Running Fire (31 page)

Sighting, he began to slow fire, choosing his targets,
remaining crouched. Again, he heard the booming sound of a Win Mag far above
him. Who the hell was that? He wasn't aware of any SEAL sniper assets in the
area. Who, then? Whoever was firing was helping his team out a helluva lot. The
sniper was giving them a chance to retreat.

Tarik heard the dreaded hollow
thunk
of an RPG being
fired. He jerked a look up and saw the damn thing sailing lazily through the
air—right at him. Cursing, he dived to the ground, the rocks biting and bruising
him. He automatically put his hands behind his head, buried his face in the
rocks, opened his mouth and waited. If he didn't open his mouth, the blast
pressure waves would make Jell-O out of his lungs, the air in his chest not
equalizing with the air surrounding him.

The blast went off. The last thing he remembered was flying
through the air.

* * *

K
HAT
JERKED
IN
a breath, watching the RPG explode, the SEAL tumbling out of the
rock and dusty clouds, flung over the side of the ridge, disappearing into the
wadi. Her heart banged in her throat, underscoring the terror she felt. She
whipped her attention back to the Taliban soldiers running down the slope toward
the other three SEALs.

Khat continued to fire, taking them from the back, their bodies
flying forward five or six feet before crumpling into a heap. Was part of the
group going after that SEAL that had been blown off the ridge? Not if she could
help it, dropping the enemy who began to retreat beneath her withering fire.

Finally, Khat quit firing, the escaping SEALs and the Taliban
out of her range. Leaping to her feet, she grabbed the rifle and trotted about a
tenth of a mile down a narrow goat path. There, she'd have a better view of the
slope down into the wadi. Halting, Khat hefted the rifle to her shoulder, and
she looked through the scope, moving it from the top of the wadi, working
downward.

Breathing slowly, she hoped to locate the SEAL. Doubting the
man survived, it was her duty to find him, retrieve his body and then make a
call to J-bad. Hutton probably couldn't even cut loose a damned Medevac, he was
such stickler for regulations.

Wait.

She steadied the scope, holding the rifle still in her arms.
There!
The body of the SEAL was just at the edge of the wadi. She
saw his M-4 nearby. The light was getting bad. He still had his arms and legs.
Was he breathing? She didn't know. Looking up, Khat heard smatterings of fire
rising from far below her between the SEALS and the Taliban. There was nothing
else she could do to help the SEAL team. She'd done everything possible. But
maybe she could rescue this SEAL in the wadi. No way did Khat want his body to
fall into Taliban hands.

Turning, she slid down the hill where her black Arabian mare,
Mina, was standing quietly below. Khat had tied her reins to a branch of a tree
where she was hidden. The mare wore a Western saddle, something Khat had
insisted on when she started working alone out here. She wasn't about to ride
one of those torturous Afghan wooden saddles. The Arabian mare's fine small ears
pricked up, her huge brown eyes watching her progress down the rocky hill.

“Good girl, Mina,” Khat whispered, leaping off the slope. She
quickly slipped the Win Mag into the nylon sheath beneath her left stirrup.
Picking up her ruck from beneath the tree, Khat shrugged the sixty-pound pack
across her shoulders. She pulled her black baseball cap out of her lower cammie
pocket and settled it on her head. Mounting, she urged the small horse into a
trot, heading for a goat path that would lead them to the wadi.

By the time Khat located the SEAL, it was dusk. She had put on
her NVGs, night vision goggles, and moved cautiously into the wadi, not wanting
to make any noise. She knew Sattar Khogani had more men in the area. Taking no
chances with the Hill tribe on patrol like a bunch of angry bees running around
on the mountain, she wanted to remain the shadow she was. Her mare carefully
picked her way through the trees, winding in and around them, her small hooves
delicate and avoiding coming down on branches. If a branch snapped, it could
alert the Taliban they were in the wadi.

Khat spotted the body of the SEAL. Half of him was still on the
scree, the other half hanging down into the wadi. She dismounted, dropping the
reins. Mina was trained to remain where she was.

