0031 Eradicate the Yellow Sparrow

“Is it done yet? Firelight?” Hou Rui pressed the walkie-talkie against his neck and asked once more.

“Almost.”

“Hurry up, will you?”

“If you’re in such a rush, come do it yourself!” Firelight’s retort left Hou Rui speechless. Watching the approaching militia, he abruptly thought of a desperate, if not entirely sound, plan.

“Opossum, listen to me. In a moment, you...” Hou Rui gave hurried instructions, then shifted the ’09 further onto his back, muttered a silent prayer, and finally rose slowly to his feet, shuffling out from behind cover.

With a flurry of movement, at least twenty rifles were instantly trained on him from head to toe. Cold sweat broke out at the nape of his neck from the tension.

“Don’t be nervous. I’m a friend of Mr. Ram,” Hou Rui called out, his voice trembling slightly. Fortunately, most of those present didn’t understand English, and the few who did were unlikely to notice such a detail amid the battlefield chaos.

The armed militia parted to either side. Well-guarded, Ram stepped forward, gazing at Hou Rui in surprise. “Mr. Douglas, what a pleasure to see you. I thought you’d already made your glorious way to paradise!”

You go to paradise! Take your whole family with you! Furious at the sarcasm, Hou Rui clenched his teeth but, outmatched as he was, forced a polite response. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Ram. Your men arrived in the nick of time.”

“Oh, of course. The esteemed Elder Abu changed his mind, so here we are.”

“My heartfelt thanks to you and Elder Abu. But I must warn you, the U.S. reinforcements may arrive at any moment. Shouldn’t we find a safer place for this conversation?”

“That’s not a concern, Mr. Douglas. Tonight, the American troops garrisoned at Azabad will be far too busy—a hospital, two checkpoints, and a police station have all been bombed. I expect they’ll be occupied for quite some time,” Ram replied breezily.

With his stalling tactic failing, Hou Rui pressed on. “You’re truly resourceful, Mr. Ram. In that case, I’ll take my leave. As agreed, I’ll see to our arrangement immediately. May the Tajik people’s dream of a nation soon come true.” With that, he made to turn away.

“Wait!” Ram abruptly called after him. “Mr. Douglas, since we’ve come at your request, at least let us see what’s on the trucks. You know I’m a very curious man.”

“That wasn’t part of our agreement, Mr. Ram.”

“I know. But I insist.”

At his words, the sharp sound of rifles being cocked filled Hou Rui’s ears. Facing this deadly threat, his legs nearly gave out, but he managed to hold his ground, neither fleeing nor collapsing.

“You’re making a grave mistake, Mr. Ram. You’ve severely underestimated the power I represent.” Hou Rui dropped his friendly tone and grew stern. To show weakness now would be suicide—better to bluff a show of strength.

“Power? Whatever you had was spent fighting the Americans. Even if you have cards left to play, by the time they arrive, it’ll be next month,” Ram mocked him, fully enjoying his advantage as the local boss.

“Is that so?” A faint smile touched Hou Rui’s lips. He beckoned toward the rocky hill, and at once, a light flashed briefly from the elf’s sniper position before vanishing. The small gesture wiped the smile from Ram’s face.

To reinforce the effect, Hou Rui waved his arm toward the right; Opossum, hidden there, instantly flicked his light as well. Now Ram’s expression had grown extremely dark.

After a third flash, this time coordinated with Firelight, Ram visibly cracked. Dropping the pretense, he growled, “Even if you have a few men left, you’re no match for my warriors. We have eighty fighters. We have mortars.”

“So what? We have drones. We have cruise missiles. The moment you open fire, there won’t be a single safe building left in your territory. Your markets, your weddings, your funerals—they’ll all be targets. The airstrikes will never cease.”

“You dare threaten the brave warriors of the Prophet?”

“No, Mr. Ram. I’m simply offering you a word of advice.” As Hou Rui ran out of bluffs, Firelight’s voice finally came over the radio: “Ready. In a moment, draw them behind the convoy—try to bunch them closer together.”

Ram, still enraged, kept roaring, “On this land granted to us by the heavens, our warriors are invincible! We will defeat any foe! Our sons and grandsons will drown our enemies in oceans of blood!”

After blustering so long he was probably parched, Ram finally fell silent. At this, Hou Rui’s attitude made a sudden, dramatic shift. He put on a troubled look. “Mr. Ram, we value our friendship with you and Elder Abu. We don’t want any unpleasantness—none of us do. How about this: I’ll take you, personally, to see the trucks. Will that do?”

