CHAPTER 42
“How many?” asked Harvath as he turned off his flashlight and flipped his night vision goggles back down.
“Four,” said Gallagher. “Two in the bed and two in the cab.” “How far out?”
“A hundred twenty-five meters and closing.”
“We’re sure these are bad guys?” asked Fontaine over his mic.
“Unless the local 4H Club has started issuing RPGs, these are definitely bad guys. What do you want me to do?”
Harvath knew these were not simple villagers. Not with RPGs they weren’t. These were Massoud’s men, and he didn’t need to think twice about what to do. “Take them out.”
“Roger that,” said Gallagher. “Hold your position.”
It was a clear night with enough starlight for a marksman like Gallagher to be able to engage his targets with the optics he had on his weapon. Flipping up his NODs, he settled his shoulder into the stock of his LaRue sniper rifle and calculated the lead on his moving target.
As the truck closed to within a hundred meters, Gallagher slowed his breathing and prepared to fire. Exhaling, he focused on his sight picture and gently applied pressure to the trigger.
There was a muffled pop as the round spat from the suppressed rifle and blistered through the air toward its target. Gallagher’s lead had been perfect and the bullet took out the truck’s right front tire.
The effect was instantaneous, and the driver immediately slowed the vehicle to a full stop. With no clue to what they could have hit to cause such a dramatic blowout, all of the men climbed out of the truck to survey the damage. Short of painting targets on themselves, the small party of Taliban soldiers could hardly have made it easier on Gallagher.
As they squatted in unison to investigate the shredded tire, Baba G whispered, “Clean-up in aisle five,” and began applying pressure to his trigger.
The bullets ripped from the weapon, filling the night air with a fine red mist as they tore into heads, throats, and even chests. There was a faint tock, tock, tock like the stamping of sheet metal as a handful of rounds either went slightly wide or passed directly through their victim’s flesh and pinged into the body of the truck.
Gallagher had definitely oversaturated his targets, but it was one of those cases where if a little was good, a lot was better. He had absolutely no doubt that those four had climbed aboard the Seventy-two-Virgin Express and weren’t going to pose a problem to anyone, anymore.
Flipping his NODs back down, Gallagher scanned the area as he inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon. “Convoy 1, you’re all clear,” said Gallagher over the radio. “Don’t trip over the bodies on your way out.”
“How close are they?” asked Harvath.
“Outside, up the road to your left. Within a hundred meters. And, by the way, you’re welcome.”
Turning to Fontaine, Harvath said, “If those are Massoud’s men, there could be some worthwhile intel on them.”
The former JTF2 operative illuminated his Suunto and checked the time. “I’ll go,” he said. “You need to get to that jirga, because as soon as those bodies are found, their buddies are going turn this village upside down.”
“That’s assuming there are more of them,” said Harvath.
“Trust me. They’re like roaches. For every four Taliban you see, there are forty more hiding somewhere nearby.”
“Unless Massoud took the rest with him.”
“For all we know,” cautioned Fontaine, “Massoud is still here. That’s the mindset we need to operate under.”
“Agreed,” said Harvath. “Are you sure you’re okay with checking out that truck?”
Fontaine nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Thank you,” replied Harvath as he made his way to the door. Hailing Gallagher, he said, “Convoy 2 is going to investigate the four downed tangos. Convoy 1 is returning to your position.”
“Roger that,” replied Gallagher. “Two out with a split. I’ll cover you both as best as I can.”
“Negative,” said Harvath, who wanted to afford Fontaine as much protection as possible. “Keep your eyes on Convoy 2. Convoy 1 will come back on his own.”
“Roger that.”
Once they were ready, Harvath nodded and Fontaine pulled back the door. It was still quiet at their side of the village as the two men crept outside.
Harvath gave Fontaine the thumbs-up and the Canadian took off toward the four dead Taliban with the flat while Harvath retreated several feet, risked a flash photo of the structure with his camera phone, and then carefully made his way back to where Gallagher and the two Afghans were waiting.
Baba G didn’t bother looking up at Harvath when he rejoined them. His eyes were focused on Fontaine. “We ready for phase two?” he asked.
“Yup,” replied Harvath, who removed his Afghan cell phone and, handing it to Daoud, said, “It’s time to make the call.”
The interpreter took the phone and dialed Fayaz’s cell phone. He spoke briefly to the elder, then disconnected the call and returned the phone to Harvath. “They are ready for us,” he said.
Harvath nodded and, tucking the phone into his pocket, got on his radio and said, “Convoy 2, we’re ready to roll to our next location.”
“Copy that, Convoy 1. I’ll meet you there. Convoy 2, out.”
Using a tiny Cejay fingerlight to illuminate Fayaz’s hand-drawn map of the village, Harvath and Gallagher went over the route they were about to take to the jirga one last time, but Asadoulah shook his head and suggested another route.
Harvath didn’t like it. It was too direct and went straight through the center of the village. “Na,” he insisted, using the Pashtu word for no, and then retraced the route he intended them to take.
Grabbing Harvath’s left index finger with the small aviator’s light secured to it with Velcro, Asadoulah illuminated Harvath’s proposed route once more and pointed to specific structures along the way. “Taliban, Taliban, Taliban, Massoud,” he whispered with his broken jaw as he pointed to house after house after house.
Harvath looked at Gallagher. “What do you think?”
“Well, out of all of us,” he replied, “this kid’s the only one who’s been to this village before. And I may not be crazy about walking right up Main Street, but he sure seems adamant about it.”
“Fine,” said Harvath as he turned off his fingerlight and tucked the map back into his pocket. “We’ll do it his way, but that means no NODs. If even one person sees us and gets suspicious, we’ll be blown before we ever make the jirga.”