The Sixth Martyr, page 14
part #1 of Alpha Squad Series
* * *
The enemy had left behind a smoking, blackened ruin. After following the Taliban warband across country for so long, they'd watched them attack the ranch. There’d been a few shots and screams of agony. Then they were celebrating, looting the house, and carrying out the spoils, ornaments, jewelry, and even clothes. Last, they came upon the liquor store, and it was the booze that made Hammett think seriously about their chances of beating them.
"I know they have us outnumbered, Chris," he murmured to his second-in-command, “But we have an advantage. We’re sober."
He raised one eyebrow. "And you think that'll be enough?"
"Sure, if we hit them hard enough. Kill them before they begin to sober up and recover. That’s the way we’re gonna do it, people. Lock and load, and when we go down there, don't spare the ammo. Shoot and keep shooting like we have a truckload of ammo in reserve. Swamp them with lead. There’re too many hostiles to do it any other way."
Julio Diaz glanced at Jimmy O'Donnell, who grimaced and shrugged. "You only live once, Julio."
“That's true, but I'd like to live a little longer."
Murphy tried to put aside their worries. "We’re the best in the business, and if we do this right, we can take most of them before they even fire a shot.”
He looked at Hammett. "Boss, why don’t we wait another hour? Let them get well and truly soused, and then we give them hell."
He nodded. "That sounds good to me. One hour, then we go in howling like a pack of banshees and slinging lead like we’re a battalion of troops. They wouldn't be human if they didn't fall for it. Then they die."
"Boss, they're not human," Murphy pointed out.
He gave him a rueful grin. "We’ll kill them just the same.”
An hour later, they were ready to go in. Each weapon loaded with a full magazine, and spare magazines to hand. Safety catches off, full auto selected, and they started down the low hill overlooking the ranch. The front yard was littered with bodies, but they weren’t dead. They were drunk, incapable after celebrating their victory over the unarmed civilian employees. A half-dozen men were still conscious, swigging booze from a bottle they were passing around, and the rest were asleep. Although it was still cold, it was doubtful they felt it. Not after the quantities of alcohol they’d consumed from Sarah’s booze cabinet.
Hammett's Alpha Squad made it to within two hundred meters, and he held up a hand for them to halt. “You see that?" He was pointing toward the stone wall of a well, "That’s roughly the one-hundred-meter mark. When we reach it, we open fire and start running. Don't stop for anything, and if a man goes down, that’s too bad. They have to stay down and wait for help until it's all over."
They all nodded their understanding and continued their steady advance. Halfway to the well, and they still hadn't been seen. One man woke up and went to relieve himself against a nearby fence. He refastened his clothing and started walking back to the place he'd chosen for his siesta.
Just before he lay down again, he looked up and saw them in the distance. But he saw them through bleary, bloodshot eyes, and they were just shapes coming from the direction he would have expected other Taliban fighters to appear. He gave them a casual wave and lay down to sleep it off. Five meters from the well, and something made a man sit up and take notice. He scrambled to his feet and stared at them, opened his mouth to scream, and Hammett shouted, "Open fire."
He squeezed the trigger, and the man went down in the first hail of bullets. Two more Talibs were leaping to their feet close to him, and the same burst tore into them. The other three mercs fired, and abruptly the men peacefully sleeping off their drunken spree became a picture of hell. Afghans running to snatch up their weapons, and most failed, but not before O’Donnell was hit in the chest. He died instantly.
They went down under the scything hail of bullets. Hammett's men fired, reloaded, and fired again. The entire area was a killing ground. The door of the house opened, and a man rushed out, waving a pistol and shouting. No doubt their commander, and he hadn't realized the extent of the danger. O'Donnell caught him with a three-shot tap to the belly, and then another three shots for good measure. They kept closing in, firing at everything that moved. They scourged the front yard of enemy, polishing off the last survivors, and looking for leakers. There were none. They’d killed them all. Murphy was grinning. "Boss, I just wish they could all be like that one."
"Don't we all."
