On Fire

Mike ran around one home. The people inside shrieked in terror. Stopping at the corner, he rested his M-4 against it; he picked a Taliban soldier riding hell-bent-for-leather down the street and firing indiscriminately into the houses on either side. One shot from Mike’s M-4 and the man flew off the horse. The horse stumbled, fell and rolled. It got to its feet, shaking its head, dust rolling off its body. A second riderless horse came careening around another corner. When it saw the other loose horse, it trotted up to it. Mike had an idea.

“Travis, I’m at nine o’clock. Meet me pronto.” He called his LT who was at the opposite end of the gate. “I want permission for us to ride two of those Taliban horses within the village. I’ve got my hands on them. We can hunt down the other Taliban riders who jumped through that breach. They’ll never realize who we are.”

“Do it,” the LT said.

Travis came breezing around the corner. Mike handed him a set of reins.

“Let’s go raise some hell,” he told the Texan, leaping up on the horse.

“Yeehaw,” Travis yelled, leaping aboard, turning his horse around. He was raised and a ranch and knew how to ride.

Mike let the SEALs know that they were going to hunt down the Taliban riders still loose within the village, so not to shoot at anyone on horseback,for fear of shooting at him and Travis. The team agreed, leaving it to the two of them.

Mike rode his horse hard, catching up to a fleeing rider racing down a narrow street. Travis slowed down, keeping his back, watching over his shoulder. Mike held the reins in his left hand, shoving the M-4 into his shoulder. The M-4s had a muzzle suppressor, but shooting from a horse was hell—still, he tried one shot. Missed. Aiming again, he stood up in the stirrups, allowing his knees to take the up-and-down movement of the animal between his legs. He fired again. The soldier flew off his horse.

Suddenly, two Taliban riders intersected them. Mike sighted on the next rider. These sons-of-bitches were going straight to Hell. Travis sped up past him, cranking on the horse, pushing him for all he was worth, leaning forward, his focus on the other fleeing enemy combatant. Mike dropped back, slowing his horse to a canter, letting Travis take his shot. Watching behind, he spotted a lone horsemen through the darkness. How they could see anything was beyond him. He took one shot. Mike went cantering past the dead Taliban soldier. He urged his mount faster, flying toward the south end of the wall.

In five minutes, they’d dropped six enemy Taliban horsemen from one end of the village.

Several other Taliban soldiers were still riding, loose within the village. The enemy sprayed AK-47 fire down one street and then turned and galloped up another street.

“Travis!” he yelled, “let’s get these guys!” He sank his heels into the horse.

The Texas SEAL followed and they galloped down one street, following the rider who was unaware of their approach. Mike fired. The man pitched forward off his horse.

“I got the next one,” Travis shouted, pointing his M-4 toward another street. Mike followed, protecting his back. In short order, another enemy was taken down.

“Mike,” LT said, “we got a bunch of them on the west wall, climbing over it. Get over there.”

They hauled ass, galloping hard down the street, heading in that direction. Mike jerked the horse to a stop, flying off it and landing on his feet, never losing a stride as he rushed toward five enemies who had just dropped inside the wall. They immediately scattered. He called to Travis, who was pounding down the street a few feet in back of him. Breathing hard, Mike crouched around the corner. He saw one soldier trying to break down a wooden door at a house. He shot him. Travis moved past Mike, giving him a hand signal. Mike followed, sweat running down his face.

Travis split and ran to the left, following the next Taliban. Mike spotted a third enemy going down another street, seeming to look for a specific house. The man, who was tall and lean, fired his AK-47 into the door. Mike heard the shriek of a woman inside.

Damn! Mike sprinted, feeling the burn of his muscles as he rushed halfway down the street. The woman’s screams inside the home grew louder. The Taliban soldier rushed into the house.

Mike leaped into the doorway, his M-4 pointed toward the screams. He nearly lost his composure. The Taliban soldier had dragged Khat, who was unconscious, onto the floor and was putting the rifle to her head. Another younger woman was on the floor, blood running from her nose, shrieking. He didn’t even think, he just fired.

