Читать книгу: «On Fire»

Chapter One

AS SEAL PETTY OFFICER First Class Mike Tarik trotted up the ramp into the Chinook, its twin blades turning, shaking and shuddering, he tapped into all radio communications with his SEAL team on board. He sat near the door, in battle gear, and watched his seven other men enter. Lieutenant Jim Sanders, who headed up this QRF, quick reaction force, would lead the men, and Mike would be second in command. LT, as the SEALs referred to their officer, was a seasoned vet and the right man to be on this emergency rescue operation.

The ramp ground noisily upward. The two air crew chiefs inside the bird, gave the Army Night Stalker pilots a thumbs-up to take off. Urgency thrummed through Mike. The woman he loved, Sergeant Khat Shinwari, US Marine Corps, was very ill, being taken care of at the destination village. Worse? Taliban insurgents hid in the nearby woods, ready to attack the walled village to search for Khat and kill her.

Night was falling. Mike listened intently to chatter coming from one of the pilots flying an Apache combat helicopter. One helo had flown out when they needed two. But two were not available from FOB Bravo. There was no drone in the area because none were available. He cursed. The female Apache pilot reported thermal imaging on at least a hundred Taliban fighters amassing about a mile away from that vulnerable Shinwari village. It was men on horseback. She switched to television and although light was bad, she reported RPGs and AK-47s among the group. She sent streaming video back to TOC, Tactical Operations Command, Bagram at the Army base outside Kabul, Afghanistan, who was working with the LT and Chief Mac McCutcheon, back at FOB, Forward Operating Base, Bravo.

The Chinook’s two engines powered up, the shaking intensifying. The smell of kerosene aviation fuel filtered through the nearly dark tube of the oddly shaped helicopter. Mike told his SEAL team to double-check their gear and make sure they had at least eight mags in their H-gear. Everyone began checking. Mike strapped his Kevlar helmet on tighter, making sure his night vision goggles were locked on the rail system on top of it. So much could go wrong. He needed to hurry to save Khat and felt slight relief as the Chinook began a rolling start down the runway. The roar was ear-splitting, but the helmets protected their ears from the worst of it.

“Okay, listen up,” the LT said over his radio, “Bagram is reporting that Khogani is with this group waiting inside the treeline. I’d sure like to nail his ass, so let’s keep a sharp lookout for this bastard.”

Mike wasn’t surprised. Khogani was the leader of the Hill tribe, the ancient enemy of the Shinwari tribe. He also worked actively with the Taliban. Khat had taken out fifteen of his men as a sniper yesterday night in the Hindu Kush Mountains. Khogani wanted revenge. Mike was sure the hill tribe leader would put his best trackers on trying to find any footprints Khat had left behind as she’d fled her sniper hide and made her way back toward FOB, forward operating base, Bravo on foot. Drops of blood could leave a trail. Or, if she was injured in the head, not thinking clearly, she could have left an easy trail to follow, too. He didn’t know much about what had happened and it gnawed at his heart. His soul. He loved her. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Khat had covered his back as he’d rode ahead of her on the mountain trail, leading a pack horse. He had been a quarter mile ahead of her when she’d radioed and told him she’d spotted Taliban on horseback on their trail. If she didn’t stop them, they’d catch up, killing both of them.

Mike had tried to help, but he’d been on a narrow path where he couldn’t turn around the horse he rode, much less get the pack horse turned around. He’d had no choice, dammit, but to kick the horses into a fast trot and get off that trail three miles down the slope of the mountain, in the dark. And then it had started to rain, on top of everything else. Khat was left to protect both of them, alone. Twelve hours later, he’d ridden into FOB Bravo. They’d lost radio contact. But she had never come back to the base. The next morning, after getting an Apache helicopter broken loose from other combat demands, they had found Khat’s horse dead up on a ridge in the Hindu Kush. But no sign of her.

