The Shadow Patrol

27

Francesca strained up the hill, cranking the pedals under his leather sandals, staring down at the dust beneath his front wheel. He raised his head, saw Alders pulling away around the next bend.

“Slow down,” Francesca yelled. In English. A tactical breach. He didn’t care. The road was rutted and steep, barely wide enough for two bikes side by side. A small car could scrape through, but it would need a new paint job afterward. In an hour of riding, Francesca had seen only two motorcycles, both coming north, toward him.

At least the air was cool up here. The folds of the hillside hid the sun. Still, Francesca would never again question the manhood of the riders in the Tour de France. He found Alders waiting at the top of a sharp left turn. “Not too bad from here,” Alders said. Francesca pulled over, waited for his breath. Alders gave him thirty seconds, then rode off. Francesca followed, cursing. But Alders was right. After one final turn, the road flattened out and opened into a narrow saddle. Scattered pine trees and mulberry bushes broke the rocky soil. To east and west, the slopes climbed steeply. It was the best natural pass across the ridge for ten miles in either direction, which was why the road ran through it. Though road was a highly generous term.

Francesca looked back the way they’d come, across the Arghandab Valley. The pomegranate groves that bordered the river were maybe ten miles north and fifteen hundred feet lower. Closer in, smoke rose from a grape field. The nearest fire department was at KAF, so the fire would be burning awhile.

Alders pulled out a plastic-coated terrain map. They’d left their GPS back at the hut so they couldn’t be tracked. But Francesca didn’t need the map. He felt comfortable with the terrain up here. He could see where to set up.

The far side of the ridge, the southern side, sloped gently toward Highway 1, where FOB Jackson was located. The road they were riding turned slightly left as it emerged from the saddle, running south-southeast. About five hundred meters ahead, the road bisected a small village. Maybe forty compounds. Weston had told Francesca that the platoon would set up there, stickering motorcycles and checking out some of the houses. A presence and registration patrol.

The day was clear, the wind low. Assuming Weston did his job and got Young into the open, Francesca expected the shot would be easy. After the kill, he and Alders would head back the way they’d come. The platoon would have little chance to chase them. The Strykers could get only as far as the saddle. On the northern side, the road was too narrow and steep for the big trucks to navigate. On the bikes, Francesca and Alders could easily outrace anyone foolish enough to chase them on foot. The no-fly zone meant that they didn’t have to worry about drones or helicopters. And Francesca planned to ditch the Dragunov. Taking it back to the grape hut and then KAF could only cause trouble. So even if some overzealous Apache pilot violated the no-fly zone and came over the ridge, he’d see nothing but a couple of Afghan farmers on bicycles, miles away from the kill zone. Once they were back at the hut, they would hang out and wait for the Talib IED-planting cell to show.

WESTON HAD CALLED just after sunrise. Francesca hadn’t slept at all, but he felt great, thanks to two greenies. Breakfast of champions. He felt the vibrations of every mote of dust in the grape hut. He was in tune with the world. He was alive.

“Got the okay from my CO. We’re gonna roll this morning. Little bit sooner than I thought. You cool with that?”

“We’re always cool, Lieutenant. Where we talked about before?”

“Yes. The village is called Mohammed Kalay. We’ll be there at ten-thirty. Eleven at the latest.”

“Roger that. Eleven. And your boy will follow orders long enough to give me a chance to engage?”

“He hasn’t said no to a mission yet. I don’t see him starting now.”

“And you haven’t heard anything from the other one?” Meaning Wells.

“The one who came and talked? No.”

“You do, you let me know.”

“Will do. When you’re in position, will you signal?”

Yeah, I’ll signal. Coleman Young getting his throat ripped out. That’s the signal.

Francesca hung up. Alders was still snoring. Francesca squeezed him on the shoulder. Not hard. Guys who spent their lives in nests like this didn’t like being woken too suddenly. Alders sat up, wiped a hand over his mouth.

“Was I lucky enough to get blown to hell while I slept or am I still stuck in this tar pit?”

“Sad to say you’re still alive.”

“Why did you wake me? I had a good one going.”

“Your favorite nurse again?”

Months before, Alders had told Francesca that he had a nurse fantasy, not the usual candy striper but a chubby, big-breasted East Indian who gave him a rough massage with a barely happy ending.

“I should never have told you that.”

“True. Ready to rock and roll?”

“Our Talib friends?”

“Our other friends.”

“We just got here.”

“I know, but this way’s better. Get it done quick, come back, chill.”

Francesca hadn’t told Alders that he was still thinking about taking out Weston and Rodriguez with Young. He figured he’d see how the trap set up. A game-time decision.

THEY RODE OFF a few minutes later in their brown shalwar kameez. They had three hours plus before the Strykers arrived. The grape hut was about thirteen or fourteen miles from the saddle. Francesca figured they would have plenty of time. Then they hit the hills. For the last couple miles, he’d wondered whether walking might be faster. The ride had taken so long that they burned through most of their cushion. By Francesca’s watch, they had about forty-five minutes to pick their spot, get settled. Less time than he would have liked.

Francesca pulled the bike off the road, left it behind a rock, grabbed the canvas bag that held the Dragunov’s hard-sided case. He walked east, keeping back from the ridgeline. The saddle turned steeper, blending into the hill above. Loose rocks cut at Francesca’s sandals. He wanted to gain maybe forty or fifty feet of elevation, make the shot easy to take, hard to trace.

Alders ranged ahead and closer to the ridgeline. About a hundred yards east of the road, he waved Francesca over. Above, a dry streambed crosscut the hillside, running southwest. It fell over the ridgeline thirty yards away from where they stood. A tangle of mulberry bushes marked the spot. Francesca and Alders could set up in the streambed between the bushes, which offered great cover. Aside from the last few feet, they wouldn’t even have to crawl or crab-walk to the position. They could walk without fear of being seen from the fields below.

“You see.”

“Long as it has the right angle.” If a boulder or the folds of the ridge blocked Francesca’s line of sight to the village, the position was useless, no matter how good the cover. He cut over to the streambed. It was dry, six feet wide, a couple feet deep. This part of the Arghandab Valley didn’t get much rain. The runoff that fed the river fell in the mountains to the north. Just shy of the ridgeline, Francesca unzipped the bag and pulled out his binoculars and a thin brown blanket. He unrolled the blanket. He wanted to keep his gown clean. On the ride home, even the most oblivious Afghan police officer might notice a man in a dirt-covered shalwar kameez. He squirmed forward on the blanket, ignoring the stones poking at him. At the edge, he propped himself on his elbows, raised his binoculars.

Perfect.

The contours of the hill made him nearly invisible to the villagers below, but no rocks or outcroppings blocked his view. The mud houses and compounds started a quarter mile away. Inside them, villagers did what Francesca had decided Afghans did best: not much. In one compound, three men sat against a wall, drinking tea from a