Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) Page 2

  As a result, Khalid’s short ration of ammo would not really come anywhere close to the fire base. The Taliban paid him to shoot, not to necessarily hit anything. It was merely to harass the Americans, to remind them that they were far from home and not wanted here, at least by some.

  It was dark enough now and the human eye had a difficult time adjusting between the still sunlit sky and the dark ground, something he had learned at a young age. He waved to his friend and broke away through the cypress trees, his teenage legs adjusting to the rugged terrain with no thought. Moving from shadow to shadow he kept the trees between himself and the always watching eyes on the far ridge. Working down a small draw he reached up under the exposed roots of a tilted cypress and retrieved the rifle. An old can sat next to it and he pried the lid off to reveal twenty 7.62 rounds for the AK. Ten fewer than last week. Perhaps the Taliban were rationing for a big attack? Or maybe they were running out of money? Either way, it was not much of a concern to him. He’d been born in the Korengal valley, and he would most likely live there until he died. He had never known a time when his country wasn’t at war.

  He pulled the empty magazine from the rifle and with a callused thumb slowly pressed the rounds in, one by one. The magazine was old and the spring did not offer the resistance it should. The rifle would often jam when he fired it, but twenty rounds would only take a brief moment to discharge. He would fire at one of the outposts tonight before hunkering down behind some cover to wait out the return fire. Then a long nap before the early morning chill would wake him. He would then make his way home, circling wide to enter his village from the opposite side. It would be a long night, but he had taken the money.

  Tonight he would use the wall. Sometime before he was born, the previous occupants of the village had a logging operation in the valley. It had long since been shut down, first by the Russians and then by the Taliban. The small mill had been surrounded by a low wall to prevent erosion, and it had since fallen to rubble, leaving only one long stretch still standing. Khalid left the draw on his belly and crawled his way through a spur before reaching trees he thought thick enough to hide him from the Americans. He knew they could somehow see in the dark and had been warned to keep something between himself and them at all times. Feeling safe now, he picked himself up, and holding the heavy rifle, made his way up the ridgeline.

  • • •

  Specialist David Zemmler had been in-country for eight months and had tracked over the same ground Khalid was now traveling more than once. It was very familiar ground. As a result, he knew just where to train the new LRAS night scope they had mounted yesterday morning.

  The new scope was a vast improvement over the old one. Despite the fact that it ate batteries at a rapid rate, the sensitivity and range were worth it. The first night they had used it they had almost called everyone out to stand to. Every night-crawling animal prowling the valley had glowed like a beacon, making them think the Taliban were massing for a full assault. Fortunately, cooler heads had prevailed. Now more familiar with the new scope’s capabilities, Zemmler scanned the valley for people. The law in the valley was that anyone seen outside the village after dark was considered the enemy. He turned the scope to scan toward the sawmill again, but before he got to it he noticed a large heat source moving slowly up the ridge in its direction. Playing with the zoom, he focused in closer to see one man with the familiar walk of one toting a rifle. His arms moved as if connected, or holding something with both hands, and he did not reach out to the trees to help him up the steep slope.

  “Hey, Johnson.”

  Johnson picked up his head from where it had been resting on his arms and rubbed the stubble on his head. Two of their platoon were assigned to each shift, but only one could use the scope at a time, so the other usually banked up some sleep. Now his was being interrupted and he was annoyed. He leaned his head back against the wire cage full of dirt and rock and gazed up at his partner.

  “What?”

  “Wake up the sarge. I got a hadjji sneaking up the ridge toward the sawmill.”

  “Rifle or radio?” If the man was carrying either one, the rules said he was a fair target.

  “Rifle.”

  “Okay, I’m on it.”

  He rose from his spot behind the hesco and walked toward the main bunker. Less than half a minute had passed before Sergeant Daly was gazing through the scope. He watched silently for a few moments while Zemmler and Johnson waited.

