Reapers featured a combination of thermal and satellite sensors and cameras that could pinpoint with total accuracy a target as small as a Volkswagen from 20,000 feet up. Or a man. A complex system of checks and balances made sure there were no accidental launches or cowboy attempts to take out a target.
Tillson had gotten his mission. He'd taken off from Bagram and now his bird was over Pakistan. He watched the rugged mountains of the Hindu Kush pass under the drone.
The cameras sent a clear picture of the landscape below. The target was at the end of a canyon. Snow made it hard to get a good visual, but the thermal sensors were reading a solid heat signature from the target. No problemo.
Tillson noted three heat signatures, bodies, moving away toward the west. They were already two klicks away from the strike zone. Not his target. Tillson also noted that the three signatures were moving toward a cluster of other heat signatures, west of them.
He eased the stick and throttled back, brought the drone around in a sweeping bank and followed the canyon north. The heat radiating from the target made it easy. A piece of cake. His readouts showed lock on. He spoke into his headset microphone.
"Victor One, target is acquired." Victor One was his control.
"Roger, Merlin. You are clear to engage."
"Roger, clear to engage. Release in three, two, one." Tillson pushed a button. The reaper lifted as the weight of the five hundred pounder dropped away. Tillson compensated, activated the autopilot.
The Paveway was laser guided and under his control. Merlin watched the bomb down to the building through a camera eye in the nose. Some kind of monastery. He made a minor adjustment, aiming for the open door of the building. It beckoned and drew closer. The screen blacked. From the drone, Merlin watched a bright white light spread across the area.
"Victor One, Target terminated," Tillson said into his headset.
"Roger, Merlin. Well done."
Tillson leaned back in his chair and reached for a handful of M&Ms he kept in a dish near his computer. Just another day on the job.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Nick and the others were well off the slope and heading east when they heard the explosion. The falling snow turned brief orange with reflected light. Then it was gone. The gray, muffled morning returned.
The snow lay thick, two inches or more since they'd started down the slope. Clouds of snow swirled around them in freezing wind. Bits of ice pelted them. Sometimes they could see for yards, sometimes Nick could just make out Ronnie and Selena walking next to him. He looked at his GPS. Without it, they'd be lost in a moment.
The GPS wouldn't help if they stumbled onto the Taliban camp. He called Lamont.
"You're almost on them, Nick. Thermals are faint, but we've got them. You are off their left flank. I make it fourteen bodies. Looks like they've got animals with them, probably goats. They're clustered together, keeping warm."
"What's our extraction status?"
"All flights are grounded. Once you're past these guys, get to the LZ and hole up. Weather says clear later today."
"Roger. We're…" Nick didn't finish. A figure emerged from the snow twenty feet in front of them. He fumbled with the front of his robes. Yellow stains on the snow showed what he had been doing. He wore a dirty turban tied sloppily around his head. He had a full beard, an AK-47 and a loud voice. He saw them and shouted an alarm.
Ronnie shot him as the AK came up. The man went backwards into the snow, firing into the air.
All hell broke loose.
"Down," Carter yelled. They dove for the ground.
Shouts and the chatter of AKs sounded in front of them. Nick froze.
He's in the market. He can smell himself, his fear. He keeps away from the walls. A baby cries. The street is deserted.
Men rise up and begin firing, dozens of AKs trying to kill him, bullets flying everywhere. The market stalls explode in splinters and plaster and rock fragmenting from the buildings.
He ducks into a doorway. Then the child runs toward him screaming and throws a grenade as Nick shoots him. The boy's head disappears in a red geyser. The grenade drifts toward him in slow motion…everything goes white…
"Nick." Ronnie shook him. "Nick."
The white faded into the white of snow.
"Yeah. I'm all right." His headache was back. "Grenades." He turned to Selena.
"Remember when I showed you how to use a grenade, just in case?"
"Yes."
"Well, this is the case." He pulled a grenade from his pouch, pulled the safety clip. Held the lever down. Pulled the grenade from the pin. He got to his knees. Rounds hummed past. The Taliban were shooting blind into the snowfall. He arched back and lofted the grenade toward the sound of the AKs in front of him. Ronnie and Selena followed. They hit the deck.
The explosions sent a ripple of death through the morning air. Screams pierced the clouds of blowing snow.
"Go." Carter got to his feet and ran toward the screaming, firing blind as he went, his MP-5 held at waist level. He tripped over a dead goat and went sprawling onto the ground.
He got up, ran forward. Shapes appeared. He shot a man bleeding from his ears before he could level his AK. He shot another. He heard Ronnie and Selena firing, the distinctive sound of their weapons contrasting with the staccato blasts of the AKs still firing.
Carter saw Selena go down hard. Something twisted deep in his gut. A red mist clouded his vision. He charged the man who had shot her and swung his MP-5 like a club and brought the man down before he could fire another burst.
Nick hit him again. And again. He beat him about the head. He raised his gun high and was about to bring it down again when he felt Ronnie grab his arm.
"He's dead, Nick."
Carter paused, the MP-5 high in the air. He looked around. The red film cleared. He looked down at the man at his feet. His face was gone, a bloody pulp left behind. The firing had stopped.
He looked to his left. Selena lay face down. She wasn't moving. Her helmet had come off. Snow drifted onto her red-blond hair.
His MP-5 was bent and covered in blood. Nick dropped the useless weapon and ran to her. He turned her over, wiped snow away from her face. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. He bent his head down. She was still breathing. Labored, harsh breaths. There were three holes across her chest where the rounds had hit. Her armor had kept her alive, but she was in trouble.
"Selena. Selena, talk to me."
No response. He pushed back the eyelids. Her eyes were unfocused, one pupil larger than the other.
"How far to the LZ?"
Ronnie looked at his GPS. "About two klicks."
"Grab her gear. Call in and have a goddamn medic on that chopper. I'll carry her."
Carter scooped Selena's limp form into his arms and stood up. "You lead, Ronnie. Let's move."
They set out. Carter carried Selena in front of him. He went as fast as he could. Twice he stumbled in the treacherous footing and caught himself. Once he fell, but managed to land with Selena on top of him. His arms ached. His bad shoulder felt like it was on fire. His back sent bolts of electric burning pain down his leg. He kept looking down at Selena, praying she'd make it.
Why didn't she wake up?
A little over an hour later they reached the landing zone. Nick sat down and cradled her in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. She was still unconscious. Her breathing was shallow, labored.
"She took a hell of a hit," Ronnie said. "Like getting hit by a truck. Cracked ribs for sure."
"You a doctor now, Ronnie?" Nick was angry. At himself, at the Taliban, at God, at being helpless. But it wasn't Ronnie's fault.