Read Raptor 6 for Free Online

features.
    Hawk cursed.
    “Get him up and find out what he knows.” Dean pivoted and returned to the table. Boxes of papers … wait … no. There were spiral-bound documents on the table, but the box … He tugged back the flap.
    “Oh God, help us.”

CHAPTER 5
    Mazar-e-Sharif

27 May—1245 Hours
    M ockingbird, this is Raptor Six Actual.” Swiping a hand over his beard did nothing to stave off the doom planting itself on Dean’s shoulders as he held the secure sat phone to his ear.
    “Go ahead, Raptor Six.” General Burnett’s voice boomed through his coms. It meant one thing that he answered and not Hastings: Burnett
expected
trouble.
    “Your warning paid off. There were armed Taliban here. They had trucks and men.”
    “No surprise.”
    Frustration strangled Dean. “No, sir. But what I found is.” He stared at the box again.
    “Go on.”
    “A SCIF-in-a-box, sir.”
    Burnett huffed. A loud thud carried through the connection. “How in the name of all that’s holy did they get one of our secure computers?”
    “No idea, sir. But it’s here.” Dean flipped open one of the spirals. “And they have manuals.” He thumbed through it. “Pages are missing, but it’s pretty close.”
    “Get it back to the base. Wait for me there. Show nobody—and I mean
no one
. Am I clear, Captain?”
    “Yessir.” Dean stuffed the phone into his pocket and velcroed it. “Move out.”
    “Hold up,” Hawk said as thumbed over his shoulder. “The clinic.”
    “Not this week.”
    Lips tight, Hawk cocked his head. “Hey, man. These people can’t control when terrorists get stupid. The villagers need medical attention.”
    “Harrier will have to play Florence Nightingale’s brother next week. General ordered us back to Bagram.”
    Hawk held up his hands. “Give us an hour.”
    Dean let out a huff. Noticed the people gathering at the clinic. “Eagle, Falcon, bring the MRAP.” He slapped Harrier’s chest. “One hour.”

    Kohistani School, Mazar-e Sharif

27 May—1345 Hours
    Clouds broke away from the sun, throwing sunbeams across the hard floor. In silence, the young girls worked on their handwriting, heads bowed over their papers. Three to a desk seemed cramped by American standards, but the Afghan girls in her class were so happy to attend school without fear of reprisal that the proximity to their classmates didn’t bother them.
    Zahrah walked the room, fingers threaded in front of her as she made her rounds. She touched a paper and admonished one student to watch her spacing. Writing English was as important as speaking it.
    Back at the front, she folded her arms and glanced at the clock. “Thank you, children. Pass your papers to the front. Remember your reports on your favorite person are due tomorrow.” She accepted the papers from the students on the end and then smiled. Her heart thumped in heady pleasure. Teaching these girls, assuring they could communicate effectively—her dream had come true! “Thank you. Have a good evening, and may God bless you.” She’d gotten away with the blessing because
God
could be interpreted many ways. In her heart, she knew whom she meant.
    The girls thanked her in unison then filed from the room. Zahrah turned to her satchel and slipped the stack of papers in, alongside math worksheets. When she turned, she stilled. And smiled inwardly. She would not let the little girl know she was on to her. “Ready for tutoring, Ara?”
    The doe-eyed child sighed. “Yes, Miss Zarrick.”
    Zahrah moved to the bench seat in front of Ara’s desk. “Okay, let’s go over the lesson one more time.” She shifted to sit beside the girl, being sure her voice carried well enough to the door and hallway where she knew the girl’s older brother listened—learned. He’d been too proud to accept teaching and instruction from a woman, let alone an American woman. Yet he was here. Hungry to learn.
    As they reviewed the lesson, Ara hooked a hand around Zahrah’s arm and rested her