It was a special hell for Mike. They’d found no trace of Khat’s body. But he sensed she was alive. And it was only when a man by the name of Mohsin, from the nearby Shinwari village had ridden twenty miles to Bravo, to tell them that an American woman Marine had walked into their village, wounded and in dire need of help and medicine, that Mike found out it was Khat. The villager had warned them that the Taliban had followed her, that they were amassing outside his village to attack it in order to find the American woman soldier.

The SEALs at Bravo had sprung into action, to try to save her and protect the people in the unarmed village. Would they get there in time? His throat ached with tension, unshed tears and terror. He loved Khat. He’d die for her. She deserved to live, not be murdered by Khogani and the Taliban. God, let them arrive there in time!

The Chinook took off from the lip of the runway into the evening air, engines roaring. Mike looked at his watch, his heart doing a slow, dreaded pound. This helo would make the infil point in approximately fifteen minutes. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and his heart centered squarely on Khat. He had to force his love for her out of this equation for now. He was responsible for his men and to his LT. If they couldn’t fight off Khogani, then Khat would possibly be lost in the firefight. Mohsin, the man who had rescued her, kept saying she was dying. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pinched the ridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Would there be time enough before Khogani’s forces attacked the village?

Nasreen moved restlessly about the room where she cared for Khatereh Shinwari, the Marine. She had heard from her mother, who lived next door, that Taliban were poised at the edge of the forest, waiting to ride into their village. Controlling her fear, she looked anxiously to the SEAL woman who lay unmoving, her face so pale Nasreen thought she had died. Wringing her hands, she worried about her husband, Mohsin, who had ridden off many hours earlier for FOB Bravo to get help for this military woman. He’d never returned. Had Mohsin been caught by Khogani and tortured? Did he speak of the SEAL woman to their enemy? Is that why the Taliban were there, watching, waiting to attack the village? Her husband had not returned. Oh, Allah, have mercy upon us!

She heard more of the villagers, their voices turning to shouts. Rushing to the other room, Nasreen pulled open the door. Through the gathering dusk, she heard noises. Unseeing, she looked up toward the sound of the beating blades of a helicopter. And it was close! Gasping, she heard one of the men from the village scream out a warning. Shots were being fired! The Taliban fighters were charging toward their village. They would all be killed!

* * *

THE CHINOOK LANDED just outside the village. The SEALs piled out of it on a run, in a crouch, fanning out into a diamond pattern, and hurtled toward the closed front gate. Mike was in the lead, and he heard the bark of orders in angry Pashto from the tree line. The Taliban were attacking. They had to get inside the walls. On his orders, the SEALs moved swiftly forward like silent ghosts. The thunder of many horses shook the ground in an earthquake as the Taliban fighters swept across the fields toward the village. There was wild AK-47 fire filling the air, the muzzles winking red lights in the gloom of the dusk, looking like fireflies.

Two SEALs got the gate open. The other six filtered in, quickly shutting and barring the massive entrance. The LT order a diamond pattern within the village, the best way to protect those inside it. The SEALs positioned themselves within the four-foot-thick mud wall that surrounded the homes, rifles resting on the top of it, sighting through their scopes, watching the charging insurgents draw near. Mike was near the gate. Down on one knee, he had his M-4 jammed against his shoulder, sighting any rider with an RPG. If one of those got fired at them, lives could be lost. A hole blown into the wall of the village would create a breach, allowing their enemy inside.

“Focus on RPG riders,” he told his men in a calm voice.

The Taliban hit with ferocity. The hundred or so riders swirled around the walled village, firing their AK-47s. The horses were at a gallop, thundering around and around. The SEALs calmly picked their targets and fired. There was no wild shooting on their part; just cold, hard sighting and firing. They did not waste bullets. Taliban riders were falling quickly. They did not have night vision goggles, nor did they have night vision scopes on their rifles to see through the dark like the SEALs did as night fell.

Mike heard and felt a blast to his left. Dammit! An RPG had been launched against the village wall. He wasn’t sure if it had blown through the wall or landed inside the village, destroying homes. Seconds later, SEAL Travis Cooper came over the radio with his Texas drawl.

