2002-03-15 - Arithmetic On The Frontier: 1

The thing about Afghanistan....is that it never really changes. The tides of war come and go, from Alexander the Great, to the British, to the Soviets....and now the Americans. The tribes war among themselves, allying with whatever foreigners might serve their faction. In the remoter valleys, some of the elders simply view the Americans as another faction of the Russians. They've seen them come, they've seen them go, the song remains the same.

But it's early days yet, in the war, the spring of 2002. There's a recently established outpost, but much of the area is still very much under Taliban control. The valley's fertile floor has a road that heads east to the border with Pakistan, a corridor that makes it all too easy for the enemy to flow back and forth over the border into the shelter of Pakistan, where American forces are forbidden to go. The KOP, the Korengal Outpost, is a little bit of relative civilisation. Showers, phones, artillery aimed down the valley in support of the nascent firebases. But beyond that....the old term was 'Indian country'. A river runs along the bottom of the valley, surrounded by the green of forest and a few farms. Mostly, it's too steep here for farming, beyond the narrow terraces that cling to the slopes.

It's out on one of those ridges that Gunnery Sergeant de la Vega and his spotter - a big, strawberry blond Texan with the slow, patient face of an ox that disguises a keen intelligence and a warped sense of humor, named Evan Glyndower - are looking down on the road below. It's before dawn, the sky spattered with an impossible spread of stars, but the first gray light has begun to paint the eastern sky, and the night-vision goggles will soon be unecessary. The question they've been sent to answer is.....are the vehicles stopped on the road mere smugglers,returning from shipping raw poppy and pine timber over the border, or are they Taliban assets?

For the night vision sights show, at the moment, a handful of trucks and pickups, some old enough to be of Soviet vintage. Some kind of breakdown has stopped them...and while some of the little figures illuminated silvery-green are clearly just trying to fix whatever the problem is, well, there's something suspiciously well-organized about the way the others have set up a perimeter around the trucks.

This pair of Marines, and their four squadmates not far away, are the sharp tip of the spear for American forces. Depending on what they see, and how they assess, well.....there's not only the artillery down the valley, but air assets to call in, as well.

Glyndower is lazily ruminating chewing tobacco, only heightening the bovine impression. "Well, Gunny," he says, quietly. "I don't know about you, but I don't think that's a Sunday school picnic they're settin' up down there."

The prevailing mood among the Marines is tense uncertainty. Like they've all got a feeling shit is about to go down, but they're certain of neither what nor how. Glyndower talks too much when he's nervous, and de la Vega seems to know well enough to let him do whatever he needs to do, to keep his head in the game. Meanwhile, he's tapping out a cigarette and lighting it. The brand's Turkish, pretty popular in these parts. Tastes like shit, but he's well past caring. The guy paces restlessly, movement like a predatory animal conserving energy, getting ready to sprint after its prey. Smoke trapped between his teeth, fingers curled into fists and then released one at a time as he stalks a slow circle and waits to get into position.

"Fuck, Gunny, you going to fucking leave us hanging?" Berger wants to know, from his spot perched on the hood of their jeep. He's shot a dirty look from the Mexican, who takes his sweet ass time getting himself into the zone before snagging that long rifle of his and beginning the ritual of getting it primed. He's already picked out his spot: a slight ridge where he can get nice and low like a fighter flying at NOE.

"Bet you wish it was," he murmurs to Glyndower finally, rapping gloved knuckles against the guy's shoulder like it's their secret signal for go time. He knows the big guy is right behind him, and he knows they'll set up as a team. The Texan's got his scope up the moment they hit dirt, and de la Vega's rifle is tucked in against his shoulder like it's worn a groove there. And it probably has. The reticle's not right, so he pops on another one, makes a few adjustments, and the pair back-and-forth some numbers in order to make sure they're on the same page and in sync.

Then, "Ready," from Glyndower. And, "Let's see what we got here."

The Rules of Engagement as published thus far might as well have been designed to frustrate the hell out of Marines champing at the bit. In an attempt to lesson conflict with the locals, in the vain hopes they might be brought to support the newly arrived foreigners against the Taliban - merely carrying weaponry in the ordinary sense isn't enough to justify attack. After all, everybody and his brother carries an AK the way women carry purses back in America.

Glyndower is silent, save for the working of his jaw. Then, shoulder to shoulder, Ruiz can feel him stiffen like a spaniel pointing out a covey of quail in the brush. "Oh ho ho," and any impression of slowness or leaden temperament is gone. "Take a look at the third truck from the eastern head of the column, Gunny. It's Christmas time."

And in the scope, there it is. They're unloading what are clearly mortars and RPGs, as if intending to hide them in the nearby village before dawn exposes them to the seeking eyes of American forces. "We can pro'ly take all those fuckers, but....how's about we give our buddies in the Chair Force somethin' to do. Wanna call in the wrath of God on 'em? I just bet there's some dickwad in an F-15 up there bored and jerkin' it in hopes of real fun."

It's like a little dance, what they do when they work together like this. And the thing about dancing, is it's as much about knowing your partner, as knowing the moves. Glyndower stiffens, and de la Vega's already adjusting his rifle to sight downrange. A slight adjustment of the reticle, thumb brushed against the dial on his rangefinder; his tongue is tucked into the corner of his mouth and his breathing slows. In and then out. Third truck.

He doesn't respond immediately, so focused is he on taking inventory of what he sees. How many men, how many weapons; a slight nudge of his crosshairs until it's the guy who looks like he's in charge that he's got lined up in his sights. His finger remains against the barrel of that sleek weapon though, and he breathes. Slow. Finally, "Yeah." Chair Force. That gets Berger snickering up there on the Jeep. "Yeah," de la Vega's saying, "Paulson, you want to hop on the radio. Let's do it."

