Neptune's Net
Takur Ghar
Grid 9DHG20408882
2256 hours
Had Voodoo been interested in meteorology, he might’ve been intrigued to know that the forecasters at Bagram had pegged the night as one of the coldest on record for Takur Ghar - 20 degrees below zero, with a wind chill of 27 below, along with heavy fog and an 80 percent chance of snow.
But all that held his interest now were two Chechens approaching their hide site.
It was the militant’s scent that had betrayed them, dried sweat and gun lubricant carried upslope by the wind. Preacher was somewhere to his left - he couldn’t see him, but he’d seen him drop out of sight when he’d given the order. He was prone in the snow under a dying bush, carbine slung over his back and pistol holstered, exhaling into his hands to hide the condensation as he watched the pair come closer. The hoods of their camouflage smocks were pulled tight over their heads, and they cradled their assault rifles in gloved hands. One of them tugged on a cigarette. If the other minded, he didn’t show it.
“[I heard Zamir wants to shift the search to the south side of the mountain],” one said.
The smoker grunted. “[Why? We came up that way. I didn’t see anything then.]”
The other shrugged. “[Apparently he thinks it’d be best to start searching the smallest slope first, then work our way to the others.]”
The smoker guffawed. “[Changing our search patterns halfway through the night? Sounds like something he’d do.]”
“[You don’t approve?]”
“[No. Look, you saw them when the helicopter left them here, right?]” They were closer now. Too close. Voodoo could see the smoker’s bootlaces coming undone, could count the seams in his pants.
“[I was with Anwar when that happened. On the south slope, remember?]”
“[Oh, right.]” The smoker stopped and tapped the ashes out of his cigarette. “[Well, I was there. And I saw them running north. So unless they grew wings or slipped on an ice patch, I think they’re still on this slope.]”
“[What if they’re not?]”
“[Well, where else could they have gone? Most of the ways down are mined, and the one that isn’t is guarded by one of our companies. Zamir might be an idiot, but he’s not stupid enough to let those two commandos get past him. And with Anwar bringing in reinforcements from across the border, either the cold or one of us will do them in.]” The smoker flicked the cigarette away, and it landed inches from Voodoo’s face.
“[Come on. Let’s get back to Zamir before he starts hounding us over the radio.]”
“[Good idea.]” The pair walked off the way they came.
A minute passed. Two. Nothing stirred but the wind.
Voodoo picked up the butt and rubbed it out in the snow. He took a knee, checking right, then left. All clear. He made a loop in the air with his index finger, the universal signal for rally up. A bush down the trail shook, then parted to reveal Preacher, who crouch-walked over to him.
“Plan’s the same,” Voodoo whispered, massaging his shoulder. “We’ll head for the peak, hug the cliffs - hopefully find a good place to signal from. Stay off the radio. Chechens could have a scanner. Your NODs working?”
Preacher nodded.
“Good. Keep ‘em that way. Doesn’t look like this fuckin’ fog’s lifting anytime soon.” He glanced over his shoulder - the way up was clear. For now.
“Follow me, stay low.”
It’d been a while since they’d set off. Exactly how long Voodoo couldn’t tell, but if the decrease in temperature was anything to go by, they were definitely higher up. They’d been lucky - what patrols they’d run into had been easily avoided, if numerous.
Suddenly, his feet slipped out from under him (ice patch) and he collapsed on his back, his bodyweight sending him careening toward the cliff -
FuckfuckFUCK THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
His fingers clawed at the snow, pawing for a handhold -
NotnowNOTNOWNOTNOW
A rock sent him spinning, but he was already out of reach by the time he thought to grab onto it -
Can’t have me, you fucking mountain, can’t have me can’t have me WON’T HAVE ME
His bad arm smashed into another rock, and he grabbed onto it out of instinct -
Won’t have me won’t have me AAAAAAAGH JESUS CHRISTMYGOD
A searing pain, white-hot and lighting-fast, shot up his arm, and it was all he could do not to scream until his lungs gave out. Blackness gathered around the edges of his vision, and a ringing filled his ears. He grit his teeth and tried, unsuccessfully, to block out the pain.
can’t fucking move WHERE THE HELL IS PREACHER
He could feel his legs dangling in thin air below him. He chanced a look down - more fog, with no solid ground in sight. He looked back up, his heart racing and his breaths coming faster and shallower.