“Wall breach, north. We can use some help over here.”

Mike ordered his other man to stay where he was. He sprinted down the wall, M-4 up. Several riders leaped their horses through the wall breach, firing everywhere. Sonofabitch! He saw Travis and his other SEAL buddy against the wall, methodically firing as the horsemen forced their balking, crazed horses through the hole.

Mike ran around one home. The people inside shrieked in terror. Stopping at the corner, he rested his M-4 against it; he picked a Taliban soldier riding hell-bent-for-leather down the street and firing indiscriminately into the houses on either side. One shot from Mike’s M-4 and the man flew off the horse. The horse stumbled, fell and rolled. It got to its feet, shaking its head, dust rolling off its body. A second riderless horse came careening around another corner. When it saw the other loose horse, it trotted up to it. Mike had an idea.

“Travis, I’m at nine o’clock. Meet me pronto.” He called his LT who was at the opposite end of the gate. “I want permission for us to ride two of those Taliban horses within the village. I’ve got my hands on them. We can hunt down the other Taliban riders who jumped through that breach. They’ll never realize who we are.”

“Do it,” the LT said.

Travis came breezing around the corner. Mike handed him a set of reins.

“Let’s go raise some hell,” he told the Texan, leaping up on the horse.

“Yeehaw,” Travis yelled, leaping aboard, turning his horse around. He was raised and a ranch and knew how to ride.

Mike let the SEALs know that they were going to hunt down the Taliban riders still loose within the village, so not to shoot at anyone on horseback,for fear of shooting at him and Travis. The team agreed, leaving it to the two of them.

Mike rode his horse hard, catching up to a fleeing rider racing down a narrow street. Travis slowed down, keeping his back, watching over his shoulder. Mike held the reins in his left hand, shoving the M-4 into his shoulder. The M-4s had a muzzle suppressor, but shooting from a horse was hell—still, he tried one shot. Missed. Aiming again, he stood up in the stirrups, allowing his knees to take the up-and-down movement of the animal between his legs. He fired again. The soldier flew off his horse.

Suddenly, two Taliban riders intersected them. Mike sighted on the next rider. These sons-of-bitches were going straight to Hell. Travis sped up past him, cranking on the horse, pushing him for all he was worth, leaning forward, his focus on the other fleeing enemy combatant. Mike dropped back, slowing his horse to a canter, letting Travis take his shot. Watching behind, he spotted a lone horsemen through the darkness. How they could see anything was beyond him. He took one shot. Mike went cantering past the dead Taliban soldier. He urged his mount faster, flying toward the south end of the wall.

In five minutes, they’d dropped six enemy Taliban horsemen from one end of the village.

Several other Taliban soldiers were still riding, loose within the village. The enemy sprayed AK-47 fire down one street and then turned and galloped up another street.

“Travis!” he yelled, “let’s get these guys!” He sank his heels into the horse.

The Texas SEAL followed and they galloped down one street, following the rider who was unaware of their approach. Mike fired. The man pitched forward off his horse.

“I got the next one,” Travis shouted, pointing his M-4 toward another street. Mike followed, protecting his back. In short order, another enemy was taken down.

“Mike,” LT said, “we got a bunch of them on the west wall, climbing over it. Get over there.”

They hauled ass, galloping hard down the street, heading in that direction. Mike jerked the horse to a stop, flying off it and landing on his feet, never losing a stride as he rushed toward five enemies who had just dropped inside the wall. They immediately scattered. He called to Travis, who was pounding down the street a few feet in back of him. Breathing hard, Mike crouched around the corner. He saw one soldier trying to break down a wooden door at a house. He shot him. Travis moved past Mike, giving him a hand signal. Mike followed, sweat running down his face.

Travis split and ran to the left, following the next Taliban. Mike spotted a third enemy going down another street, seeming to look for a specific house. The man, who was tall and lean, fired his AK-47 into the door. Mike heard the shriek of a woman inside.

