The transcript, p.2
The Transcript, page 2
“I think we got movement,” Meldrum whispered to his team leader, who lay prone behind a boulder. “Two hundred meters north. My IR is where I last saw movement, thought it looked like a head.”
Silence held as Rivera and Meldrum focused on the area illuminated by Meldrum’s IR. If it was the Taliban, this operation was about to get serious. Suddenly the head reappeared; quick eyeshine and then it vanished again behind its tree.
Meldrum heard a burst of movement…moving away from them. Meldrum could see a large black shape moving out into the darkness.
“Meldrum, you’re a fucking dumbass,” Rivera snorted. “It’s just some fucking animal. Probably smells your cherry ass. Stay focused on your sector for Taliban, not wildlife.”
Meldrum got back to scanning his sectors of fire, trying to forget about what he just saw. But something didn't feel right. It looked like a man. But humans don't have eyeshine like an animal. For an eerie moment, he thought back to the legends he heard growing up in his small town about things that lurked in the wild. But Meldrum had to push it out of his mind, he had a job to do.
The rest of the night passed without incident. Eyes were peeled for the Taliban. But none ever came. The SEALs held their patrol base, fingers on the trigger all the while.
And the darkness of the night began to be painted by the faint reds of sunrise, crashing against the Hindu Kush.
Part III
“Meldrum get up, Rourke wants us at the command post.” Rivera was kicking the sole of Meldrum’s boot.
“Roger,” Meldrum grunted, picking up his body from the cold ground. Once he’d shaken the stiffness from his bones, he began to walk up the hilltop where the patrol base had been set. All around him his fellow SEALs manned defensive positions; buddy teams spaced out in intervals and concealed in the brush and terrain. Meldrum blinked away his exhaustion. They were too far behind enemy lines to let their guard down for something like sleep the night prior.
“Meldrum, Rivera, Boone. Get the fuck over here now, you’re late for the mission brief.” Rourke, the second squad leader, beckoned them under some trees. The SEALs huddled with the platoon commander and team chief over a makeshift sand table. Meldrum and his team took a knee with the rest of their squad.
“Alright, eyes up and pay the attention,” barked Chief Petty Officer Gimlin, a gruff and weathered man from the Deep South. “Lieutenant’s going to brief you.”
The platoon commander Lieutenant Patterson, began to speak. “Today there will be a key leader engagement led by the CIA team. Our mission is to provide security during this engagement. First Platoon will provide this security while Second Platoon holds this hilltop. Understood?”
“Understood,” the SEALs said.
Lieutenant Patterson continued, with that Naval Academy voice of his, “We do not know the current Taliban situation, only that cells have been actively trying to recruit men to go south to fight American forces. We are here today because agent Barton will be meeting with a local warlord who may be so inclined to join the war on our side.”
Patterson then pointed to the crude sand table. “This is the town of Tkah, where we will be meeting this warlord. As far as we know, the villagers are not hostile but that doesn’t mean shit out here. Keep your weapons loaded and your eyes open for any aggressive intent. It’s important we don't antagonize the natives, but if we need to get into a gunfight we’re going to win it. ROE still applies.” He paused to spit a stream of black tobacco onto the ground.
“We will enter from the main road into the middle of the town. The key leader engagement will occur in this building, the tribal elders’ hut. Second squad will form a perimeter around the building and hold security. Barton, his team, myself, Chief, and Meldrum will enter the hut.”
Chief Gimlin turned to Meldrum and his team. “Meld-rum, you’re the biggest fucker out of all of us. You got a fucking machine gun, so you get to tag along.” He took a second to spit his own wad of tobacco on the ground before continuing, “Just stand there, with your mouth shut, and look scary. You got that?”
“Got it, Chief.”
“Alright,” Lieutenant Patterson said, “we move out in two hours. The village is about a six-mile hike from here into the valley, so get ready to walk some more. Conduct your pre-checks and be ready to move.”
