Read The Mullah's Storm Online
Authors: Tom Young
The Mullah's Storm (30 page)
A wisp of blond hair showed through where mortar had fallen away from the low wall of the staircase. She was down on the stairs, not thirty feet away.
“You all right?” he shouted.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Another slug glanced off the ledge right in front of him, showered dust and snow into his eyes. The ricochet moaned into the distance. Damn, somebody can shoot, he thought. Marwan, probably. Parson wanted to get up and run to Gold, but that would be suicide. He tried to make himself act rationally. Don’t do something foolish, he told himself. Think.
He turned over and lay flat on his back with the M-40 across his stomach. He pulled off his watch cap and slipped the multitool from his survival vest. Unfolded the tool to open its pliers. Draped the watch cap across the pliers. He lifted the pliers to raise the cap above the brick ledge. Almost immediately, a bullet struck the jaws of the pliers and tore the multitool and cap from his hand. The broken tool clattered against the opposite wall. The shock of it hurt Parson’s frostbitten fingers, and he shook his hand, clenched his fist. He still didn’t see the shooter, but now he had a better idea where the rounds were coming from.
Parson looked back toward Gold’s place on the stairs. Now he saw not just a wisp of hair but her face. She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then pointed across the courtyard with her index finger. She mouthed the word “Marwan.” Then she shouted, “Run!”
Gold sat up, propped the rifle on the staircase wall, and fired a long burst on full auto. Parson got up and ran along the battlements. Chips of brick crumbled from a row of bullet holes that followed behind him. Whoever was firing now, he thought, it wasn’t Marwan. Marwan would have known enough to lead him.
He looked to see Gold running behind him, still firing. They came to another set of steps under a brick archway. He ducked inside the stairwell, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and drew his Colt. Gold changed magazines.
“Did you get him?” Parson asked.
“I just pinned him down for a second.”
Another rattle of automatic fire came from somewhere in the courtyard, and an answering burst rippled from downstairs. Parson wasn’t sure, but he thought the weapon downstairs sounded like an M-4. He took a chance.
“Hey,” he yelled. “Americans above you! Don’t shoot!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Cantrell’s voice.
“One of your Afghan guys sent us this way. I don’t know why.”
“Najib’s hit. I can’t see him now.” Cantrell fired again.
Parson caught a whiff of something. Cloves and wood smoke. If that’s cooking, he thought, this is an established camp.
He stumbled down the stairs and found Cantrell sweeping his barrel right to left, covering some of his men as they crossed the courtyard.
“Marwan’s up there somewhere,” Parson said.
“No shit.” Cantrell bled from a graze wound on his neck. Parson looked beyond the courtyard to the fort’s opposite wall and the angles of stone that made up its stairways and passages. A hundred hiding places for a sniper.
“I’ll look for Najib,” Parson said.
Parson ran down a hallway lit only by dim daylight where the outer wall had crumbled, either from some battle ages ago or from age itself. He wasn’t sure where to go, and he was starting to feel useless as he searched randomly. Gold followed close behind. He paused at the opening in the wall and looked out. Dark clouds still spitting snow. Crest of a white hill. Bloody tracks. More ruins a few hundred yards beyond the hill.
He wanted to run and follow the tracks, but he knew that would make him a target even the poorest marksman could hit, especially now that it was light outside. He continued several feet down the hallway until it ended in a jumble of bricks that opened to the fort’s interior, onto the courtyard. Parson crouched behind the rubble. Two SF troops ran across the courtyard. Maybe they’re getting the upper hand, Parson thought.
He and Gold charged across the quadrangle and up another set of steps. Climbed up to the parapets for a better view outside the fort.
“There he is,” Gold said.
Two insurgents were dragging Najib by the arms toward the other ruins. He did not resist. Either unconscious or too weak to fight, thought Parson. Or maybe he knows it’s actually harder to drag someone who’s
not
struggling.
not
struggling.
The insurgents tugged at him like pulling a sled. Parson slid the M-40 off his shoulder. Steadied his forearm on a parapet. Now he saw through the scope pretty well.