Slipping out of the ruck, she set it quietly on the ground near
the mare. Her heart picked up in beat. Was he dead? Injured? Or playing dead? If
he was faking it and she came upon him, he could rip her throat out with a
KA-BAR knife. SEALs were taught that they were never helpless. If a rifle or
pistol wouldn't do it, a knife sure as hell would.

Approaching cautiously, soundlessly, she had her NVGs on, the
grainy green showing there was blood leaking out from beneath his Kevlar helmet
and down his bearded cheek. With green filters on, Khat couldn't see what color
his flesh was. His mouth was open. He seemed unconscious. His one arm was
hanging down into the wadi. She carefully reached out, placing two fingers on
the inside of his thick wrist.

He didn't move.

She felt his pulse. It was weak and thready.

He really was unconscious. Moving quickly, Khat pulled him into
the wadi so no one could see him from the slope. Rolling him over, tipping his
head back so he could breathe, she held her ear to his nose. His breath was
shallow, but it was there.

Grimly, she realized she'd have to get that heavy ruck off him
in order to get him on the horse. Kneeling, she pulled him toward her until his
tall, lean body rested mostly against her knees. Pulling the straps apart,
making no sound, the ruck slid off his back.

Next, his Kevlar helmet. It had a pair of NVGs on the rail.
Fingers moving quickly beneath his chin, she released the strap. His blood was
on her hands now. Gently as she could, Khat lifted the helmet away from his
head. Grimacing, she saw his temple was nothing more than a huge clot of blood.
Grade three concussion, for sure. But how bad? Her mind was already running over
medical possibilities. He was out cold. She removed the heavy H-gear harness
from around his chest, another thirty pounds of weight.

Khat left him on his back, trotted down the slope and picked up
Mina's reins. Leading the mare up beside the SEAL, she knew there was no way she
could lift a hundred and eighty pounds of his dead weight and place him across
the saddle.

“Down,” she told the mare, making a signal for the Arabian to
lie down.

The mare bent her front knees and then lay down, all four legs
beneath her.

“Good girl,” Khat whispered, patting her mare's sweaty
neck.

Now for the hard part. She hooked her hands beneath the SEAL's
armpits and hauled him forward. Grunting, she clenched her teeth, digging in the
heels of her boots, inching him forward. Damn, he was heavy! Breathing hard, she
got the SEAL close enough.

“Lie down,” she told the horse, giving her another hand
signal.

Mina stretched out on her side, laying her head down near
Khat's feet.

Now it was easier hauling the SEAL over the saddle. Khat
worried about her mare. She was on an incline, and she would be pulling herself
into an upright position. Could she do it with someone this heavy?

“Sit up,” she whispered, signaling the mare. Khat watched the
horse heave herself back into a sitting position, her legs beneath her body once
more. Relieved, Khat moved quietly around the mare, coming to her head, picking
up the reins in one hand and keeping her other hand on the unconscious SEAL's
body. She hoped he didn't slip off when Mina lurched to her feet.

“Up!” she whispered.

Mina grunted, flinging out her front feet first. She shifted
her weight to her rear, the muscles bunching, then shoved her hooves into the
dirt and rock in one smooth motion to gain purchase. Khat felt more relief,
holding the man in place so he didn't accidentally slip off. The SEAL lay on his
belly across the saddle. It wasn't great that his injured head was hanging down,
but she didn't have the strength to haul him upright and hold him in the saddle.
She hooked his ruck and harness over the horn of the saddle. Nothing could be
left behind to indicate an American had been in this wadi.

Leaping up behind the saddle, Khat turned the horse around, and
they started back up the goat path in the dark. Only the night winds, cold and
howling from the north, were heard. Keeping her hearing keyed, Khat gripped the
SEAL's cammies to keep him from sliding off.

As they rose out of the wadi via the goat path, Khat saw the
stars hanging so close she felt like she could reach out and touch them. Halting
at the juncture of another goat path, she waited and listened. She hadn't
survived four years in the Hindu Kush by taking chances. Her hearing was
extraordinary. No human voices. Chances were, the Taliban retreated back to that
rock fort and were making tea and eating. Probably arguing like hell among one
another for their major losses this evening. She grinned.