"Let's fucking do it," Paulson's only too eager to agree, from the front seat of the Jeep. He adjusts his headset, adjusts the tuning on the radio slightly, then starts rattling off instructions briskly: "Alpha five oh three, this is Romeo niner niner six, adjust fire, over." And then? They wait. The sniper/spotter pair remain on the ground, not moving a muscle; only the occasional update, communication in streams of numbers. Coordinates, range and bearing, windspeed, trajectory adjustments.

The obligatory call and response. Reporting, verification, receiving permission. This isn't hard, hot contact yet. The guys below have no idea they're in anyone's sights. And then there's the crackle on a new channel. A female voice, of all things, husky and low, improbable. "Ground units, this Bronx one. Requesting ground units sparkle target."

They do have laser designators with them. All the better to point out targets for guided munitions. From the days when you had to carpet bomb with tons and tons of munition to be sure of a target, to the days when one well-aimed bomb can do the kind of damage that'd make the men of the Flying Fortresses weep with envy.

".....was that a chick?" Berger asks, in a hoarse stage whisper. "Yeah, the Air Force'll let anyone in these days," Paulson returns in disgust, before keying the mic. "Roger, Bronx One." Then Berger's flopping down on Glyndower's other side, laser designator in hand.

"Berger loves to fucking sparkle, dontcha, Berger?" That's Glyndower, voice smooth as silk, and it reminds Javier of Savannah. He's never been there, but he's talked about going. Real quiet-like, over a drink or three. Aint'cha married, de la Vega? What's in Savannah for you?

"Fuck off, Glyndower," is Berger's cheerful reply, middle finger flipped before he gets in position with the laser designator. De la Vega's silent, could be a statue for all he's moved in the past ten minutes. Like things have slowed down to half speed for him. More numbers rattled off by Glyndower, and the dark-eyed sniper makes another slight adjustment. He could squeeze the trigger and pop that guy's head like a watermelon. He knows he can do it. He's the best in his unit, the best in his squadron, the best in his fucking platoon. That South African guy might be better, but he's pretty damned sure he's not, and they've never had the opportunity to throw down. And probably never will.

"He'th the thparklietht Marine," lisps Paulson, before he's back on the radio. "Lasing," says Berger, and the night sights light up with the beam. An enormous laser pointer, the finger of God, pointing the target out to the sights of whatever's up there...all in wavelengths unseen by those poor fools on the ground.

"Contact sparkle," comes that absurdly sultry voice over the radio. A little more of the liturgy that confirms that whatever aircraft are on their way are cleared hot. But what follows is not the whistling scream of A-10s , but the hoarser rush of fighters. Ruiz can see the way the heads of the figures below all come up at once, and then they're trying to scatter, as a pair of F-14s come screaming overhead, and the first three trucks vanish in smoke and flame. The very first one has multiple following explosions: it was carrying munitions of its own.

"Well, at least she's Navy," says Berger, even as gunfire rattles up from the valley. As if AKs could harm the aircraft above. "I wonder if she's hot."

Now there are targets a-plenty, men from the second half of the convoy trying to scatter into the narrow band of fields: squirters. A sniper's turkey shoot, and Glyndower's calling targets. They're in the sweet spot where the men below haven't realized there are Marines above, and are running in blind panic, heedless of cover.

Paulson's still on the radio, confirming a second pass.

Which is when it all goes terribly wrong.

More bombs, coming down on the roadway....and then there's a boom from above that has all the Marines not already prone dropping flat. But it's not an airburst mortar round, or a grenade. Paulson's the only one still up, on the Jeep's radio, and his face is pale. "Oh, shit" he breathes.

And Ruiz can see, when he raises his head from the scope, one of the F-14s auger into the opposite mountain side and explode.

"'course she's not hot," murmurs Glyndower, "ain't no hot tail in the Navy."

To which Berger can't help but point out, "Don't matter if she's ugly, I'd still hit it. Throw a paper bag over her head, drink a few beers, am I right?"

"R, F, DPICM in effect, 5 rounds out," drawls Paulson, and men are running down there, and being popped off like bugs hitting the front grille of a car on the highway. Breathe in, breathe out, pause, aim, fire. Breathe in, breathe out, pause, aim, fire. He's like a metronome, de la Vega. Shoots and adjusts with a shuddering report of his rifle, moving where Glyndower tells him to, trusting the man to be his eyes.

Another spray of blood, a body that goes one way and the head another. And then that terrible, thunderous roar, and the sound is all wrong. All fucking wrong. Javier looks up from his scope as if something compels him to do so, just in time to spot that F-14 CFIT into a mountain. And his heart stops cold.

"Fuck," is all Glyndower has to say, soft and awed and pained and, "Fuck." Paulson's already putting in a call to base, and de la Vega's frozen in place, staring at the spot where that aircraft splintered into pieces, and the voices of his buddies fades to a dull roar and then silence. Just the rasp of his breathing, and his heart hammering in his chest.

The sniper's meditation, breath control like a samurai's. Bodies drop, but it's all remote, cool, slaughter at a distance. He can't hear their cries.

But now there's that terrible, blazing smear on the mountain, a column of smoke rising. And gleaming in the first rays of a dawn that hasn't yet reached her rosy fingers down into the shadowed confines of the valley, like petals drifting on the wind, two 'chutes. Visible only for moments, before they're gone beyond the knife edge of the opposite ridge.

Into enemy territory, beyond the reach of the QRF or the artillery of the KOP. Paulson's voice is meaningless animal chatter, like a monkey scolding from a tree. But there's Bronx One's voice, gone high and tight with reaction, requesting confirmation that they've sighted both parachutes.

It feels like hours. Hours that he lies there on that slope, finger on the trigger, smoke peeling off that shattered, smeared mess of aircraft and fuel, blood roaring in his ears. In reality it's only a handful of seconds, and then his head clears, and he wills himself to get back in the game. That could be anyone who just took a header into that mountainside, and besides, "Two. I see two." That's Berger, voice reaching a clipped bark as he adjusts his goggles and peers downrange. "Confirmed, two chutes," murmurs Glyndower, followed by a couple of numbers rattled off. Coordinates, which are relayed back to Bronx One in a tumble of brisk radio speak.