Yet they hadn’t killed them all, and seconds later, Julio Diaz appeared, dragging a captive with him. Diaz explained to Hammett why he hadn't killed him.
"The guy said he’s from the nearby town of Chiras, and if he tells us something important, he asked would we spare his life."
"I'll consider it. What is it?"
Immediately, the man knelt on the ground and prostrated himself. "Sir, it is my brother. He is a martyr."
"And why would I give a shit about your brother?"
"Because he will kill your generals."
He grinned. "That could be an improvement. I’m not sure I’d want to stop that happening. Somebody tell me what the hell this guy is talking about."
They questioned him at length, and it all came out. The six children, chosen to strap bomb vests around their bodies, and get close to the Commanders of the Coalition armies encamped outside Bamyan. They’d detonate their bombs, and the entire Allied senior command structure would disappear in smoke and flame. When he'd finished speaking, Hammett was thinking hard, except there wasn't much to think about.
"We’re leaving, right now."
"Leaving for where, Boss?"
"For Bamyan, where else?"
They raced back to the Humvee, and Hammett took the wheel himself. He reached the main highway that ran from Chiras to Bamyan, and almost immediately had to turn off and drive cross-country across the hills. The entire countryside was alive with Taliban. Both armies had chosen this place for a meeting engagement, a slogging confrontation, with the intention of killing as many of the enemy as possible. A battle of attrition, and when it was over, the victors would go forward, leaving behind fields sewn with endless rows of corpses.
They drove on for several klicks, and he abruptly braked to a stop. He grabbed his binoculars and focused ahead on the vehicles straddling the road. Robed men, Taliban, all around them, and they weren’t looking at the Humvee, but at another vehicle approaching from another track to the east. He stared through the lenses, adjusted the focus, and gasped in astonishment. The Toyota Land Cruiser wore United Nations livery, with the distinctive blue logo. Inside the front was a face he recognized.
“If that don’t beat all, do you know who’s riding in that thing? Our old friend Joe Tyler, and he’s got a woman driving him. I can see a kid in the back as well. And they’re… Jesus Christ!”
He stopped, and Murphy said, “They’re what?”
“They’re attacking. Attacking that roadblock, and I can see a dozen hostiles in their way. They’re gonna get their asses shot off.”
“What are we gonna do, Boss?”
He looked at Diaz. “Do? We do what they pay us for, Julio. Kill the enemy. Those Taliban bastards picked the wrong fight, and if they think they can chew up our old friend and spit him out, they have another think coming. Alpha Squad is on the way. It’s time to kick ass.”
He stamped on the gas pedal, and the lumbering Humvee picked up speed, storming in from the west. A minute later, the Talibs saw them coming and started shooting at them.
* * *
She’d gone to full speed, and they were charging toward the roadblock. As they drew near, Tyler and Javed opened fire from the side windows, and suddenly the game changed. The Taliban realized the easy kill they’d anticipated wasn’t going to happen. These were no tame United Nations employees. Whoever was inside the vehicle was shooting at them, pumping out bullets like crazy, and hurriedly they returned fire. The first bullets whistled around the Toyota, and two long bursts punched holes through the bodywork. The windshield starred as hot lead tore through the glass and out the rear window, and instinctively they all ducked. They weren’t hit, and Sarah kept the pedal to the metal. The Land Cruiser had become a vehicle of war.
They weren't going to make it, and it became obvious to Tyler they'd bitten off more than they could chew. The firing increased in intensity, and more bullets peppered the Land Cruiser. Sarah gave him a sideways glance, as if to ask the obvious question of what to do next. All he could do was shout, "Keep going. Hit that roadblock hard. If we slow down, they’ll kill us."
"We won’t make it."
"It's our only chance."
They were so close. The bullets were hitting them in a continuous volley that ripped through the bodywork. And then the gunfire slackened, and he could scarcely believe his eyes. They’d turned away to fire in another direction.
