The Mullah's Storm Read Online Free PDF Page A

those bastards usually killed cruelly, publicly stoning people for various offenses, or mortaring whole villages deemed insufficiently pious, raking survivors with automatic fire. Death by long-range precision represented a new level of artistry.
    Parson could find no advantage in his situation, even though he saw the insurgents and they didn’t see him. The element of surprise would disappear with the first shot from his pistol, and then there would still be five or six AKs against his handgun and Gold’s M-4. No winning that firefight.
    The mullah coughed. Parson silently cursed him and all his tribe and all his religion. But the guerrillas wandered past, the noise absorbed by the snow walls and the distance. Parson sighed slowly, not wanting even his breath visible.
    After a time, he turned away from the air vent.
    “An insurgent patrol just came by,” he whispered. “Maybe a half dozen of them.”
    Gold nodded, didn’t seem surprised.
    “If you want to sleep,” Parson added, “I’ll take the first watch.”
    Gold leaned against the stone slab that made one wall of their sanctuary, and she passed her rifle to Parson. The mullah slept in a fetal position. Parson touched the prisoner’s back, not out of sympathy but to check for shivering. No movement, and that was good. Didn’t want to lose him to hypothermia. Parson felt the snow cave getting warmer with body heat.
    He continued scanning outside, saw nothing but snow coming down as though it always had and always would. The red low-battery light began blinking, so Parson turned off the goggles. He decided not to flip the power switch the other direction and use the backup battery. No telling when and how often he’d need these again. Instead he decided to call home.
    Again working by shaded flashlight, he turned on his GPS receiver. The screen read ACQUIRING SATELLITES for several minutes, then displayed his position, not by his present coordinates but in relation to a fixed, secret reference point. Parson could transmit that in the clear and still not give away his position to the wrong people.
    He plugged in the earpiece to his radio and rolled the thumb-wheel switch. Static fried in his left ear as he extended the antenna.
    “Bookshelf, Flash Two-Four Charlie,” he whispered. No answer. He called again, and they heard him this time.
    “Flash Two-Four Charlie, Bookshelf. Have you weak but readable. Go ahead.”
    Parson gave his location and asked, “Advise status of search-and-rescue.”
    “Bagram weather is zero-zero and they can’t launch helos. Meteorology advises this front has turned stationary, so we don’t know how long it will be. Buddy, I wish I had better news.”
    Parson ground his teeth. “Tell Bagram command post I have my cargo intact,” he said.
    “Copy that. Anything else we can do for you?”
    “Have you had any other calls from Flash Two-Four?”
    “Negative.”
    Parson turned off the radio, closed his eyes. Never should have let Fisher make me do this, he thought. We’d have beaten the enemy or died together. You don’t leave your comrades.
    Much of the night passed in silence until Gold nudged him. “I’m not really sleeping,” she said. “Want me to take watch for a while?”
    Gold unlocked her end of the chain and fastened it on Parson’s good wrist. They traded places, bumping into each other’s limbs and gear. Parson made sure Gold still had the night-vision goggles he gave her, and he told her to use them sparingly. Then he leaned against the stone and tried to rest.
    He fell asleep immediately, but not for long. The pain in his wrist woke him whenever he moved his hand. Sleep came in intermittent moments instead of hours, and Parson’s waking thoughts and fears mingled with dreams and nightmares. Through both sleep and wakefulness, the stream outside spoke to him in a language he could not understand. Its currents murmured of wars long past and wars ongoing. You’re hallucinating, Parson thought, still listening