“Preacher!” he whispered.
“What happened?”
“Fuckin’ ice patch. Can you see me?” A pause.
“Your glove, yeah. Give me a sec.”
“Make it quick. I’m hanging off by my bad fuckin’ arm.” He chanced another look down - still nothing but the thick midnight fog. The blackness was coming on faster now, his heartbeat and breathing reverberating in his ears until he couldn’t bear to block them out.
“Voodoo.”
“What?” he hissed.
“Got your M4?”
“What? Yeah, hanging by the fuckin’ grip off this fuckin’ cliff. The fuck’s that gotta do with anything?”
“Toss it up. You need to free up your good hand.”
Voodoo juggled the carbine, looped his hand around the carrying handle, then flung it over the edge. A familiar clatter of plastic on rock, then nothing.
“I got it,” Preacher whispered. “Just hold on.” A new wave of pain shot up his arm, and the blackness became a blinding white light - he could feel his fingers slipping of the rock and inching ever-so-slowly toward the edge, digging trails in the snow.
“Preacher -”
“Voodoo -”
“Preacher I’m fucking slipping -”
Voodoo tried to clench his hand, but his fingers refused to respond as he slid down the cliff’s edge. He kicked out, trying desperately to find some kind of foothold to arrest his fall, but there was nothing. He could see Preacher’s silhouette sliding down the snowbank, hand outstretched as his slipped off the cliff -
- and then oblivion closed over him like the lid of a box.
Voices. That was the first thing to come through the blackness.
“[…look like he has any holes in him. Must’ve fallen off from somewhere.]”
“[Probably. Look at all that gear. How much do you think we could get for it back home?]”
Voodoo stifled a groan as he opened his eyes a crack. There was a militant on either side of him. From the sound of it, there were more to his right - two, maybe three.
“[A couple hundred rubles for the pistol. Five hundred for the radio. A thousand for the vest. Twenty-five hundred for the goggles, at least. The helmet…depends on whether the goggles are on them.]” The militant to his left bent down, appraising Voodoo’s condition. Voodoo held his breath, shut his eyes, and mentally practiced drawing his tomahawk, but his shoulder throbbed just thinking about it.
“[Hey, Musa?]” the militant called out.
“[Yes?]”
“[He’s not breathing. I think he’s dead.]”
“[Make sure. Use your knife. We don’t want to damage the helmet.]”
There was a snickt of metal on metal, and Voodoo’s heart jumped into his throat. Slowly, as though there was a bomb under the snow, he reached for his tomahawk, mentally calculating how fast he could take it out. He felt cold metal press into his neck -
And then several things happened at once.
Voodoo sat bolt upright and lodged the tomahawk in the militant’s throat, then took it out and rammed it into the calf of the other Chechen. As the second man fell to his knees in pain, Voodoo moved into a crouch, unholstered his pistol, wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, pulled him in close -
(Warning: this animal is vicious.)
- looked over the sights at the three militants raising their rifles -
(When attacked, it defends itself.)
- the Sig barked twice for each man, and they crumpled into the snow.
The mountain was still once more.
“[Oh, God, it hurts, it hurts…]”
Except for the survivor’s moaning.
Voodoo shoved him to the ground and stood up, his pistol trained on the three dead men in case they moved. They didn’t.
The militant sobbed, reaching for the tomahawk.
The pistol barked again, and the man toppled over. Voodoo knelt down and sheathed his tomahawk.
The silence was deafening.
Voodoo thumbed the magazine release, catching the magazine and tucking it into a pouch. He tore open another pouch, gritting his teeth as he took out the magazine and inserted it into the butt of the pistol. Arm’s still fucked up. Gotta find Preacher, but can’t get on the net. Can’t stay here - no way they didn’t hear those shots.
He looked around. He was in a canyon, from what he could tell, with cliffs on either side. A cold breeze came whistling in behind him, howling like a banshee and bringing with it a flurry of snow. He looked up, but the fog limited visibility to no more than a few yards.
Worth a try.
“Preacher!”
No response. The silence settled in again like a veil.
Fuck it. He knows to head for high ground. He turned and started walking when a jolt of pain shot up his leg, almost sending him buckling to the ground. Sprained ankle. Just my fucking luck. Up yours, Takur Ghar.