Once more on familiar territory, five miles down the slope,
Khat guided her horse into a group of thick bushes and trees. The horse pushed
through the vegetation, coming to a halt at the entrance to a large cave. Khat
dismounted, walking in front of the mare, her hand on her .45 pistol. This was
one of her safe caves, but she never, ever took for granted that the Taliban
wouldn't find it someday. Worse, make camp in it. The mare's small feet moved
through the fine silt dirt on the cave floor.

Turning to the right, Khat walked half a mile, went into
another cave and through it. Her NVGs no longer worked when a cave was
completely black. She halted, pulled them off her eyes, switched them off and
reached into her cammie pocket. Flicking on a laser flashlight, the whole area
lit up.

They were safe now, and she breathed a small sigh of relief.
Making a few more turns, at least half a mile deep within the mountain, Khat
finally came to the pool cave. She heard the musical sounds of the twenty-foot
waterfall.
Water.
Even Mina picked up her pace. She was thirsty. So was
Khat.

Once inside the last tunnel, she could see the small pool of
water and the waterfall above it. Khat dropped Mina's reins. Grabbing a kerosene
lamp, she picked up a box of matches and lit it. The warm yellow glow
highlighted a twenty-foot radius. Moving to the other side of the tunnel, she
pulled out a sleeping bag and laid it out on the floor. Grabbing two other
blankets, she quickly rolled them up. One for the SEAL's neck and the other for
beneath his knees. She grabbed her paramedic ruck, opening it up and placing it
next to the sleeping bag. Pulling out a pair of latex gloves, she also retrieved
a bottle of sterilized water.

Moving quickly to the SEAL, he was close enough that if she
angled him just right, he might fall directly onto the sleeping bag.

Hooking him beneath the armpits, Khat pulled. He slid off a lot
faster than she was prepared for, and she just about had him fall on her. Using
her arms, Khat turned him over as his legs slid off the saddle. Breathing hard,
she positioned him on the bedroll. By the time she got him on it, Khat was
huffing.

For the first time, she got a good look at the SEAL. He had a
square face, strong chin and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least
once. She liked his mouth. Even unconscious, it was well shaped, the lower lip a
little fuller than the upper one. His brows were straight across his well-spaced
eyes.

Taking a battle dressing, she wet it and began to blot away the
congealed blood at his temple. He had taken a terrific concussion wave from that
RPG exploding so close to him.

For fifteen minutes, she cleaned the wound. There was swelling,
but not massive, which was good. A cut at least two inches long was the
culprit—a scalp wound, and they were notorious for heavy bleeding. In no time,
Khat had the cut stitched up and closed. Rubbing antibiotic ointment on the
dressing, she gently pressed it against the wound and wrapped gauze firmly
around his head to keep it in place as well as clean.

Quickly, she started from his neck down to his feet, feeling,
squeezing, gently moving his other joints to see if anything was broken. When
she moved her hands to his lower forearm, even in unconsciousness, he jerked.
Brows dipping, Khat used scissors to cut open his sleeve. Grimacing, she saw a
bone pushing up. It had not come through his sun-darkened skin, but it was a bad
break.

Turning to her medical bag, she pulled out a bottle of morphine
and a syringe. The only thing to do was give him just enough morphine to dull
the bone setting she would have to perform. With head injuries, morphine had to
be used very carefully.

Cutting the sleeve to his shoulder, she pulled it open and
administered the shot. Watching his face, she saw his features begin to relax as
the morphine eased the pain in his arm.

Khat took a deep breath, one hand above the bone, near his
elbow, the other below the break. This was going to hurt him like hell. She made
two quick motions. He groaned, his brow wrinkling, the corners of his mouth
pulling inward with pain.

“Sorry,” she whispered, seeing the bone was set. Beads of sweat
formed on his brow. His face was darkly tanned and he had longish black hair. He
almost looked Middle Eastern to her.

Shaking her head, Khat was exhausted, sure that her mind was
playing tricks on her. Quickly splinting his lower arm, she wrapped it and then
made a sling to hold it against his chest. She tied the ends of the cotton sling
around his strong, thick neck.

Khat found no other injuries during her thorough examination,
except a lot of bruises, swelling and scratches. She pulled off the latex gloves
and threw them near the wall. First things first. She had to give him a shot of
antibiotics. After giving it to him, she quickly cleaned up and put the medical
ruck away.