Once they were dismissed, Meldrum and the other SEALs began conducting gear checks. As Meldrum finally had a chance to eat something, he couldn’t shake the feeling he felt last night. That feeling when looked into those trees…something was looking back at him.
Part IV
Two hours later, the SEALs and the CIA team were moving towards their objective. Second platoon stayed behind to watch the village, and for the Taliban. They were out in the wild on their own, and if it all went to hell they were their own quick response force. The patrol base held the high ground, a piece of key terrain, the small hill over-looked the village and offered a feasible fallback point to make a defensive stand or exfil.
The two agents led the way, their large rucksacks heavy with a small fortune. Regardless of the weight, Meldrum noticed again that they bounded effortlessly through the terrain. As they neared their destination, the group spread out in a “V formation” towards the village which lay near the river that bisected the valley. Meldrum stuck with the lieutenant and the chief in the middle of the “V.” The CIA team was close behind them.
Soon, the forest gave way to a patchwork of fields and huts. It was evident that this village had been founded in a time that predated several generations and had been built from the mud by hand. To Meldrum it looked like a place out of time, a village that had remained the same since the wars of Alexander.
Pashtun villagers tended to meager crops and livestock but soon stopped to watch the Americans. They eyed them as they did any stranger to the village.. Outsiders, foreign or not, were to be treated with suspicion. As the SEALs app-roached, it was obvious to them that they weren’t the first visitors. A burned-out hulk of a Russian Hind lay in a crater nearby, the rusted reminder of the past.
The SEALs and the CIA operatives collapsed into two columns with their weapons down and at the ready; these villagers were supposed to be friendly, for now.
As the Americans walked closer to the village, what Meldrum saw left nothing to the imagination: these people were far, far detached from “modern civilization.” These people and this place looked like something from ancient history, isolated from the rest of the world.
I bet these guys have no idea what’s happening outside this village, Meldrum thought to himself. In fact, he was positive that running water and electricity were alien to these people. At worst, they probably considered it magic. At best, they couldn't be bothered to care for such a lack of luxuries.
The SEALs approached cautiously until they came upon a group of military-aged males. Several men of varying ages stood before them, each holding a weapon, all staring at the Americans with the same steely indifference as the other villagers. Lieutenant Patterson gave the hand signal to halt.
In the middle of the gaggle stood an old man who had to have been the village elder. Barton strode forward with Amir at his side. Meldrum listened but he couldn’t understand what was being said. After a few minutes, the old man gestured to a building and started slowly shuffling towards it.
Barton turned to Lieutenant Patterson, “We’ll follow the old man from here on out. He says our warlord is waiting for us. Your men will pull security as planned and we’ll head inside.”
The Americans followed into a small town square in the middle of the village. The group split up and headed to their respective areas. Villagers peered out through glassless win-dows, from around the walls of their mud huts, studying them with a skeptical caution. They didn’t look like the Rus-sians who once hunted for Mujahideen on these mountains, some had the wrong skin color, but Meldrum suspected they looked close enough. Afghanistan may continue to age, but some things stay the same. The SEALs were just different invaders who had the same ends as the last ones.
Second squad took their positions around the elder hut and Meldrum followed his group inside. The inside was adorned with modest cushions and rugs made by gener-ations of women in the village. The air was warm, a stark contrast to the sharp cold air outside. But the air was heavy and musty, too, and the smell of a still-burning opium pipe pervaded the senses.
Inside they were met by a different group of men; well-fed and clothed, wearing an assortment of CHICOM and Soviet-era equipment. They carried newer rifles and held a hardened look in their eyes, a look that is only gained from someone who spends their life at war. In the middle sat another older Afghan, adorned in the same type of attire. His beard was dyed a bright orange and his skin was like wrin-kled leather. He held the same sharpened stone look on his face as the younger men around him.
He must be our warlord, Meldrum thought.
