The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Joseph Nagle
images coming through the ACOG as he scanned over the harsh terrain. As he panned back and forth, he worked his way up the rocky slope and into the forest. In his right ear, a barely audible squawk, coming through the bone-mic, interrupted his diligence.
“Go ahead,” whispered York.
“Point, this is Six, confirm location secure,” ordered the Alpha team’s commander.
“Stand-fast, Six, almost finished.”
York had scanned as deep into the forest and as high up the steep slope that the ACOG would allow him. He had nearly issued the all clear when he saw it. He jerked his eye away from the scope and shot a quick glance up the hill. Squinting once more, he put his eye tightly against the monocular scope and aimed the ACOG back into the woods; he studied the image in the reticule. Nearly one full click—a kilometer—up the slope and pushing the edge of the ACOG’s abilities, York saw a thin billow of barely visible smoke, wafting over the top of a small, round shrub. He traced the smoke downward to its source.
“Six, this is Point, over.”
“Go ahead, Point, what do you have?” asked the commander.
“A cigarette: unfiltered, lit, and hanging off the mouth of a local.”
“Pashtun or Tajik?” asked the commander.
Thirty-eight percent of the locals in Afghanistan were Pashtun, and 25 percent were Tajik; two-thirds of the time, the man squatting behind the shrub, smoking a cigarette, would have been a friendly.
York squinted a bit harder and stared at the man whose face was obscured by a thick, low-hanging, leaf-filled branch. Patiently, York waited; so did the commander. After a long moment, the man turned his head down-slope; York knew right away that the man wasn’t a local tribesman.
“Six, he’s an Arab!”
Afghanistan is one of the poorest and least developed countries in the world. With unemployment above 40 percent—even greater in rural areas—there are two viable options for rural tribesman: raise opium or join al-Qaeda. The farming of opium—from which heroin is derived—in Afghanistan accounts for 80 percent of the world’s inventory of the plant. The $3 billion in illicit and underground economic activity dwarfs the licit $890 million in revenues collected by the Afghan government. Without much support for rural and disenfranchised tribesman, raising opium or heeding to the manufactured Islamic rally-cry to kill Christians become the default choices.
But this man wasn’t a local. He was an Arab. York knew right away what this meant: he wasn’t an unemployed Afghan; he wasn’t a farmer; he was al-Qaeda. He was an imported jihadist, and the entrance to the cave was nearby.
“Point, confirm only one,” ordered the commander.
York didn’t respond and scanned the area near the smoking Arab. He felt the rate of his heart quicken and worked to keep his breathing under control. The adrenaline was starting to seep into his bloodstream; he could feel it. Looking left and then right, York methodically picked apart the foliage for other guards. Twenty meters to the right of the first Arab, York saw a second man. The men were facing in opposite directions, not paying any attention to each other. The second man looked drowsy, as if he were readying to sleep.
“Six, I confirm two targets at post, approximately one click in front of my position, upslope, and twenty meters apart. Both are armed with Kalashnikovs; request permission to engage targets.”
“Point, do you need help? That’s a long way for two shots with your SCAR,” asked the Alpha team commander, already knowing the answer York would give.
“Negative, Six. I can do this with my eyes closed,” was York’s response.
The Alpha team commander smiled at York’s confidence and responded, “Point, permission granted. Engage targets, confirm when eliminated.”
“Confirmed, Six; am engaging targets,” said York.
“And listen up, Point, I don’t want any of that John Wayne cowboy crap: one shot, one kill; keep it
“Go ahead,” whispered York.
“Point, this is Six, confirm location secure,” ordered the Alpha team’s commander.
“Stand-fast, Six, almost finished.”
York had scanned as deep into the forest and as high up the steep slope that the ACOG would allow him. He had nearly issued the all clear when he saw it. He jerked his eye away from the scope and shot a quick glance up the hill. Squinting once more, he put his eye tightly against the monocular scope and aimed the ACOG back into the woods; he studied the image in the reticule. Nearly one full click—a kilometer—up the slope and pushing the edge of the ACOG’s abilities, York saw a thin billow of barely visible smoke, wafting over the top of a small, round shrub. He traced the smoke downward to its source.
“Six, this is Point, over.”
“Go ahead, Point, what do you have?” asked the commander.
“A cigarette: unfiltered, lit, and hanging off the mouth of a local.”
“Pashtun or Tajik?” asked the commander.
Thirty-eight percent of the locals in Afghanistan were Pashtun, and 25 percent were Tajik; two-thirds of the time, the man squatting behind the shrub, smoking a cigarette, would have been a friendly.
York squinted a bit harder and stared at the man whose face was obscured by a thick, low-hanging, leaf-filled branch. Patiently, York waited; so did the commander. After a long moment, the man turned his head down-slope; York knew right away that the man wasn’t a local tribesman.
“Six, he’s an Arab!”
Afghanistan is one of the poorest and least developed countries in the world. With unemployment above 40 percent—even greater in rural areas—there are two viable options for rural tribesman: raise opium or join al-Qaeda. The farming of opium—from which heroin is derived—in Afghanistan accounts for 80 percent of the world’s inventory of the plant. The $3 billion in illicit and underground economic activity dwarfs the licit $890 million in revenues collected by the Afghan government. Without much support for rural and disenfranchised tribesman, raising opium or heeding to the manufactured Islamic rally-cry to kill Christians become the default choices.
But this man wasn’t a local. He was an Arab. York knew right away what this meant: he wasn’t an unemployed Afghan; he wasn’t a farmer; he was al-Qaeda. He was an imported jihadist, and the entrance to the cave was nearby.
“Point, confirm only one,” ordered the commander.
York didn’t respond and scanned the area near the smoking Arab. He felt the rate of his heart quicken and worked to keep his breathing under control. The adrenaline was starting to seep into his bloodstream; he could feel it. Looking left and then right, York methodically picked apart the foliage for other guards. Twenty meters to the right of the first Arab, York saw a second man. The men were facing in opposite directions, not paying any attention to each other. The second man looked drowsy, as if he were readying to sleep.
“Six, I confirm two targets at post, approximately one click in front of my position, upslope, and twenty meters apart. Both are armed with Kalashnikovs; request permission to engage targets.”
“Point, do you need help? That’s a long way for two shots with your SCAR,” asked the Alpha team commander, already knowing the answer York would give.
“Negative, Six. I can do this with my eyes closed,” was York’s response.
The Alpha team commander smiled at York’s confidence and responded, “Point, permission granted. Engage targets, confirm when eliminated.”
“Confirmed, Six; am engaging targets,” said York.
“And listen up, Point, I don’t want any of that John Wayne cowboy crap: one shot, one kill; keep it
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