The Trek: Darwin's World, Book II (The Darwin's World Series 2) (43 page)

“I’ll be ready, Matt.”

#

Matt led the small party south the following morning just as first light had begun illuminating the canyon floor. Lilia followed immediately behind him and Marc brought up the rear with Piotr. All carried arrows ready on their bowstrings.

Late that afternoon Piotr, sharp-eyed as always, spotted a large rusty stain on the sand. Calling Matt’s attention to it, he took up a guard position with Marc while Matt and Lilia studied the blotch.

“Bloodstain. Two days old, maybe more. Horse tracks, and from the looks of them something happened here. The tracks are confused but the horses might have been running. What do you think?”

“Lot of blood, Matt. Maybe one of the horses was wounded? The tracks lead off west and the horse was running. There are more stains by the tracks too.”

“Let’s have a look up that branch. The horse might have gone there.”

The four followed the tracks, now spread out. All were alert for any surprise. Half a mile ahead they found a dead horse.

“That’s Brownie, Lee’s mare. Been dead at least two days I think. Something’s been feeding on her.”

“Matt, that’s a bear track. Big one, too. The rest of the tracks are cat. Could be lions, or they might be saber-tooths. Think they killed Brownie?”

“No.” Matt’s voice was grim. “They started feeding after Brownie was dead. Look at the neck, just behind the head.”

“Arrow, Matt. That’s not one of Lee’s arrows and I don’t think it’s one of Laz’s either.”

“It’s not. It’s not one of your arrows, is it Piotr?”

“I never made a nock like that, Matt. Looks crude.”

“Crude it might be, but it obviously worked. But it means that somebody else has a bow and arrows. Fairly strong one too; that arrow’s deep. Let’s see if we can get it out.”

Fifteen minutes later Matt was examining the arrow.

“Steel arrowhead. I’m guessing it was locally forged. What do you think?”

“Doesn’t look like anything we’ve made. We had only salvaged steel to work with and this looks different. I think it’s locally produced.”

“I think you’re right, Piotr.”

Lilia and Marc had scouted the location and had gone downstream half a mile. Matt looked after them. The two had stopped to examine something on the ground but were now returning.

“What did you find, Lilia?”

“No horse tracks, Matt. I have no idea what happened to Laz’s horse. I found moccasin tracks from at least half a dozen men, two of them either big men or they were carrying heavy loads. I think the slavers have come back. And I think they’ve got Lee and Laz.”

“Let’s see where they’ve gone before we decide what to do.”

Two hours later Matt walked out of the canyon’s mouth. Ahead lay the seaway and the river’s mouth where it flowed into the sea.

“Look at this.”

A shallow trench had been scraped into the shore along the river, leading from the water and extending some twenty feet up the shore.

“That mark looks like what we found along the seaway. Somebody beached a boat here. There are tracks all around, more than six men would have left. Somebody was left on guard while a detachment went upriver. At a guess, they found Lee and Laz and shot Lee’s horse with an arrow. They’ve got Laz too, otherwise he’d have come back to warn us. If they killed him we’d have found the body. No, they’ve been caught.

“The slavers have taken them across the seaway. We can only hope they’re slaves. It’s too late to stop the raiders without crossing the seaway.

“I’m going after them. I can’t leave until the camp is safe. But I won’t leave Lee or Laz to be slaves.”

“Matt, it’s going to be dangerous. They’ve got bows and arrows now and somehow they’ve begun smelting iron. They’ve got metal arrowheads.”

“I know. It doesn’t matter. A flint or obsidian arrowhead can kill a man just as dead, and we’ve used them to kill buffalo. Bears too, and anything that kills one of those big bears will kill a slaver. Putting the arrow into a man is what counts, not what the arrowhead is made of.

“I figure two weeks at most before I’ll be ready. I’ll want a small party, no more than four men. We’ll go on foot, hide during the day, travel by night. I’m tired of waiting for the slave-takers to raid us.

“This time, I’m taking the fight to them.”

