Sniper Elite (32 page)

The valley floor south of the village was sectioned off into more than forty farm plots, each varying in size and shape, none larger than a quarter acre in size, and each of them enclosed by a waist-high stone wall. There were a number of trees between the farm plots and the buildings, and Gil judged that from ground level the snipers would probably not have a clear view of his approach. This would allow him to creep within two hundred yards of their positions—the effective range of the subsonic rifle ammunition he would use to silently remove them from the game board.

There were various stables and mangers located south of the village
as well, and Gil had already made a mental note of the route he would take to reach the horses. Luckily, the goats and sheep were not allowed to roam free, and he hadn't seen or heard a single dog all day. With luck, this meant that canines were few and far between. A dog could see ten times better than a human in the dark, and there was something about a shadowy figure in a combat crouch that put your average dog in the mood to bark its ass off. Gil thought of Oso and smiled. He was in no mood to shoot a dog tonight.

As the light continued to fade, his attention was drawn abruptly to a building located on a small rise in the center of the village. He lifted the Remington and watched through the night-vision scope as six armed men gathered on the roof. At least four more took up positions on the ground below, and electric lights came on inside and out. A pair of pickup trucks appeared out of nowhere and began to unload half a dozen men each.

“Shit,” Gil muttered, watching as the building quickly took on the appearance of a well-defended command post. “He got himself caught!”

He continued to watch, and a few minutes later, a band of twenty men appeared, making their way down the alley toward the stables where the horses were kept. Each man led a horse from the stable into a square paddock where they began to saddle them up.

Swearing like the sailor he was, Gil made ready for a quick departure. Even from this range and elevation, he wouldn't stand a chance against the HIK with just three hundred rounds between the Remington and the M4. All they would have to do would be to use their trucks and cavalry to outflank him, and then, once he was good and surrounded, they could zero his position with a mortar and burn him down. There was no way of knowing whether Forogh had been made to talk yet, but there was no point in waiting around. Everybody talked sooner or later, and Gil didn't figure on
Forogh giving up too many fingers before he told them what they wanted to know.

FOROGH TIGHTENED THE
horse's girth strap and pulled himself up into the saddle.

His uncle Orzu mounted up next to him. “Can you still ride, Nephew?”

“It hasn't been that long, Uncle.” Forogh switched on the infrared strobe hanging from his neck by a lanyard. He couldn't see the light that it emitted even in the dark.

“Good!” his uncle said with gusto, reining the horse around. “Before this night is over, you may have to ride to save your fruit!”

Forogh's uncles and cousins laughed.

“You're sure no one can see that thing but the American?” one of Forogh's other uncles asked.

Forogh held up the strobe. “It's working now. Can any of you see anything?”

Satisfied that the instrument could be trusted, Orzu tapped his heels against the horse's flanks to set it walking. “Remember, don't place it before the shouting starts.”

“I won't, Uncle.”

The column rode out of the paddock, each man with an AK-47 across his back, their extra magazines hidden beneath their cold-weather clothing. They rode two abreast up a slight incline toward the river, then turned north up a dirt lane, passing before a row of concrete houses on the left toward an intersection shaped like a
T
turned over on its left side. The top of the
T
ran north to south, and the bottom ran east to west through the center of town past the well-lighted command post.

As Forogh and the others started to cross the
T
, Orzu led them
within a few yards of a deserted-looking, ramshackle building where the east-west lane came to a dead end.

Four gunmen came pouring out of an open doorway and began shouting for them to get away from the building, aiming their AK-47s at the column and kicking at the horses. General pandemonium ensued as Forogh's uncles and cousins all began shouting back at them, intentionally creating chaos.

Orzu sat defiantly in the saddle haranguing the HIK men to stop kicking their horses, threatening to trample them if they didn't get out of the way.

“This is not your village!” he shouted down at them. “We go where we please here!”

More HIK came running down the lane from the command post a hundred yards away.

A door opened on the far corner of the lane, and Aasif Kohistani hurried outside followed closely by Ramesh, the brute who had cut off Sandra's finger.

During all of this confusion, Forogh pretended to lose control of his horse and sidled backward up against the building, tossing the strobe up onto the flat-top roof.

“What is going on out here?” Kohistani demanded. “Why are all of you mounted and armed? Where are you going?”

Having seen Forogh place the marker, Orzu raised his hand as a signal for his men to settle their horses and end the tumult. “We're riding north to timber country. There's work to be done.”

“Now?” Kohistani said in dismay. “It's dark!”

“Of course it's dark!” Orzu said with a hearty laugh. “Do you expect us to cut illegal timber by the light of day?” This brought a guffaw of laughter from his nephews and brothers.

Orzu knew that Kohistani knew almost nothing about the timber-smuggling industry that was so rapidly deforesting the Afghan
landscape, and thus would likely believe about anything he was told, within reason.

“But . . . but what about your tools?” Kohistani said.

“You think we carry all those tools back and forth with us, Kohistani? Why don't you come with us? It will do you good to try working for a living!” Again came the haranguing laughter from his cohorts.

Kohistani was immediately angry to be insulted in front of his men. “I see then, Orzu Karimov!” he shouted over the laughter. “I see! Then since you are cutting illegal timber, you will obviously need to pay a higher tax. Otherwise word could get back to Kabul of your illegal activities!”

Orzu feigned indignant anger. “Since when does the Hezbi collect taxes for the Karzai government in Kabul, Aasif Kohistani?”

“Why, the Hezbi does no such thing,” Kohistani replied with a smile, believing he'd gotten the last laugh. “I merely state that a higher
local
tax will be required to prevent Karzai from learning of your illegal exploits . . . Now go if you're going! Get your men and these stupid animals away from here. You know very well this area is out of bounds.”