In peacetime, on a clear day, Voodoo might’ve taken a minute to hike through the ravine.
It was coming on five, and he was only halfway through.
The sprained ankle wasn’t helping.
He stopped and steadied himself on a nearby outcropping. The fog had thickened over the last few hours - it was almost impossible to see more than a few yards. He had no clue where he was. All he could tell was that he was higher than he was five minutes ago. That would have to do.
The crunch of boots on snow drew his attention. It - no, they, there was a second pair of boots from the sound of it - they were further up the ravine, coming closer. He palmed the grip of his pistol. He could make out the barest of silhouettes - both armed, both in smocks - when the crunching stopped.
“[Musa? Is that you?]”
Voodoo froze.
“[Musa?]”
Best to play along.
“[No, it’s me. Apti.]”
“[Aren’t you in Musa’s squad? What’re you doing all the way up here?]”
“[Musa sent me up to tell Zamir we killed one of the commandos. They’re securing his body now.]”
“[Really? We heard shots coming from their position a few hours ago.]”
“[He put up a fight. Not much of one.]” Come on, move along, move along.
The militants laughed. “[Guess not. How come they haven’t radioed in? Zamir’s freaking out.]” A third silhouette appeared behind the two, crouched and moving with the grace of a leopard stalking prey.
“[Their batteries are dead. I need to get spares.]”
“[We can give you some. Abdul and I have-]” There was a groan as the third man stuck a knife in the speaker’s back, then a gasp as he slashed the throat of the other.
Thank Christ. “Preacher, it’s me.”
The man froze. ”Voodoo?”
“Yeah. Took a fall.”
Preacher walked out of the fog, wiping the blade on his pants. “Some fall.” He unslung one of the carbines from his back and tossed it to Voodoo, who caught it and slung it.
“How’d you get down here?”
Preacher shrugged. “Couldn’t hear you. Decided to take the long way down.”
“Lucky for me.” He adjusted the carbine’s sling. “Like I said, the higher the better. Fire on my lead and stay low. Who knows, we get to the peak and we might get off this fuckin’ mountain alive.”
As the pair set off into the fog, the only sound was the snow crunching underneath their boots.
Grid 9DHG20408882
2256 hours
Had Voodoo been interested in meteorology, he might’ve been intrigued to know that the forecasters at Bagram had pegged the night as one of the coldest on record for Takur Ghar - 20 degrees below zero, with a wind chill of 27 below, along with heavy fog and an 80 percent chance of snow.
But all that held his interest now were two Chechens approaching their hide site.
It was the militant’s scent that had betrayed them, dried sweat and gun lubricant carried upslope by the wind. Preacher was somewhere to his left - he couldn’t see him, but he’d seen him drop out of sight when he’d given the order. He was prone in the snow under a dying bush, carbine slung over his back and pistol holstered, exhaling into his hands to hide the condensation as he watched the pair come closer. The hoods of their camouflage smocks were pulled tight over their heads, and they cradled their assault rifles in gloved hands. One of them tugged on a cigarette. If the other minded, he didn’t show it.
“[I heard Zamir wants to shift the search to the south side of the mountain],” one said.
The smoker grunted. “[Why? We came up that way. I didn’t see anything then.]”
The other shrugged. “[Apparently he thinks it’d be best to start searching the smallest slope first, then work our way to the others.]”
The smoker guffawed. “[Changing our search patterns halfway through the night? Sounds like something he’d do.]”
“[You don’t approve?]”
“[No. Look, you saw them when the helicopter left them here, right?]” They were closer now. Too close. Voodoo could see the smoker’s bootlaces coming undone, could count the seams in his pants.
“[I was with Anwar when that happened. On the south slope, remember?]”
“[Oh, right.]” The smoker stopped and tapped the ashes out of his cigarette. “[Well, I was there. And I saw them running north. So unless they grew wings or slipped on an ice patch, I think they’re still on this slope.]”
“[What if they’re not?]”
“[Well, where else could they have gone? Most of the ways down are mined, and the one that isn’t is guarded by one of our companies. Zamir might be an idiot, but he’s not stupid enough to let those two commandos get past him. And with Anwar bringing in reinforcements from across the border, either the cold or one of us will do them in.]” The smoker flicked the cigarette away, and it landed inches from Voodoo’s face.