The Adventure continues in

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Book three of the Darwin’s World Series

Combat Wizard is the first book in the Wizards Trilogy. It’s available through Amazon as an ebook and through CreateSpace as a print edition.

Combat Wizard, an Excerpt: Chapter 1

The patrol had been routine, at least in the beginning.

I wondered if I was becoming careless? Careless gets people killed.

Had I approached too close to that box before I acted? I don’t know. There’s no way I
can
know. The explosion happened and men died.

For most people, getting blown up is the worst thing that can happen. It’s only the beginning for me. The explosions haven’t injured me, at least so far. Not physically, anyway.

The nightmares are worse. The explosion only happened once, but the nightmares play out again and again. There is no answer when I wonder if there was something I might have done.

Casualties; such a detached, bloodless word. There’s none of the fear and agony and hate, none of the emotions men feel when an IED blows. Junior officers learn the term because it’s part of the trade of soldiering. Maybe it helps. You end up with too many scars on your feelings if you can’t learn to be dispassionate.

The casualties are really dead and maimed men and women, barely more than kids. They’re soldiers one moment, then they’re broken. They’re changed from people vibrant with life and a future to casualties,
things
with no future, or one that’s changed out of recognition.

The details are often unclear. The bodies are covered, the outlines blurred, even the blood is hidden. The thick coating of dust from the explosion rains down on everyone, the casualties and the ones who escaped.

Maybe if I could call them casualties too, think of them in that dispassionate way, but I can’t.

The things that visit my nightmares aren’t ‘casualties’. They’re people, and I was in command. I let them get killed. I should have been able to do more.

#

The mission began with a briefing session even though we’d done it, something like it, a hundred times before. But if there’s time, we always begin by briefing the troops. Everyone involved needs to know why we’re going out and what we hope to accomplish.

The patrol was heavy for a reconnaissance patrol but light for a combat patrol. The command element was myself as patrol leader and the squad leader and his deputy for assistants. There were also two additional fire team leaders but hopefully they wouldn’t need to take over. I got a sketchy briefing from the patrol leader who’d conducted the last sweep through the area, but he’d seen nothing suspicious and his squad hadn’t made contact with hostiles.

That’s the most common result of patrols up here, but occasionally things liven up. The medic we carried with the patrol got a workout from time to time. Good people, those combat medics. They’ve got guts by the yard.

Today’s mission was to get out among the populace while at the same time interrupting any plans the jihadists had to mortar the compound. We planned the route to make sure we looked at locations they’d used in the past, but not nose into places that would agitate the locals unnecessarily, places like the mosque. The next step was to make a hasty map table using whatever was available to indicate points of interest. I used ammo cans to represent buildings, empty boxes that had held pistol ammo to line the ‘road’. These represented the mud-brick walls. I used the map table to brief the troops.

“We’ll leave the compound
here
, turn right
here
, patrol to the square and turn right again. There are possible enemy contact points
here
and
here
where trails lead down from the mountains, so look for signs that mortar teams have visited
this
point or
that
one, and keep your eyes peeled. Don’t get so focused on the ground that you forget to watch the rooftops.”

A succession of right turns would bring us back to the compound. We would provide our own security, and support was available from the compound. A mounted force would be on standby until we got back. Another patrol would go out an hour or two after we came in, depending on available manpower. They’d follow a slightly different route.

Simple, compared to some earlier patrols I’d done.

Finally, do a hasty inspection of the troops to make sure they’ve got water and extra ammo. Ask questions; do they know the mission and the chain of command for the patrol? See that the radio operator has fresh batteries and spares. Talk to the medic too, but I’ve never seen a medic go out unprepared. They’re very professional. As a last step, have a private chat with the NCO’s to ensure everyone knows the essentials, then it’s time to go.

I nodded at the guards and the interpreter as we passed through the gate. The “terps” are mostly local hires. Few Americans can really speak the local language. Misunderstandings are inevitable. Not everyone can be a linguist, but you’d think the Army would provide more language training before people deploy.