A United States military Humvee was hurtling toward the roadblock from the opposite direction, coming out of nowhere, appearing like magic out of the rough terrain. And the men inside were firing like there was no tomorrow. He recognized the chatter of an M249 light machine gun, the Squad Automatic Weapon in general use throughout the U.S. military. The other men in the Humvee fired M4s, punching round after round at the bewildered Taliban, and then they were almost on the roadblock. Another glance from Sarah, and he shouted, "Punch through. Don't stop for anything."
They hit it with a tearing screech of tortured metal, and the Toyota checked its speed, like a giant hand gripped it. They almost came to a stop, but the powerful engine pulled them through, and then they were out the other side. Javed was still firing, his gun pointed out the passenger window, targeting the fleeing Talibs with short bursts. One went down, and the rest were running. Some took cover, and he shouted at Sarah to stop.
Before the wheels had stopped turning, he was out of the door and running. Looking for a man who'd hidden behind one of the vehicles in the roadblock, as if they might not notice. Tyler vaulted onto the roof and ran to the other side. He was looking down at the Talib, who hadn't realized the danger, and then he looked up. His mouth opened. An instant later he died before he could utter a sound as Tyler hit him with a double tap. He was out of ammo. He slammed a new magazine into the M4 and went looking for more survivors, but he found none. They were either dead or they'd run, and the road was clear.
Moments later, the Humvee drew up next to him, and Hammett climbed out with a grin.
"Tyler, we are going to have to stop meeting like this."
He could hardly believe it. “You again! Damn, how come you’re always in the right place at the right time? Thanks a million for the help. We thought we'd bought the farm back then."
His gaze was somber. "O'Donnell did buy it the farm. They hit us with a long burst as we were driving in, and he took several bullets in the chest. Killed him outright. One bullet clipped Chris Murphy and took a slice out of his neck. He's okay, but O'Donnell was a good man."
"I'm sorry, Tony. That’s rough."
A shrug. "We all know what we're up against when we sign up for this work.”
“Right. Where’re you heading, how come you’re here?"
He explained about the threat from the child suicide bombers about to attack the Coalition HQ at Bamyan, and Tyler raised his eyebrows. “We’re reading of the same hymn sheet, Tony. We know what they’re up to, and we’re heading there to stop them. If we can.”
Hammett nodded. “We'll come along with you, in case you hit any more trouble.”
“It's appreciated."
Murphy and Diaz wore grim expressions. They'd draped the body of the dead mercenary in a poncho, carefully positioning it in the trunk of the Humvee. Burial would come later. He gave them a nod of appreciation and climbed back into the Land Cruiser.
“We’re running out of time. We must get to Bamyan, to Coalition headquarters, so step on it."
She restarted the engine, and Tyler looked at Javed. “Are you okay, son? You didn't get hit?"
"I didn’t get hit, but I'm worried we may not make it in time. They have a head start on us."
"We’ll make it."
“Why are you so sure, Mr. Tyler?”
He looked up toward the sky. “Because the Gods of Fortune are smiling down on us, Javed. Someone up there loves us.”
The remark was flippant, but it helped. The boy gave him an uncertain smile and relaxed, but Tyler knew they’d need luck in spades if they were going to make it.
* * *
He ordered his men to position their two machine guns to fight off the infidels if they should happen along, and made certain they posted lookouts. His personal SUV, the luxurious white Lexus LC, was positioned ready to make a fast getaway. When he was satisfied, he summoned the six martyrs to prepare them. Akram arrived first. The others trailed in behind him, with their guards watching them carefully.
He was aware of their terror, and so he’d taken precautions to make certain no more of them escaped. If they did he’d look a fool and lose all credibility with the other Taliban commanders, especially the Regional Commander, Ghulam Samar. What mattered was he succeeded in carrying out the plan. The deaths of the Coalition commanders would guarantee him a senior position in the leadership. And should Samar fall in battle, perhaps to an unfortunate accident, like a stray bullet, he, Mullah Habib Ahmadi, would be ready to take his place. As was his due.
