Sniper Elite: One-Way Trip

CHAPTER 43

Gil and Forogh were dropped off well south of the Panjshir Valley by a British Special Air Service helicopter shortly before dawn, both of them wearing the robes of Tajik goat herders. The significant difference between them, of course, was that Gil wore a combat harness loaded with ammo, grenades, and incidentals beneath his disguise. He carried a .308 Remington Modular Sniper Rifle with a folding stock and Schmidt & Bender optics, rail-mounted behind a PS-22 Night Vision Scope with infrared illuminator. The rest of his loadout consisted of an M4 carbine, a Kimber Desert Warrior model 1911 pistol, and his father’s Ka-Bar fighting knife. He carried ten magazines of ammo for each weapon: 100 rounds for the sniper rifle, 300 for the carbine, and 80 for the pistol. Both the Remington and Kimber were fixed with suppressors. Gil wore no armor other than an integrated ballistic helmet (IBH) fitted with attachments for his night-vision monocular and infrared strobe light. All of this was concealed beneath the heavy, bulky brown robe.

They both carried AK-47s over their shoulders to make sure they looked the part, and though Forogh wore the traditional pakol on his head, Gil wore a shemagh to hide the fact that he was Caucasian. Anyone observing them at a distance would assume they were Tajik or Pashtun. Anyone who encountered them closely enough to identify Gil as a white man would likely catch a round from a silenced 1911.

They hiked all morning to reach the foot of the mountains ringing the Panjshir Valley to the south.

“I feel like a Tusken Raider in this getup,” Gil remarked, sucking water from his CamelBak.

“What’s that?” Forogh said.

Gil chuckled. “The Sand People from Star Wars. Ever seen the movie?”

“Yes,” Forogh answered glumly. “On a DVD in Pakistan a long time ago.”

“In a galaxy far, far away?”

Forogh didn’t even come close to catching the joke. He stopped to lean against the walking stick he had picked up during their hike to reach the mountains. “Is that how you see us? As ugly, wild creatures who live in caves?”

“No,” Gil said, realizing why Forogh might take exception with the comparison to Sand People. “I was talking about myself. You gotta remember, man, Americans lead sheltered lives. We don’t mean nothin’ by it when we say stupid shit like that.”

“It’s not the stupid things you say,” Forogh said, starting off up the mountain. “It’s the lack of thought before you say them.”

Gil chuckled as he fell in behind. “I don’t reckon I can argue with that.”

The climb up the back side of the mountain took an hour, and they stopped just shy of the summit. Gil took out the map, orienting it with a compass and using the GPS in the hi-tech iPhone he’d gotten from Joe to pinpoint their exact coordinates. He had marked on the map the precise locations of all the enemy’s mountain gun emplacements, intelligence that Pope had been able to supply him with over a secure internet connection with encrypted software.

“Okay, we’re right at the eastern opening to the valley,” Gil said, folding the map away. “The closest enemy emplacement is a full five hundred meters to the west of us. Once we crest this ridge, we should have an unfettered view of the valley without having to worry about anybody spotting us.”

Forogh’s thin lips drew into a tight smile. “You could have just asked me where we were.”

Gil busted him on the shoulder. “You’re sure you can get into that village without those HIK pricks giving you any shit?”

Forogh gestured with the sack of extra AK-47 magazines he carried over his shoulder. “This gift should be enough to convince them I don’t like Americans. Beyond that, my uncles will vouch for me.”

“And you’re sure they’ll help with the extraction?”

“They fought beside Massoud against the Russians in this very valley.” Forogh beamed with pride. He pointed eastward. “My uncle Orzu was wounded right over in that pass. They were Mujahideen then, but they fought in the Northern Alliance against the Taliban with your CIA. Then Al Qaeda murdered Massoud. My uncle Orzu and Massoud were friends. I told you before, there’s no chance they will not help. But they won’t be able to help you inside the village. There aren’t enough of them now. But they will secure the extraction zone and help us escape into the mountains once the woman is safe.”

“Where’s the trail they’ll use to leave the village?”

“I will show you.”

They crawled to the crest and lay on their bellies looking out over the valley floor.

