had quickly stabilized, neither side now possessing an advantage.
Low crawling, Micky Hendricks was first to reach Norton and pulled the quick release clasps on the harness. He saw that the radio set had taken at least two 7.62 rounds; it looked useless.
The PRDC-150 was a high-end piece of gear: ten pounds without batteries and barely a foot square. Voice and data encryption, frequency-agile VHF. Now it was several thousand dollars’ worth of assorted spare parts.
Hendricks safed his weapon, slung it around his neck, and began the laborious process of dragging Norton to cover. Occasional AK rounds spattered the hard earth around him, but Lee’s and Khan’s teams suppressed most hostile fire. Lee recognized a no-win situation and began formulating a plan. He leaned close to Bosco and Breezy. “You two flank ‘em uphill to the left. The Paki and I will keep ‘em busy.”
The two friends looked at one another, tapped right fists together, and began to move out. Lee grabbed Breezy. “They might be flanking us — be alert.”
Breezy nodded, then was gone.
Lee grabbed his notebook from a vest pocket, scribbled a message, and used duct tape to secure it to a rock. He told his new partner, “Shoot!”
As the Pakistani soldier began firing semi-auto, Lee raised up and heaved the rock at Khan. One of his men saw the message inbound and rose to catch it. He drew immediate fire, taking bullet fragments off a boulder, but hauled in the missive. Khan read the printed note:
Khan called out. “Message received!”
Glancing over his right shoulder, Lee saw two or more of Khan’s team disappear around some boulders.
Bosco and Breezy had their moves down. They covered one another, keeping eyes and guns swiveling through 190 degrees as they advanced uphill. They heard the RPD and some AKs firing from the crest of the hummock and swung farther to their left in order to approach from behind. Reaching the decision point, they paused long enough to coordinate their move onto the skyline.
An armed man appeared twelve meters in front of Breezy. The former paratrooper raised his AK from low ready, got a quick sight picture, and pressed the trigger. Four rounds struck the gunman, who collapsed with his mouth agape. It happened before Bosco could react.
Both men realized what had happened. They had experienced what professionals call a meeting engagement: when two maneuver elements collide unexpectedly. The Americans were flanking the al Qaeda flankers.
Seconds later two more figures emerged from the boulders uphill. One saw what he saw, spun on a heel, and fled. The other opened fire from waist level, hip shooting on full auto. His burst went low and left. Breezy’s and Bosco’s sighted rounds left red gouts on his torso. He was a big man, probably 250 pounds, and somehow stayed on his feet. Breezy was aiming a head shot when the terrorist dropped to his knees and pitched forward, downhill.
Breezy called “Cover!” and dropped to kneeling. As he executed a tactical reload, Bosco replied, “Covering.” After Breezy stashed his partly used mag he nodded to his partner. Bosco said, “Set.”
Breezy knew the drill: he shouted, “Go!”
They continued uphill, pushing hard because they had been spotted.
Topping the crest, the SSI men saw the geometry of the ambush. The machine gun was sited improperly, perpendicular to the trail rather than at the head, where the gunner could have fired down the enemy’s route of advance. One or two riflemen were positioned over there, engaged in occasional fusillades with Lee. Farther “upstream” were at least three more shooters trying to keep Khan’s men pinned down.
“Look!” Bosco pointed out the survivor of the recent shootout, sprinting for the safety of the RPD nest. Both Americans began shooting at the running man at least fifty meters away. Bosco was first on the trigger, firing while standing. Breezy plopped into a hasty sitting position. Their bullets impacted ahead and behind the fleeting bandit. Breezy realized he was pumped; he forced himself to breathe deeply and concentrate. At a quartering aspect, he put his front sight one width ahead of the target and pressed the trigger straight back.
The man seemed to stumble, regain his balance, and continue ahead. Then he slowed. Bosco’s next round knocked him down.
Now aware of its peril, the MG crew swung toward the uphill threat. Before the belt-fed weapon could open up, more firing erupted behind the RPD. The loader was badly hit, rolling on the rocky ground. Then the gunner was cut down by 7.62 rounds from two of Khan’s team. The Americans recognized Blake O’Neil and a Paki, who waved from about 120 meters. They advanced cautiously on the gun crew, rifles pointed at the two “items” while covering forty meters of open ground.
Bosco began searching the enemy bodies for information. Finding only al Qaeda propaganda, he handed the papers to the Pakistani NCO.
O’Neil kicked one of the prostrate gunmen in the ribs. The man groaned loudly and O’Neil shouted, “We got a live one here.”Then he bound the man’s hands. Khan sprinted to the scene and pulled back the gunman’s robe and vest. “Femur, through and through. He can talk.” Khan motioned for the Paki medic, who went to work.
Breezy toed one of the corpses with his boot. “Man, they shoulda had us.”
Bosco held out his hands; the left was steady but the right had a tremor. “Bad setup, dude. I wonder why they put the belt-fed uphill. They coulda hosed the length of our column from the head of the trail.”
“Come on down!” Lee shouted from the trail, eager to regroup his small force. He could not assume that all the opposition had been killed or repulsed. The SSI men picked up the enemy weapons and alternately stepped and slid down the hummock.
Lee did a quick head count. One mule handler was dead and one was missing. Norton, the radioman, was seriously hurt and the radio was destroyed. “Our spare radio was on the second mule, and he’s long gone.”
Khan produced a hand-held radio. “Major Lee, not to worry. This is a short-range set but I can pass a message to the district commander. He can notify Quetta for us. It may take some time, however.”
Dr. Chaudhry pulled a blanket over the dead Paki soldier. “What about our casualties?”
Lee exhaled audibly. “We can’t bury the KIA in this soil, Doctor. Maybe our remaining mule can pack him and Norton off this mountain tomorrow. That leaves one handler missing as well.”
Lee looked around again. Finally he asked, “Where’s Padgett-Smith?”
Carolyn Padgett-Smith looked around. She felt a shiver between her shoulder blades. She was alone.
Not just alone, but stranded in remote, hostile territory: a European woman without communications or food, who spoke no local dialect. She spent fifteen fervent seconds berating herself.
CPS looked back in the direction she had come. Or thought she had come. With her focus on the scampering pack animal bearing her supplies, she now realized that she had paid little attention to the terrain.
Padgett-Smith recalled Breezy’s comments:
While scaling a rocky slope she took stock of her assets: a coat and gloves and the Klimov that Frank Leopole had insisted she take.
Once settled beneath a protected outcropping, Padgett-Smith tried to get comfortable. She knew it was an impossible task but she wanted to sleep sitting up, if she could sleep at all. In the tight quarters she checked her AKS to ensure it was loaded and set it aside. Then she drew her Browning, chambered a round, and applied the safety. It was going to be a long, lonely night.
After securing the area, Lee deployed lookouts on each side of the ravine. He was discussing where to
