Blue Warrior

The wind gusted. Pearce shivered despite the government-issue polypropylene thermals beneath his eclectic mix of local garb. Daud was clad in little more than woolen pants, a Canadian army surplus sweater, and a knitted scarf, but after six hours out here in the snow it was Pearce’s teeth that were chattering. He never ceased to admire the endurance of these mountain villagers.

Daud’s village was ten kilometers away. He was the son of the village chief and had studied English and engineering in Peshawar. He volunteered as a translator with the U.S. government, which is how Pearce found out about him. Daud’s village hated the Taliban almost as much as they hated Khalid’s village. It was easy enough for Pearce to recruit Daud and his men into the CIA’s war on the Taliban in this part of the country. He’d been embedded with them for the last two weeks.

“Why do your people hate the people in this village so much?” Pearce asked in bad Pashto.

Daud spit. “They are worse than kafirs, with no honor or loyalty except to themselves. In the last war they made alliances with the Russian pigs. Two of my uncles were killed by the Russians, and other men, too, and our women raped because of those dogs.”

“And now the Taliban,” Pearce added.

“And the Devil, too.” Daud spit again.

A branch cracked behind them. Both men whipped around.

“Ahmed!” Daud whispered loudly.

Nothing.

Daud raised his AK-47 in the direction of the sound. “Ahmed!”

“What?” a voice whispered back.

Thump.

A grenade landed in the snow at Pearce’s feet.

Daud shoved Pearce backward over the log. Troy tumbled ass-over-teakettle with a yelp, and on his first rotation caught a glimpse of Daud tossing something back up the hill. Automatic-rifle fire split the air above. Pearce spread his arms wide to slow his roll, then dug his boot toes into the snow on the next tumble. He was facedown in the powder when he heard the whoomph of the grenade explosion. He leaped to his feet, snapping the M4 butt stock against his cheek and aiming at the tree line. Caught a glimpse of Daud racing straight up the hill and dashing into the pines.

Pearce called after him. Stupid, he knew.

“DAUD!”

Savage cries and more gunfire. Pearce’s brain registered AKs, for sure. But also the high snapping crack of HKs. Strange.

One of Daud’s men, Hamid, dashed parallel across the ridgeline, firing his weapon above where Daud had entered the trees. Pearce charged up the mountain, legs burning with every step, like hundred-pound weights were clamped on his boots. A burst of bullets chopped the snow around him. He wheeled to the right and put three rounds in the chest of black-turbaned fighter. The man’s mouth opened in a silent cry as he toppled backward, rifle flying through the air.

Pearce turned back uphill and stormed toward Daud’s position in the trees. It felt like sprinting in molasses. He finally reached the trees. Hamid was there, kneeling down, Daud grimacing and holding his bleeding thigh with both hands, blood pooling in the snow.

Pearce broke open a med kit. Hamid ripped open Daud’s trouser leg and wrapped his weathered hands around the thigh above the wound to stanch the bleed. The wiry Afghan was the same age as Pearce, but with his milky left eye and leathery skin, Hamid appeared to be ten years older, maybe more.

“You looked very funny falling over that log,” Daud said through gritted teeth.

“Idiot,” Pearce said, quickly examining the wound. “You’re lucky it went clean through. Missed the bone.” But Troy wasn’t sure the artery wasn’t nicked. He was bleeding fast.

“You should see the other guy.” Daud grimaced. “Not so lucky.”

Hamid jabbered in Pashto as Pearce dumped QuikClot into both the entry and exit points of the wound, then quickly wrapped the double-padded “Israeli bandage” around Daud’s thigh and secured it tightly on the pressure applicator clip.

“Hamid says the cowards ran away but we lost Ahmed. Ahhh! It burns!”

“That’s the QuikClot. Good news, you’ll stop bleeding. Bad news, you’ll never be a lingerie model.”

“Don’t forget Ahmed. His father…” But Daud passed out.

Rage and despair overwhelmed Pearce. His first solo mission in country and it had gone to shit.

“Let’s get him out of here,” Pearce said to Hamid, not bothering to use his broken Pashto.

Hamid didn’t speak a word of English but understood Pearce perfectly. He clapped Pearce on the shoulder with a leathery hand. “It has already been written.”

Pearce hoped that wasn’t true. He wanted to write Khalid’s last chapter himself, in the bastard’s own blood.

19

Afghanistan — Pakistan border

6 January

Hamid and three other fighters held the corners of the heavy woolen blanket that carried Daud like a stretcher. Pearce was on point, but his night-vision goggles were useless. The moon had fled and the stars had turned to falling snow. The infrared scope on his rifle lit the way.