“Shit!” Gaffan and Gonzalez threw themselves down as the grenade exploded behind them.
Hughley pointed toward the rocks. “Gaffan, you and Wells are taking out that position. Danny, you’re staying with Hackett. I’ll link the rest of the squad up with Alpha.”
“Yessir.”
Hughley sprinted off. They had a long night ahead, Wells thought. Instead of fifty guerrillas, the camp had held a hundred or more before the attack. Even now the bad guys outnumbered the Special Forces two to one. They should have had at least one more squad to even up the odds. But second-guessing the plan now would be a waste of time, and they couldn’t afford to waste time. They had to move fast, get control of the battlespace. The Talibs surely knew of trails that led up the mountain and would give them angles to shoot down on the plateau. If they put snipers above the battlefield, the SF soldiers would be exposed, sitting ducks. Before that happened, Hughley had to drive the guerrillas off the southern end of the plateau and into the valley.
Meanwhile Wells had his own problems to solve. Hackett lay on his back, breathing in fluttery bursts. He would be lucky to get through the night, Wells thought. “Gaffan.” Wells pointed to the rock seventy-five feet away where the guerrilla in the white robe lay. “Let’s move.”
Wells laid out a covering burst as Gaffan sprinted for the rock and slid in. Five seconds later they switched roles, Gaffan firing as Wells ran to the rock. Up close, Wells saw that the wounded guerrilla was in terrible shape, the left side of his face gone. His right eye opened wide as he registered their presence. He twisted away, his hands scratching at the dirt.
“I’ll do it,” Wells said. “Watch the cave.”
“But—”
“Watch the cave, Sergeant.”
Wells leaned close to the man and said in Arabic, “Dear Lord, pour patience upon us and make us die as Muslims.” The Quran, verse 7, line 126. He unholstered his Makarov, shoved it into the man’s mouth, and pulled the trigger. The single shot echoed into the darkness. The guerrilla’s skull exploded, spewing a devil’s volcano of blood and brains. Another thousand sleepless nights, Wells thought. He pushed the corpse away, furious that the man hadn’t had the decency to die on his own. The body flopped over, arms askew. No one who died tonight would get a proper burial.
“Maybe I’m just projecting, but I swear he looked relieved,” Gaffan said.
You’re just projecting, Wells didn’t say. Warned you not to watch. He put the man’s cracked skull out of his mind. He’d save the nightmares for later. “Let’s do this, get close enough to lay a forty in that cave.” A high-explosive 40-millimeter grenade, fired from the M203 launchers attached to the carbines he and Gaffan carried.
Wells pulled open the barrel of his 203, popped in the grenade — a cylinder that looked like a shotgun shell — and cocked the barrel. He pointed to a stunted tree a hundred feet to their right. “Ready?”
Gaffan nodded.
Wells popped up, fired, and dropped down. His grenade blasted into the mountainside, a red-white explosion that faded fast. He’d missed, but not by much. Now let them fire back. The Talibs were loose with their ammo. Let them shoot until their magazines ran dry. Then Wells and Gaffan would break for the tree, where they’d be close enough to do some damage.
But the Talibs refused to play along. Instead of random AK-47 fire, they fired only a few well-aimed shots. Two rounds hit the dead Talib, making the corpse jump, a caricature of resurrection. Gaffan had no chance to move from the shelter of the rock.
“Somebody’s been teaching these guys to shoot,” Wells said.
“I’m thinking that too, sir.”
Now Wells and Gaffan were pinned. The guerrillas had them targeted and would cut them down the next time they poked their heads up. They watched helplessly as two guerrillas emerged from the boulders by the cave and ran left, diving behind a mound of dirt kicked up by a Hellfire missile. From their new position, the Talibs had an angle on Gonzalez and Hackett, who were stuck because of Hackett’s leg. Sure enough, rounds began smashing into the low, flat rocks that sheltered Gonzalez and Hackett.
“Pinned here, sir,” Gonzalez yelled through the night. Then: “¡Maricón! ¡Puta! Bitch got my Kevlar.” He fired back ineffectually.
Not good.
“NOW WHAT, SIR?”
Wells thought for a few seconds. Could he aim a grenade well enough to drop it over the boulders that hid the guerrillas? Doubtful. But—
“Load up with CS.” CS was a powerful chemical irritant that left its victims temporarily blind and gasping for breath. All SF soldiers carried CS grenades in addition to the traditional high-explosive variety. Wells popped a gray-and-green aluminum CS grenade in the 203.
“But sir—” Gaffan said.
“Sergeant. Stop calling me sir. Call me John, Wells, dogface, whatever. Not sir. Makes me feel like I’m two hundred years old.”
“Yes, Mr. Wells.”
“Mr. Wells? All right, it’ll do. Now stop arguing and load up.” Lying on his stomach, Wells crooked his arms at the elbow so that the barrel of his carbine pointed up like a mortar. He imagined the gas grenade arcing out of the M4 and landing behind the rocks like a perfectly thrown football. He squeezed the trigger. The carbine jerked back as the grenade soared out.
A few seconds later, white smoke drifted down the side of the mountain, a hundred yards above the entrance to the cave. Not close enough. Wells stayed on his stomach, keeping his arms still.
“Gimme your M4 and reload mine,” Wells said. Gaffan put his own carbine in Wells’s hands. Wells tilted his arms back slightly, calculating, again imagining the gas canister landing behind the boulders. He fired. The grenade landed thirty yards short. Better, but not good enough.
AK fire rattled at Wells and Gaffan as the white CS smoke dispersed across the plateau. A rocket-propelled grenade flared out from a gap in the boulders, sailing over their heads. Good. The men behind the boulder were getting anxious.
“Again,” Wells said. Again Gaffan traded carbines with him. Wells lowered the barrel slightly and squeezed the trigger. Pop! This time the canister landed on the rocks where the guerrillas had hidden. Smoke poured out in all directions, as Wells had hoped. He had chosen to use the CS grenades instead of standard high-explosive grenades because with the CS he didn’t have to have perfect aim. If he could get reasonably close, the gas would disperse over the boulders, doing his work for him.
Men yelled in Arabic. Seconds later the coughing began, a vicious hacking as if the men behind the boulder were trying to spit up their poisoned lungs.
“Again.” Again Gaffan handed him a reloaded carbine. Wells adjusted his aim infinitesimally and fired again. This time the shot went slightly long, landing on the mountainside a few yards above the cave. But the smoke seeped down into the area where the guerrillas were hiding. The coughing grew louder.
“Get your mask on,” Wells said. “One more, then we go in.”
Wells fired the fifth canister, then pulled on a gas mask. The mask made breathing a conscious decision rather than an automatic fact. Inhale. Fill your lungs. Exhale. Hear air rattle through the activated charcoal filters. Inhale again.
Wells pulled his helmet back on and popped a fresh grenade — standard high-explosive, not CS — into the 203. Two men in brown robes crawled from behind the boulders, their bodies shaking, clots of white phlegm dripping down their faces.
Gaffan took aim. “Wait,” Wells said. But no more men joined the two.