No time for the range-finder, but it looked like a good seven hundred yards. Some breeze. No time to adjust the scope for wind, either. Back to basics, then. Parson held the crosshairs a little left and high. Kentucky windage and Tennessee elevation. He exhaled, held his breath. Pressed the trigger.
The insurgent twisted to his right and fell. Parson couldn’t tell exactly where the bullet had struck, but he saw red spatter on the snow. The insurgent lay still. His partner let go of Najib and took off running.
Parson cycled the bolt and slammed home a fresh round. The fleeing man’s back bounced up and down behind the reticle. Parson fired. Missed.
The bullet made a hollow whack against the mud wall of whatever outbuilding those ruins had been. A sheaf of dry snow slid from the remains of the roof. The insurgent disappeared behind the wall.
Parson cursed and rebolted. The empty brass clinked off the battlement and flipped end over end, trailing smoke.
“Stay behind some cover,” he said to Gold. He slung his rifle across his back. Sprinted down the steps and along the interior wall. Kicked open a decaying wooden gateway and ran toward Najib. Gunfire barked all around. Parson expected a slug to take him down, but he made it.
Parson crouched low beside Najib. The dead insurgent’s arm lay across the Afghan officer’s face. Parson flung the arm off and was relieved to see Najib’s eyes open and moving. He heard the crump of a grenade from the battle still going on throughout the fort.
“Saarah dee,”
Najib whispered. Blood oozed from his legs. Parson saw maybe four entrance wounds. One leg was so mangled it was hard to tell.
Najib whispered. Blood oozed from his legs. Parson saw maybe four entrance wounds. One leg was so mangled it was hard to tell.
“I don’t speak Pashto, buddy,” Parson said. “Let’s get you to cover.”
Parson fired three pistol shots toward the wall where the insurgent had run. He didn’t see any enemy there now, but he wanted to keep their heads down. Then he grabbed the collar of Najib’s anorak and began pulling him back toward the main fort. Through clenched teeth, Najib made a noise closer to growl than speech.
“I know it hurts,” Parson said. “I’m sorry.”
Three shots snapped close by, from the fort. Parson flattened himself over Najib. But when he looked toward the fort he saw that the shooting came from Gold. Smoke wafted from the muzzle of her rifle as she aimed. She was inside an archway, laying down covering fire. Parson dragged Najib a few feet, then fired a round or two. Dragged, fired. He considered lifting Najib into a fireman’s carry, but decided that would make a target too big to miss. Dragged and fired some more. When the Colt’s slide locked open, he ejected the empty magazine. Pulled a new one from his vest. Dropped it. He cursed his frozen fingers as he scooped the magazine from the snow and rammed it into the pistol. Released the slide and fired again.
He pulled Najib inside the archway. Gold kneeled to examine his wounds. “See what you can do for him,” Parson said.
Parson hoisted his M-40 in his right hand and gripped the Colt in his left. Without looking back, he headed down the hallway, not sure what he should do next. When he came to another opening in the wall, he saw Najib’s shotgun lying in the snow just inside the courtyard. That gave him an idea. Najib’s Benelli had blood on its stock and a bullet hole in the receiver. Probably not working, but that didn’t matter. Parson holstered his pistol, reached through the rubble, and picked up the broken shotgun.
Parson watched the courtyard, judged when and where to make a break. He did not see anyone, but he still heard firing from rooms within the fort. He ran for the nearest steps. Climbed back up onto the battlements, this time along the south wall. Dived for cover among the ramparts.
With the shotgun in one hand and his rifle in the other, he crawled in the snow along the walkway. He came to an embrasure that faced into the courtyard. Designed for a bad day when the enemy gets inside, he thought. Just what I need now.
He pointed Najib’s shotgun through the embrasure, far enough to be visible, not far enough to seem an obvious ruse. Then he picked up the M-40 and crawled a few yards over to the next gap in the battlements.
This section of the fort remained fairly intact, with alternating merlons and crenels where archers could take cover and shoot. Parson placed his rifle barrel through a crenel, the muzzle barely visible. From here he could cover the whole courtyard and much of the fort’s structure. If only he had a target. He saw no one, though he still heard sporadic firing.