“[Come on. Let’s get back to Zamir before he starts hounding us over the radio.]”
“[Good idea.]” The pair walked off the way they came.
A minute passed. Two. Nothing stirred but the wind.
Voodoo picked up the butt and rubbed it out in the snow. He took a knee, checking right, then left. All clear. He made a loop in the air with his index finger, the universal signal for rally up. A bush down the trail shook, then parted to reveal Preacher, who crouch-walked over to him.
“Plan’s the same,” Voodoo whispered, massaging his shoulder. “We’ll head for the peak, hug the cliffs - hopefully find a good place to signal from. Stay off the radio. Chechens could have a scanner. Your NODs working?”
Preacher nodded.
“Good. Keep ‘em that way. Doesn’t look like this fuckin’ fog’s lifting anytime soon.” He glanced over his shoulder - the way up was clear. For now.
“Follow me, stay low.”
It’d been a while since they’d set off. Exactly how long Voodoo couldn’t tell, but if the decrease in temperature was anything to go by, they were definitely higher up. They’d been lucky - what patrols they’d run into had been easily avoided, if numerous.
Suddenly, his feet slipped out from under him (ice patch) and he collapsed on his back, his bodyweight sending him careening toward the cliff -
FuckfuckFUCK THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
His fingers clawed at the snow, pawing for a handhold -
NotnowNOTNOWNOTNOW
A rock sent him spinning, but he was already out of reach by the time he thought to grab onto it -
Can’t have me, you fucking mountain, can’t have me can’t have me WON’T HAVE ME
His bad arm smashed into another rock, and he grabbed onto it out of instinct -
Won’t have me won’t have me AAAAAAAGH JESUS CHRISTMYGOD
A searing pain, white-hot and lighting-fast, shot up his arm, and it was all he could do not to scream until his lungs gave out. Blackness gathered around the edges of his vision, and a ringing filled his ears. He grit his teeth and tried, unsuccessfully, to block out the pain.
can’t fucking move WHERE THE HELL IS PREACHER
He could feel his legs dangling in thin air below him. He chanced a look down - more fog, with no solid ground in sight. He looked back up, his heart racing and his breaths coming faster and shallower.
“Preacher!” he whispered.
“What happened?”
“Fuckin’ ice patch. Can you see me?” A pause.
“Your glove, yeah. Give me a sec.”
“Make it quick. I’m hanging off by my bad fuckin’ arm.” He chanced another look down - still nothing but the thick midnight fog. The blackness was coming on faster now, his heartbeat and breathing reverberating in his ears until he couldn’t bear to block them out.
“Voodoo.”
“What?” he hissed.
“Got your M4?”
“What? Yeah, hanging by the fuckin’ grip off this fuckin’ cliff. The fuck’s that gotta do with anything?”
“Toss it up. You need to free up your good hand.”
Voodoo juggled the carbine, looped his hand around the carrying handle, then flung it over the edge. A familiar clatter of plastic on rock, then nothing.
“I got it,” Preacher whispered. “Just hold on.” A new wave of pain shot up his arm, and the blackness became a blinding white light - he could feel his fingers slipping of the rock and inching ever-so-slowly toward the edge, digging trails in the snow.
“Preacher -”
“Voodoo -”
“Preacher I’m fucking slipping -”
Voodoo tried to clench his hand, but his fingers refused to respond as he slid down the cliff’s edge. He kicked out, trying desperately to find some kind of foothold to arrest his fall, but there was nothing. He could see Preacher’s silhouette sliding down the snowbank, hand outstretched as his slipped off the cliff -
- and then oblivion closed over him like the lid of a box.
Voices. That was the first thing to come through the blackness.
“[…look like he has any holes in him. Must’ve fallen off from somewhere.]”
“[Probably. Look at all that gear. How much do you think we could get for it back home?]”
Voodoo stifled a groan as he opened his eyes a crack. There was a militant on either side of him. From the sound of it, there were more to his right - two, maybe three.
“[A couple hundred rubles for the pistol. Five hundred for the radio. A thousand for the vest. Twenty-five hundred for the goggles, at least. The helmet…depends on whether the goggles are on them.]” The militant to his left bent down, appraising Voodoo’s condition. Voodoo held his breath, shut his eyes, and mentally practiced drawing his tomahawk, but his shoulder throbbed just thinking about it.
