Chapter Twenty-Six
Sunday, March 13, 1988
Islamabad
For the fifth time, the sound of fast-approaching helicopters echoed across the mountain gorge, and for the fifth time, Johnson scrambled off his mule and took a gray Afghan blanket from his backpack. He dived as close as he could to the nearest large rock and used the blanket to cover himself as best he could.
Vic and Elam were doing likewise a few yards away.
The rapid rhythmic thundering of the chopper engines grew louder and nearer, until Johnson could tell they were directly overhead. There were at least two, maybe three of them again, as on the previous patrol. This time he hadn’t stopped to look and count.
It seemed inevitable that one of the Russian military patrols would spot them, surely. They had been running up and down