Meanwhile, de la Vega's hunting the still-flaming wreckage of the convoy, sharp eyes trying to pick out even the suggestion of movement- there. Someone keeping low to the ground, trying to make for the ridge and the relative safety of the treeline. He doesn't think about whether he could, or whether he should. Whether this man's life is his to end or be merciful toward. He's like an ant on a hill, and Javier has a job to do, and it isn't personal. It is. It's personal.

He leads by a hair, calculates the windspeed coefficient in his head as Glyndower rattles off numbers, then squeezes the trigger and the guy goes down mid run like a puppet with its strings cut. Facedown into the dirt, and he stops moving. "Clear!" barks Glyndower, and starts packing up. "Let's get the fuck out of here. What's the word, Paulson?"

The stars are fading, dawn is coming on, the shades of gray resolving into the faded colors of the hills, pine green, dun soil. The wind is rising, up from the still of the night. Not the kind that heralds a storm, thankfully....but the easy pickings are done, for the moment. They've vanished, the runners, into the forests or the fields beside the river road...or into the little scattering of dust-colored buildings that stairstep up the mountainside on the other side of the road, the village a mile or so to the north.

There's a hiss of something - disgust, annoyance, from Paulson. "They're getting the QRF on the road, and there'll be SAR birds out of fuck knows where. Probably Jalalabad, considering.....in other words, those two limp dicks that just bailed out are our problem, for now."

Glyndower spits into the pale dust. "This is gonna be some 'Private Ryan' bullshit," he says, as he hefts his gear. Then he cocks a red-rimmed gray eye at Ruiz, grins. For all his bitching.....yeah, he's up for this, even as he says to Paulson, "How 'bout you ask 'em if we can let the Taliban have 'em? Do an exchange, get us a couple of women. Hell, by now, I'd settle for the prettier kind of goat."

Berger pulls a face. "The Jeep isn't gonna take us far. We're gonna have to hump it over that ridge." They've already packed their gear up....and the remaining F-14 is loitering overhead, as best it can. That wind is doing no favors to any American....there's the report of watching the 'chutes in flight, but she can't tell if they're being steered.

Of course Glyndower's up for this. They're all up for it. Days without any proper action, getting buzzed by a couple of A-10s and razzed by another unit shipping out, the promise of something to sink their teeth into? This is what they've been trained for. Broken down, beaten down, disassembled and molded into; soldiers without peer, violence without reservation. Fucking oorah.

On his feet in a matter of seconds, de la Vega's hands move with clean, quick muscle memory as he breaks down his rifle and goes to take a swig of water from his canteen. Then a pull off that shitty smoke he's had dangling from his finger since they got set up. "Always knew you were a goat fucker, Glyndower," he grunts at the big Texan, mouth curving in a dimpled grin as he hefts his pack up on his shoulders. "I'll pull the radio," Paulson reports, and gets to work doing just that. They can't leave any sensitive equipment or data in the Jeep, if they're going to abandon the thing.

Hide it, it seems, location reported to those on the radio. The QRF kids can come claim it. "You fuck one goat," the Texan replies, placidly, the punchline to that old, old joke. Then he's swirling his ragged ghillie cape around his shoulders with a toreador's aplomb, and they're ready.

Down they go, unopposed, to the green terraces of farms and the dust of the road. Down the valley to the south, they can see the bustle of activity in the KOP, but no Coalition vehicles have ventured out, not yet....and the remaining Tomcat, after farewells, peels off to refuel. Unlike the A-10s, they aren't built for the low, slow crawl over terrain....and at worst, the carrier is a long ways away.

No sign of activity in the village to the north....and it's not long before they've forded the river on a shallow bed of stones - no proper bridge handy - and are heading up the opposing slope to where the wreckage still sends up a plume of smoke. It's shattered enough that there's no need for further destruction to keep classified gear from falling into enemy hands....but there are no bodies, at least. The seats are gone. Fragments of shattered canopy gleam like ice in the sun.

It's a long, miserable slog through enemy terrain; the one saving grace is that the sun hasn't come up yet to bake the dusty hills in the day's relentless heat.

Down in the valley, the greenery is lusher, giving way from fields of sawgrass to creeping hawthorne, gooseberry and honeysuckle sprinkled between copses of low-swept juniper. Single file through the water, rifles at the ready; de la Vega's swapped out his glossy black M40 for an M4 carbine held in a shoulder sling. Keen eyed and quiet, he trudges along near the middle of the pack while the others joke about the prank they played on the Navy boys last time they were on base for joint training. Voices taut and cautious; they're all on edge, but this is their way of coping. Make light of the situation.

"Airframe's clean," Glyndower's saying, pushing a piece of chewing tobacco back into his cheek, one foot propped on top of a segment of shattered canopy. Then Berger, "Hey Paulson, that Navy chick ever cross reference those coordinates for us? Where the chutes went down." De la Vega's wandered off a little way, in his head as he rakes his eyes over the broken pieces littering the mountainside, glances off in the direction he knows those pilots went down.

Now there's the rising plume of dust on the road. American vehicles moving safely, thanks to the Marine's work of the previous night - more than one body lies rotting at the roadside, taken in an attempt to lay an IED. Tomorrow night, all to do again, perhaps.

A little radio chatter. "Yeah. Says one's square due west of us a few clicks, on the valley floor." Such as it is - the next valley to the west has no river to carve out softer earth. It's nearly a canyon, really, steep sided. A moment, and Paulson adds, "....and they've had radio contact. One of 'em's alive, anyhow. The other one they lost sight of on the western ridge."

There's a metallic glint, near Ruiz's foot, silver and rainbow - a shard of what can only be a CD.

Inured to this kind of violence, this kind of horror - bodies, unclaimed, the remains of people who had wives and children and hopes and dreams - de la Vega spends a long while simply gazing at the result of their toils. Whatever he's thinking, it doesn't register on his face. Disgust, fear, regret, none of it touches him. Those dark, dark eyes have gone still and distant, focused on the task at hand.