  “I’d say he was heading for the sawmill, too. Probably likes the cover of the wall. We took fire from there a couple weeks ago and the mortar crew has it preset in their computer now.”

  “Should we light him up?”

  Daly thought about it for a few before he replied. “Let’s wait till he gets there and then have the Charlies drop some HE on him. The captain will want us to go up there and tear down that wall if the hadjji’s use it for cover again. Be easier to just drop some rounds on it and save us the climb and a lot of work.”

  “Okay.”

  Zemmler exchanged a look with Johnson. No fun for them tonight. The mortar crew would get all the fireworks. But the sergeant was smart enough to get the job done and save them some work at the same time.

  “I’m going back to my rack. Wake me up if you need anything.” He walked away, scratching his ass through his boxers. Even at night it was hot here, they all wore as little as possible. He stopped before he had gone three steps and turned.

  “Hey, Zemmler.”

  “Yeah, Sarge?”

  “Don’t need to wait for him to shoot our way. Soon as he gets there, just drop it on him.”

  “Okay.”

  • • •

  Khalid had gained the position he wanted and was surveying the wall from behind a tree before he moved out into the open. The corner was the best spot he decided. It would give him cover from two directions.

  Not wanting to crawl anymore, he sprinted across the open area and flopped down behind the wall. Fumbling with his clothes, he pulled up his sleeves and prepared to lay the rifle over the top of the wall.

  A strange whistling sound moved through the trees to his ears. The wind was blowing, but he had never heard it sound like that before.

  • • •

  “He’s there, whenever you’re ready.”

  After waking up the mortar crew with the radio and telling them the target, the last few words were their sole contribution to the night’s activities. They watched for the flashing impact of the high explosive rounds already on their way to the sawmill.

  They didn’t have long to wait. The rounds crumped into the target with blinding flashes and heavy thumps that reached their ears only a few seconds later. They quickly had a group of armed men in boxer shorts, flip-flops, and chest armor gathered around them.

  “What we got?” one of them asked.

  “Hadjji with a rifle at the sawmill. Sarge said to use the Charlies,” Johnson replied before speaking into the radio to the mortar crew. “Your range is good, spread it around some.”

  Some watched as the mortar rounds pounded the area around the sawmill for the next minute before Johnson spoke again and cut them off.

  “That ought to do it. Thanks, guys.”

  Most of the men wandered back to their racks. Nothing they hadn’t seen before. Zemmler was scanning through the scope. The others waited until he pulled his head back.

  “Couple of small fires, but no sign of him now.”

  “Probably in pieces, or halfway to Pakistan by now. Either way, he’s done. Score one for the Infidels.”

  The rest nodded agreement before disappearing behind the hescos in search of their bunks and more sleep.

  Another day in the valley.

  • • •

  Khalid had never known such pain or terror. The explosions had come without warning and never seemed to stop. He had dropped the rifle and cowered behind the wall for an eternity, screaming as fast as he could suck in the air and force it back out. Until the sudden pain in his chest had come. It had burned into him like fire and his breath was taken from him. The explosions ceasing had not even registered in his mind as he rolled onto his back. The stars shining brightly down on him through the smoke were the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended. The fires burned around him for the rest of the night.

  Search Mounted for Boy Believed Kidnapped by Drug Gang

  October 17, 2008—New York Times

  —TWO—

  Angel pulled his eyes from the captivating view of the setting sun and returned his gaze to the inside of the plane. A Cessna Citation II, it was small enough for him to touch both walls with his outstretched arms. While it was configured for air medical transport, there were no patients on board today. There was just himself, the two pilots, and the cargo.

