Heroes of Afghanistan 07 Ghosts of Tora Bora by Eric Meyer

Author:Eric Meyer
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Swordworks
Published: 2017-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

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“Yeeah ha! Like taking candy from a baby. Damn, I haven’t had so much fun

since…”

“Since you flew for Russian Frontal Aviation?” Bukharin shouted to

Ivan, his lips split into a grin. He was enjoying himself and couldn’t resist the dig about Ivan’s supposed Russian origins. No one knew where he hailed

from originally, but one thing was for sure. It was somewhere between the

East and West coasts of the Continental U.S. of A.

He wasn’t fazed. “Something like that. Button it, and keep shooting.”

“There’s nothing left alive down there. We’ve hammered them into the

ground.”

“Hammer them again. This is better than Coney Beach.”

A rare slip, and Bukharin said, “Would that be next to the Moscow

River?”

He didn’t hear him over the roar of the powerful turboshafts, then they’d

come around again, and the guns were firing. He’d kept the target, Batu’s

Chitral camp, on the port side, to give Gorgy a good target, except for when

he wheeled to come back, and Daud was ready and waiting with the starboard

cannon. Akram and Habiba kept the 7.62s chattering, and if anyone dared to

show their face, the sheets of lead hurtled down to blot out their lives.

He came around again, rejoicing they’d found it so easy. Batu had made

it easy for them, not expecting an attack from the air. Why should they,

Pakistan wasn’t a country at war, was it? When the Air Force gunship flew

over, the assumption it was a routine flight, nothing unusual. SOP for the

military that liked to keep an eye on the insurgents who operated from their

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territory. The Mongolian had made his headquarters in a crumbling fort that dated to the nineteenth century, to the days of the British Raj. Despite the

decay, the place was still a formidable defensive position, with stout walls

enough to deter any but a determined attacker. The roofs of the buildings

were not stout, made of timber and bamboo, insulated with woven rushes.

Back in the day, there was little need for anything more. Back in the day,

there were no gunships.

He brought her round again as the guns ceased chattering, and his men

hastened to reload, but there was little moving below. As far as he could tell, they were all dead or dying. Inside the square perimeter walls of the fort, the ground was littered with bodies, and flames licked out from anything that was

flammable. And some things that were not flammable. The job was done, and

Batu Amar’s dreams of dominating the illegal arms and drugs trade of Asia

were over.

“That’s it, men. We’ve done enough here. Time to go home before the

Pakistanis decide to investigate who’s shooting up their buddies.”

Bukharin climbed up to sit in the left-hand seat. “It didn’t seem fair,

Ivan, not giving them a chance to shoot back.”

He grinned. “Seemed pretty fair to me.” He glanced back, and his

expression changed, “I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?”

“Batu. The bastard, he isn’t dead. Look!”

As he spoke, the threat alarm sounded for the first time since they’d

begun the raid. A man was standing on top of the gatehouse, and he’d fired

an RPG at the departing gunship.

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