Private Rogue

Chapter 34

The journey across the valley had taken most of the day. Floyd had followed the trail marked on the map, but thick snow had made the going difficult. He’d veered off course a number of times and had to retrace his steps.

The sun had gone down by the time the horse started to climb the mountain on the other side of the valley. Mule was clearly exhausted, and Floyd knew they wouldn’t be able to go on much longer, so he began to look for somewhere to spend the night. The lower slopes were covered by big trees, which made it hard to spot any shelter from the trail. If they could get above the treeline, it would be easier to see a crevasse or cave.

Floyd urged Mule up the steep incline. As they trudged slowly on, he wondered whether Beth and the children had gone to the cabin. Would the Department of Defense have notified her he was missing in action? Would they even know? Or would they mistakenly count him among the fallen? He couldn’t bear the thought of Beth worrying about him, much less the children, so he pushed such questions from his mind. Get to the border. Get to a phone. His task was simple, even if the execution of it was not.

Mule was breathing heavily, and ridges of white, foamy sweat had formed on her neck, but she kept going, and they were in sight of the rocky terrain that marked the end of the forest. The trees were thinning out, unable to thrive much higher. Floyd looked at the shadows up ahead and tried to see if he could spot shelter, but he was still too far away.

He was surprised to hear the low thrum of an engine, and recognized the frequency — too low for a car or a plane, the rhythm belonged to a chopper. He urged Mule off the trail, into the last of the trees, and the horse pushed through snow that came to its knees until Floyd pulled up by the trunk of a cedar. Mule settled and Floyd watched the sky. The tops of the trees swayed gently against the bright stars, but there was no sight of the aircraft. The sound of its engine grew louder, and Mule pawed the ground nervously.

Floyd’s heart pounded as he began to make out the occultation of the rotors, which meant the aircraft must be close. Then it appeared, the distinctive silhouette of a Russian-made Mil Mi-24 Hind, commonly known as the flying tank: a fast, heavily armed chopper with trademark down-swept wings. The bird had no running lights and was a solid black against the gray and white of the mountains opposite. It flew toward Floyd and, as it banked in his direction, he saw something that sent panic rushing through him: the familiar green glow of an infra-red night-vision system. Against the cold mountainside, he and the horse would light up in bright oranges and yellow.

Floyd looked around, desperately searching for somewhere to hide, but there was nothing other than trees and deep drifts of snow. As the chopper came straight toward him, he could see the pilot, co-pilot and someone else who stood in the center of the cockpit. All three were staring directly at him. They couldn’t land, but if the bird was properly equipped, they wouldn’t need to. A team could drop-line down to him.

Floyd knew he only had moments to get out of there, but he had no idea how he could outrun a chopper. They would follow him through the mountains. His heart sank at the thought he might never see Beth and the kids again. Then inspiration struck. He dismounted Mule and smacked her rump.

“Get out of here!” Floyd said. “Go! Yah!”

The horse, which had grown increasingly nervous at the sound of the helicopter, didn’t need much encouragement and bolted forward. As Mule ran off, Floyd jumped into a deep drift at the foot of the tree, burying himself in.

As he quickly scooped the last of the freezing snow over his face, Floyd saw the chopper turn toward the horse. With the trees and branches flickering in front of Mule, it would be impossible to tell whether there was a rider clinging to her back.

Floyd held his breath and prayed his gambit would work. Finally, he heard the noise of the chopper’s engine fading away.

Floyd hauled himself out of the drift, dusted off the worst of the damp, clumping snow, and made his way back to the trail. He’d managed to escape capture, but his freedom had come at a high cost. He was now about to cross the Hindu Kush mountains on foot.