Damn! Mike sprinted, feeling the burn of his muscles as he rushed halfway down the street. The woman’s screams inside the home grew louder. The Taliban soldier rushed into the house.

Mike leaped into the doorway, his M-4 pointed toward the screams. He nearly lost his composure. The Taliban soldier had dragged Khat, who was unconscious, onto the floor and was putting the rifle to her head. Another younger woman was on the floor, blood running from her nose, shrieking. He didn’t even think, he just fired.

The enemy was ripped to the side of the room, falling over the shrieking girl in the corner. Mike whirled around, hearing footsteps. Two more Taliban entered. He fired and hit both of them, surprise etched on their faces. Breathing raggedly, he keyed his radio. “LT, have the package. Repeat, I have the package. Casevac, repeat, casevac.”

Travis broke in, winded. “Where are you, Tarik?”

Mike gave him directions, kneeling over Khat and warily watching the broken doorway, waiting for more enemy to enter. Travis leaped through it. His mouth fell open when he saw Khat on the floor.

“Watch the doorway,” Mike snapped, putting the rifle across his back. Leaning down, he straightened Khat out. She looked so damned white that it scared the hell out of him.

Just as Mike was going to question the woman who had cared for Khat, he heard the LT.

“Taliban have broken off the attack.”

That was good because he was worried about any medevac pilot who would land in a firefight of this magnitude. He softened his voice toward the young woman in the corner and spoke in Pashto to her. “Have you been taking care of her?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” Nasreen cried, holding her broken, bleeding nose. “She is very sick!”

Mike saw the blood on Khat’s scalp, but he couldn’t see anything else upon a swift inspection. He placed his fingers against her carotid artery on the side of her neck. Her skin was hot and sweaty, her pulse feeling like cannonballs being fired through the artery, as if it was going to tear out of her skin. Pushing her hair aside, he felt the heat from her sweaty skin. Some kind of infection? He knew just enough about combat medicine to be worried. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him.

“Did she tell you what was wrong with her?”

“Yes,” the woman cried, looking at her bloody hands, growing more frightened. Her eyes were wide with shock from being struck by the Taliban soldier as she tried to protect Khat from him. “S-she said it was here,” and she stood up on wobbly legs, pointing toward her abdomen. “I—I don’t know the word... I—I’m sorry...”

Mike kept his voice soft and patience. “It’s okay, you did what you could. Are you Mohsin’s wife, Nasreen?”

Her eyes widened enormously. “I am. Tell me! Is Mohsin alive?”

Mike smiled to reassure her. “He’s fine. He’s at Bravo right now. We’ll let him come back here as soon as we can get the Taliban out of your front yard, okay?”

Nasreen began to cry with relief, leaning against the wall, sinking to the floor, her face buried in her hands.

Touching Khat’s pale cheek, Mike could feel the perspiration on his fingertips. He glanced up. Travis was watching the door intently. He keyed his mic. “Bailey? I need your medical help over here pronto.” Mike gave him directions to the house. He lifted Khat into his arms and placed her gently back on the cot that she’d been dragged off earlier.

Nasreen crept forward, trying not to sob. “S-she said something a-a-apend?”

Mike frowned. And then he blinked. “Appendicitis? Is that what she told you?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes! Yes, that was it! That is the word she used!”

Bailey exploded through the door, medic bag in hand.

“Over here,” Mike said, gesturing sharply to him. “Take a look at her. Khat told this woman she had appendicitis before she lost consciousness.”

Bailey, who was small and wiry, put his rifle aside and opened up his medical ruck. He quickly got her blood pressure and pulse. “Shit, man, her blood pressure’s over three hundred! And her pulse is through the roof. She’s critical.” He quickly pulled up her sleeve and put a line into her arm, getting an IV started. Mike came over to hold the IV bag above Khat’s head. He watched as Bailey tore off his gloves and then gently felt her abdominal area.

