“Eversoll, you okay?” It was Matt Garrett. “Let’s move.” Garrett’s hand was under his arm, lifting him.
“Yes sir. I’m good.” Eversoll got to one knee, took a second, and then stood, Matt’s steady hand helping him up.
They continued to move, catching up with Hobart and Van Dreeves.
“We’re at an open area,” Hobart said. “Looks like a circle. A fire is still smoldering.”
“Okay, we’ve been here long enough. It’s time to call in the aircraft. Everyone put on their SPIES seats.” The team took a minute to wrap a twelve-foot section of rope around their chests and then insert a metal climbing snap link into the loop.
Hobart moved left while Van Dreeves went right. Machine-gun fire pushed them back into the tunnel. Van Dreeves loaded a grenade into the M203 grenade launcher, stowed beneath the muzzle of his M4.
Stepping into the circle, he fired directly at the muzzle of the machine gun and stumbled back. He was hit. A flurry of machine-gun rounds had pelted him in the chest. The only question was whether his body armor had dissipated the bullets’ energy at such short range.
The grenade worked its magic, silencing the gunner. Hobart took a knee next to Van Dreeves while Matt and Eversoll trained their weapons upward at the lip of the opening. One man looked over the edge, and Matt quickly fired into his forehead. Then another came from the other direction. Eversoll shot him.
“We’ve got to get up there. We’re ducks in a barrel here,” Eversoll said.
“Roger. How’s Van Dreeves?”
“Alive, but not ambulatory. We have to carry him.”
“Okay, Eversoll and I will secure the ridge, and then one of us will come down to help you.”
With that, Eversoll quickly climbed the steep slope, his weapon slung on his back. Garrett covered him. At the top, he slid on his belly and then pulled his weapon to the ready. He could see clearly through his goggles. Two men were about fifty meters to his front climbing a steep slope. He shot them both. Another group of about ten men was at the top of the next ridge, maybe two hundred meters away. Inaccurate fire from that location swung wildly overhead. He didn’t return fire.
“Secure,” he called down to Matt. In an instant, Garrett was next to him on the ledge.
“Go help Hobart. I’m calling the helicopter.”
“See there,” Eversoll pointed. “About ten of them.”
“Got it.”
Eversoll slid back down the ridge and knelt next to Hobart. “How bad?”
“He’ll make it. Let’s go.”
His knee pad had slid down around his ankle, and as he knelt, something crunched into his knee.
He looked down as he was reaching for Van Dreeves. A piece of paper or something plastic was under his knee. He grabbed at it, pawing at it with his gloved hand, unable to pick it up.
“Come on, let’s go, Eversoll.” Hobart was impatient. Eversoll heard the whirring blades of the helicopter as it approached.
“Hang on.” He slipped his glove off, reached down, and picked up the piece of plastic, slipping it into his pocket.
“Let’s go, damn it!”
“Come on.” Eversoll helped Hobart, pulling Van Dreeves up the ledge as Hobart pushed.
The helicopter hovered. Matt fired randomly at the retreating enemy to keep them at bay. A rope dropped from the middle of the helicopter’s underbelly. Each man hooked into a metal loop affixed to the rope. Hobart was first, then Van Dreeves, then Eversoll, and finally Garrett. The three capable men fired their weapons at the Al Qaeda as the helicopter lifted off and slung them away from the cave complex.
Bullets whipped past Sergeant Eversoll as he tried to return effective, aimed fire, but it was nearly impossible as he circled from the rope. As they swung below the helicopter tethered by the hoist cable, the winch slowly pulled them upward into the three-foot by three-foot square in the bottom of the helicopter known as the “hell hole.”
They were flying so fast that water seeped from Eversoll’s eyes. He looked up. Hobart was in the helicopter helping pull Van Dreeves in also. A moment later, it was his turn. He was in and helping Garrett before he knew it.
The crew chief gave them all a thumbs-up and walked around hugging them. They had made it.
The helicopter wove through the steep valleys of the Hindu Kush at one hundred fifty miles per hour. They had killed a bunch of Al Qaeda, and, if nothing else, that felt pretty good.
After about thirty minutes, once the adrenaline had slowed, Eversoll removed his glove and reached into his pocket. He had nearly forgotten about the piece of plastic he had retrieved. Any intelligence was useful, he figured. Expecting to see Arabic writing, he held up a plastic sleeve with a photo on one side and a small medallion on the other.
Speechless, he stood and walked over to where Matt Garrett was sitting, his head in his hands.
“Sir?”
“Not now, Eversoll. Now’s not the time.”
He imagined what Matt Garrett was going through. He had just exacted the very revenge he had come to Afghanistan to seek. Now there was nothing left, or so he thought.
“Sir, I don’t know how to say this, other than I think your brother’s still alive.”
CHAPTER 17
The man waiting for Melanie Garrett, whom he knew well, called himself Del Dangurs. Of course, it wasn’t his real name, but a worthy nom de plume, perhaps even nom de guerre. He had arrived at the restaurant early, picking the perfect table sequestered away from the flowing throng at Ripster’s high-end steak house. He had his back to the wall, like always, and watched as Melanie entered, checked with the maitre d’, who nodded in his direction. Their eyes met, and he gave her a slight nod. They knew each other well and he was going to enjoy this new phase of their relationship.
He stood as she approached and he gave her an air kiss as he pulled her chair away from the table. She sat and smoothed the white linen napkin in her lap as he sat across from her. He had her favorite cabernet already poured and so he lifted his glass and she reciprocated. He watched as she held the rim just below her eye level and stared back at him.
“Melanie,” he said.
“So, Del Dangurs, very nice to meet you here.”
“And you as well,” Del said. “Like my nom de plume?”
“Kinda sexy, in a bad boy sort of way.” He watched as she swirled the maroon wine in her glass. Staring at the whirlpool he guessed she was trying to determine if it really was a good wine. She tilted the glass. The legs looked okay. He could smell the heavy bouquet of the cabernet.
“Gives me more freedom of license, if you know what I mean,” Dangurs said, as he looked around the crowded restaurant.
“Who else knows who you are?”
“Just you, my attorney, and two people at the paper. There’s a non-disclosure clause in my contract.”
“Okay, so why does it matter to me? Why the secret rendezvous?”
Del put his glass on the table and scratched his chin pensively. “Well, aside from the fact that I thought I’d enjoy an evening with you, I wanted to make a proposal.”
Melanie’s loud cackle caused the couple at the next table to look curiously in their direction. “But I hardly knew ya,” she joked.
Del smiled at her jab. He placed his hand on the base of his wine glass, two fingers on either side of the stem. Making small circles, he patiently waited for her to be done with herself. It was a small price to pay for getting his story.
Tiring of her routine, he decided then that he would take her home and enjoy her tonight if she was willing. Then, a dark cloud passed across the imagery in his thoughts. Maybe, he thought, he would take her even if she wasn’t willing. He had created an entirely different persona that did allow him more room to maneuver, especially given his tiresome day job. Besides, he considered, he had so much talent and so much desire that he believed he required two identities.