“[Hey, Musa?]” the militant called out.
“[Yes?]”
“[He’s not breathing. I think he’s dead.]”
“[Make sure. Use your knife. We don’t want to damage the helmet.]”
There was a snickt of metal on metal, and Voodoo’s heart jumped into his throat. Slowly, as though there was a bomb under the snow, he reached for his tomahawk, mentally calculating how fast he could take it out. He felt cold metal press into his neck -
And then several things happened at once.
Voodoo sat bolt upright and lodged the tomahawk in the militant’s throat, then took it out and rammed it into the calf of the other Chechen. As the second man fell to his knees in pain, Voodoo moved into a crouch, unholstered his pistol, wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, pulled him in close -
(Warning: this animal is vicious.)
- looked over the sights at the three militants raising their rifles -
(When attacked, it defends itself.)
- the Sig barked twice for each man, and they crumpled into the snow.
The mountain was still once more.
“[Oh, God, it hurts, it hurts…]”
Except for the survivor’s moaning.
Voodoo shoved him to the ground and stood up, his pistol trained on the three dead men in case they moved. They didn’t.
The militant sobbed, reaching for the tomahawk.
The pistol barked again, and the man toppled over. Voodoo knelt down and sheathed his tomahawk.
The silence was deafening.
Voodoo thumbed the magazine release, catching the magazine and tucking it into a pouch. He tore open another pouch, gritting his teeth as he took out the magazine and inserted it into the butt of the pistol. Arm’s still fucked up. Gotta find Preacher, but can’t get on the net. Can’t stay here - no way they didn’t hear those shots.
He looked around. He was in a canyon, from what he could tell, with cliffs on either side. A cold breeze came whistling in behind him, howling like a banshee and bringing with it a flurry of snow. He looked up, but the fog limited visibility to no more than a few yards.
Worth a try.
“Preacher!”
No response. The silence settled in again like a veil.
Fuck it. He knows to head for high ground. He turned and started walking when a jolt of pain shot up his leg, almost sending him buckling to the ground. Sprained ankle. Just my fucking luck. Up yours, Takur Ghar.
In peacetime, on a clear day, Voodoo might’ve taken a minute to hike through the ravine.
It was coming on five, and he was only halfway through.
The sprained ankle wasn’t helping.
He stopped and steadied himself on a nearby outcropping. The fog had thickened over the last few hours - it was almost impossible to see more than a few yards. He had no clue where he was. All he could tell was that he was higher than he was five minutes ago. That would have to do.
The crunch of boots on snow drew his attention. It - no, they, there was a second pair of boots from the sound of it - they were further up the ravine, coming closer. He palmed the grip of his pistol. He could make out the barest of silhouettes - both armed, both in smocks - when the crunching stopped.
“[Musa? Is that you?]”
Voodoo froze.
“[Musa?]”
Best to play along.
“[No, it’s me. Apti.]”
“[Aren’t you in Musa’s squad? What’re you doing all the way up here?]”
“[Musa sent me up to tell Zamir we killed one of the commandos. They’re securing his body now.]”
“[Really? We heard shots coming from their position a few hours ago.]”
“[He put up a fight. Not much of one.]” Come on, move along, move along.
The militants laughed. “[Guess not. How come they haven’t radioed in? Zamir’s freaking out.]” A third silhouette appeared behind the two, crouched and moving with the grace of a leopard stalking prey.
“[Their batteries are dead. I need to get spares.]”
“[We can give you some. Abdul and I have-]” There was a groan as the third man stuck a knife in the speaker’s back, then a gasp as he slashed the throat of the other.
Thank Christ. “Preacher, it’s me.”
The man froze. ”Voodoo?”
“Yeah. Took a fall.”
Preacher walked out of the fog, wiping the blade on his pants. “Some fall.” He unslung one of the carbines from his back and tossed it to Voodoo, who caught it and slung it.
“How’d you get down here?”
Preacher shrugged. “Couldn’t hear you. Decided to take the long way down.”
“Lucky for me.” He adjusted the carbine’s sling. “Like I said, the higher the better. Fire on my lead and stay low. Who knows, we get to the peak and we might get off this fuckin’ mountain alive.”
As the pair set off into the fog, the only sound was the snow crunching underneath their boots.