City of Screams

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It started with the screams.

Sergeant Jordan Stone listened again to the snippet of an SOS that had reached the military command in Kabul at 4:32 that morning. He rested his elbows on the battered gray table, his palms pressing the oversize headphones against his ears, trying to draw out every clue the recording might offer.

A lunch of lamb kebabs and local lavash bread sat forgotten, though the smell of curry and cardamom still permeated the air, contributing to the nausea he felt as he listened. He sat alone in a small, windowless room at the Afghan Criminal Techniques Academy, a one-story nondescript building at the edge of Bagram airport outside Kabul.

But his mind was out there, lost in that firefight recorded on tape.

He strained, his eyes closed, listening for the fourteenth time.

First screams, then a spatter of words:

They’re coming again… helpushelpushelpus…!

The sound faded in and out, but that did nothing to hide the terror and panic of those simple words.

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