Maybe it’s too expensive. Congress doesn’t like to spend money unless it benefits a powerful Congressman’s district. Catering to the needs of soldiers won’t get a politician reelected. ‘It’s just politics, fellows. I’d like to help you, but you know how it is.’ Yeah.

The gate guards have cheat sheets with simple commands in Dari, stop, come here, be careful. It’s better if there’s an interpreter but sometimes there aren’t any. The phrase sheets are just in case no “terp” is available. We really don’t want to shoot some poor sap because he didn’t understand the guard when he said “Stop!”

The squad fell in behind me in my usual patrol formation, just the way I’d explained it to them in the briefing. When I take a patrol out, I’m the one out front.

The troops don’t mind. The guy in front is the one who gets shot at. You want to be first, Chief, knock yourself out. I’ve heard the comments, ‘fucking spook, don’t know shit about infantry’. Infantry or not, my unusual formation works for me, most of the time.

We walked past the compound’s walls after leaving the gate. They’re Hesco barriers, made from concertainers. The containers are stacked two levels high before being filled with sand, and they’ll stop direct fire. Even an RPG round won’t penetrate more than five feet of sand and the bottom layer, double thick, has more than that. The people inside the compound have little to fear barring the occasional mortar attack. Mortar shells go over walls.

Someone is always watching, even when you don’t see them. Don’t get distracted, just try not to pay the watchers too much attention. Look for the ones acting suspicious.

They might have AK-47’s under those loose clothes. Or explosive vests.

Every country that had obsolete weapons dumped them on Afghanistan when the Soviets invaded. The guns are old, but they still shoot. Israel, Egypt, Turkey, and China sent Soviet-made AK assault rifles, PK machine-guns, and rocket-propelled grenades, usually referred to as RPG’s. Switzerland and Britain sent Oerlikon 20mm cannons and a few other weapons left over from WWII. The thrifty Afghans kept them all, even after the Soviets left. There would be another enemy to fight. In Afghanistan, there always is. Between invasions, Afghans fight each other.

Weapons and ammo are cheap and plentiful. A lot of them are bought with American money. Some of the money comes through the CIA, some of it’s paid out by the Army. Liaison officers are handed bundles of cash to be passed on to a warlord. The money comes via the embassy. Diplomatic pouches bring in a lot more than embassy documents. The money is handed over in the optimistic hope that it will buy the warlord’s loyalty. It does…sometimes for a whole week. Afghans imbibe betrayal with mother’s milk.

What the American government doesn’t buy more-or-less directly, true-believers and drug users buy in a roundabout way. The Internet has been a real boon to fundraisers. They’re helped along by banks who are happy to process the transfers so long as they get to skim a bit off the top. Pogo was right. We have met the enemy and he is us.

Opium poppies grow in the Middle East, far more than the local addicts need. The poppies are ugly things when mature, tall skinny stalks and tiny flower petals surrounding the top of grossly swollen heads. Those heads produce the raw opium. It’s collected, refined, and sold around the world. Street dealers know it as tar or heroin. The money comes in and ammo gets bought. The jihadists never run short of ammo.

If it sounds like I’m negative, even pessimistic…well, not exactly. My attitude needs to improve before I’ll reach pessimist.

#

I led the patrol along an ancient track, now worn lower than the surrounding ground. It had probably been level before traffic loosened the packed dirt. Sooner or later a wind comes along and the loosened dirt blows away. After a century or two, the track is several inches deeper than the surrounding landscape. It’s not much, but more than one infantryman has been grateful for that tiny bit of protection when the PK machine-guns opened up. Hit the ground, snuggle up to that tiny lip at the edge of the track and wish your uniform had thinner buttons and zippers.

There are only so many ways to patrol after you leave the gate. Foot patrols go left or right, usually stay within a couple of kilometers of the compound, and generally can’t maneuver because there are buildings and walls lining most of the dirt road. Patrols that plan to go farther travel in mine-resistant vehicles. But such vehicles are large and many of the village tracks are narrow. There’s still a need for foot patrols to go where the armored vehicles can’t.