“It cuts up the side of the mountain there above the village to the north.” Forogh indicated with the knife edge of his hand. “My uncles harvest timber for a living now. The HIK isn’t interfering with the villagers’ lives. They can come and go as they please.” He then pointed down into the valley where the village men were playing buzkashi on horseback. “See? The Taliban outlawed buzkashi, but the HIK like to play with us.” Buzkashi was a game similar to polo, only it was played with the headless carcass of a goat, and there were virtually no rules. “The HIK doesn’t like the Taliban. They take advantage of them.”

Gil watched the riders playing buzkashi through the sniper scope, a patch of nylon stocking stretched tightly over the lens, held in place by a rubber band, to prevent the sun glinting off the lens. He watched the horses carefully, seeing that they were strong, most of them just fine for what he had in mind. He noted the strange padded helmets many of the riders had on their heads and took his eye from the scope. “Are those Russian tanker helmets their wearing?”

“They are.”

“Where’d they get ’em?”

Forogh gestured at the rusted hull of a Russian T-34/85 tank at the bottom of the mountain. There were many such hulks dotting the valley floor, though not all of them as dated as the T-34. “From the Russians.”

Gil put his eye back to the scope. “Stupid question, I guess.”

Forogh put his hand on Gil’s shoulder. “I should leave you now. We’re too close to the village to risk being spotted together.”

They crawled back from the crest, out of sight.

“Got the marker?” Gil asked.

Forogh knocked on the hollowed-out stock of his very beat-up AK-47 where he had hidden the infrared strobe against the possibility that he would be searched for a satellite phone on his way into the village. The rifle’s fore-grip was split and held together with a very sticky, sap-coated twine wrapped many times around. He had selected the battered rifle to make sure that no one from the HIK would attempt to trade weapons with him.

They shook hands. “Good luck down there.”

“Good luck to you,” Forogh replied. “You’re going to need it much more than I will.” He got to his feet, dusted off the front of his robe, and walked up over the crest of the mountain.

Gil waited awhile, then crawled back to the crest and lay watching as Forogh slowly worked his way down the rocky slope. There was a white pickup truck down on the road with four heavily armed HIK sentries. Two of them sat in the back of the truck napping. The other two lolled against the fender talking. They were watching the road coming into the valley, and so far hadn’t spotted Forogh trudging down the mountain above them.

When they finally noticed him, they didn’t get particularly excited. They woke up the two men in the bed of the truck, and all four of them waited patiently as Forogh completed his descent to the road.

“Peace be with you,” Forogh said in Pashto, giving a casual wave.

“And with you,” one of the guards replied affably. “Where do you come from?”

“From Charikar,” Forogh said. He unshouldered the bag of magazines and offered it to one of the junior guards. “These are a gift. I’ve come to visit my uncles in the Karimov clan.”

The young guard rifled the sack and then dropped it into the back of the pickup and put out his hand for Forogh’s AK.

Forogh tightened his grip on the shoulder strap. “I’m keeping this.”

The younger guard looked at the sentry in charge.

“We need to search you,” the leader said. “To be sure you’re not smuggling anything into the village.”

Forogh gave up the rifle, consenting to the search. “What would I be smuggling?”

“The Americans know we’re holding one of their people here,” the sentry explained. “They might try to send a spy with a radio. Why didn’t you follow the road up from Charikar? Why come up over the mountain?”

Forogh smiled dryly. “Because the Americans have blocked the road into the Panjshir… which I’m sure you know.”

The guard accepted that. “What business do you have with the Karimovs?”

“I told you… they’re family.”

“Do you come to herd goats with them?”

Again Forogh’s dry smile. “They do not herd goats. They cut timber in the mountains to the north.”

The guard grinned crookedly. “Give him his rifle.”

Two of the sentries remained at the pass while the leader and his partner drove Forogh into the village. They stopped in front of the home of Orzu Karimov, the oldest of Forogh’s uncles, the family patriarch. Forogh jumped out of the back and called into the house.

Orzu and two of his sons came outside.

Forogh noted the surprise in his uncle’s eyes, but it was brief enough that the sentry would not have picked up on it.

“This man claims to be your nephew,” the sentry said from the passenger seat.

Orzu Karimov was sixty-five. His face was lined and weathered, but his eyes were keen, teeth strong. “He’s the son of my oldest sister. Welcome, nephew. It’s been a year. Are you finally ready to work?”