He might have been the pilot.

Chances are, he wasn't.

The glint near his boot is spotted after a moment, and while the other Marines start pushing off to track down the transponder due west of them, he crouches smoothly. Nudges the fragment of disc, then collects it between a gloved forefinger and thumb. It's examined as he moves off to join the others, brows furrowed.

The gut knows it. Like it knows gravity, the passage of time.....it's time for another cycle of absence to end. Odds and reason argue against it, but....instinct says different. He knows.

No labeling on it, but someone's written on it in what looks like marker, careful print -nward spira- An ill-omened name for something to be listened to in flight.

They move fast, at the dog-trot meant to cover distance. Down and down the goat-tracks that switchback, leaving the column of smoke behind them tinting red in the rising sun.

Paulson keeps up a back and forth with the downed flyer. He's hidden his 'chute, the better to keep from attracting unwanted attention, but the GPS locator he has is working just fine...and it's within about an hour and a half that they find him standing in a dense grove of low pine. A wiry young man with brown hair, hazel eyes, a lopsided grin, and ears that stick out like he intends to fly home with them. The nametape on his flightsuit reads O'Bannon.

He might've been the pilot.

"Downward spiral," Javier murmurs to himself, barely mouthing the words. His tongue slides over his lower lip as he turns the iridescent fragment of disc over in his fingers. It wasn't meant for this world, and neither was he. Neither was Cavanaugh, always pointed toward the stars. He shoves the thing into a pocket of his gear and picks up the pace to fall in step with his buddies.

They're in good shape, all of them, out of necessity; anyone who couldn't keep up would've been left behind long ago. Nevertheless, Glyndower's breathing heavy by the time they find O'Bannon. Berger makes a face at him, hassles the guy for making them come all the way out here. Offers him a cigarette, "You got one of those Turkish pieces of shit he can bum, de la Vega?" And, "Sounds like your last girlfriend, Berger," with a wolfish grin from the Mexican as he tosses his pack over. "Second transponder's across the line," Paulson's telling them, with a grave look on his face. Blue eyes flicking from one to the next, like he's trying to take the temperature of the group. Figure out what they're thinking.

"Who was your pilot?" de la Vega pipes up with, pivoting to face the junior grade Lieutenant with the big ears. His tone is direct, like buckshot to the face. "What's his name. Give me his fucking name."

They've had much worse patrols, already. Their black-turbaned foes are no doubt already reacting to the joyous news of an American plane downed, smoke rising, parachutes on the wind...but no one's troubled them yet.

"Oh, gee, thanks," says O'Bannon, with a Minnesota accent thick to the point of parody, as he taps out a cigarette, tucks it into a pocket. Thrifty, this one. "I'm really glad to see you guys." A ridiculous grin, that falls away. "Have you had any contact with Torch? Sorry, I- " He straightens a little. "Cavanaugh," he says, all but coming to attention, though technically he outranks the Marine before him. "Lieutenant Commander Joseph Cavanaugh. I've been tryin'a raise him on the emergency radio..." And he lifts the little thing, as if to demonstrate. "But...no joy."

The question's odd enough to have the Marines looking at each other. What's that got to do with it? "You got a pilot owes you money, Gunny?" asks Glyndower.

The question's out of place, and so is O'Bannon's grin, given the givens. Nothing about it, or what he knows the guy is going to say next, settles his nerves. Because he's known, the moment he saw that F-14 paste the mountainside. That itch in his bones, he's known, and his heart's dropping into his gut before the word's even out of his mouth. Cavanaugh. Lieutenant Commander.

His mouth opens, closes again when no sound comes out. You got a pilot owes you money? And he has to fight the urge to hit that stupid pilot with his huge ears and stupid smile, to make him shut the fuck up, in some insufficient, misplaced proxy for his fury. How fucking dare he do this to him? All of it, from the moment Joe singled him out from his buddies, goaded him into that fight in the alleyway, to this. Downed behind enemy lines, and there's nothing for it. There's nothing for it but to peel away from O'Bannon, and slam his fist full force into Glyndower's face. It catches the big Texan across the cheekbone, and he goes for it again and again, until Berger and Paulson manage to get a grip on his arms and drag him off.

When they've managed to haul him off....the whole air of the situation is a stunned silence. Oh, they all know de la Vega's temper, that's nothing new. But to have that happen here, now, and at such a provocation. O'Bannon's just watched with mute horror, huddled down into his flightsuit like an owl in the bole of a tree.

The worst of it, though, is the look in Glyndower's eyes. All his suspicions confirmed, and a kind of dawning wonder. He'd dismissed those thoughts about his shooter so many times....A shake of his head. "We've got to go find him, no matter what," the spotter says, all business again. Because even if he's a corpse on the mountainside, American pride won't brook the image of one of their own dragged broken through the dusty streets of an Afghan hamlet. The ghosts of Mogadishu still loom large. Berger and Paulson just look bemused.

"Still plenty of daylight left," Glyndower adds. "O'Bannon, you all right? Can you walk?" The RIO confirms with a mute nod, swallows, then adds, "I'm okay. Got my chimes rung by ejection, but I'm good to go."

It's certainly not the first time the guy's lost his shit on someone who rubbed him the wrong way. He's a pillar of focus, discipline and nearly superhuman precision when he's behind the sights of his rifle. But off the clock, all that nervous energy has got to go somewhere. And it's usually one of two things, with him: fighting or fucking. Both, if he can get away with it.

The kid's still swinging, still yelling obscenities in Spanish at his spotter until he's hoarse with it. And it most definitely takes two of his buddies to hold him back and stop him from making more of a bloody mess of Glyndower's face. Of course he knows. And de la Vega knows that he knows. It's been the technicolour elephant in the room between them for months now, because they work too closely together for it to be anything but.

