Swanson rolled the flat into the ditch, closed the hood, took the wheel, and got the truck running again. Brandt’s two shots into the engine compartment had been aimed to miss everything and to convince the frightened Lions that the motor was dead. And the shots into the already flat rear tire reinforced that impression. Thompson resumed his position behind the gun, slapped the top of the cab, and Swanson eased forward, slowly and quietly, but steadily gaining a little speed. It had taken no more than five minutes to change the tire, which meant that the boys would have had to be world-class runners to run a mile in that time. More likely, they had tired and were walking fast, slowing down all the time, feeling that safety was straight ahead in the first outlying lights of Girdiwal.
Brandt had been expecting the truck and was waiting a half mile down the road. He waved them down and climbed in. “Game on, guys. They’re straight ahead, no more than five hundred yards. Slow and quiet.”
Gibson found what he had expected: a minimal amount of actual damage to the small airfield but a lot of smoke and fire and borderline chaos. Rockets and bombs can do that to a place. It confirmed his suspicion that the attack was only a dump of munitions from the drone, which had then fled. The sky was empty.
He toured the runway and found that it still serviceable, as long as there were markers identifying the few craters. There were no craters in the middle, because there was no middle line on a landing area made up of a square mile of dirt. Lithe small planes could approach from almost any direction. The control shed was ruined; again, no surprise, as it was the largest building there. One small Cessna was flipped over and wingless. A pen of donkeys had been savaged, and the smell of their seared flesh befouled the air. Over to one side of the airstrip, a jumbo pile of heroin and opium remained unharmed. On the other side, a fuel depot that was under camo shelter had also escaped harm. Gibson counted three other planes dispersed far from one another, all looking ready to fly. Bombing blind at night had negated much of the effect, although the shock and awe factor had been superb.
Men were already on the field putting out the fires, and Gibson figured the pilots were on their way to get the planes out of the danger zone. In other words, it was under control and, without further disruption, should be back in operation soon and they could clear out the product. He wasn’t needed at the field, so he swung to a side road that led uphill for more than a mile to a cavern set back from a broad, flat apron. One of the Lions stepped from the gloom with his AK-47 and the truck flashed its lights.
Gibson identified himself and walked to the cavern. Barrels of aviation fuel were stacked to one side of the entrance. It was cooler inside, and dim light cast weak shadows. “Is he here?” he asked the boy.
“Yes.” The youngster was jittery from the fury of the attack, and his finger lingered near the trigger of his gun.
Gibson told him to stay calm, that everything was fine. The Americans had just sent in a drone, that was all, and he had come up to make sure nothing had been damaged. The Prince’s calm and reasonable tone cast a balm over the boy. Gibson patted him on the shoulder.
“Tell the pilot to get ready, but to keep the bird in the cave until I come back,” Gibson said. He looked over at the vintage UH-1E helicopter that his dad had stolen back and stashed here after the Vietnam era. It wore the olive-drab paint job of the U.S. Army, complete with black numerals, and it was kept in flying condition with constant maintenance and a full-time throttle jockey on hand. The big rotor tilted down, idle. “This is the way out, Luke, if there is ever a true need for that sort of thing,” his father had explained. “Always plan at least one escape route when you move into a place.”
Wise counsel from the old man. Gibson stroked the smooth skin of the old Huey helicopter and walked back to his truck. It was time to go hunting.
“Fast movers ninety seconds out,” Brandt called out from his position in the bed of the truck, hands pressed to his helmet to better hear the radio transmissions from an EA-6B Prowler electronic surveillance plane high up and far away, but assigned to control the battlefield traffic. “Pair of jarheads.”
Swanson, on the machine gun, gave a thumbs-up. The truck was at the edge of the town, and his bet was that the boys were headed straight for Luke Gibson’s overnight lodging to report what had happened. Still wearing Hamid’s clothing to better blend in with the locals, he bounced out of the pickup to follow on foot in case they dodged down some alleyway.
Thompson let his speed fall off even more and followed. Bruce moved up to the big gun. They both still wore the black jumpsuits, and in the poor light could easily be mistaken for Taliban troops, but it was best for them to stay out of sight before someone became too curious. Swanson was off the vehicle, trotting ahead, and saw the boys moving toward a multistory building with bright lights aglow on the lower floor, where a few people had gathered to discuss what all the explosions had been about. A hotel.
The camera drone had arrived on station and fed an overhead view of the scene live and in color all the way back to Germany, and also to Washington. The signal was clear, but the visibility sucked.
A pair of F/A-18 Hornets swirled into the opening at the lowland front of the Wakham Corridor, flying only five hundred feet off the deck and guided by the Prowler upstairs and the all-weather-terrain systems aboard each jet. The land rose higher on each side, but marine aviators train to fly low just for missions like this, in support of their guys on the ground. The lead pilot noticed a pair of headlights on the road as he rushed through the corridor, but ignored the vehicle. The planes were loaded for bear, having been off tending to business elsewhere in Afghanistan before they were recharted to compete the work on the airfield. There was no incoming anti-aircraft fire, no golden braids of tracers carving the obsidian darkness, and, as always, no enemy aircraft, so they lowered their altitude even more and received permission to go weapons-free. They would be in and out twice before any joker down there woke up and found a Stinger missile to shoot at them. The weapons-systems operator activated the bombs, missiles, and guns and looked for specific targets. In a few more seconds, it was going to be party time around Girdiwal.
Luke Gibson saw the wingtip lights suddenly appear out in front of the truck, coming fast from nowhere, then two jets thundered overhead. He couldn’t really see them, but the force of their exhausts shook the little Toyota like a puppy with a chew toy. He ordered the driver to park and turn off the lights, and when the Toyota halted he stepped out and looked back to watch the light show. No drones this time. Those were big boys. Well, that ain’t fair, he thought.
27
Kyle Swanson broke into a gallop when the two boys scuttled into the hotel, brushing past a knot of people gathered outside in the street, whose attention had been drawn to the new attack on the airfield. Panic had gripped them, because the old warlord Mahfouz al-Rashidi and all his sons were dead, and his replacement hadn’t yet asserted control. They were without leadership among their own people, but they knew that the Prince was still around. Surely this esteemed man would stop the assault. The poppy fields were burning from rocket strikes. The airfield was being pulverized.