“Man, she’s tympanic,” he groused, shaking his head.

“Speak English, Bailey,” Mike growled.

“Her abdomen is hard. Like a taut drum head.”

Mike felt his fear amp up. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means her appendix has probably burst and her guts are completely covered with infectious material and swelling. She’s going to go septic. That’s past critical.” He gave Mike a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, man.” He took another piece of equipment out of his ruck and gently placed it inside her ear.

“Man, she’s getting no breaks here,” he muttered. “Her temperature is a hundred and five. Shit!”

“Medevac in five minutes on south side of wall,” LT reported. “Get the package over here now. When you get the package on board, come see me, Tarik.”

“Roger,” Mike said. He’d wanted to go with Khat, but it wasn’t going to be impossible. Bailey closed his ruck and threw it on his shoulders.

“I’ll carry her,” he told the combat medic. “You hold up the IV?”

The carnage from the fight between the SEAL team and the Taliban was evident on the chaotic streets of the village. Mike carried Khat in his arms, her head lolled against his shoulder, sweaty brow tipped against his jaw. His heart was tearing apart. Her clothes were wringing wet with sweat. Her skin was hot. Mike turned and shielded her with his body as the Black Hawk medevac landed. Eighty-mile-an-hour winds gusted and whipped around them, kicking up clouds of dust. He moved forward, head down. He reached the open door and transferred Khat to the nearest medic. Pulling out a piece of paper that listed important medical information, he thrust it into the hand of the other combat medic. Bailey transferred the IV bag to one of them. The noise was high. There was no use trying to talk. They turned, holding their hands against their faces to protect themselves from flying debris, crouching and hurrying away.

Mike heard the medevac spooling up, its massive twin engines on the top of the bird roaring as it broke the grip of gravity. His chest was tight. Trying to swallow against a lump, he broke into a trot, avoiding the bodies, heading back toward the gate, Bailey on his heels. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he wiped them away. No one could see him crying. No one.

* * *

IT WAS BARELY dawn when Mike strode through the doors of the Bagram Hospital ER doors. He’d been released by his LT, and caught a flight out of Bravo to Bagram. Exhausted, scared, he was still in full battle dress, including his weapons as he walked into the busy ER. A nurse came up to him.

“May I help you?”

“Yes. A few hours ago my fiancée, Sergeant Khatereh Shinwari, was brought here. She had appendicitis. I need to know how she is and where she is. I want to see her.” Mike drilled the young nurse with a hard look. “Right now.”

The nurse gulped. “This way...” she said and hurried toward the nurse’s station opposite the gallery of curtained cubicles. She explained to the supervisor who had gray hair and blue eyes what Mike wanted. The older nurse took one look at him and went to the computer terminal.

“Your name is?” she asked him.

Mike gave his name, barely hanging on to his patience. He tried taking some deep breaths, his anguish eating him alive. Was Khat alive? Dead? God, don’t let her be dead. That’s all he’d prayed for all the way in on the Chinook to Bagram.

“Petty Officer Tarik,” she said briskly, “she’s just come out of surgery and is in ICU.” The nurse’s voice dropped. “Since you’re family, you can go up to that floor. I’ll ring ahead and tell the nurse’s station to expect you. Her surgeon is Dr. Bradley Mason.”

“Thank you,” Mike said, turning on his heel. He knew where ICU was. He’d flown in with one of his team two years ago, shot up and not expected to live. He’d remained with Farley throughout the ten hours of surgery and then in ICU, staying with him while he fought to live. And he had. Pushing through the doors into the passageway, Mike headed for the bank of elevators. He got some surprised looks from people as he strode past them. Yes, he was dirty, he stunk, eyes red-rimmed and jaw tight. With his black beard and long, black hair around his shoulders, they knew he was black ops. They stepped aside to allow him to pass them in the hall.