The two CIA operatives dropped their rucks on the frayed carpets in front of the warlord. They opened them up and began pulling out bricks of saran-wrapped one-hundred-dollar bills; stacking taxpayer dollars on a dirty Afghan rug ready to gamble their lives. When they were done the operatives took their place on the right side of the room, weapons at the low ready. Barton and Amir app-roached the warlord and the cash. The warlord motioned for them to sit.
The room was small for the number of people. Gimlin and Patterson stood on the left side of the room; Gimlin motioning to Meldrum to stand by the door. Meldrum put on his best scowl, and with a M249 machine gun in hand, he knew he looked intimidating in this cramped room. If things went south, it was doubtful that anyone would get out alive.
Part V
A snow leopard crept low to the ground as it silently stalked across the Afghan wilderness. The leopard was a sol-itary creature, elusive as she was beautiful. Her splotchy pattern of black and tan masked her perfectly among the rock and vegetation. She spied intently a hare several boun-ds away, nibbling on some clover as its ears tracked any trace of noise. The leopard focused in on her meal, waiting for the right moment to strike when suddenly the hare stopped mid-meal to stare in her direction. It looked beyond her momentarily before exploding away like a spring out of sight. The leopard's fur raised as her instincts were set ablaze. She wasn't the only predator here.
The matriarch watched the snow leopard bound away from her in a flash, wisely choosing not to challenge her massive form, moving silently through the brush and foliage. Despite their size, her kind was adept at moving silently, and she made almost no sound as she shuffled be-hind the concealment of a large tree.
She dropped to a crouch and let out a soft hoot, just above a whisper, that was answered in kind by her mate, who remained hidden with the rest of the troop. She could smell his musk close by.
Her ears, honed by evolutions anvil, picked up the soft heartbeat of two humans nearby. Slowly, she peered around the tree trunk, carefully angling her head to reveal as little of herself as possible. Her eyes scanned the world around her, revealing details that only a predator's eye could see.
Several lengths in front of her sat two humans crou-ching behind a fallen log. No doubt after the same hare the leopard was. She eyed them intently: males, one old and one young. Each of them clutched those instruments of fire that the humans were fond of using.
Her ears twitched at the far-off sound of human children at play and a woman singing; they were just beyond the cover of the trees. She snorted at the filthy smell of man, decay, and waste.
The village was nearby.
It had been just under a generation since the hunters had appeared from the sky, burning half the mountain range down and hunting her kind. Even though they sought to kill their fellow humans, it was inevitable that the hunters encountered her kind. She clutched at the scars left across her chest, wounds inflicted when she was still a suckling infant by the hunters who'd aimed their fire her way.
In vain, her troop had fought them from the shadows, ambushing and consuming them just like the rest of their prey. In this world, meat was meat, and it didn't matter whose bones it came from. But those hunters had summ-oned their flying behemoths that spewed fire and death. Hunted by the behemoths, the Baramou had fled into their caves deep within the mountains.
In the darkest time of her troop's history, the Baramou starved, resorting to the cannibalism of the weak and use-less. Even the young were not spared. Only by virtue of the troops' social hierarchy was she spared, at first, only her savagery ensured her survival to adulthood.
Only the strongest and most cunning of their kind left the safety of the mountains to later scavenge in the cover of the dark. But strife had weakened them, and many did not return as the hunters and the hunters' behemoths still prow-led the mountains. It was only after the behemoths ceased to thunder did they fully reemerge.
For the next decade, they avoided humankind, having learned from their encounters. The matriarch matured, and she killed her mother to take her place as head of the troop. They ate well that night.
Under her, the troop hunted from the shadows, taking the occasional stray, and scavenged what they could. They learned to stockpile their food. In time, the troop's numbers swelled. For a short time, they prospered.
But times were ever desperate, and now the land did not provide. For reasons they didn't understand, the winters were getting longer. Colder. There were simply too many in the troop to feed. Hungry mouths and pleading hands drove the troop now.
The matriarch thought of her own daughter, starving in the safety of the cave.