Hating the Hezbi cleric, Orzu was tempted to say more, tempted even to trample the man to death, but it would not serve their purposes to delay further. The building was marked, and there was no sense to risk an open confrontation that might result in bloodshed. He turned in the saddle, calling for his brothers and nephews to follow him out of the village.

Kohistani stood in the road watching them go.

“We should move the woman now, Aasif,” Ramesh said. “If the Americans are watching from above, they may have seen enough to know the command post is a decoy.”

“You're right,” Kohistani said, his ego bruised over Orzu's insult. “But we can't move her tonight without them seeing where we take
her. We'll need to devise a plan first.” Then he added: “Select a man, someone who knows horses well enough to ride at night. I want him to follow that foul-mannered Karimov to make sure of what they're up to. He was a friend of Massoud, and I think the time has come to remove him. Our people in the north can see to it that he and his clan do not return. Also, announce to the rest of the villagers in the morning that they're restricted to the village. We don't need them evacuating before the American attack comes. The more dead Tajiks when the battle is over, the better. They deserve it anyhow.”

“It will be done, Aasif.”

GIL WANTED NO
part of fighting a running battle on foot against mounted cavalry in this territory. There were simply too many ridges for the enemy to pop up from behind and shoot. His only chance was to reach the bottom of the mountain and put as much real estate between himself and Panjshir Valley as possible before having to dig in. Before retreating down the back side of the mountain, he took a last look at the valley through the monocular in infrared, looking for the marker. Seeing nothing, he turned away.

But wait a second.

He had another look and saw that one of the horsemen was blinking.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, taking a knee. “Is that you, Forogh?” He flipped up the monocular and raised the sniper rifle for a closer look at the rider. Sure as hell, it was Forogh. Gil slid back into his nook between the rocks. “You were supposed to mark the building, not yourself, son. What the hell are you up to?”

He watched through the scope as the column rode down from the stable and turned north up the lane. When he saw the four gunmen come pouring out of the deserted-looking old building, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He studied the altercation
closely, keeping his focus on Forogh. If he had blinked, he would have missed Forogh toss the strobe onto the roof.

“I'll be damned. The command post's a decoy. It ain't like you fuckers to be so creative.”

He spotted Kohistani and Ramesh coming from the building to the right of the intersection on the north side of the lane. “So it's you doing the thinking, eh? Well, okay, Mr. Kohistani, I guess I'll have to priority your ass, too . . . along with that ugly cocksucker behind you who owes me a fuckin' finger.”

From his hide dug into the slope overlooking the village, Gil had a good view of the target area eight hundred meters below. It was just after midnight as he lay watching through his night vision. He could see by their movements that the sentries posted around the village were still max attentive to their environment, but he knew their vigilance would flag significantly toward the coming of dawn. He could see Sandra's building clearly from where he was, the infrared strobe on the roof still flashing away. It was nestled into a small cluster of crumbling structures one hundred meters from the river, nondescript and unobtrusive. Through the nightscope of the sniper rifle he saw clearly the guards lurking inside the darkened doorway beside hers, and he idly wondered whether they realized the darkness afforded them no real concealment in the twenty-first century.

He saw, too, the decoy building that was intended to foil any rescue mission the US might attempt to execute. Positioned in the center of the village, the structure was well lighted with power from a diesel generator. Six men still stood guard on the roof, and there were more posted on the ground outside the main entrance. The building showed every indication that its inhabitants were ready for a fight, and still more men were billeted in other lighted buildings nearby.

A decoy building was a smart ploy. Without Forogh's involvement, Gil would never have guessed Sandra was being held in the ramshackle cluster of buildings on the slope above the river where she was fairly well isolated from the rest of the village. To keep her near the center of town, surrounded by guards in a well-lighted concrete structure would have been a sensible defense against a modern enemy who generally attacked from above in the dead of night, coming in through the windows and doors in overwhelming numbers when you least expected it.

The first thing Gil would have to do in order to execute the extraction was clear a path to the building on the western side of the village. He would have to do this in complete silence, with zero room for error. If a roving sentry—or even one of the villagers—spotted him or one of his kills, it could easily bring the entire place down on his head.

He spent the next three and a half hours studying the sentries' movements, focusing primarily on those to the west near the river. He counted twenty-nine of them, nearly half of whom were roving. The three rooftop snipers were a separate issue to be dealt with at a greater distance. It was obvious there were few if any radios among the guards, but Gil was confident there would be at least one radio among Sandra's personal guards. He was equally confident the men in the decoy building one hundred yards up the lane would be listening for the slightest hint of trouble, ready to respond at a moment's notice. The main road through the village ran directly past the decoy
building down the slope to the dead end where Sandra was being kept.

This setup was obviously intentional, meant to allow for immediate support in the event Sandra's guards needed assistance.

At 03:30 hours, Gil sent a text message to Sandra's husband:
KICKOFF.
This was the signal telling Brux the rescue was about to begin and that it was time to get the Spectre airborne. The gunship had enough fuel to loiter over the target area for an extended period, but once it was in the air, Gil would be up against the clock, working against any number of variables that might serve to blow the timing for the delivery of tactical air support and, ultimately, their extraction from what was almost definitely going to be one hot EZ.

Cradling the Remington MSR, he slipped from the hide with his M4 and rucksack slung across his back. It was time to begin culling the herd.

He made his way down the mountain to the river and crossed to the other side using a path made of large stones he had seen the villagers using earlier in the day. The farm plots were fallow with the coming of winter and would provide no concealment other than the walls, so he kept close to the river, using the sound of the rushing water to cover the sound of his running as he made for cover. A slim crescent moon hung low near the horizon, providing good ambient light for his night optics, but not enough for anyone to detect his movement with the naked eye beyond fifty yards.