Spin Buldak
Kandahar Province –
Afghanistan
May 13, 2016
Liam stared at
the rough wooden door of his room. Something was definitely
different. In the fifteen months since his capture he had rarely
spent more than a few weeks in the same location. Every few days,
his captors would pull a dusty sack over his head and throw him
under a tarp in the back of their quarter-ton truck. Usually the
drive was no more than an hour, but sometimes he would bounce
around the bed of the truck for an entire night, choking on the
dust thrown up from the unpaved roads. Occasionally, he would roll
against another hostage, but he was always gagged so introductions
were problematic.
There was
always a pattern under the chaos; indicators that proved his
continuing value as a prisoner. Every few hours, an unarmed guard
would enter the room to check on his shackles, watched by two stone
faced men with type 56-I assault rifles, a Chinese variation on the
venerable Soviet AK-47. Sometimes they would bring food, other
times they would just kick Liam awake before checking his bindings.
Even after so many months of captivity, they still considered him a
dangerous prisoner.
They had good
reason to.
Fifteen
months earlier the rocket-propelled grenade had missed the aft
engine of the Chinook but managed to sever the controls for the
massive rear rotor. The huge blades feathered, refusing to hold up
the back end of the hundred-foot-long transport. The engine,
suddenly free of resistance, changed to a high-pitched whine. The
helicopter began a sickening, spiraling dance, its tail swinging
ever faster as the ground blurred past the open tail ramp. Liam’s
C7 assault rifle was torn from between his knees, striking a man
across from him before cartwheeling out the back.
If they had
not been close to landing before the RPG strike, Liam knew he would
never have made it to the ground alive. Of course, if they had not
been landing, the rocket wouldn’t have posed a threat. His captors
had understood when best to use their old Soviet weapon.
The spiral
violently shifted to a new pivot point as the open ramp caught on a
ridge of boulders, spinning the front end around the suddenly
stationary tail. The starboard side of the fuselage slammed into
the rocks with a thundering roar of rending metal and shattering
rotor blades. Liam’s harness held him to the port side of the
aircraft and the deformation of the airframe absorbed much of the
force, leaving him bruised and unconscious. When he came to, his
throat was choked with the soot of burning fuel and rubber seals.
He was hanging in his harness, nine feet above the wreckage and the
wounded.
Not all of
them were wounded soldiers. He noticed several men in local dress
moving among the inert forms on the ground. One man bent over the
loadmaster, assessing his wounds before moving on. Liam understood
what he was seeing – they were looking for prisoners and wouldn’t
waste resources to keep a severely wounded invader alive.
These were the
men who had shot them down.
He slid a hand
up to the quick release on his harness as the man moved over to a
trooper who lay, moaning, almost directly below. Placing his boot
against the remnants of the now vertical floor, Liam hit the
release and pushed off with his foot. He landed on the man’s back
as he stooped over the wounded soldier, driving him forwards and
off to the side. Pulling his knife out, he drove it through the
base of the man’s skull, scrambling his motor control.
The struggle
had drawn attention. Three more men came from behind a section of
the wreckage, AK-47’s held at the ready. Liam knelt rooted to the
ground, frozen in the act of cutting the sling of the Kalashnikov
strapped to the back of his first victim. He was trying to work out
the logistics of getting it into action when the balance of force
shifted back into his favor.
Danraj Rai, a
sergeant in Liam’s own regiment had been in the Chinook. He was
returning from Kandahar after bringing
Kandahar Province –
Afghanistan
May 13, 2016
Liam stared at
the rough wooden door of his room. Something was definitely
different. In the fifteen months since his capture he had rarely
spent more than a few weeks in the same location. Every few days,
his captors would pull a dusty sack over his head and throw him
under a tarp in the back of their quarter-ton truck. Usually the
drive was no more than an hour, but sometimes he would bounce
around the bed of the truck for an entire night, choking on the
dust thrown up from the unpaved roads. Occasionally, he would roll
against another hostage, but he was always gagged so introductions
were problematic.
There was
always a pattern under the chaos; indicators that proved his
continuing value as a prisoner. Every few hours, an unarmed guard
would enter the room to check on his shackles, watched by two stone
faced men with type 56-I assault rifles, a Chinese variation on the
venerable Soviet AK-47. Sometimes they would bring food, other
times they would just kick Liam awake before checking his bindings.
Even after so many months of captivity, they still considered him a
dangerous prisoner.
They had good
reason to.
Fifteen
months earlier the rocket-propelled grenade had missed the aft
engine of the Chinook but managed to sever the controls for the
massive rear rotor. The huge blades feathered, refusing to hold up
the back end of the hundred-foot-long transport. The engine,
suddenly free of resistance, changed to a high-pitched whine. The
helicopter began a sickening, spiraling dance, its tail swinging
ever faster as the ground blurred past the open tail ramp. Liam’s
C7 assault rifle was torn from between his knees, striking a man
across from him before cartwheeling out the back.
If they had
not been close to landing before the RPG strike, Liam knew he would
never have made it to the ground alive. Of course, if they had not
been landing, the rocket wouldn’t have posed a threat. His captors
had understood when best to use their old Soviet weapon.
The spiral
violently shifted to a new pivot point as the open ramp caught on a
ridge of boulders, spinning the front end around the suddenly
stationary tail. The starboard side of the fuselage slammed into
the rocks with a thundering roar of rending metal and shattering
rotor blades. Liam’s harness held him to the port side of the
aircraft and the deformation of the airframe absorbed much of the
force, leaving him bruised and unconscious. When he came to, his
throat was choked with the soot of burning fuel and rubber seals.
He was hanging in his harness, nine feet above the wreckage and the
wounded.
Not all of
them were wounded soldiers. He noticed several men in local dress
moving among the inert forms on the ground. One man bent over the
loadmaster, assessing his wounds before moving on. Liam understood
what he was seeing – they were looking for prisoners and wouldn’t
waste resources to keep a severely wounded invader alive.
These were the
men who had shot them down.
He slid a hand
up to the quick release on his harness as the man moved over to a
trooper who lay, moaning, almost directly below. Placing his boot
against the remnants of the now vertical floor, Liam hit the
release and pushed off with his foot. He landed on the man’s back
as he stooped over the wounded soldier, driving him forwards and
off to the side. Pulling his knife out, he drove it through the
base of the man’s skull, scrambling his motor control.
The struggle
had drawn attention. Three more men came from behind a section of
the wreckage, AK-47’s held at the ready. Liam knelt rooted to the
ground, frozen in the act of cutting the sling of the Kalashnikov
strapped to the back of his first victim. He was trying to work out
the logistics of getting it into action when the balance of force
shifted back into his favor.
Danraj Rai, a
sergeant in Liam’s own regiment had been in the Chinook. He was
returning from Kandahar after bringing
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