The Mullah's Storm Read Free

search-and-rescue forces,” the AWACS controller said. “But be advised weather conditions have everything grounded in your sector.”
    “We kind of figured,” Luke said. He stared at the murk above.
    Parson heard what he thought was the pop, pop of burned metal as it cooled. Blood spurted from the flight engineer’s throat. The radio dropped from Luke’s hand, and he crumpled to the ground. Then came a burst from an M-4 firing out a troop door behind Parson in the cargo compartment. A man in a black turban ran toward the airplane and fell.
    Nunez scrambled for the dead SP’s rifle and covered the other open troop door. He fired a trio of shots. The brass casings flipped through the air, rattled as they dropped.
    The interpreter kicked the prisoner to the floor, held him down with her foot, aimed her rifle at him. “Peh zmekah tsmla,” she ordered. “Chup shah . ”
    With his good hand, Parson drew his Beretta from his survival vest. Burned gunpowder stung his nose. He heard someone grab the partially open crew door and try to pry it farther open.
    Parson felt he couldn’t turn fast enough. But he raised his arm as an insurgent squeezed through the door. He fired two shots from his pistol. The intruder neither fell nor advanced. Parson fired again. The man’s torso jerked as it absorbed the rounds. He still didn’t fall, wedged in the crew door. Parson was pumping bullets into a corpse.
    He moved to the crew door, pushed the dead man back outside. The body slumped and lay still in the snow. Parson forced his way through the door, jumped down to check on Luke. The bloodied face seemed like that of a stranger. No breath, no heartbeat. Wounds to the chest as well as the throat.
    The broken remains of Luke and the insurgent rested within feet of each other. Flakes melted instantly as they touched warm blood. Beyond the wreckage, Parson saw only trees and rocks diffused by the swirling powder.
    “See any more?” Nunez called.
    “Not now,” Parson replied. He climbed back into the cargo compartment.
    “Negative,” the security policeman said, peering out the troop door across from Nunez. The SP ejected a spent magazine and pulled a fresh one from his vest.
    “Where’s Luke?” Fisher asked.
    “Luke’s dead,” Parson said. “And search-and-rescue isn’t getting here anytime soon. The weather—”
    “Sirs,” the security policeman said, “we need to get ready for another attack. Every hajji within ten miles heard this plane go down.”
    “They know we have their preacher guy,” Nunez said.
    Parson saw Fisher looking at what was left of his plane, crew, and passengers. Then Fisher’s eyes seemed to rest on the mullah.
    “We need to get him out of here,” Fisher said.
    “That’s crazy,” Parson said. “You can’t travel with two broken legs.”
    “No, I can’t. And the smaller the party, the easier it will be to evade. You’re the highest-ranking guy standing. I need you to take the prisoner and the interpreter, and go.”
    “Forget it. I’m not deserting my crew.”
    “You heard the briefing,” Fisher said. “This mullah is about as high-value as any detainee we have. We can’t risk him getting freed by his buddies.”
    Parson felt dread flow into him like a toxin. Every instinct told him to stay with his crewmates. He looked out into the snowfall. Evade? Here, with a prisoner?
    “Mike,” said Fisher. “I just gave you an order.”
    “But—”
    “We’ll stay with Fisher,” Nunez said. “Leave us some weapons and ammo, and the SP and I will take care of him till they can get a helicopter in here.”
    Parson could hardly believe it. He’d always thought Nunez was a drunk whose life amounted to flying from one party to another. But now this. Setting up for an onslaught like a pro.
    “You okay with that plan?” Parson called to the interpreter. She was a master sergeant. Maybe thirty-five, blond hair. Accent sounded like New England, but not when she spoke Pashto. Her name tag