Free Gravedigger by Mark Terry

and continued on toward the nearest valley between mountains.
    Derek said, “Is that what I think it was?”
    With a nod, Johnston said, “An Mi-24 attack helicopter.”
    They looked at each other. Derek said, “So maybe that rumor about a Russian with a chopper isn’t bullshit after all.”
    Worry creased Johnston’s weathered face. “Maybe not.”
    Crouching by the fire with the map spread out on her knee, Noa was muttering to herself. Derek, groaning as his back protested, squatted next to her. “Where are we?”
    “Maybe here,” she said, pointing.
    “And the chopper was coming from this direction.” He tapped the map. “Kabul?”
    She nodded. “The capitol. And a fairly major city.”
    “You’d think someone would notice a Russian attack helicopter in a city that big,” Johnston said.
    The Israeli shrugged. “If he needs to fuel up, that’s one of the likelier places.”
    “Fine,” Derek said. “But where was he headed?”
    They studied the map. Derek blew out a puff of air, frosty despite the rain. He tapped the map. “Shing Dun.”
    “Possibly,” Johnston said. “But these mountains are killers for helicopters. He could have just been taking the lowest altitude route through here. Once through, he could go anywhere.”
    “Either way,” Noa said, “we need to go through the pass to get to where we’re going. Ready?”

    They estimated they had about three hours of daylight – such as it was – to travel before they were going to have to camp again for the night. They debated staying where they were until starting again, but Noa pushed to get to a lower elevation, partly in hopes that the temperature would be more reasonable.
    They broke camp quickly and climbed back on their horses. Derek had named his Comanche. “Why Comanche?” Noa asked. “Isn’t that an Indian tribe or something?”
    “It was the horse that survived Custer’s last stand,” he explained. “I’m hoping for some good karma. I wanted to name him Hemorrhoid, because he’s such a pain in the ass.”
    Comanche snorted and shook his shaggy head. Derek stroked his neck. “You and me, brother.”
    Johnston grinned. “I’ve been calling mine Cheney.” Derek laughed.
    Noa looked confused. “Why?”
    “Dick Cheney is the Secretary of Defense,” Derek said.
    “And he’s a pain in the ass,” Johnston added. “Are you naming your horse?”
    She patted her horse’s neck. “Caleb.”
    Raising an eyebrow, Derek said, “As in Caleb and Joshua?”
    Climbing on Caleb, she looked at him closely. “You do know your Bible. Of course.” She kicked Caleb in the flanks and their little caravan headed down the mountain pass. She went on ahead, Caleb and her spare horse followed by Johnston and Derek and their horses.
    Johnston said, “Caleb?”
    With a nod, Derek said, “Caleb and Joshua were the only members of the original Israelites that fled Egypt to enter the Promised Land.”
    The horses clomped along, uncomfortable but reliable. The trail here wasn’t as dangerous as the first part had been, and after an hour of travel, broadened out into a wide valley. There was actually grass here, so they let the horses feed for a while. Noa studied the map and then scanned the area with the stolen binoculars. She pointed. “That way, I think.”
    “Not Shing dun?” Derek asked.
    “No. Zin. If the map is at all accurate, we’ll have to go up and through that pass. And on the other side should be a village called Zin.”
    “Mohammad Anwari is supposed to be headquartered there,” Johnston said.
    They rode for another two hours. They were just beginning to enter another mountain range and the path had narrowed. It would be a harrowing trip in the daylight, let alone in the dark. They found a shelf of rock to camp under, staked the horses so they could feed, and tried to make the best of a lousy situation.
    Settling in for the night, Derek thought about the story of Caleb and Joshua. When the Israelites had neared Canaan,