Panting heavily, he eventually shakes the other Marines loose once they're reasonably convinced he's stopped punching, and pushes his hands over his face and into his hair with a pained-sounding snarl. Tries to knot it up in his fingers, but there's not enough of it for that. "I'll get on the radio with base, let them know we've got O'Bannon," Paulson pipes up with, also breathing a little heavily into the chilly near-dawn. He sends a long look de la Vega's way, smirks, and paces off to put in that call. "Let's go," Berger mutters, delivering one last look about before he sets off.

Glyndower's still shaking his head. Of all the luck in the world - the one they're going to find is the chink in de la Vega's armor. The bright, shining cherry on this clusterfuck sundae. But they need each other to complete this mission, to get out of this alive, so fur is smoothed, all of it papered over for the luxury of a safe day in base. The day is bright and clear, merciful for Afghanistan, a cold spring in the mountains. But the metaphorical clouds are gathering. This whole province is brutally unfriendly to Coalition forces....and that no one's shown up to mess with them yet means the odds are only lengthening.

The relative bad news is that the QRF is already having problems with local militias, back in the valley. No rescue bird is yet on its way. So it's still just them out there, to find the missing pilot, though there's relief at finding one of the flyers alive and well. Unlike the big, nearly vertically north-south slash of the Korengal proper, one of these tributary valleys splits off into fingers of narrower ones, almost ravines, carved by the hill streams that eventually run into the Pech. A few houses scattered on the slopes, it's not total wilderness, but there aren't even enough clustered to warrant the name village.

But they're heading away from even those scraps of civilisation, into the high wilds, where the conifers dwindle at the tree line, following the signal of the transponder. Blessedly, still no Taliban contact.

The chute isn't bright - the days of white silk are long gone - but it's obvious against the stone and trees, rippling against a nearly-sheer face in the rising wind. Not strong enough to do more than slowly turn the body dangling from the shrouds, though. Terribly reminiscent of images they've all seen of executions from ages past. Still anonymous in flightsuit and helmet, though there's a tiny sound from O'Bannon when they turn the bed in the ravine and see it.

The slog out to the coordinates of the second transponder is significantly more tense. Nobody talks, and nobody makes eye contact. Just the snap of sawgrass under their boots, then the churn of water as they cut through another mountain-fed stream that carves a narrow swath through the valley. Berger's got his weapon out and a call of, two o'clock when he thinks he spots a hostile up there on the ridge. It's only a goat, though, and skitters away when his rifle comes up.

By the time they finish scaling the mountainside and stop to take a breather in the mouth of the ravine, much of the tense mood's been worked out of them. It still lurks at the edges of Glyndower's mind, those suspicions that have been confirmed. Those pieces falling into place. But he pushes it out once O'Bannon spots the chute. "Well shiiiiit," he murmurs, in that way Southerners have. Gazes up and up, squinting into the sun as it hits him. Paulson lets out a low whistle. And, "Think he's still alive up there?"

De la Vega, at the back of the group, simply stares. Dark-eyed and silent, thumb brushing the stock of his rifle. Berger, as the ranking NCO here, starts giving orders. Glyndower and O'Bannon will help him get the pilot down. Paulson and de la Vega on watch.

Berger says, tersely, "You're the one with the medic training. Either way, he can't stay up there." Face drawn. He doesn't want to try and carry a body back over those ridges.

Then he's scrambling up. It's not a totally pathless escarpment, that bluff. At the top, he's hastily rigging an abseiling harness out of rope, having wound it around a tree that seems sturdiest...and not likely to merely rip out of the soil of the edge. O'Bannon's the one left to tend the rope. Glyndower's hitching a second line to a different tree - they'll have to lower him, one way or another, dead or alive.

It's a long process, Berger rappelling down to the pilot, then taking the line the Texan's dropped and starting to bind it in to the parachute's shrouds. Then, satisfied Glyndower has the weight in hand, he starts sawing away at the lines that secure the canopy. Freed of the pilot, it starts to peel away on its own, as if desperate to be free and riding the wind again. Then Glyndower lets Cavanaugh down, little by little, until he's a heap at the bottom of the bluff - Berger keeping pace with him so he doesn't end up swinging into the rockface again. Past noon, by the time they're all assembled on the ground, Glyn changing out with Paulson, so Paulson can tend to him. Not a twitch from the pilot, not a sound. And there's blood on his face, a contrast to the waxen pallor. But the medic breathes a sigh of relief. "Well, he's got a pulse and he's breathing."

Which is when they can hear the sound of distant gunfire.

Paulson's got his kit out when Berger calls for him to swap in with Glyndower. He's not a dedicated medic by trade, but as the team's utility knife, he knows his shit more than well enough to serve as one in a pinch. With the pilot breathing, his airway secured and his pulse steady, the Marine seems reasonably certain that he'll at least survive. Though what shape his body's in, is another kettle of fish.

With the amount of time it's taken to get Cavanaugh down, haul him in and cut the lines free, de la Vega's needed an outlet for his restless energy. The second he hears that the man is breathing - that he's alive - the sniper goes to unpack and assemble that glossy black long-nosed rifle. Gets himself set up right on the blind side of the ravine's mouth, behind cover of foliage. The sound of gunfire has Glyndower dropping into place beside him, and Berger racking the slide on his rifle as he prepares to cover for Paulson, who's still treating what he can see of the unconscious pilot's injuries.

"What's the word, Glyndower?" grunts Berger, slotting his goggles into place for a looksee of his own.

"Company's coming," There's an ugly note in Glyn's voice, along with anticipation. O'Bannon has that owlish look again, but he lets himself be dragged into cover; the backseater's only got his pistol, unless some Marine has an extra toy to lend the new boy. "Got some guys heading this way I bet are locals who saw the 'chute and wanna come see what goodies Santa left for them. Hopefully they don't know we're here."

A longer look, and he adds, "Counting five armed males. Maybe not locals. These guys look Taliban to me."

Berger looks to Paulson. "Can we move him? What's his status?" Frustration in the medic's voice. "He's not waking up. Breathing's okay, pulse is okay, I'm not finding anything broken, no wounds, but his helmet...." He holds it up. It was hit hard enough to crack. "Ejection injuries," offers O'Bannon, timidly. "Could be. If his head struck the canopy, or when the....explosion happened."