“Just me?” Ram grew instantly suspicious. “No.”

“Then bring a few guards if you wish,” Hou Rui conceded a little, but to Ram it only seemed more like a trap.

“No need to humor him. We’ll all go,” Ram declared. Three tribesmen immediately surrounded Hou Rui, disarmed him, and then, under Ram’s watchful eye, marched him and the rest over toward the trucks. The remaining tribesmen fanned out to clear the battlefield, leaving no body behind, American or from Hou Rui’s team.

“Five, four, three, two...” Firelight’s countdown crackled in his earpiece. As she said “two,” Hou Rui abruptly dropped to his knees, hands raised high as if surrendering, completely baffling the three armed militiamen flanking him.

“Heh, Mr. Douglas—” Ram, equally baffled, halted and turned to look at Hou Rui—just as Firelight’s “one” rang out. Hou Rui threw himself flat.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Three explosions detonated in quick succession. Firelight had triggered the directional mines she’d so skillfully set.

The so-called “Scottish Claymore,” the 181 anti-personnel mine, each packed with seven hundred steel balls propelled by one and a half pounds of high explosive—anything within a hundred meters and not armored was dead. The three mines were arranged in a triangle, turning their overlapping fields into a killing zone. And right now, Ram and his militia were standing squarely in its center.

Screams and groans filled the air.

Pressed flat to the ground, Hou Rui glimpsed from the corner of his eye the tribesmen beside him tossed like rag dolls, pierced through, jets of blood spraying from their wounds as the steel balls tore through flesh. The density of projectiles in that death zone was so great that some even collided mid-air, throwing up showers of sparks amid the carnage.

Those closest to the blasts didn’t even get a chance to scream. The steel balls shredded muscle, pulverized bone, tore through one body and kept going, sometimes passing through a second and embedding in a third.

The unluckiest of all was Ram himself. Surrounded by his guards in the center of the group, he stood at the precise convergence of all three Claymores. Hundreds of steel balls slammed into him from three directions, blood spraying out symmetrically. The balanced forces pinned his body upright for a few seconds before he at last collapsed, limp and bloodless.

The scene was unspeakably ghastly, but Hou Rui had no time for the dead. He had his own problems to solve. He snatched up a rifle and, crouching in place, took aim at the surviving tribesmen clearing the battlefield. The other members of his team began firing as well.

Bang! At the foot of the rocky hill, the elf’s 24 opened up again—her first shot took out the elderly man adjusting the mortar.

Ratatat! Opossum, clutching two 16s, sprang up and gunned down the militia scavenging weapons and ammunition.

Boom! Hou Rui rose, tossed aside his empty rifle, grabbed the ’09, and fired. The shotgun’s wide muzzle flashed, sending a militiaman flying. Two more shots, another fell—the unlucky man’s face blown away.

Bang, bang, bang—the elf continued to pick off distant mortar crews one by one. Nearby, the armed militia were already wiped out or at least incapacitated.

Hou Rui clambered over the grotesque corpses, his boots crunching on blood-soaked steel balls, and gazed at the writhing, screaming survivors. He knew, given the rudimentary medical care in Afghanistan, fewer than one in ten would survive such wounds. Most of those howling in agony on the ground were as good as dead. But if he hadn’t acted, he knew it would be himself lying there.

“Get in the trucks, we’re heading to the extraction point.” Hardening his heart, Hou Rui climbed into the passenger seat of the lead truck. In moments, both vehicles disappeared down the highway.

An hour later, a Super Stallion heavy-lift helicopter settled onto the extraction site. Several men leapt out, swiftly transferring the wooden crates from the trucks onto the chopper. With no markings of any kind, the Super Stallion turned north and flew away, leaving Hou Rui and his three companions stranded at the rendezvous.

As the dust kicked up by the rotors began to settle, Hou Rui, supporting the elf, finally spoke. “What now?”

“We head back through the Wakhan corridor. The Fat Chieftain will arrange our exit,” replied the elf, blood streaming from her right eye socket, her body wracked with fractures and burns. With that, she promptly fainted.

More than a dozen hours later, Hou Rui and his companions sat inside a tent at the Kyrgyz nomad market. Their wounds had been bandaged, though the Fat Chieftain’s doctor said there was little hope of saving the elf’s eye. Even so, that outcome was already luckier than most had dared hope for.