Sniper Elite: One-Way Trip

CHAPTER 51

Everyone in the operations center breathed a collective sigh when Gil slipped out the back of Kohistani’s house and headed toward the river.

“I think it’s safe to assume that Mr. Kohistani won’t be joining us for the duration,” General Couture remarked, almost casually. “Christ, this guy’s bold. To watch him move, you’d think he owned that goddamn village.”

“At the moment, he does,” Metcalf muttered, taking his chair. He had suffered a spinal injury years earlier during a parachute jump, and his lower back was killing him. “Forgive me for sitting, General. It’s the old bones…”

“Warrior’s bones,” Couture replied. “Put your feet up on the table if you need to.”

Metcalf shook his head. “This will do, sir. Thank you.”

They watched Gil return to the outbuilding.

“What’s he doing with the damn rockets now?” Couture wanted to know. “Jesus, this guy’s killing me! Grab the woman and go, son!”

Metcalf stared at the screen, a shadow creasing his brow. “Looks like he’s got something in mind, sir.” This was the first worrisome thing that Gil had done so far. He was wasting time now. There was nothing he could accomplish with those rockets that wouldn’t bring every Pashtun hiding in the mountains down into the village. Could that be his plan? It hardly made sense.

They watched on as he paused and seemed to reconsider his decision. In the end, he shoved the rockets back out of sight and pulled the bulky cloak back on over his multicam ACUs.

“Thought better of it,” Couture mumbled, “whatever it was… thank God.”

Gil trotted back down the river to the south, turning east at the end of the row of houses and sneaking back into the building near the stone corral. A couple of minutes later he came back out leading a saddled horse.

Metcalf rocked back in the chair, gaping at the screen.

“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me,” Couture said, turning to look at Metcalf. “Is he kidding? Is he kidding me?”

“He certainly isn’t,” Metcalf replied, scratching his head. “I guess now we know his plan for extraction.”

“Shit,” Couture said, putting his hands on his hips. “I wish he’d gone with the RPGs. At least then he’d have taken some of the bastards with him.”

Gil led the horse north up the lane toward Sandra’s quarters, crossing in front of the row of houses this time, rather than behind.

“I wish we knew what the hell he can see that we can’t.” Couture griped. “Anybody in here got a cigarette?”

No one did.

“Goddamnit.”

As Gil was passing the last house on the lane, a villager came from inside and walked out to intercept him, his hands spread out before him in a gesture of confusion.

“Must be the owner,” someone remarked.

Gil put the suppressor of the .45 right up against his forehead and started walking him backward into the house. It seemed an eternity before he finally reemerged.

“That does it!” Couture hissed. “Sergeant Becker! Go find me a pack of cigarettes. I don’t care what brand or who you have to mug to get them.”

“Yes, sir!” The Air Force sergeant jumped up and hurried from the room, obviously wanting to get back before he missed anything.

Gil was leading the horse straight across the road now toward Sandra’s quarters, bold as a shiny brass tack.

“Look at the balls on this guy.” Couture stole a glance across the room where the black Air Force lieutenant sat behind the console, piloting the UAV. “You didn’t hear that, Cynthia.”

“Hear what, sir?” she replied without looking up from her monitor.

The sergeant returned with a pack of Pall Malls.

“Throw them here, Sergeant.”

“Sir.” The sergeant pitched the smokes over the console, and the general caught them with two hands, finding a green pack of MRE matches tucked inside the cellophane.

“You’re a good man, Sergeant. I take back all of the foul and disgusting things I’ve said about you.”

“Sir!”

Moments later Couture stood puffing away, obscured in a cloud of smoke. “Christ, I’d forgotten how good these damn things are under stress. Thanks to this son of a bitch,” he said, gesturing at the screen, “I’ll probably be smoking for the rest of my life now.”

Metcalf chuckled in spite of himself. He couldn’t help it. There was too much tension in the air.