Berger sighs. "Well, let's deal with these fuckers, before we try and....fuck, I dunno, we'll wrap him up like a human burrito in my poncho liner and tote him out, if we gotta."

"Got them," de la Vega confirms, tone businesslike. As if he hadn't been trying to break his spotter's head open like a ripe watermelon, not two hours ago. A few numbers are passed between the pair; windspeed, range and bearing. Distance to the cluster of targets. If the sniper hears the talk of Cavanaugh not waking up, he gives no indication. There's only his breath, his rifle, his partner, and those men picking their way closer on an approach vector. It's all math, and he does it in his head, updating coefficients and solving equations faster than he can reason what he's doing.

Paulson, realising O'Bannon's woefully underequipped for what's likely to be a firefight, unslings his carbine and holds it out to the man. Then gets back to work on the pilot. Eyelids peeled back, pupils checked, then the man's rolled over to see whether he's got any obvious injuries on his back. Concussions are a bitch, but he doesn't say this.

"I have crosshairs," de la Vega offers, quietly, after a good half minute of back and forth with his spotter. His rifle's a slightly older model bolt action weapon. Free floating barrel, match-grade ammunition. It's a beast to fire, and slow as hell. But with a guy like him who can hit his targets, superior any day over the semi-automatic models.

That lovely, remote calm, that banishes fear and worry. When all the world narrows down to the red circle, and you can just climb inside and forget the rest of it. Glyndower is with him, shoulder to shoulder, the earlier strife gone as if it had never been. Only this, and prey before them. The strange intimacy of being the recording angel to a man's last moments on earth.

Swallowing hard, O'Bannon takes it. He's still shocky, by the look on his face. Hours ago, above all this, with the hard ranges only topography beneath him. But he handle it like he knows at least partially what he's doing. The others settle in, but it's the snipers' work now.

And Glyn starts that murmured chant, "Take, take, take."

They're coming in full view, as if certain of nothing more than a body to loot. Underestimating how fast the Americans moved, or thinking that the QRF mired down over the ridge is the sum total of the rescue sent.

They operate like a single entity, de la Vega and his spotter. And they've worked together long enough by now, to be able to anticipate each other by movement alone. By a slight change in breathing, by a tensed muscle or lapse in speech. Then, take, take, take and the Mexican's finger slides over the trigger. Caresses it once. Breath in, breath out, and on that crucial delay before he needs to take in air again, he finds his shot and he fires.

One round, it takes his target through the throat, and the dance of his death is silent from this distance. The only sound is another shot being loaded into the chamber, the trajectory adjustment coming from Glyndower for his next mark, the crunch of Berger's boots in the dirt as he moves into position and gets ready to lay down suppressive fire.

Paulson's still trying to get some sign of life out of Cavanaugh, and has hauled him back as deep into cover as he can manage while he works, occasionally glancing skyward as if he half expects to find an Apache slanting over the ridge at any moment.

No rescue from the sky, not yet. Not by a long chalk. Outside of the little crystalline bubble of concentration, Paulson is wrangling quietly on the radio, trying to get casevac. This flyer isn't walking out of there on his own, not yet...and what Paulson's getting is the polite, jargon-laden version of 'fuck no, man, can't you see we're busy out here with our own problems'.

In the scope....that one drops, and as is the ideal, there's a moment of still shock where two of the remaining guys basically freeze and peer around them. Another dives behind a rock....but he's guessed wrong about the angle of fire, and thus it's like watching a tomcat try to stalk using a knocked over paper up as cover. Only the fourth is clever enough to drop into a little defile in the ground and effectively vanish from sight, for the moment.

"MOA, point zero two niner six," murmurs Glyndower, tonguetip between his teeth. Then de la Vega, "Point zero two niner six, copy. Dialing in. Crosshairs." Contrary to how it may seem, his whole body is ridiculously relaxed. Only the tension through his shoulders and arms to keep the rifle aloft, his head and hands steady. The pair of them would be difficult to spot in their ghillie suits, flattened to the ground, dappled in sunlight and shadow.

Another shot rings out, and the guy scrambling behind a rock is thrown against it by the force of the round that enters his body. In through his back, it bursts free from his lungs, tearing a jagged hole he can't hope to recover from. But it's far from clean, and it'll take some time for him to die. Choking on his own blood, unable to breathe, making the most terrible, inhuman sounds as he claws at his throat and chest. The men with him don't dare go to help; one of them starts to run, and he's cut down mid-stride, while the remaining two manage to find cover up the side of the ravine where the hunter can't sight them.

"Lost them," mutters Glyndower. And then, "Incoming," as he pulls out of his sprawl and unslings his carbine. De la Vega's useless at this range; all he has is his sidearm, which he draws once he's on his feet and dropped a shoulder to the broad bole of a sturdy pine.

But the two remaining don't come in. Not now that they know there are at least a couple of armed Americans in there. "We've got to get out of here," Berger says, worriedly. "This is basically a box canyon. Those fuckers are gonna run on home and get their cousins and these woods are gonna be crawling with guys real damn quick."

A glance over his shoulder at Paulson, who looks up, lips tight. "They couldn't get a bird into this mess if they had one to send," says the medic.

"Then we carry that guy," Berger's tone is curt.

"I'll do it," comes the voice of the other flyer. "I'm the weak sister here, anyhow, I don't have experience fighting on the ground." O'Bannon's voice is firm, for all that he's pale. "But I can carry him."

Glyndower rolls his eyes. "This is like the shittiest escort quest ever," he mutters.

And that's when there's a new voice contributing to the conversation. The limp bundle on the ground says, suddenly, "Huh?" Which has Paulson raising his hands in mock thankfulness. "Well, praise Jesus, Sleeping Beauty here done woke up."

