beyond, the land rose still higher to elevations hidden by mist. He noticed another set of wolf tracks. Fresh. No glimpse of the animal itself. He pointed at the prints. “I suppose they’re moving because they can’t find their usual food in the storm,” he said.
“The one I saw did look pretty scrawny,” Gold said.
Parson slipped his rifle sling from his shoulder and carried the weapon across his chest. He figured it would take a pretty hungry wolf to attack two adults, but he could use the M-40’s stock as a club if he had to. Didn’t want to fire unnecessarily, even with the silenced weapon. He wondered whether his course happened to follow the wolves or if it was the other way around. If they were hungry, they sure weren’t going uphill for nothing. Smart bastards if they were circling him, checking him out.
His own hunger pangs started again. He shifted the rifle to the crook of his right arm. Without looking he reached behind him with his left hand and opened a side pocket flap of the backpack. Felt for a chocolate bar from the MRE he’d opened earlier. He unwrapped it, stuffed the trash back in the side pocket. Broke the bar in half. It was frozen and it popped like a .22. Parson handed one of the halves to Gold.
He bit into his own piece and made shallow teeth marks. Bit down harder. When the chocolate shattered, it had the taste and consistency of hard plastic. He crunched it and swallowed. Didn’t enjoy it but knew he needed the calories. He had more MREs but didn’t want to stop now.
Parson hiked on, climbing, thinking about food. He had heard of people in bad situations entertaining themselves by planning imaginary meals. Steak medium well. A Guinness. Big slice of tomato. It just depressed him.
He tried to think of something else. What’s good here? Well, Gold’s here, sort of in one piece. She was useful and didn’t talk much. This would be so much worse with a yammering idiot or a whiner. And if she wasn’t whining now, she never would. Parson wondered about her wounds, and he decided to take a chance and ask.
“How are your hands?” he said.
“Still hurt a little.”
That worried Parson. If she admitted any pain at all, it must be awful.
“I bet you hate those ragheads as much as I do now,” he said.
Gold didn’t answer for a long moment. Then she said, “This is hard to forgive, but I have to try.”
Forgive? Was she serious? “I couldn’t forgive them in a thousand lifetimes,” Parson said. What was that saying he’d heard from infantry guys? Let God forgive them. We’ll arrange the meeting.
Gold looked straight at him. “Hate will hurt you more than it hurts them,” she said.
Parson wondered if Gold—or anyone—could really have that kind of inner peace. After torture, no less. Maybe she just had to play mind games with herself to do her job.
“I gotta hand it to you, Sergeant,” he said. “I don’t see how you do it.”
“They’re not ragheads to me, sir. Muslims were perfecting algebra when we were burning witches.”
Parson wished he had more of her knowledge. She could probably give one hell of a background briefing. But that would have to wait until they were safely back at Bagram. In the unlikely event that ever happened.
The icy snow began to form a crust on top of the powder that had already fallen. It broke like a membrane and crackled underfoot. Parson tried to walk quietly, but it was impossible. Doesn’t matter, he decided. If the bad guys can hear me, I can hear them.
He did not hear the wolf. It just materialized out of the fog, three steps in front of him. Hair raised along its spine. Lips curled in a silent growl. White fangs. Yellow eyes.
Parson expected the creature to run like before, but it stood motionless. Then it sprang like it could fly.
Flash of teeth. The wolf hit Parson in the chest and knocked him backward. As he stumbled, he smelled wet dog odor, but sharper. The animal bit hard. Parson felt canines through his sleeve, pain in his arm like the scrape of a nail. Ripping cloth.
The animal jerked Parson to the left. He swung the M-40. No leverage, just a weak blow to the wolf’s side. Parson went down on one knee.
The animal whirled, snapped at Parson’s throat. Mouthful of razors. Parson jammed his elbow into its chest. Felt the thrashing muscles. Why wasn’t Gold helping?
The body armor did him no good now; it just slowed him down. He swung the rifle again. Wider arc this time. The stock cracked against the wolf’s head. The predator leaped back up like pain meant nothing.
Parson swung once more. The butt of the weapon slammed into the animal’s muzzle. The wolf yelped. A tooth dropped from its bleeding jaws.
Before Parson could swing again the wolf had him by the leg of his flight suit. Yanked him all the way to the ground. Pounced for his throat again. Parson blocked with the M-40 in his left arm, pulled his boot knife with his right.
The animal moved like quicksilver. Red teeth in Parson’s face, dripping and snarling. The wolf’s foul breath was like a dog’s but sickly tart, like it had fed on carrion.
Parson sank the blade into the wolf’s neck. Twisted. Stabbed again. The animal sprang back. Parson brought up the rifle with one hand and fired.
The bullet caught the wolf in the chest. The creature fell into the snow, one hind leg kicking.
