In the Crosshairs

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The CIA sniper team huddled unseen in a shadowy crevice that had been created when an earthquake scrambled the Pamir Mountains of Afghanistan four years earlier. Luke Gibson and Nicky Marks were eyes-on the scruffy home of old Mahfouz al-Rashidi, warlord of the Wakham Corridor.

They had been there for almost twenty-four hours, having been dropped by a helicopter onto a high plateau six kilometers away and then humping the hills beneath a cold and cloudless black sky spangled with bright stars. The terrain was so silvery that the night-vision goggles weren’t needed. The chopper’s racket, which had pounded their ears during the flight, had given way to silence as their ears adjusted, and all their senses finally clicked into sharpness. Along their quiet way the two men, dressed in local garb, made frequent stops just to look and listen and smell the surroundings. A dog in the nearby village of Girdiwal yelped as if it were being whipped. The stalk was sweaty work, even on the chilly night, but they had found the predetermined slot without difficulty, converted it into a hide in the scrub bush, done a soft radio check, and, with rifles zeroed and telecoms set before the sun rose, had burrowed into position. It was no big deal. The pair of seasoned veterans had been in this area before, for a CIA safe house had been set up there many years ago. It would not be used this time, so the strike couldn’t be traced back to them. The loose shale covering the hard rock on which they lay was as familiar as an old couch.

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