Forogh shrugged. “Is there any?”

His uncle laughed and looked at the guard. “He’s been lazy his entire life. He prefers following after goats to working for a living!”

The sentry laughed back and slapped the driver on the shoulder with the back of his hand, signaling for him to pull off.

Orzu signaled Forogh to precede him into the house, giving his sons a menial errand to run. Once inside, he barred the door and turned around. “I’ve received word you’re working for the Americans.” It sounded almost like an accusation. “Is this true?”

“Who else knows?” Forogh was very surprised. “Who told you?”

Orzu leveled his gaze. “I have friends everywhere. You should know that by now. You’re here because of the American woman.”

Forogh took a knife from inside his robe and used the tip of the blade to remove the screws from the buttplate of the AK-47. The infrared strobe slid out onto the table. “This flashes a light that only the Americans will be able to see. I will use it to mark the building where she’s being held.”

Orzu’s eyes were steady and unblinking. “They pay you well, the Americans?”

“Well enough, but that’s not—”

“Well enough to endanger your clan?” his uncle asked harshly. He pointed at the strobe. “That’s enough to see every one of us shot.”

Forogh was surprised by his uncle’s anger. “I promised them you would help, Uncle.”

“That was a naïve promise to make.” Orzu dropped into a chair. “Why would I ever agree to such a thing? The Americans are leaving this country, and the Hezbi grows stronger every day. Making friends with the US now would be suicide.”

Forogh sat across from him. “I told them you would help because Massoud was your friend, and Massoud would not have tolerated the Hezbi taking over the Panjshir.”

Orzu remained obdurate. “Massoud is dead, and the Hezbi is a devil we must learn to live with. Once the Americans have gone, they will leave the Panjshir because there’s nothing here for them.”

“Aren’t they taking a portion of your profits from the timber?”

“If they are, that’s no reason to take twenty men up against six hundred. They leave us alone to live our lives, and that’s how I intend to keep it.”

Forogh understood his uncle’s reasoning. “In truth, I knew I was lying when I told them why you would help.”

A shadow crossed his uncle’s face. “Lying?”

“The real reason you will help, Uncle, will be to save the village from total destruction.”

Orzu sat forward, making a fist on the tabletop. “The Americans aren’t that stupid. If they attack, the woman dies — instantly.”

Forogh slipped the strobe back into its hiding place. “There is a man hiding in the mountains above the village. You will help me find a way to mark the woman’s building with this light.” He began to screw the screws back into place with the knife. “After the building is marked, we will ride out of the village with your men, up into the mountains as if we’re leaving to cut timber. Then we will circle back to the junction with the Khawak Pass to set up a defensive perimeter for the Americans’ extraction zone. While we are doing this, the American will sneak into the village and take the woman. He will then ride north with her to meet us. After the woman is lifted from the ground, we will all disappear into the mountains to begin cutting timber.” Forogh chuckled. “Well, you and my cousins will begin cutting timber. The American and I will make our way back to friendly territory on horseback… and the Hezbi will never be wise to your helping. Even if we have to fire on them to protect the extraction zone, they won’t know who’s shooting at them, and they’ll never be able to give chase in the mountains without horses.”

Orzu gaped at him. “The Hezbi aren’t stupid, either! And even if they were, this American of yours will fail.”

“If he does,” Forogh said with a shrug, “then I will be stuck working with you in the mountains until you decide to return to the village.”

Orzu stood up from the table. “No, Nephew, I will not help you mark the building, and I will not put my men in danger to help the American.”

“Yes, you will, Uncle. Because if you do not, tomorrow night the village will be attacked with bombs and helicopters and soldiers. The Hezbi will fight to the last man, and many Tajik will die in the crossfire… and so will their horses — so will your horses.”

“I could warn them,” Orzu threatened. “Tell them to get the woman out of here before the attack begins.”

“That would change nothing,” Forogh replied. “They would keep the woman here, and Americans would still attack. But that’s unimportant because you would never warn the Hezbi.”

“Why are you so sure, Nephew?”

“Because of Massoud, Uncle. Massoud would never do such a thing, and I know that he is still the only man you have ever admired.”