Parson turned to see Gold on the ground, a wolf on her arm. It had her sleeve in its teeth, and it was twisting its head side to side. She jammed the barrel of her AK into its cheek. Fired. Spray of blood and fur. She sat up and fired as another wolf flew at her. It fell beside her in the snow, blood gushing from the wound in its neck.
Parson pulled the Colt from his survival vest. Thumbed the hammer. Another wolf came toward him at a hard run. Parson pulled the trigger. Thought he missed, but the wolf crashed into him dead.
He turned, looked, waited for the next attack. No sound but the whimpers of a dying wolf.
Then he saw another one, running away down the mountain. It stopped by a boulder and looked back. Maybe four football fields away.
Parson holstered the pistol and racked the bolt on the M-40. Twisted the sling around his left arm for a steadier hold. Kneeled and aimed. Centered the crosshairs just above the wolf’s eyes. Not a critical shot now. No more point in being quiet, either. So let’s just see how good this weapon really is. He pressed the trigger.
The wolf’s head exploded. Parson lowered the rifle, ejected the empty brass. Chambered another round. So that jarhead armorer did his job, he thought. This thing is accurized and cold-barrel zeroed true as Gospel.
“You all right?” Parson asked.
“I think so.” Gold checked her legs, pushed up her sleeves to examine her arms. Parson saw nothing worse than deep scratches. He raised his own pant legs and pulled off his gloves to look at his hands. Same as Gold, scrapes and punctures bleeding only a little. The skin across his knuckles was cracked and sore from the cold. Lucky. We probably should get rabies shots when and if we get back, thought Parson.
He pulled his knife from the neck of the wolf he’d stabbed. He wiped the blade, clicked it back into his boot sheath. It seemed everything in this place—inhabitants, climate, terrain, flora, and fauna—wanted him dead. But he wasn’t angry with the wolves. They were killers by birth, not by choice. Just doing what predators do. That, Parson understood. He even felt a bit guilty about that last one he’d shot at long range. It hadn’t been entirely necessary, but now at least he knew more about what his rifle could do.
“Keep a good watch for a minute,” Parson said. “Be ready to shoot.”
He dropped his rucksack, took out his first-aid kit. Opened the Betadine, unscrewed the cap. Gold held her weapon with her right arm while Parson painted the scratches on her left arm and hand. She neither flinched nor looked down at her injuries while he worked. She shifted the rifle, and he repeated the process for her other arm and her ankle and calf. Then he treated himself, put away the first-aid kit, pulled on his gloves, hoisted the pack and M-40.
“We’d better go,” he said. No telling who or what the sound of gunfire would attract. He hadn’t wanted to shoot, but the wolf attack had given them no choice. Nothing for it now but to move. They left churned and bloody snow, cartridge casings, dead wolves behind them.
Parson’s heading took them higher, but not across the spine of the ridge. He knew that was good in some ways. Keeping near the top but not on it placed them at what the Air Force survival school called the “military crest,” where they would not be silhouetted against the sky. But there wasn’t much sky to see now. Just mist roiling with snow and ice pellets, as if the air so full of hard particles had scoured away the horizon itself.
After a time, the map led them over the real crest. By then the fog was so thick that Parson didn’t worry about getting spotted. When he cross-checked his position with the GPS receiver, he noted that the elevation was above eleven thousand feet. Might as well use the altitude to some advantage, he thought. Parson pulled out his radio and turned it on.
“Razor One-Six,” he called, “Flash Two-Four Charlie.”
“Flash Two-Four Charlie,” Cantrell answered, “Razor One-Six reads you loud and clear. Delta.”
The code word by itself, not even used in a sentence. Cantrell sounded exhausted. Parson changed frequencies and called again.
“You guys all right?” he asked.
“We have some KIA,” Cantrell said. “And some wounded.”
So that’s why he was past caring about radio procedure, Parson thought. He paused, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you still at the same location?”
“Affirmative. Contact’s over.”
“We’ll come to you. It’s just a couple miles now.”
“Keep your radio on, then. Call me before you get to my perimeter.”
“Copy that. Flash Two-Four Charlie out.”
Parson left the earpiece in his ear. If these guys were bloodied and on a hair trigger, he sure didn’t want to blunder into them. He led the way downhill, placed his feet carefully. The snow was thicker on this side of the mountain. While he was still within a few hundred yards of the top, he noticed what looked like two perfectly straight, leafless limbs jutting from the snow. Too symmetrical not to be man-made. He lifted his rifle and looked through the scope.
Gun barrels. Some kind of artillery.
“Don’t move,” Parson whispered. Gold stopped a yard behind him.
He clicked off his safety and scanned with the scope. Combs of snow along the artillery barrels. The rest of the mechanism covered by accumulation. No one in sight. No tracks.
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