The elevator wouldn’t hurry fast enough. Mike took off his black baseball cap, tiredly rubbing his brow. The heel of his hand came back dirty. Nostrils flaring, the elevator halted and he threw his cap on and quickly exited, heading for the nurse’s station at the end of the hall. Before he ever got there, he saw a tall man about his height in a white lab coat, a green scrub cap on and green trousers.

“Petty Officer Tarik?” he called.

Mike nodded and halted. “Yes, sir. Dr. Mason?” The man was in his midforties, with blond hair and hazel eyes.

“Yes. Can you step into the lounge with me for a minute?”

“No,” he growled. “You can talk to me on the way to Khat’s ICU unit. Which one is she in?”

Mason’s brows rose, but he nodded. “She’s in ICU 3. Come this way.” He gestured to another area beyond the nurse’s station. “Sergeant Shinwari just came out of surgery. Her appendix burst and we’ve removed it and flushed her entire abdominal cavity, trying to get every bit of bacteria out of there. She’s critical, and I frankly don’t know if she’s going to make it or not.” He gave Mike a look of sympathy. “What she has going for her is that she’s young and strong.”

“My combat medic said something about her going septic,” Mike said, barely holding on to his emotions.

“Yes. We’ve got her on maximum antibiotics. She was very dehydrated when she arrived. We’ve got her electrolytes stable now, but our main concern is her heart. With that much infection moving through her body for probably two or three days, it’s very hard on her heart. Plus, she’s got to beat that infection.” Mason halted at the plastic and glass enclosure. “You need to remember, even though she’s unconscious, she can hear you. So, be there for her? Inspire her? Nothing negative. Don’t tell her she could die.”

“I got it, doctor.” Mike grimly pushed through the door.

Mason stood there for a moment, as if maybe he wanted to say something about how dirty Mike was, and then turned around and left.

Mike put his safed M-4 in the corner. He took off his cap, sitting at the end of Khat’s bed. Everything in there was white. The monitors were beeping. He looked at them. He knew how to read them. Her blood pressure was two hundred now, her pulse one-hundred and fifty. Watching the cardiac monitor, her heart rhythm was solid and steady. She had a chance to survive this. Khat looked hauntingly fragile, her skin so pale that he could literally see the small, fine veins beneath her eyes and across her closed eyelids. He touched her hand. Her flesh felt so hot. He noticed her neck was packed in something. Touching it, he realized it was dry ice. Yeah, to cool the blood flowing into and out of her head to save her brain from getting fried and destroyed by too high a fever.

Leaning over, he caressed Khat’s parted lips. They felt coolish beneath his mouth. A sob wanted to wrench out of his chest, but as he lifted away, watching her face, he savagely stuffed his reaction down deep. “Khat, it’s Mike. I’m here, angel, and you’re going to be all right.” He picked up her hand, holding is gently. “You’re a fighter, and you’ve won at everything life has ever thrown at you. Now, just this one last time, Khat, throw your heart into this fight, beat this infection. Do it for me. Do it for us.” His eyes burned with tears. He blinked them back, hearing his voice tremble with barely controlled emotions. Mike wanted to touch her, but he was filthy. He needed to shower and get a change of clean clothes. He didn’t want to add contamination to what she was already fighting.

“I’m going to get a shower, Khat. And clean clothes. Then, I’m coming back here. I’m going to sit this out with you. I love you...”

The nurses at the station watched him warily as he strode toward the elevators. Mike knew where the men’s locker room was down in the basement of the facility. He’d packed a small duffle with a clean uniform, toiletry items, towel, soap and wash cloth. It was all that he’d need. His stomach growled as he entered the elevator. On the way back, he’d stop at the cafeteria, buy something quick he could eat on the way up to ICU to be with Khat.

* * *

WHEN MIKE ARRIVED back at ICU forty minutes later, he found a chair sitting beside Khat’s bed. It hadn’t been there before. He’d left all his weapons in a nearby armory locker, not wanting to scare the hell out of the medical staff. This time, he had on clean cammies and his baseball cap, and was wearing a sidearm only, plus his KA-BAR knife in a sheath on his lower left leg.