Flashlight beams and the bores of weapons came to bear on a group of six boys. The children cowered in a corner. They cried and shouted in Pashto.
Parson tightened his finger around the Beretta’s trigger. Scanned with his SureFire. The boys held no firearms, but Parson worried more about detonators. He watched their hands, looked for a tiny thumb over a switch. Saw only grubby fingers, dirty faces streaked with tears and mucus. The children squinted against the flashlight glare. They wore tennis shoes and baggy pants. No bulky vests or wires. Thank God.
“Zoy,” Blount said. “Zoy, zoy, zoy.” Parson tried to remember what the hell that meant. Oh, yeah. Another of the simple words Sophia liked to teach the Americans. Son.
That’s better than nothing, Parson thought, but we need to get Sophia in here once we have this place under control. Get these poor kids calmed down.
Blount kept repeating the one word he knew to say, which seemed to help a little. The children quieted, but remained huddled together. Blount kneeled in the doorway. Stretched out his hand toward the boys.
Automatic weapons fire ripped from deeper within the bunker. The Marine with the shotgun fell against the wall. Blount twisted out of the doorway, brought up his rifle, and fired. Something knocked him backward as if kicked in the chest. He dropped to the cave floor. The two other Marines whirled, opened up. The boys screamed, huddled into the corner to escape the shooting.
Flashlight beams wavered, spun, bounced off cave walls. Voices shouted in English, Pashto, and Arabic. Two, no, three insurgents charged out of the darkness. Parson fired his pistol three times. Sprayed more than aimed.
The firefight in such tight confines tapped a madness within him. Parson struggled to think, to hold on to reason. Trapped in a hole filled with gunfire and screams, his universe closed down to nothing but the urge to kill. He squeezed off four more shots.
One of the insurgents went down. Then two others fell to rifle fire. Parson pointed his flashlight, saw one of the men raise himself onto his knees. The wounded insurgent aimed a handgun. Parson shot again, twice more. One of his rounds struck the base of the insurgent’s throat. The terrorist collapsed.
Blount lay stunned. Rounds to his body armor had knocked the breath out of him. He got up on one knee. Shotgun man sat up, bleeding from an arm wound. The two other Marines stood with rifles poised, but the shooting seemed to have stopped. The boys cried and shouted words Parson could not understand.
“Get those kids out of here,” Parson said to the Marines left standing. “Blount and I will cover you.”
The two Marines looked at Blount.
“I’m all right,” Blount said. He coughed. Then he added, “Do what the man said.”
One of the Marine riflemen extended his hand toward the children. “Come on,” he said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
The other rifleman slung his weapon and kneeled, stretched out his arms. “Let’s get out of here, guys. This ain’t no good place for you.” Perhaps the kids found the tone reassuring. One of them stood and moved toward the Marines. The rifleman on his knees picked up the smallest boy, and the two men led the kids out of the cave. The moment brought a brief scene of normalcy: two adults taking children on a stroll.
“Can you walk?” Parson asked shotgun man.
“Yes, sir.” The wounded Marine got up, held his M1014 with one hand.
“Go on,” Blount said. “Let the corpsman check out that arm. The lieutenant colonel and I will be right behind you.”
“Aye, aye, Gunny.” Shotgun man stumbled toward the cave mouth.
Parson’s mind reeled. His thoughts raced to catch up with time, to account for all the bloodshed and choices made in the last ten minutes. Lives saved, taken, or scarred in split-second decisions. He couldn’t believe he’d aimed a weapon at children, nearly pulled the trigger. Couldn’t imagine what Blount was thinking. Whatever Blount thought, the big man just kept it in. Parson watched him eject from his rifle what must have been a nearly empty magazine. With hands covered by black tactical gloves, Blount started to reach into his vest for more ammunition.
Then a voice shouted, “Allah-hu akbar!” A man charged forward from the darkness of the corridor.
Glint of silver. A sword slashed down toward Blount’s head.
The gunnery sergeant rolled. The blade caught the throat protector of his body armor.
Chaaku, Parson realized. Field jacket over a white tunic. Black beard and blazing eyes. The man drew back the sword with what looked like the practiced motion of a fencer. Poised to strike again. Parson fired at center mass.
Chaaku fell back. Clutched the sword with both hands, lunged again. So the son of a bitch had body armor, too.
Still on the ground, Blount swung his left leg, caught Chaaku in the knees. Chaaku dropped to the cave floor, still holding the sword. Parson tried to aim for a head shot, but Blount was in the way. He considered whether to just jump on the terrorist, but Blount seemed to be holding his own. Parson steadied himself, waited for a clear shot.
On his back, Chaaku swung the blade once more. With both hands, Blount thrust his rifle into the path of the sword. Steel glanced off steel. Rasp of scraping metal. Blount brought his weapon’s muzzle toward Chaaku’s neck. Chaaku writhed to his side in a manic frenzy. Took one hand off the sword’s grip, scooped up a handful of the powdery dirt. Flung it into Blount’s eyes. Looked at Parson. Swung his sword just as Parson fired again.
At a better angle, with a little more force, the blade might have clipped off Parson’s hands. But lying on the ground, Chaaku lacked leverage. The sword slashed Parson’s right forearm and spoiled his aim. The bullet flew wild, and Parson dropped the pistol.
Chaaku and Blount both sprang to their feet as Parson stumbled backward, bleeding. The terrorist lifted the sword high to deliver a death gash.
Blount fired from the hip. Chaaku had attacked as Blount tried to change magazines, and the round in the rifle’s chamber was the only one left. The bullet struck Chaaku’s body armor, knocked him off balance. Blount turned his weapon around, rammed the stock into the terrorist’s chest. Then he dropped the rifle.
In a move like Parson had never seen, Blount swept upward with his palms, locked Chaaku’s elbow and wrist. Twisted Chaaku’s arm. Kneed him in the groin. Released the terrorist’s forearm. Wrested the blade away with both hands.
Blood dripped from Blount’s gloves. He shoved Chaaku against the cave wall, jammed the sword’s point into Chaaku’s thigh. The terrorist screamed. Blount stabbed the blade in deeper, then yanked it out and flung the sword away.
Parson placed his left hand over the sword wound on his right arm. Blood ran between his fingers, saturated his sleeve. The cut burned all the way to the bone. He looked for his weapon, did not see it on the darkened cave floor.
Blount rammed the heel of his left hand into Chaaku’s chin. The insurgent’s jaw made a crack as it broke. Chaaku let loose a keening sound, as if he couldn’t open his mouth enough for a full scream. Blood from Blount’s soaked glove smeared the face of the terrorist.
Chaaku’s hand dropped to his side, came back up with a dagger. Blount tried to block it, but the blade entered under his right arm. The gunnery sergeant growled something unintelligible, slammed his fist into Chaaku’s neck. Chaaku slashed with the dagger again. This time Blount blocked it squarely.
Blount held on to Chaaku’s arm. With a maneuver that seemed too fast and finessed for a man his size, the Marine pivoted and kneeled. He brought his enemy’s arm over his shoulder, elbow down. Yanked hard.