  Today the cargo was not unusual. While the medical cot held everything required to sustain a patient for a long flight, this one also contained a few modifications. Under the cot and in the overhead areas were several hidden compartments used for smuggling cocaine. The heavy nylon equipment bags with their multiple zippers also held medical supplies if one did not dig too deeply. The bottoms of each were false and also packed with cocaine. It was proving to be one of Angel’s best ideas and he had exploited it for some time now. The medical flights occurred every day, and it was normal for them to go to small, rural airports. As a result they raised little suspicion with the authorities or customs officials. They were even given a special designation prefix in their call sign. Any plane flying under “Lifeguard” status enjoyed priority takeoff and landing privileges as well as the briefest of customs inspections. After all, weren’t lives at stake?

  His eyes fell on the cooler strapped to the cot. It was something that had started about a year ago an
d so far it had proven to be quite lucrative. Today the cooler was worth more than the entire amount of cocaine on board.

  Glancing out the window he could see the lights of the west coast of Florida coming on in the darkness. He pulled the blanket around him tighter as the altitude chilled the interior to a temperature he was not accustomed to. His handheld GPS told him they had another forty minutes or so to go. That meant they would probably start a descent from their current altitude for the landing in Orlando in about ten minutes. He killed the cabin lights so they would not reflect off the cockpit windows before closing his eyes and settling in to wait.

  He actually smelled it before the pilots and jerked his head up to sniff again. He looked toward the cockpit in time to see the warning lights and hear the alarm. The smoke coming from the air vents caused him to jump up only to be yanked back in place by the seatbelt. He quickly thumbed on the overhead lights and now clearly saw the smoke entering the cabin. Releasing the belt, he slid down the bench seat and knelt in the cockpit door.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  The pilot ignored him while he hit the firewall shut off valve and spoke to the copilot through his headset.

  “Venice or Punta Gorda?”

  “PGD has a longer runway!”

  The pilot flipped switches and turned dials on the GPS navigation system until he saw the graphic for Punta Gorda airport. He then turned to watch his copilot flipping switches, each one shutting off a different electrical component. Despite his efforts, the smoke continued.

  “It’s not working!”

  “It’s that damn engine! I told that bastard mechanic there was a vibration and the oil pressure was low. He told me they would get it next month at overhaul!”

  The copilot only ground his teeth and continued to flip the switches. The smoke just kept coming, forcing Angel to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve. His eyes were also beginning to burn and water. The copilot stopped to don his oxygen mask before pulling out their book of checklists. Angel tried his question again a little louder.

  “What the hell is happening?”

  The pilot turned as if just noticing him.

  “There’s a fire in the number two engine. We can’t stop the smoke so we’re going to have to make an emergency landing!”

  “We can’t do that! Not with this cargo!”

  “We don’t have a choice, you idiot! Now go strap in and pray that we all live!”

  Angel watched the pilot and gripped the cockpit door frame as the plane swung into a right turn. The pilot keyed the button on the yoke and tried to speak clearly into the microphone.

  “Miami center this is Lifeguard seven-two-eight-Charlie-David. Mayday-Mayday-Mayday. We are inbound PGD. Fire in engine two with heavy smoke in the cockpit. Three, repeat three, souls on board. Fuel state 4200 pounds. Requesting you roll trucks.”

  “Eight-Charlie-David, Miami center. Copy your Mayday. We are clearing traffic and contacting PGD. Repeat fuel state and souls on board.”

  “Miami, Eight-Charlie-David. Fuel is 4200 pounds and we have three souls on board.”

  The smoke became too much for Angel and he felt his way back to the bench seat. The oxygen masks had been removed to make way for more drugs. A great idea of his at the time. It may kill him now. Idiot. Through watering eyes he struggled with the seatbelt. Before he could fasten it he saw the oxygen port on the cot in front of him. He was an idiot. The answer to his problem was right in front of him! He quickly felt for the equipment bags and pulled an oxygen mask from one. Stabbing the tubing onto the Christmas-tree fitting, he reached for the tank valve. Would the oxygen aid any explosion if they crashed? Didn’t really matter if he suffocated before they got there, he quickly decided. He cranked the knob until the oxygen hissed into the mask. Slapping it on his head he pressed it tight against his face and took several deep breaths. Only then did he notice that his inner ear was telling him they were in a steep descent. He quickly found the bench seat and strapped himself into it, scooting to the limit of the seatbelt to be near the exit door when the time came.