She kept her eyes on the humans, feeling cold indiff-erence for them. What came next was simply a matter of survival—a cold truth to their existence.
They desperately needed meat to fill their bellies and preserve in their caves. The village was the largest source of it within reach.
And they had the numbers. The return of the hunters wasn't enough to dissuade them. She bellowed her comm-and, watching the two humans jump in shock at the sudden thunder of her voice. All around her, the chatter of her troop increased in volume at once, hoots and screams piercing the quiet mountain air. Dark shapes began to move from the shadows of the forest. They didn't need to be hidden any-more.
She watched the patriarch and several males fall upon the humans with terrifying speed. The humans screamed in horror as they tried to run, the sound of fire erupting from their hands. But their fear distracted them, made them hesitate, and ultimately betrayed their will to live.
The oldest of the two raised his instrument in vain, only to be pulled from his hands and destroyed before his eyes as his face put on a mask of terror. The matriarch saw the patri-arch grip both humans in his massive hands. The patriarch threw the older of the two like refuse into the forest. The matriarch watched the human stumble to his feet and flee to the village. The patriarch grasped the other male's head with his free hand, removing the human's head like a berry from the vine. He opened his mouth to drink from the fountain of sputtering blood, and the matriarch's heart fluttered as she watched him bathe in crimson before tossing the body to a group of eager youth. The patriarch scouted ahead to the village. He would feast later; there were many more humans to harvest. She refocused on the task and slipped away towards the village with the rest of her troop.
As she heard human screams erupt ahead of her, most likely caused by her mates, she briefly thought about what would happen next. She quickly shook those primitive thoughts from her head. What the future held meant little to her kind. No matter what came next, they would simply do what they had always done.
Survive.
Part VI
Amir nervously spoke a greeting on the American’s behalf, but was only met with silence. He spoke the greeting again, and again was only met with silence. Meldrum could see him starting to sweat and fidget.
Chief Gimlin broke the silence in a thick southern drawl, “Aye, Amir, ask him if they got any Yetis around these parts! It’s like the goddamn Himalayas up here right?”
This was only meant as a joke, an opener, a tension reliever, but Amir in his nervousness turned back from Gim-lin, to the warlord, and asked him just that. Barton glared hate at the SEALs and the agents stared daggers from across the room. Meldrum thought he felt the room’s temperature actually drop.
The warlord glared in a mix that appeared to Meldrum as amusement, annoyance…and anger. First at Gimlin, then Amir.
The room was silent again, save only for the howling of the wind outside. The warlord then began to prattle on in his language. Meldrum could tell he was agitated and annoyed. He spoke a few sentences and then motioned for Amir to translate with a hurried wave of his hand.
Amir was sweating through his wool clothing; the cold sweat of a man that knew he would not survive if things did not work out as they should. He looked between the Barton and the warlord before turning his attention to First Ser-geant. As he looked at Gimlin, Meldrum could feel the burn-ing gaze of the warlord at the SEALs. He looked like he was about to have a nervous breakdown.
Amir took a breath and then stuttered: “He says he doesn’t understand why you ask him this question. We are here to discuss matters that will change the fate of all the men in this room, and no matter what he will walk out with a powerful enemy, the Taliban or you.”
The warlord started speaking again, and Amir on the verge of panic started to translate before Barton could inter-rupt.
“He says the creature you are talking about is nothing more than a beast. It’s called the Baramou. A wild thing. A nuisance and a danger to us. When the last invaders came to this valley and their metal birds filled the sky, the Baramou hid in the mountains and barely survived. When the last invaders came, not only did the invaders fight us, but also the Baramou. Since the invaders left, the Baramou have returned. Yet again they steal the goats, raid the fields, scare the women and the children when they fetch water from the river. They take villagers from the fields and eat them up in the mountains. They have fought with our people for gener-ations. He says you should know about these things already. These things are as common as the rats. He doesn’t know why you ask him about these creatures when there are much more important things to discuss.”