The other Marines are arguing, and de la Vega stands a little apart from them, disassembling his rifle with quick and clever hands. His attention's split between his mindless task and the dense underbrush skirting their relatively prone position. The pieces are shoved away one at a time, his dark eyes cutting toward Berger when he mentions carrying the guy out. Owlish, the look he gives him. A quick flare of nostrils and a twitch like he's going to bare his teeth at the guy. Like he could compel him to find a better way, if he'd just fucking try a little harder.

The conversation drones on, and his gaze cuts to the sky, then abruptly to the pile of pilot on the ground when he makes a noise. He's gone stock still, like a wolf in the long grass, caught the scent of his prey.

"You gonna be able to walk?" Berger wants to know. "'cuz I'm pretty sure O'Bannon here's got a mile, maybe a mile and a half in him before he folds." The sniper just continues staring, hope against hope surging in his throat, knotting in his stomach as he tries to tear himself away and back to his task of packing up.

Vague, that voice. Confused. "What?" says the pilot, thickly. "Where....." O'Bannon's at his side, instantly, explaining the situation in an urgent near-whisper. Joe's peering up at him, bewildered, and then looking around. "Side hurts," he whispers back. Then, "Help me up."

O'Bannon does just that, with Paulson helping. There's a snarl of pain from Joe as O'Bannon gets an arm around his ribs, but he doesn't collapse. "Cracked ribs, probably. Listen, Cavanaugh, we've got to move, we've already had cont-"

"Javier?" Nothing but utter puzzlement in Joe's voice, that blue gaze finally landing on the sniper. Startled into the unguarded question. Glyndower closes his eyes, for an instant, as if he were the one in pain. O'Bannon's face is a study in confusion, as he clamps his lips closed. Paulson and Berger instantly look away.

O'Bannon's got the right of it. They don't have time for this. The clock's ticking, and they just don't have time.

Then we brought the lances down--then the trumpets blew--
When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an' two.

"Cavanaugh." Call and answer, like they've always done. The younger Marine cuts his eyes away at the turn of those too-familiar blues, and resumes shoving the last pieces of his field-stripped rifle away in his rucksack. A pocket for each one, he works blind, and works fast.

"O'Bannon's right," Glyndower announces, clearing his throat like it might break whatever foul mood's settled over them. He gives de la Vega a long look, like he's willing him to keep his fucking mouth shut. Then back to Joe, a slow crawl of his eyes over the pilot as he sizes him up. "We've got to move. You'll manage. O'Bannon'll help shoulder your weight." Then he starts striding off, and barks at Paulson and Berger on his way by, "MOVE it." Protectiveness, in a way, for his sniper. Even if they're going to have Words about this later.

Just wonder there, on that long face. The situation's slow to sink in. But he gets it, especially with O'Bannon moving them right along. The RIO may not be hardened to the march like the Marines, but he's in decent shape. Certainly better shape than Joe, who still has that waxen pallor, face drawn. He's in pain....but he's up and aware. And for once, blessedly silent.

But the pace they set is nothing like the one they had getting in over the ridge to the Korengal. Joe's at least not literal dead-weight, but he's half staggering. Ejection concussion or whatever it is, he's getting paler and paler, edging towards the green end of the spectrum. No complaint from him, not even a sound, but it's plain.

And the sun is already sinking, towards the west, shadows gathering in the valley.

Words, indeed. Probably with booze involved.

A sniper's primary task is reconnaissance. Taking the lay of the land, and knowing it like the back of his hand. Finding all the little hidey holes and fox dens, and cataloguing them, and knowing how long it'll take from point A to point B and where the sun'll be at any given time of day. It's an awful lot of watching and observing and waiting. For hours, for days sometimes. Right now, de la Vega's got a map out and has taken point as he tries to suss some things out with their location, and the direction the insurgents came from. It beats the hell out of being anywhere near Joe, or having to look him in the eye or talk to him, with Glyndower burning holes in the back of his head like he was.

"Gonna need to make camp soon, we don't make much more headway," Paulson's saying, as they become muddled shadows amongst many, traversing the boundless length of that deathtrap of a valley. Berger's rifle's trained on the ridge, much as it was on the way in, and Glyndower's been talking even more than usual. Anything to keep that horrible, sharp-edged silence at bay. "Some of those houses up there gotta be abandoned," he's mumbling, around a wad of chewing tobacco.

Part of why the men with the long guns are so feared among the Taliban and the local militias. That ability to know the land nearly as well as they do, to go where they aren't expected. The terrain's twisty and confusing.

Which is when there's a stifled curse from O'Bannon. The blond he's been summarily carrying has sagged against him, into a kind of bleary half-consciousness again, knees giving out. He's revived, after a little, trying to struggle back to his feet...but it's like watching a new colt try to rise, wobbly, from the straw of the box. Another of those headshakes from Glyndower. "That's it. We're not making it back tonight. We need to find somewhere to den up and dig in, before every Pashtun for miles shows up for the dinner bell."

The mountain cold is no joke, either. As the sun sinks, even that meager warmth is fleeing....and Joe, at least, is starting to shiver.

The pilot's stumble and slow sink groundward that becomes nearly unrecoverable, seems to be enough to convince Berger that Glyndower's right. The air's still tense between the men, and damned if he wants to spend one more night out here than he has to, given the givens. But he jerks a nod to the spotter, cuts a quick glance to the guy's shooter - who's crouched atop a rock, smoke between his lips, map tucked away and narrowed eyes cast toward the rapidly darkening horizon.

"Hey, de la Vega. Wake the fuck up." Berger paces in closer, goes to give him a shove like he means to do just that, and the guy bolts to his feet and turns on the NCO with a snarl. "Lay the fuck off." Glyndower watches sidelong, spits into the grass. "This way," mutters de la Vega, hiking his chin toward a sheltered enclave about a third of the way up the rocky incline to their east.

O'Bannon looks physically pained at the notion of getting up there with his cargo intact, and Paulson steps in to slide an arm around Joe's other shoulder. His carbine's passed off to Berger, who tosses it to de la Vega in turn, and off they go.

