Primary Target. Джек Марс

wasn’t out of the question that….

      “Murphy, send a flare up,” he said. “I want to get a look at what we’re dealing with.”

      “And give away our position?” Murphy said.

      “I think they probably know where we are,” Luke said.

      Murphy shrugged and popped one into the night.

      The flare moved slowly across the sky, casting eerie shadows on the rocky terrain below. The ground almost appeared to be boiling. Luke stared and stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. There was so much activity down there, it was like an ant farm, or a swarm of rats.

      It was men. Hundreds of men were methodically moving themselves, their gear, and their weapons into position.

      “I guess you’re right,” Murphy said. “They know we’re here.”

      Luke looked at Martinez.

      “Martinez, what’s the status on that extraction?”

      Martinez shook his head. “They say it’s a no go. Nothing but wicked sandstorms between base and here. Zero visibility. They can’t even put the choppers in the air. They say hold out till morning. The wind’s supposed to die down after sunrise.”

      Luke stared at him. “They have to do better than that.”

      Martinez shrugged. “They can’t. If the choppers won’t fly, the choppers won’t fly. I wish those storms had come in before we left.”

      Luke stared out at the seething mass of Taliban on the hillsides below them. He turned back to Martinez.

      Martinez opened his mouth as if to speak.

      Luke pointed at him. “Don’t say it. Just get ready to fight.”

      “I’m always ready to fight,” Martinez said.

      The shooting started moments later.

* * *

      Martinez was screaming.

      “They’re coming through on all sides!”

      His eyes were wide. His guns were gone. He had taken an AK-47 from a Taliban, and was bayoneting everyone who came over the wall. Luke watched him in horror. Martinez was an island, a small boat in a sea of Taliban fighters.

      And he was going under. Then he was gone, under a pile.

      They were just trying to live until daybreak, but the sun refused to rise. The ammunition had run out. It was cold, and Luke’s shirt was off. He had ripped it off in the heat of combat.

      Turbaned, bearded Taliban fighters poured over the walls of the outpost. Men screamed all around him.

      A man came over the wall with a metal hatchet.

      Luke shot him in the face. The man lay dead against the sandbags. Now Luke had the hatchet. He waded into the fighters surrounding Martinez, swinging wildly. Blood spattered. He chopped at them, sliced them.

      Martinez reappeared, back on his feet, stabbing with the bayonet.

      Luke buried the hatchet in a man’s skull. It was deep. He couldn’t pull it out. Even with the adrenaline raging through his system, he didn’t have the strength left. He looked at Martinez.

      “You okay?”

      Martinez shrugged. He gestured at the bodies all around them. “I been better than this before. I’ll tell you that.”

      There was an AK-47 at Luke’s feet. He picked it up and checked the magazine. Empty. Luke tossed it away and pulled his handgun. He fired down the trench—it was overrun with enemies. A line of them were running this way. More came sliding, falling, jumping over the wall.

      Where were his guys? Was anyone else still alive?

      He killed the closest man with a shot to the face. The head exploded like a cherry tomato. He grabbed the man by his tunic and held him up as a shield. The headless man was light—it was if the corpse was an empty suit of clothes.

      He killed four men with four shots. He kept firing.

      Then he was out of bullets. Again.

      A Taliban charged with an AK-47, bayonet attached. Luke pushed the corpse at him, then threw his gun like a tomahawk. It bounced off the man’s head, distracting him for a second. Luke used that time. He stepped into the attack, sliding along the edge of the bayonet. He plunged two fingers deep into the man’s eyes, and pulled.

      The man screamed. His hands went to his face. Now Luke had the AK. He bayoneted his enemy in the chest, two, three, four times. He pushed it in deep.

      The man breathed his last right into Luke’s face.

      Luke’s hands roamed the man’s body. The fresh corpse had a grenade in its breast pocket. Luke took it, pulled it, and tossed it over the rampart into the oncoming hordes.

      He hit the deck.

      BOOOM.

      The explosion was right there, spraying dirt and rock and blood and bone. The sandbagged wall half collapsed on top of him.

      Luke clawed his way to his feet, deaf now, his ears ringing. He checked the AK. Empty. But he still had the bayonet.

      “Come on, you bastards!” he screamed. “Come on!”

      More men came over the wall, and he stabbed them in a frenzy. He ripped and tore at them with his bare hands. He shot them with their own guns.

      A man came over what was left of the wall. He wasn’t a man—he was a boy. He had no beard. He had no need of a razor. His skin was smooth and dark. His brown eyes were round in terror. He clutched his hands to his chest.

      Luke faced off with this child—the kid was maybe fourteen. There were more coming behind him. They slid and crashed over the barrier. The passageway was choked with corpses.

      Why are his hands like that?

      Luke knew why. He was a suicide bomber.

      “Grenade!” Luke shouted, even if no one was alive to hear him.

      He dove backward, digging under one body, then another. There were so many, he crawled and crawled, burrowing toward the center of the Earth, putting a blanket of dead men between him and the boy.

      BOOOM!

      He heard the explosion, muffled by the bodies, and he felt the heat wave. He heard the shrieks of the next wave of dying. But then another explosion came, and another.

      And another.

      Luke was fading from the concussions. Maybe he was hit. Maybe he was dying. If this was to die, it wasn’t so bad. There was no pain.

      He thought of the kid—skinny teenager, wide around the middle like a barrel-chested man. The kid was wearing a suicide vest.

      He thought of Rebecca, round with child.

      Darkness took him.

* * *

      At some point, the sun had risen, but there was no warmth in it. The fighting had stopped somehow—he couldn’t remember when, or how, it had ended. The ground was rugged and hard. There were dead bodies everywhere. Skinny, bearded men lay all over the ground, with eyes wide and staring.

      Luke. His name was Luke.

      He was sitting on a pile of bodies. He had awakened beneath them, and he had crawled out from under them like a snake.

      They were piled here like cordwood. He didn’t like sitting on them, but it was convenient. It was high enough that it gave him a view down the hillside through the remains of the sandbag wall, but it kept him low enough that no one but a very good sniper could probably get a shot at him.

      The Taliban didn’t have a lot of very good snipers. Some, but not many, and most of the Taliban around here appeared to be dead now.

      Nearby, he spotted one crawling back down the hill, trailing a line of blood like the trail of slime that follows a snail. He should really go out there and kill that guy, but he didn’t want to risk being in the open.

      Luke