Early, I understand the Hippocratic oath and I know this man is your patient, but I need a no-bullshit assessment. When will this man be well enough to be sent to the capital?”
Dr. Early made a visible effort to control himself. “He’s torn up pretty badly. I saved his left leg, but I couldn’t save his left testicle. He was very lucky about the shrapnel in his abdomen. It was a miracle it didn’t tear up anything vital, but a lot of his real estate is being held together by stitches. If you put him on the road to Kabul, you’re going to bounce them open. Even if his stitches hold, his brains will most likely be applesauce by the time you get there. I want—hell, I demand that he not be moved for the next twenty-four hours while I monitor his concussion.”
“I agree. He should only be moved by helicopter.” Bolan glanced at the tent walls as they vibrated. The storm was in its third day and showed no signs letting up. “We both know that isn’t going to happen today. But when you release him to me, I will absolutely guarantee his safety.”
Dr. Early walked around to the other side of the bed and stared down at his patient. “More than the son of a bitch deserves, but I believe you when you say he’ll get it.”
“Dr. Early, if it makes you feel any better I can get—” Bolan’s eyes flared as the wall of the tent lifted a few feet away from the doctor and the spherical, olive-drab shape of a U.S. M-67 hand grenade rolled to a stop at Early’s feet. “Grenade!”
Dr. Early echoed the sentiment and promptly threw himself on top of it. Bolan seized the bed-frame. “Ous!”
Ous grabbed the frame at the foot of the bed and together they heaved the bed toward them and dropped prone. The prisoner screamed as his IVs tore and he toppled to the floor. The grenade detonated with a muffled whip-crack and 6.5 ounces of Composition B tried to send its lethal cloud of steel splinters through Dr. Early’s body and fill the tent. It was partially successful. Medical equipment shattered and sparked. In the confines of the tent, the blast effect was like a blow to the head. The mattress bottom rippled and tufted as some splinters made it through.
Bolan was up instantly. His ears rang, but his Beretta was in hand. Dr. Early was nothing but rags. The soldier snarled over his shoulder at Ous. “Guard the patient!”
The Executioner rolled under the tent wall. The fact that it could be lifted told him it had been doctored for the fragging. He lunged up into the storm. Fifty yards ahead the dust swallowed a running figure.
The big American broke into a dead sprint through the base’s back alleys, leaping tent ropes like an Olympic hurdler. Up ahead the man became visible again. He had stopped and was leaning on a tent rope to steady himself. Apparently he thought he was safe. He lifted his goggled head and saw Bolan bearing down on him like an avenging angel. The assassin whirled and promptly tripped over the rope. He lurched back up and took three stumbling steps. He shouted despairingly over the howling of the wind. “No! Wait! You don’t understand, man! No! I—” Part of Bolan’s brain noted the man was speaking with a Puerto Rican accent.
The man suddenly seemed to remember the .45-caliber MEU pistol strapped to his leg.
The pistol was half out of its holster when Bolan’s boot slammed up between the guy’s legs. The assassin screamed like a rabbit being killed and collapsed into Bolan’s embrace. The Executioner’s right arm snaked under the man’s chin and heaved upward as the man sagged from the testicular trauma. The big American locked his hands together and squeezed as well as lifted. The carotid artery shut off, and the more brutal trachea compression cut of his air.
Marines charged out of the dust from all directions shouting contradictory orders and waving rifles. “Freeze! Let him go! Don’t move! I said drop him!” Bolan dropped the man as he went limp with unconsciousness.
“On your knees!” a Marine screamed. His bayonet was fixed. “I said, on your knees!”
Agent Keller appeared out of the dust and flashed her badge. “NCIS! Agent Keller! He’s with me!”
Bolan glanced down at the motionless man at his feet. “He’s the one who fragged the infirmary.”
The belligerent Marine lowered his weapon. Even with the wind and dust battering him his face went slack. “Oh…my…God…”
Bolan felt the young Marine’s pain. The U.S. military had seen its share of atrocities: fraggings, crimes and massacres. Rightly or wrongly, the modern United States Marine Corps considered itself above such things. The motto of the Corps was Semper fidelis, Always Faithful.
What this man had done was unthinkable.
The man on the ground gasped as he roused back into consciousness. “Hook him and book him,” Bolan suggested.
“Right.” An MP produced zip restraints. Ous appeared at Bolan’s elbow.
“How’s the prisoner?” Bolan asked.
“He is currently leaking clear fluids out of his eyes and ears, and his pupils are two different sizes. I fear the blast from the grenade was too much for his already beleaguered brain.” Ous sighed. “You are all right?”
“I could use a cup of coffee,” Bolan admitted.
Ous looked at Bolan with great seriousness. “You are a man of the West. I am sure what you require is beer.”
Sangin Bazaar
BOLAN AND OUS drank beer. Islam forbade the drinking of alcohol, however across the Muslim world the laws of hospitality were some of the most powerful on Earth. A large number of Muslim men Bolan had met had come to the happy, contorted conclusion that it would be unforgivable to not offer a Westerner his dissipation, and an even worse breach of honor to make him feel uncomfortable by frowning upon his misguided ways and not partaking.
Ous did everything he could to make Bolan comfortable by keeping the bottles of beer flowing from the battered plastic cooler between them. They sat on stools in a tiny alcove curtained with a pair of rugs. Outside two enormously fat men who appeared to be twins blocked the entrance to the alcove. Their stall was piled high with oranges. Each man had an AK propped by his leg. The storm had died down, but it was still hot, windy, dusty, overcast and miserable outside. The orange trade was slow and the bazaar almost deserted.
“So,” Bolan began, “you were Muj?”
Ous cracked two fresh beers and waited until Bolan had sipped from his. “I answered the call to jihad against the Soviet invaders when I was twelve. My aged father, who resides in heaven, pressed his Lee-Enfield rifle and a bandolier of fifty rounds into my hands and implored me to martyr myself in God’s name. With the bayonet fixed, the rifle was taller than I was at the time. I failed to become a Holy Martyr, but I killed many, many Russians. At one point there was a ten-thousand-ruble reward out for my head.”
“I understand the Taliban has a million on you at the moment,” Bolan observed.
Ous shrugged modestly. “So I am told.”
Bolan gave Ous a knowing look. “You were Northern Alliance?”
“For a time,” Ous conceded. “I truly believed in jihad against the Soviets. God required them to be struck down. However, after liberation, I found that I had no use for the Taliban at all.”
“They’re—”
“They