  The lights below them were coming up quickly, but the pilot forced himself to ignore them and concentrated instead on his instruments. The smoke was to the point where it was forcing them into an instruments-only landing. He used the rapidly vanishing view to verify what the GPS was telling him. He made a note of matching the large blue expanse of Charlotte Harbor on the display with the large black area a mile short of the runway. If it all went to hell, he would try to put the plane in the water. It was theoretically a more survivable choice if the landing gear failed to come down. The area around them was too developed, and in the dark he couldn’t tell between what was a farmer’s cleared field, and what was heavily forested. Either way, it was going to be one hell of a landing. At least the runway was an old military training base from World War II. It should be plenty long enough for what the plane needed. Now if he could just see it through the damn smoke.

  “Checklist,” he prompted.

  The copilot responded with a series of items and they both worked to verify them in what little time they had left. When they got to the landing gear, they both held their breath until the three little green lights came on, granting them a chance at the runway. The pilot allowed his muscles to relax a fraction before leaning forward to see out the cockpit window. They were passing over the harbor and he could see both the runway lights and those of the rescue vehicles speeding down the taxiways.

  “Gear down.”

  “Flaps extended.”

  The pilot made a few corrections, fighting the single operating engine with the rudder to keep the nose pointed where he wanted it to go. Unfortunately, the strong cross-wind was also a problem as it often was at sunset near the water. He would have to set down the rear gear and then point the nose down the center line before allowing it to touch. Something hard enough to do in the dark, let alone with a cloud of smoke in the cockpit. His eyes were burning and watering heavily.

  “You’re off heading,” his copilot prompted.

  “I can’t see.”

  The copilot reached over and wiped the man’s eyes with his tie.

  “Better.”

  He felt the burble of ground effect air as it rose off the warm ground and pulled the throttles back more as they crossed the end of the runway. But the smoke had robbed him of his vision and he misjudged the altitude to the point that the plane hit hard and bounced back into the air. He struggled to put it back down but in his haste the nose slewed left before hitting the concrete. Feeling the weight of the aircraft transfer from the wings to the landing gear, the pilot quickly engaged the thrust reversers and brakes while the copilot shut off the remaining engine and pulled the lever for the extinguishers. The thrust reverser engaged as it was designed to, but with only one engine dialing down the result was a further slew to the left. Before the pilot could correct, the gear on that side caught the edge, pulling the small plane off the runway and into the grass.

  Angel pushed against the ceiling of the plane with both hands and braced his feet on the medical cot as the plane slid sideways through the turf. The loud cursing from the cockpit only added to the terror of the impact he felt was surely coming.

  A loud crack and the scream of tearing metal announced the failure of the left gear. The wing on that side fell into the turf and caused the plane to spin as it continued its journey across the airport grounds. After another fifty meters it contacted a taxiway and the rest of the gear was torn away from the belly of the plane. The plane left the ground again only to come down hard and a large crack in the cabin opened with an explosion of sound. Angel felt himself doused with hot hydraulic oil. Fortunately his thick flight suit protected him from the worst of it, and he yanked his hands away from the opening crack in time to keep them attached to his arms. The smoke quickly cleared as it was sucked out the new opening and Angel was treated to a violent tumbling view of the airport lights before the cabin finally spun to a stop.

  He opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back in what was left of the cabin. He soon heard loud diesel engines and voices shouting outside the plane. He moved to try to get up, but was stopped by a sharp pain in his leg. Pulling the oxygen mask away and looking, he saw that the angle of his right foot was not as it should be. Amazingly, it didn’t really hurt that much. He gaped at it in wonder until a voice brought him out of his stupor.