top of his mouth.
A small cloud of dust appeared out of the east as he used his tongue to unstick the bits of chewed protein from his teeth. Spitting a bit of the bar on the ground, he fiddled with the focus knob, trying to make out the convoy that was speeding along the road.
He waited patiently as the cloud grew, until they were close enough to make out the first Toyota Hilux speeding along the unimproved dirt road. He counted four vehicles in all. Each one had five heavily armed men in the back. As always, the colonel was right.
As the second in command, he was the eyes and ears of the team, and it was a position he swore he’d never give up. He had learned a lot when Mason was Anvil 7, but the man had turned out to be a pussy, and Decklin, well, his time was cut short because he was a fucking psycho. Harden had waited, making the most of his time by learning what not to do from his predecessors. His only goal was to not screw up.
“Anvil 6, Anvil 7, the guests have arrived,” he said, stuffing the wrapper back into his pocket.
“Anvil 6, roger that.”
The trucks sped into the village and pulled up to the target house. Seven men jumped out and formed a tight perimeter around the first truck. They waited while the short thick man stepped out of the cab, with his famous black head scarf wrapped tight against the cold.
Children appeared out of nowhere and rushed the perimeter. The men stepped forward to stop them, but the squat Taliban commander raised his arms like a benevolent uncle and they stepped out of the way. The children ran to the man and grabbed on to his legs. They didn’t care that he was a murderer; in fact, they probably relished it.
The commander made a big show of searching his pockets for something to give them as Adieb slammed his ax into the wizened stump and stepped outside the compound to greet his guests.
“Risk 1, Anvil 6, how copy?” The colonel’s voice came over the radio as Harden stared at the most wanted Taliban commander in Afghanistan. The man didn’t look like a terrorist as he lifted handfuls of candy out of his pocket and held them just out of reach of the squealing children. Harden didn’t give a fuck about these people and shared the common belief that they were all terrorists in one fashion or another.
“Risk 1, go ahead, Anvil 6.” The pilot’s voice was thin and mechanical as it came over the radio.
Harden knew that the attack aircraft was somewhere in the area even though he couldn’t hear it. He kept his eyes glued to the optic and the fat man showering the children with candy.
“Risk 1, I have a priority target at grid.” The colonel read off the coordinates Harden had given him and waited for the pilot’s reply.
“Good copy, Anvil 6, I’m two minutes out.”
Harden knew the pilot had no idea what he was about to bomb, but the colonel had the correct identification codes and the pilot would prosecute the target under the assumption that it had been authorized. Procedure made the military predictable and all too easy to utilize, if you knew how to exploit the inherent technological weaknesses of the “green machine.”
“Anvil 7, stand by,” the colonel ordered.
He imagined the pilot punching the target grid into the onboard computer that fed the data to the thousand-pound joint direct attack munition attached to the aircraft’s wing. The bomb’s GPS guidance system would steer the munition down on the target from whatever altitude it was dropped at.
“Anvil 6, Risk 1, bombs away,” the pilot said.
“Good copy, Risk 1.”
The Taliban commander smiled as the children ripped the wrappers off the candies and stuffed them greedily into their mouths. He was recruiting the next crop of jihadists with a dollar’s worth of melted sugar.
Adieb opened his arms wide for the customary embrace as the commander tousled the hair of a young boy and stepped free of the knot of young beggars. They knew he had more candy and ignored the bodyguards who
A small cloud of dust appeared out of the east as he used his tongue to unstick the bits of chewed protein from his teeth. Spitting a bit of the bar on the ground, he fiddled with the focus knob, trying to make out the convoy that was speeding along the road.
He waited patiently as the cloud grew, until they were close enough to make out the first Toyota Hilux speeding along the unimproved dirt road. He counted four vehicles in all. Each one had five heavily armed men in the back. As always, the colonel was right.
As the second in command, he was the eyes and ears of the team, and it was a position he swore he’d never give up. He had learned a lot when Mason was Anvil 7, but the man had turned out to be a pussy, and Decklin, well, his time was cut short because he was a fucking psycho. Harden had waited, making the most of his time by learning what not to do from his predecessors. His only goal was to not screw up.
“Anvil 6, Anvil 7, the guests have arrived,” he said, stuffing the wrapper back into his pocket.
“Anvil 6, roger that.”
The trucks sped into the village and pulled up to the target house. Seven men jumped out and formed a tight perimeter around the first truck. They waited while the short thick man stepped out of the cab, with his famous black head scarf wrapped tight against the cold.
Children appeared out of nowhere and rushed the perimeter. The men stepped forward to stop them, but the squat Taliban commander raised his arms like a benevolent uncle and they stepped out of the way. The children ran to the man and grabbed on to his legs. They didn’t care that he was a murderer; in fact, they probably relished it.
The commander made a big show of searching his pockets for something to give them as Adieb slammed his ax into the wizened stump and stepped outside the compound to greet his guests.
“Risk 1, Anvil 6, how copy?” The colonel’s voice came over the radio as Harden stared at the most wanted Taliban commander in Afghanistan. The man didn’t look like a terrorist as he lifted handfuls of candy out of his pocket and held them just out of reach of the squealing children. Harden didn’t give a fuck about these people and shared the common belief that they were all terrorists in one fashion or another.
“Risk 1, go ahead, Anvil 6.” The pilot’s voice was thin and mechanical as it came over the radio.
Harden knew that the attack aircraft was somewhere in the area even though he couldn’t hear it. He kept his eyes glued to the optic and the fat man showering the children with candy.
“Risk 1, I have a priority target at grid.” The colonel read off the coordinates Harden had given him and waited for the pilot’s reply.
“Good copy, Anvil 6, I’m two minutes out.”
Harden knew the pilot had no idea what he was about to bomb, but the colonel had the correct identification codes and the pilot would prosecute the target under the assumption that it had been authorized. Procedure made the military predictable and all too easy to utilize, if you knew how to exploit the inherent technological weaknesses of the “green machine.”
“Anvil 7, stand by,” the colonel ordered.
He imagined the pilot punching the target grid into the onboard computer that fed the data to the thousand-pound joint direct attack munition attached to the aircraft’s wing. The bomb’s GPS guidance system would steer the munition down on the target from whatever altitude it was dropped at.
“Anvil 6, Risk 1, bombs away,” the pilot said.
“Good copy, Risk 1.”
The Taliban commander smiled as the children ripped the wrappers off the candies and stuffed them greedily into their mouths. He was recruiting the next crop of jihadists with a dollar’s worth of melted sugar.
Adieb opened his arms wide for the customary embrace as the commander tousled the hair of a young boy and stepped free of the knot of young beggars. They knew he had more candy and ignored the bodyguards who
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