He watched and waited, looked out into the courtyard and back at the broken shotgun. It drew no fire. He looked through his rifle scope, panned across the battlements. Nothing. Come on, you bastard, he thought. You can’t miss something like that shotgun barrel.
Even if Marwan didn’t shoot, Parson hoped he’d look at the decoy long enough to get distracted. Maybe slink around to maneuver for a better shot at it. But nothing moved. The rest of the firefight had seeped down to the lower rooms. Muffled shots pounded in the recesses below. Parson saw nothing outside but snowfall. Sparse now, letting up.
Damn it, he’s gone, Parson decided. So the watch cap worked but not the shotgun.
He raised himself, crouched low with his rifle, and trotted along the parapets. They led to a narrow chamber, perhaps a barracks for guards centuries ago. He stepped inside, hoping he’d find interior stairs. Paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Webs of frost on the walls. Trash on the floor, an empty water bottle with a Farsi label.
He nudged the bottle with his foot. Felt cold metal at the back of his neck.
“Do not move.” The voice turned Parson’s blood to ice. “Put down the rifle. Slowly.”
Parson’s hands sweated, though his fingers had little feeling. His gloves felt as if they were filled with cold mud. He did not even exhale.
“Go on,” Marwan said. “Put it down.”
Parson lowered the rifle. His trembling made the weapon rattle as he placed it on the floor. As he stood back up, he saw the barrel of the Dragunov in his peripheral vision.
“Do not turn around,” Marwan said. “Did you really think you could fool me twice?”
Parson did not answer. His .45 was holstered in his survival vest, under his parka. No way could he pull it fast enough. He thought to run. No, he’ll shoot me. At this range the bullet would pierce body armor.
“There are stairs to your right,” Marwan said. “Walk.”
Parson shuffled to the stairwell as if in a trance. Tried to form thoughts.
“We have unfinished business,” Marwan said. “You are going to suffer for your treatment of our spiritual leader.”
Then maybe I want him to shoot me, thought Parson. I’ll go for the pistol and make him shoot me.
Like the other stairways in the fort, the center treadway of each step had worn down nearly to the next step. Parson lost his footing and tumbled into darkness. He felt his head and limbs striking a misery of stone. As he lay at the bottom, his wrist and elbows throbbed. But no bones seemed broken, not that it mattered anymore.
He grabbed his twisted ankle. Through the leg of his flight suit he felt the silver pommel of his boot knife. And he decided to live a little longer.
Parson put his hand under his flight suit, onto the knife handle. Groaned as if in more pain than he really felt. Kept his hand in place as if massaging an injury. Marwan avoided the stairs’ eroded center and descended with the poise of a gymnast. Parson felt the Dragunov’s muzzle against his cheek. Perfect.
“Get up,” Marwan said.
Parson grabbed the barrel with his left hand and wrenched it to the side. Marwan fired. The muzzle flash lit the dungeon like lightning. Parson yanked the rifle toward him and swung his elbow into Marwan’s face. Kneed his groin.
The Dragunov clattered to the floor. Parson felt both Marwan’s hands choking him. He tried to stab him in the chest, but the Damascus blade scraped body armor. Parson slashed higher.
Marwan shouted a word Parson did not understand when the blade entered his armpit. He let go of Parson’s neck. Then kicked his chest. Parson’s own flak jacket took the brunt, but the blow sent him reeling against the wall. His vision tunneled, particled. Then cleared.
He shifted the knife from his right hand to his left and dug for his pistol. A kick to his knees knocked his legs out from under him. Parson fell onto his side and dropped the knife. Marwan reached to the floor for his rifle.
Parson tore open his coat and drew the Colt. He could not seem to make his frostbitten thumb pull the hammer. Marwan pointed his Dragunov just as Parson cocked the .45 and pulled the trigger.
The shot sounded like an explosion within the stone walls. The flash illuminated Marwan as the bullet hit his armor. Photo of a man with rifle, falling. Parson pulled the trigger again.
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