The Fourth War Read Free Page A

carefully then lowered her head. “Will you take me with you?” she muttered quietly, as if afraid he would hear.
    He stopped and looked up, then immediately shook his head. “I can’t. I have my mission.”
    â€œPlease,” she begged.
    He shook his head vigorously, fighting the thought. She reached out to touch him, placing her hand on his arm. “Please take me with you. You don’t understand.” For the moment she felt an overwhelming desire to live. She forgot about her family and the fate that would await them if she were to just disappear. She forgot about the small handgun that was strapped to her leg. The human instinct for survival was simply too strong to deny. “Please, American, please. Will you take me with you?”
    The soldier turned away, unable to look at her any more. Everything within him wanted to take the girl by the hand, lift her up, and whisk her away. But he couldn’t. He knew that. It wasn’t in the operational plan. He couldn’t bring her back, like a little boy rescuing a lost puppy. To leave her wasn’t right, but he didn’t have a choice. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. Turning, he picked up his gear and began to make his way up the trail.
    The shantytown and muddy waterhole were off to his left. A ridge of low, rocky hills was on his right. He set his course by the moonlight, making for the ridgeline, where the outline of the trees could be seen against the night sky. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see. He pictured her face, knowing he would never forget.
    After thirty paces he stopped and looked back. The trail was empty. He took a breath and moved toward the extraction point.
    Twenty minutes later he was on the side of the ridge, at the military crest, one-third the way down the hill, hunkered under an outcropping of sandstone and brush. He had just completed making his call to Big Dog. The chopper, a Russian Hind the agency had liberated sometime in early ’92, was on the way. From his vantage point on the side of the hill he could look down on the trail. He watched it intently, suffering inside.
    He could take her. He should take her. She wanted to go. Screw the rules of engagement. What else could he do!? She was clearly in danger, he could see that in her eyes. She was frightened, in danger—and she was begging him. She could ride on the chopper. There was plenty of room!
    He should take her. He would take her. He couldn’t leave her behind. There were refugee camps in Turkey. He would help her get there.
    He started to move, pulling himself out from the brush. In the distance, to the west, he began to hear the sound of helicopter rotors. The chopper was coming. He didn’t have much time. He scrambled out from the brush and turned to make his way down the hill. Hunkering over, he moved with powerful strides.
    The sound of the gunshot shattered the night. He dropped to his chest, falling behind a low brush as his hand moved instinctively for the 9 mm handgun that was strapped to his thigh. He took a deep breath as the hairs on his neck stood on end. He listened and watched while his heart beat in his chest.
    The sound of the single gunshot echoed through the narrow canyon walls before receding into the emptiness of the desert to the east. Then there was silence, sudden and still. Even the sound of the chopper had fallen away as the Hind dropped behind the back side of the hill.
    â€œStatus!” the soldier demanded into the tiny microphone that was strapped to his neck.
    â€œShe’s down,” his Afghani guide replied with little emotion. “Self-inflicted gunshot. I’m sorry, boss, there’s nothing left of her head. We didn’t have time to stop her. Negative hostiles in the AOR.”
    The soldier closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Standing, he listened, then turned for the top of the hill. Reaching into his pocket, he felt the porcelain cap and a shudder