The enemy was ripped to the side of the room, falling over the shrieking girl in the corner. Mike whirled around, hearing footsteps. Two more Taliban entered. He fired and hit both of them, surprise etched on their faces. Breathing raggedly, he keyed his radio. “LT, have the package. Repeat, I have the package. Casevac, repeat, casevac.”

Travis broke in, winded. “Where are you, Tarik?”

Mike gave him directions, kneeling over Khat and warily watching the broken doorway, waiting for more enemy to enter. Travis leaped through it. His mouth fell open when he saw Khat on the floor.

“Watch the doorway,” Mike snapped, putting the rifle across his back. Leaning down, he straightened Khat out. She looked so damned white that it scared the hell out of him.

Just as Mike was going to question the woman who had cared for Khat, he heard the LT.

“Taliban have broken off the attack.”

That was good because he was worried about any medevac pilot who would land in a firefight of this magnitude. He softened his voice toward the young woman in the corner and spoke in Pashto to her. “Have you been taking care of her?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” Nasreen cried, holding her broken, bleeding nose. “She is very sick!”

Mike saw the blood on Khat’s scalp, but he couldn’t see anything else upon a swift inspection. He placed his fingers against her carotid artery on the side of her neck. Her skin was hot and sweaty, her pulse feeling like cannonballs being fired through the artery, as if it was going to tear out of her skin. Pushing her hair aside, he felt the heat from her sweaty skin. Some kind of infection? He knew just enough about combat medicine to be worried. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him.

“Did she tell you what was wrong with her?”

“Yes,” the woman cried, looking at her bloody hands, growing more frightened. Her eyes were wide with shock from being struck by the Taliban soldier as she tried to protect Khat from him. “S-she said it was here,” and she stood up on wobbly legs, pointing toward her abdomen. “I—I don’t know the word... I—I’m sorry...”

Mike kept his voice soft and patience. “It’s okay, you did what you could. Are you Mohsin’s wife, Nasreen?”

Her eyes widened enormously. “I am. Tell me! Is Mohsin alive?”

Mike smiled to reassure her. “He’s fine. He’s at Bravo right now. We’ll let him come back here as soon as we can get the Taliban out of your front yard, okay?”

Nasreen began to cry with relief, leaning against the wall, sinking to the floor, her face buried in her hands.

Touching Khat’s pale cheek, Mike could feel the perspiration on his fingertips. He glanced up. Travis was watching the door intently. He keyed his mic. “Bailey? I need your medical help over here pronto.” Mike gave him directions to the house. He lifted Khat into his arms and placed her gently back on the cot that she’d been dragged off earlier.

Nasreen crept forward, trying not to sob. “S-she said something a-a-apend?”

Mike frowned. And then he blinked. “Appendicitis? Is that what she told you?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes! Yes, that was it! That is the word she used!”

Bailey exploded through the door, medic bag in hand.

“Over here,” Mike said, gesturing sharply to him. “Take a look at her. Khat told this woman she had appendicitis before she lost consciousness.”

Bailey, who was small and wiry, put his rifle aside and opened up his medical ruck. He quickly got her blood pressure and pulse. “Shit, man, her blood pressure’s over three hundred! And her pulse is through the roof. She’s critical.” He quickly pulled up her sleeve and put a line into her arm, getting an IV started. Mike came over to hold the IV bag above Khat’s head. He watched as Bailey tore off his gloves and then gently felt her abdominal area.

“Man, she’s tympanic,” he groused, shaking his head.

“Speak English, Bailey,” Mike growled.

“Her abdomen is hard. Like a taut drum head.”

Mike felt his fear amp up. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means her appendix has probably burst and her guts are completely covered with infectious material and swelling. She’s going to go septic. That’s past critical.” He gave Mike a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, man.” He took another piece of equipment out of his ruck and gently placed it inside her ear.

“Man, she’s getting no breaks here,” he muttered. “Her temperature is a hundred and five. Shit!”

“Medevac in five minutes on south side of wall,” LT reported. “Get the package over here now. When you get the package on board, come see me, Tarik.”

“Roger,” Mike said. He’d wanted to go with Khat, but it wasn’t going to be impossible. Bailey closed his ruck and threw it on his shoulders.

“I’ll carry her,” he told the combat medic. “You hold up the IV?”