This technology was just fucking fabulous. Parson recalled a lecture he’d once attended. A retiring general gave the audience an overview of basic Air Force doctrine. “The Air Force’s gift to the nation,” he said, “is that sometimes we can defeat an enemy from on high, so we don’t have to hurl eighteen-year-olds at him.”
And here was a perfect example.
“Code weapon,” the Reaper pilot said.
“Coded,” the sensor operator said.
“Weapon status.”
“Weapon ready.”
“Prelaunch checklist complete.”
The trucks neared the spot where they’d been parked last time. Parson had stared at that location so long, he remembered the pattern of trees and scrub, masonry walls. Four or five figures stood outside, presumably waiting for their boss. Cool. Maybe that Reaper would blow Chaaku’s ass to hell and get a few of his henchmen as a bonus.
“Clear to engage,” the mission commander said. “Your discretion.”
“Pilot copies.”
“Sensor copies.”
The video zoomed out, zoomed close. The crosshairs still tracked the first truck. Probably waiting for them to stop, Parson thought. That’s what I’d do.
He thought of times when he’d watched a deer or an elk—or a terrorist—through his own crosshairs. You waited for the perfect moment to fire, but you couldn’t wait too long. The Reaper crew began their launch checklist.
“MTS auto track.”
“Established.”
“Laser selected.”
“Arm your laser, please.”
“Armed.”
“Master arm is hot.”
The trucks stopped. The video zoomed in. More figures, now maybe a dozen, appeared around the bunker entrance.
“Give me laser guidance.”
“Lasing.”
Parson couldn’t see the laser on video, but he knew the weapon would ride that beam straight down to Chaaku’s lap. If anything, it was too good for him. Too quick.
The video zoomed out wider. Now maybe twenty people appeared. Some of them lined up in a row. They were shorter than the others.
“Those are kids,” Gold said.
Parson’s anticipation turned instantly to dread, as if he’d swallowed some fast-acting poison.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “You’re right.”
He stood and grabbed a yellow adhesive note from the table in front of him, checked the number written across it. On his satphone, he punched in a call for the mission commander. In the eternal seconds before the call connected, Parson thought, Stop, stop, stop, stop. The phone at the other end began ringing, but no one answered.
“Clearance canceled,” the commander said over the net. “Hold your fire, hold your fire.”
“Pilot copies.”
The commander picked up the phone. “We see ’em,” he said. Hung up.
“Master arm off.”
“Weapon safe.”
The truck doors opened. Men got out. Some of the figures gathered around one who seemed to be in charge. He gestured and pointed with his left hand, held something in his right.
It was a sword. Chaaku and his toy. The crosshairs centered on his head, guidance for weapons now disarmed.
Parson kicked over his chair.
“Fuck!” he shouted. “Fuck this whole fucking war.”
He put his hands on his hips, walked in a circle. Looked up at the cloth ceiling, down at the floor.
“We had that bastard,” Parson said. “We had him.”
“There could have been children in the trucks. They could always be anywhere around him,” Gold said.
“I know it.”
He met Gold’s eyes, glanced back at the screen. The Reaper circled, still watching the men put the boys through some kind of drill or exercise. One man passed out rifles to the kids standing in a row.
Parson looked into her eyes again. Neither spoke. But he knew they were both thinking the same thing: We’re going to have to do this the hard way.
23
The operation would go down like a hostage rescue. Except Gold feared some of the hostages would be hostile. There was no way to know how many of the abducted kids had been indoctrinated enough to fire on their rescuers. The thought of returning fire at children sickened her. Yet she wanted to take part, to do anything in her power to help bring this thing to a close.
Joint Special Operations Command took control of the op. When Gold first heard about that, she wondered if she and Parson might get left out of the action. Neither of them had ever been a special operator. But JSOC wanted Afghan involvement, and that brought Rashid and his crew—and their adviser and the adviser’s interpreter.
Parson sat next to Gold in the mission brief at the Air Operations Center, a faded Air Mobility Command emblem on his flight suit. Blount and his Marines attended the meeting, along with Reyes and a few other Air Force types Gold had not met. A colonel led the briefing on video conference from Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar.
“We’re going to come at them in two ways,” the colonel said. “The Marines will make an Osprey-borne assault, along with some Afghan troops, and we’re also going to airdrop an Air Force Special Tactics Team.”
“Sir, what are the blue-suiters for?” Blount asked. Glanced at Parson and Reyes. “No offense,” he added.
“Air support will be limited due to the nature of the target,” the colonel said. “But we will have air assets on station just in case. You’ll have a combat controller to call down fire if it’s warranted, and Sergeant Reyes will handle the medical contingencies.”
Medical contingencies. The military jargon pointed up the dangers of the mission. Gold wondered how many of the people around her would be dead or wounded tomorrow night.
“If you can get Chaaku,” the colonel said, “take him dead or alive. If you take him alive, Pakistan wants to extradite him.”
“And then what happens?” Blount asked.
“We don’t know,” the colonel said.
“Probably release him,” Parson whispered.
“We’d like to give Sergeant Major Gold a key role,” the colonel continued. “She’s done some fine work as Lieutenant Colonel Parson’s interpreter, but JSOC wants to borrow her.”
Gold didn’t know what to make of that. Was she in trouble for her visit with Durrani? Probably not, if she was getting some key role, whatever that was. Parson looked at her. From his puzzled expression she knew he had no idea, either.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Gold asked.
“Sergeant Major, you are still HALO qualified and current, are you not?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” Apparently, he’d checked her records.
“We would like for you to jump in with the Special Tactics Team. You will carry an Icom radio like the ones used by Black Crescent and other insurgents. You will relay anything useful you hear.”
Gold could hardly believe what she’d heard. It gave her new… purpose.
Purpose.
Something in life more important than contentment, than wealth. Even more important than happiness, to Gold. In certain moments of her career, she’d believed she understood exactly why her Maker had sent her here. Those moments had come less often of late. She’d questioned her role, her judgment, even her sanity. But now, as Parson might put it, she felt as if someone had pressed her master reset button.
“I’d—I’d be honored, sir.” Parson wouldn’t like this, she knew. But it came from a JSOC full bird colonel, so even if Parson fought it he wouldn’t win. And it made operational sense. He’d come around to see that eventually, if he didn’t see it already.
With a combat jump, Gold would earn a star on her jump wings. Though most paratroopers coveted that star, she gave little thought to decorations. But the opportunity to put all her skills into play gave her a sense of fulfillment she’d not felt in a long time. The mission still seemed dangerous; terribly so. But her awareness of the danger shrank in her consciousness the way pain shrank after a dose of Percodan. It was still there, but the proportions had changed.