Part 82 (2/2)

The caravan moved quickly along the path. In four or five minutes, they'd be out of range of Finn's rifle. He tapped his mike.

”Cheech Wizard,” murmured Finn,”they're coming your way.”

”Got 'em,” replied the voice in his ear. Cheech Wizard was the machine gunner of Rattlesnake Team. He was tucked into a nook formed by two slabs of rock that had tumbled down the side of the mountain. A sheer wall at his back and the only exit was covered by the other two members of the team, Jazzman and Bear.They had shadowy niches with good elevation.

”Tell me what you're seeing,” said Finn quietly. He didn't whisper. The sibilant ”ess” sounds traveled more when you whispered; quiet voices faded out into nothing. Besides, their team radios had excellent pickup.That wasn't SOP. The stuff that was usually issued was often beat-up, the works ruined by heat and sand; but there was a gal in supply that Finn had been banging for a couple of months. It wasn't love, and they both knew it, but he didn't give her the clap and didn't trash-talk about her to the other guys, and she made sure his team had gear that was in good working order. Pretty good swap. Everybody came out on top, n.o.body got hurt.

Bear had the best vantage point and the best eyes.

”Count ten. Eight adult males, one teenage male, one kid-could be boy or girl,” he reported.”No, correction, not a teenager. Kid's maybe ten.”

Finn's lip curled. He hated this part of it, but it was something you couldn't avoid.The Taliban were heartless f.u.c.ks, and they knew their enemy.They often brought kids along with them-kids, and sometimes women-knowing that most of the allied forces would hesitate to pull a trigger if there was a chance of capping a youngster. Partly because it was a cultural thing with the allies, and partly because the Taliban used their propaganda machine to fry the Americans in the world press for killing civilian children.

Which was total bulls.h.i.+t.

The Taliban, al-Qaeda, and a lot of these other a.s.shole terrorist organizations put a lot of those civilians in the crosshairs. It was part of their strategy. In the towns, they put their supply depots and main meeting places in schools or in apartment buildings. Then they more or less shook their d.i.c.ks at the Americans to take the shot, knowing they had to take the f.u.c.king shot. More than once they'd even sacrificed one of their own low-level people or slipped some intel through back-alley channels just to guarantee that a strike would be made.Then, before the smoke cleared, they'd trot out the screaming, weeping parents of the dead children. Somehow the Red Cross and the world press were always tipped off first. Or some ”neutral” would capture b.l.o.o.d.y children on their iPhone. It was all theater, and it turned a knife in Finn's guts.

”What's your read?” Finn asked.

The others knew what the question meant. It had become a common thing for him to ask.

Were these Taliban drug runners? The presence of guns didn't prove anything. After the Russians had their a.s.ses handed to them a couple of decades ago, there was a lot of stuff lying around. Plenty of AK-47s. A villager could buy an old one for a male goat.

Bear said,”Four of the men have new boots.”

”Confirmed,” said Jazzman,”and I'm seeing some serious hardware. I count six . . . no, seven confirmed AKs. s.h.i.+t, they're armed to the teeth.These aren't villagers. No way.”

”Look at the second horse,” said CheechWizard.”Something long and hard strapped onto the side closest to the wall. I think it's an RPG.”

”Affirmative,” said Bear.”I see it, too.These f.u.c.kers came to play.”

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