“I don’t see why we have to do everything,” Nasser grumbled.
“Quit complaining. It is good to work with your hands. You will learn this, in time.” He took the discarded American ammo box — prepared with explosives — from the stack against the wall. “This is the mixture of ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel. Here, help me place it.”
They worked with the charge, using thin wire to fasten it inside the engine bay.
Naseer eyed it skeptically. “Won’t the heat cause it to explode?”
“No, it is stable. We will wire the detonators on top when we are done. Now, bring another.”
As they hung more charges around the engine, he questioned Naseer on the timing.
“Fahad is prepared,” Naseer said. “When he approaches the checkpoint, he knows what he must do.”
“He understands what will happen?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “That is good. He must not turn away from the checkpoint.”
“May I ask a question?”
“Never be afraid to ask me a question.”
Naseer paused. “Do you hate the Americans because of what they did to your wife?”
Abdullah stared thoughtfully at Naseer. “Did I tell you that I spent time in America?”
“Yes, but you never say more.”
“The Americans helped us with the war.”
Naseer nodded for him to continue.
“There were many Mujahideen who thought that war was over. I traveled home, to Saudi Arabia, but I found there was no place for me. My brothers had inherited the family business, and they didn’t want to hear stories of my days with the Mujahideen. I had done this great thing, fought and sacrificed, but they cared only for money. Then a man contacted me, an American who helped during the war, the man who taught me to make bombs. He helped me go to America, to New York City.”
He stopped and stared off into space. “You can’t imagine how large it is. You think the city might go on forever.” He resumed tying off the wire holding the charge. “The people were…not unfriendly. I studied at university.”
He paused, holding the device inside the engine bay. “I met my wife. She was a student as well. From a good family. A very good Muslim. We mingled there, the men and women. I told her I was an Arab, but she knew, somehow. She called me a proud Afghani and I told her that my people fled Afghanistan a long time ago but that my father had sent me back at my grandfather’s behest. That I helped fight the Soviets. That I committed myself to Jihad. She told me that I’d fallen in love with Afghanistan.”
He continued fastening the wire to the charge, tying it to the sidewall. “Have you thought about marriage, Naseer?”
Naseer coughed. “I am committed to Jihad.”
He smiled. “Spoken as a youth.” He patted Naseer on the hand. “It is a fine thing, to marry. To have children. And so we did. We loved and we married. But, we were unable to have children.”
“It must have been very hard for you,” Nasser said. “Did you think of taking another wife?”
“No. Never. She completed her studies and came back to Afghanistan. I followed the next year. I’d had enough of war. I wanted to marry and live in peace.”
“And they begged you to lead?”
“Hardly,” Abdullah said. “Her family saw only a hardened man, a killer. The village leaders saw only an Arab, not an Afghani. They wanted nothing to do with us. But, this pleased me. I wanted nothing to do with them. We found a place to live on the edge of her village. It was quiet, until the Americans invaded. The Taliban came, asking for help. I didn’t want to. I was content to live in peace. They persisted. I showed them how to make bombs. They came from far away and the more I taught, the more who came. I didn’t mind. I like to teach, and it was nice to have students. I was no longer a fighter, just a tired man who wanted to spend time with his wife. Until they killed her.”
Naseer winced. “You don’t have to continue.”
He frowned. “My life was always for Jihad. I was a fool to think otherwise. Now I will kill the Americans, here and abroad.”
He finished hanging the last charge in the engine bay, then with Naseer’s help they put the hood back on the truck. “It’s time to start on the inside. Help me remove the seat.” He waved to the stack of remaining charges. “The night is long and we have much to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
John tossed the flash-bang grenade through the door, the explosion of light and noise illuminating the darkened room. The VISOR displayed a ghostly green image, the sound muted. He rushed through the door and put two shots in the enemy’s chest.
His aim was better as proved by the last hundred shots that Eric and Deion pulled from the dummies. They were now mere fractions of an inch apart.
He continued on, the VISOR displaying simulated thermal imaging from an overhead drone, his own heat signature blazing bright.
As he entered the second room, a dummy popped from behind a couch, spraying his position with Simunition rounds, paint cartridge bullets designed to leave vivid color markings. They hit like a paint-ball and stung like a bastard.
He sidestepped and put another pair of rounds in the dummy’s chest. His HUD lit up, the red outline of a person in the room ahead. He ran through the door, fast and hard, and the dummies on each side fired. He dropped and spun, firing his Sig-Sauer, but the bullet jammed.
Damn it!
The heat signature was a blonde in a short blue dress. His amped-up nervous system twitched. Unlike the Simunition rounds, his were real. One wrong move and he could kill her.
Damn it. Damn it!
His mind raced as the dummies tracked him, time slowing. He dropped the magazine, cleared the misfire, and slammed in a new one, cycling the receiver. He spun sideways and put three bullets into the dummy on his left, then tracked to the right, preparing to fire. In the VISOR he saw the blonde jump up and knew he had only seconds to save her.
He swept his leg out, tripping her, to keep her safe while he took out the remaining dummy.
Suddenly, the woman was upright, a knife in hand. She was behind him, but he caught the movement in his VISOR as the knife arced down. He spun and tried to knock it away with the M11, and in that second, time froze.
He tried to figure out what to do, but drew a blank. He had assumed she was a hostage.
Big mistake.
He screwed the pooch. If he hit her, he might genuinely hurt her, and she was probably a PFC roped into the shooting house. If he didn’t strike back, Eric would give him hell.
Time started to flow again and he kicked her hard in the shin. She grunted and collapsed down on him, the hard plastic knife finding its way below the VISOR and hitting him in the throat.
It was hard plastic, not the rubber training knives he was used to, and he choked on his own tongue. She kneed him in his groin and he came completely off the floor, choking back vomit.
When the overhead lights blazed on, the blonde sat on top of him, a small pistol in her left hand, jammed into his stomach.
“What the fuck was that?” Eric’s voice thundered.
He gasped, then popped the catch on the VISOR, and flipped open the face-plate. He took raggedy breaths, and the taste of vomit was still heavy in the back of his throat. He looked up at the pretty woman. “You win?”
She stared at him, incredulous. “I win? I gut shot you, and would have cut your helmet off and put the blade through your eye. Of course I win.”
“Sorry, Ma’am?”
Eric and Deion joined them in the shooting house. Deion shook his head, smiling, but Eric didn’t let it go. “What happened, John?”
“Sorry, sir. I wasn’t ready for a civilian.”