The Last Mission Of The Seventh Cavalry

“Okay,” Alexander said. “Steer for that clearing just to the southwest, at ten o’clock.”

“Got it, Sarge.”

“We’re right behind you.”

“Listen up, people,” Sergeant Alexander said. “As soon as you hit the ground, pop your chute and grab your banger.”

“Ooo, I love it when he talks dirty.”

“Can it, Kawalski,” he said. “I’m sure somebody saw us, so be ready for anything.”

All the soldiers glided into the clearing and landed without mishap. The three remaining crewmen from the aircraft dropped in behind them.

“Squad One,” Alexander ordered, “set up a perimeter.”

“Roger that.”

“Archibald Ledbetter,” he said, “you and Kawalski go climb that tall oak and set up a lookout, and get some weapons to the three crewmen.”

“Right, Sarge.” Ledbetter and Kawalski ran toward the C-130 crewmen.

“All quiet on the eastern side,” Paxton said.

“Same here,” Joaquin said from the other side of the clearing.

“All right,” Alexander said. “Stay on your toes. Whoever shot us down is bound to come after us. Let’s get out of this clearing. We’re sitting ducks out here.”

“Hey, Sarge,” Kawalski whispered into his mic. “You got two peeps coming at you, double-time.” He and Ledbetter were halfway up the oak tree.

“Where?”

“On your six.”

Sergeant Alexander spun around. “This is it,” he said into his mic as he watched for the two people. “Everybody get out of sight and ready your weapons.”

“I don’t think they’re armed,” Kawalski whispered.

“Quiet.”

Alexander heard the people coming toward him through the brush. He pressed himself back against a pine tree and cocked the hammer on his Sig automatic.

A moment later, they ran past him. It was a man and woman, unarmed except for a wooden pitchfork carried by the woman. Their clothing was nothing more than short, ragged tunics, and they were barefoot.

“Not Taliban,” Paxton whispered over the comm.

“Too white.”

“Too what?”

“Too white for Pacs or Indians.”

“They’re still going, Sarge,” Kawalski said from his perch in the tree. “They’re jumping over logs and boulders, running like hell.”

“Well,” Sarge said, “they definitely weren’t coming after us.”

“They didn’t even know we were here.”

“Another one,” Kawalski said.

“What?”

“There’s another one coming. Same direction. Looks like a kid.”

“Get out of sight,” Sarge whispered.

The kid, a boy of about ten, ran past. He was pale white and wore the same type of short tunic as the others. He, too, was barefoot.

“More,” Kawalski said. “Looks like a whole family. Moving slower, pulling an animal of some kind.”

“Goat,” Ledbetter said from his position in the tree beside Kawalski.

“A goat?” Alexander asked.

“Yup.”

Alexander stepped out in front of the first person in the group—a teenage girl—and held out his arm to stop her. The girl screamed and ran back the way she’d come, then veered away, running in another direction. A woman in the group saw Alexander and turned to run after the girl. When the man came along with his goat, Alexander pointed his Sig pistol at his chest.

“Hold it right there.”

The man gasped, dropped the rope, and hurried away as fast as he could. The goat bleated and tried to nip Alexander’s sleeve.

The last person, a little girl, gave Alexander a curious look but then picked up the end of the rope and pulled the goat away, in the direction her father had gone.

“Weird,” Alexander whispered.

“Yeah,” someone said on the comm. “Too weird.”

“Did you see their eyes?” Lojab asked.

“Yes,” Private Karina Ballentine said. “Except for the little girl, they were terrified.”

“Of us?”

“No,” Alexander said. “They were running from something else, and I couldn’t stop them. I might as well be a cigar store Indian.”

“A tobacconist’s carved Native American image,” Private Lorelei Fusilier said.

“What?”