It's a house that's half a cave. Well, more a shepherd's hut. But it commands a good view, and isn't the kind of position that can either be crept up on or taken from above without either artillery or aircraft. A comfortless stone box that edges into a more formless little dugout in the soil of the mountain itself.

They're more or less wholly carrying the pilot, who seems to be fading in and out of awareness. Muttered reassurances from O'Bannon, as if that stream of words might keep Joe with them.

He can feel it, somehow. That they're being observed, and not by friendly eyes. But no one moves on the ridges. Not visibly. There's still the rattle of gunfire in the distance. Apparently, some of the locals in the main valley are angry at being balked of a chance to loot the wreckage of the plane....or find a pilot to trade or behead, depending on their more political or mercenary inclinations.

A house that's half a cave; a cave that's half a house. Tomato, tomato. De la Vega scrambles up first, leaves the carbine in its sling, and draws his sidearm as they breach the open entryway. Not a door so much as a stone archway, beyond which someone or someones have built up with wooden planks, and baked mud pushed into the cracks to keep out the cold. He's aware of Joe losing his battle with consciousness somewhere behind him, and O'Bannon and his nonsensical, absurd stream of encouragement.

"Got myself a bad feeling about this one, boys," Glyndower's muttering, rifle up as he brings up the rear, covering the group's six.

"We're not alone," de la Vega agrees, voice low. His boots scuff the dirt as he switches on his flashlight and does a quick sweep of the place to make sure this isn't an ambush waiting to happen.

"I'll take first watch with Paulson," Berger volunteers, unslinging his pack once de la Vega gives the all clear. "The rest of you try to get some shuteye."

Walls solid enough to stop bullets, and odds are good these guys won't have grenades. No RPGs, hopefully. But they daren't start a fire - it'll have to be body heat and bedrolls, in this impromptu hooch.

And so it is, with the pilot tucked against his RIO, bundled up Glyn's extra pullover, which is enormously too large for him, and cocooned in poncho liners. Too cold not to share body heat. There's a questioning monosyllable from him, bewildered as a sleepy child, swimming back up to something like consciousness.

Paulson glances back, dubiously. There's a mute look exchanged with O'Bannon, who is not sleeping, despite his exhaustion. He's got an arm flung over Cavanaugh, protective.

"C'mon," Berger encourages, low-voiced. And off he and Paulson go, leaving the others to stay warm as best they can.

At some point into the night, O'Bannon's gone to sleep and Glyndower's wandered off for a smoke. And for the first time since they found him dangling from that tree, de la Vega's alone with the Lieutenant Commander. He watches the pilot for the longest while, longing in the downward turn of his mouth and slant of his eyes. A bone-deep ache; how many years since they saw one another last? How many times did he hope against hope that the next squadron of Navy boys to roll through base might include a T. J. Cavanaugh in its ranks?

And it never did.

With the backseater having rolled away at some point, he can guess that Joe's probably none too warm, and eventually scrambles over and wedges himself in against the pilot. Body like a furnace, same as always. He slings his arm around the man, tugs the makeshift blanket tighter across his shoulder, and sits. Silent.

The silence is profound - this is no jungle, shrilling with insects and night birds and a thousand things to taunt the ears of the city-bred boys. There's only the skirl of the wind outside, moaning over the ridges and rushing like the tide through the trees below.

The darkness, too. With light protocols in place and no fire, even the starlight and the gibbous moon are beyond the imagining of the average American, dwelling under a quilt of light pollution. The Milky Way is clearly visible over the ridge beyond the door.

The scent of him must be familiar, for Joe turns in his sleep, nuzzles closer. There's a limpness to him that's not right in the least, utterly unlike that taut energy. But when does Ruiz realize that those blue eyes are open, looking up at him, and the quality of stillness in his arms has changed.

Javier's caught up in watching it, that arm of the milky way scrawled nakedly across the pitch-dark sky, aglow like the embers of a fire set aeons ago and burned to luminescent ash and char. His throat works when he feels movement beside him, and with a breath, he turns. Leans in a fraction, big arm pulled around the other man, hauling him in closer. Close enough so that he can share his warmth, and drop a lingering kiss to that golden head. He's not sure how much Joe's had to drink, so he digs out his canteen and offers him a tiny sip. Not enough to make him ill, but enough to wet his lips, guided toward his mouth like he might a small child.

Words? None. He doesn't have any, or he doesn't dare.

For once, nor does he. Nor does he dare. He swallows the water eagerly, keeps it down...takes as much as Ruiz will give.

When that's done, he settles back down, head on the Marine's shoulder. Fingers clutched in Javier's shirt, under the poncho liner, trying to tuck himself in as close as he can, hide his face against the younger man's throat, inhale that scent he knows so well.

Motion outside the little hut, the changing of the guard conducted in whispers. At least, Berger comes in to cast himself in a heap among the others, frankly cuddling O'Bannon like a teddy bear. Warmth is warmth, and any scruples when it comes to close contact dissolve in the face of the wind off the Hindu Kush. The sound of his breathing changes into moment to the deep rasp of sleep.

The sniper stays huddled with his weak and shivering bundle of pilot, when Berger stumbles back inside. He's jostled slightly as O'Bannon next to him shifts to get more comfortable, but doesn't unwind his arms from around Cavanaugh. Fraternization rules play out a little different, out here, in the situation they've found themselves in. His unit's likely to look the other way, even when they know. They know what's going on right under their noses, and not one of them's comfortable with it.

Javier, though, just holds the hell onto the man like he's going out of style. Like this might be the last time he gets to touch him, and the impossibility of that is too much to bear. His body judders sharply, just once. Then the sleeve of his jacket dragged across his clean shaven cheek, and a quick sniff in the dark. He shoves his canteen into his pack, and strokes his grimy fingers through that dark gold, bottlebrush hair. Then closes his eyes and leans against him lightly in return.

It's his turn to take watch, but Glyndower hauls himself to his feet wordlessly and hustles himself out, no words needed between the pair to communicate this most heartfelt of things:

I need him.