We’re taught to take agency back. As soon as the ambush hits, you stop and evaluate the situation. You do that in a second, then you act. You take back your power, and that is psychological. If appropriate, you attack into the ambush. Otherwise, you move. You get off the X. If you stay where the bullets are landing, you die. It is that simple.
Robyn laughs gaily at something Zarek has said.
The warlord smiles at her. With a tilt of his chin, he rides ahead to speak with Koenig. Robyn looks around, catches my eye. Waits for me to join her.
“Zarek’s men are all good riders,” Robyn says.
“Polo was invented in Afghanistan, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Robyn laughs. “With the heads of slain enemies for balls.”
“That’s a pretty heavy ball,” I tell her. “A human head can weigh eight or ten pounds.”
“Strengthens a man’s sword arm.”
I’m struck by the girl’s dissociation from the horror of war. She is moved by loss on a personal basis. Her emotions swung from anger to grief at the loss of Grissom. Her tears at the Soviet outpost were real. On the other hand, battlefield deaths and executions affect her not at all.
Robyn’s enjoying this too much.
“Did Zarek tell you we’re going into battle this afternoon?”
“Yes. He warned me to ride to safety and let it play out.”
“That’s good advice.”
Robyn stares into the distance. A tomboyish girl, with unruly hair. The strands struggle to break free of her headscarf. She’s pretty. It would be easy for someone like Zarek, from a culture that keeps women in cloisters, to become enchanted with her. A girl next door from Colorado became something exotic in the wilds of Badakhshan.
“I’m to stay close to you,” she says.
“He tell you that too?”
“Yes.” Robyn smiles. “Good leaders are extraordinary judges of character. He figured toot sweet you’re the American in charge.”
The transparent effort at flattery annoys me. “You’re pissing me off, Robyn.”
“I’m not trying to.” Robyn reaches out and touches my shoulder. “You kept us alive yesterday. I respect that. So does Zarek.”
“You and Zarek.” I shake my head. “And this damn peace deal.”
“We’re the good guys, Breed. Not everybody wants peace.”
27
The Battle
North Arwal Valley
Thursday, 1600
The riverbend is half a mile away. I can see why this is only the second-best ambush location on the river. The valley is wide and stretches six hundred yards. The slopes on either side are gradual, heavily forested. They rise to the low northern ridges of Arwal-Ghar.
With my Leitz binoculars, I glass the valley.
I know where Shahzad will position his fighters. Fifty on the slope overlooking the bend, a hundred on the approach. Zarek has stretched out our caravan. With twenty yards between animals, the mule and donkey train is over a quarter mile long. The mounted Mujahedeen are similarly dispersed. Looking back the length of the caravan, I can’t see Zarek’s infantry.
The effect is to stretch Shahzad’s forces thin. With one hundred and fifty men, Shahzad can cover four hundred and fifty yards of front. Zarek’s stretched column is at least twice that. If Shahzad goes after the mule train, he has to let Zarek’s cavalry through. If he attacks the cavalry, he will miss the long line of mules, donkeys and infantry.
The problem with the dispersal is obvious. With his men strung out over a half mile of valley floor, Zarek can’t mount a concentrated attack.
Von Clausewitz called it the Schwerpunkt. Every maneuvering plan should have a center of gravity. Its main thrust against the enemy. As far as I can tell, Zarek’s force doesn’t have one.
Zarek’s right about one thing. Five Americans won’t swing this battle. Our best bet is to ride around the bend as quickly as possible. Get out of the effective range of Shahzad’s AK47s and RPGs.
“Five-Five Sierra, this is Five-Five Oscar.”
Takigawa.
“Go ahead, Oscar.”
“Are you feeling like a duck in a shooting gallery?”
“Yes. Everybody stay close to the river. We’ll be well out of effective AK47 range.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Takigawa says.
“You know what I’m thinking, Oscar?”
“Where would you be if you were Shahzad.”
I smile to myself. Takigawa and I are snipers. Trained to decide a battle with a single bullet. Neutralize the enemy’s leadership.
“I’d be where I can see both the approach and the bend. That leaves out the long bar of the L. He’ll be on the foot, not the toe.”
“Yeah,” Takigawa agrees. “I don’t see how we can get a good angle on him.”
“The best angle is right in the shooting gallery,” I tell him. “Out of AK47 range, well within M110 range.”
“You got full metal jacket balls, my friend.”
“This is Five-Five Actual,” Koenig breaks into the conversation. “Let’s not clutter the radio net.”
I go silent without acknowledgment. Look at Robyn riding twenty yards ahead of me. Delivering Robyn unharmed is my first priority, not hunting Abdul-Ali Shahzad. But—maybe I can do both.
Ghazan is riding twenty yards ahead of Robyn. The black-bearded Mooj raises a small walkie-talkie, the equivalent of our squad radios, to his ear. Low-power FM sets, line-of-sight comms good over three-quarters of a mile. The Taliban and Mooj make extensive use of these.
Zarek’s small-unit leaders have been using their walkie-talkies as we approach the riverbend. They expect to be hit at any moment.
“Oscar, this is Sierra.”
“Go ahead, Sierra.”
“Any time now.”
Battles rarely develop like you expect. Some begin with a clamor that shocks and fills you with terror. Others, like this one, develop slowly. The fighting seems to be happening a mile away until it spreads and washes over you.
Zarek’s point cavalry elements are well around the bend when the first drumming of automatic fire echoes across the valley. I see other cavalry dismount, force their horses to lie down, and dive for cover. Takigawa, Lopez, and Koenig gallop to the riverbed.
The mule and donkey train stops cold.
I spur my mount forward and join Robyn.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get to the river.”
The valley’s six hundred yards wide, and the river’s fifty yards across. From the water’s edge, the