The martyrs were crucial. Six useless lives, in return for so much.
"Akram, are they ready? Have they made their peace with God?"
The boy looked uneasy. “Sir, I've talked to them, recited the Koran, and even beaten them when they weren’t listening. I believe they will go through with it."
"They must go through with," he shouted, and flecks of spittle emerged from his mouth, "Is that clear?"
They were watching him fearfully, and no one replied. He looked from one to the other, and his expression was dark.
"If any of you fail to carry out the plan, I will send my men to arrest your families, and they will be put to death. Promises have been made to God, and if they are broken, I will insist on their deaths in punishment. You will follow Akram and obey your orders. Do as he says, and soon you will enter Paradise. You have nothing to fear.”
They still said nothing, and he wanted to explode in anger at their impious attitude.
What is wrong with these young people, do they not understand their sacred duty?
He gave up trying to get a response and waved them away. "You know what to do. Make sure you smile and look happy. Laugh and joke with each other, and remember, you are children. No threat to the soldiers."
"It shall be as you say." Akram’s voice was solemn. He looked at the five children, and scowled, "Follow me into immortality.”
He made Maryam walk close behind him, and she was thinking hard. She couldn't just give up. She'd known Akram for as long she could remember. The moody, angry teenager he was now was not the boy she remembered. Something had changed him, about a year ago. She wasn't sure, but she dimly recalled an argument between him and Javed over a girl.
Whatever the outcome, Javed had won the affections of the girl, and they'd enjoyed a close friendship ever since. Akram began spending more and more time in the mosque, listening to Ahmadi, and she was convinced the Mullah did not speak with the voice of God. Perhaps he was deluded, or perhaps he had some other murderous intentions, but even at twelve-years-old, she knew he was false.
Knowing was one thing, but escaping was another. She’d worn the terrible suicide vest for several days, and they'd made it clear if she tried to remove it, the explosives would detonate. She also knew when they reached the target the detonation would be by remote control. Each martyr had a button to depress when the moment came, but she was certain it was fake. Living in Afghanistan, children grew up on the stories of bombs and the various ways to detonate them. Even when she was younger, she knew about remote detonation by radio signal. They would have no warning, just a blinding sheet of flame, and then nothing.
As for the afterlife, she couldn't understand why anyone would believe murdering people would result in a swift journey to Paradise. Even assuming Paradise existed, which was unlikely. She sighed. They were walking past the first of the soldiers and their vehicles of war parked alongside the road. Big, powerful looking jeeps, tracked armored personnel carriers, and everywhere, men in uniform with more guns than she knew existed in the whole world. There was even a line of artillery, towed by huge trucks. Overhead, the constant buzz of aircraft as the fighters and gunships patrolled, crisscrossing the skies.
The day was clear and blue, and she wanted to live more than anything. To see that blue sky every morning when she awoke, to live without the fear of imminent death.
I’m twelve-year-old. I want to live a long and happy life, to marry, and have children. Anything but this!
"Akram, I must talk to you."
He looked back at her, and his face was set in a strange expression. At first, she didn't understand. It was as if the blood had drained from his skin, and he was almost like a wax caricature of the boy she'd grown up with.
Of course, he’s as terrified as the rest of us. Terrified of such a violent death, yet equally terrified of not going through with it. He’s a coward.
"Akram, why are we doing this? They must have brought almost every gun on the planet to this place. How can we fight these people? We will die for nothing.”
"That is not true, Maryam. We will fight them the way we've always fought them. Guerrilla tactics, hit and run. One day they will leave the country just like the Soviets did."
"The Soviets were different," she pointed out, “People said no one liked the Soviets. But these are our own people. The Afghan National Army, aided by the Americans.”
He sneered. "It makes no difference. They are enemies of the faithful, enemies of God, so they must die."
She put her hand on his arm, and he looked at her in surprise. "Akram, all we know about God is what people like Mullah Ahmadi tell us. What if they are wrong? How do you know Mullah Ahmadi is telling us the truth? We only have his word for it."
