Princess
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 7: 1300 Meters
0624 hours. The valley was quiet—the after-quiet, the quiet of a storm that had come and spent itself and moved on. Captain Kowalski stood in the middle of the base with his hands on his hips, watching his soldiers, and nobody was moving yet, because nobody knew whether this was really over.
Kirsti walked up to him.
“Sir.”
“Duncan.”
“Sir—I don’t think this is over.”
“Talk to me.”
“The counter-sniper was the last piece of a plan that had a beginning, a middle, and an end. The plan failed. The commander who made that plan is still out there. He’s watching. He’s angry.” She paused. “And sir, he still has the one thing he hasn’t used all morning.”
“What?”
“He hasn’t used air.”
Kowalski looked at her. “The enemy doesn’t have air in this theater.”
“Sir, they don’t have air. But somebody who is supplying them might.”
She looked at the sky to the southwest—pale, empty, no birds, no clouds, no contrails. Just the beginning of heat haze rising off the hardpan.
Then, very faintly, from a direction none of them had been watching, came the sound of a single steady approaching rotor.
Kirsti heard it first.
A single-blade signature, at this distance, at this altitude—a small helicopter. A small helicopter in this airspace at this hour, uncleared on any American net, meant exactly one thing. Somebody had come to finish what the men on the ground had failed to finish.
“Command, Sector Four—I have rotor noise, single signature, inbound from the southwest. This is not a friendly. I say again, this is not a friendly.”
“Four, standby. Checking air clearances.”
“Sir, we don’t have time to check clearances. That bird is less than four minutes out and it’s coming low.”
Kowalski answered in person. He crossed to her and put his hand on her elbow—firm—and walked her toward the command tent.
“What do we have, Duncan?”
“One helicopter. Armed. Coming from the southwest. It’s going to make one pass, fire everything it has into this base, and be gone before we can scramble anything from Bagram. We can’t shoot it down with rifles. We can’t shoot it down with the mortar. The Javelin is expended.”
“What do we have?”
“Sir.” She looked at him. “We have what we’ve had all morning. We have me.”
He stopped walking. He looked at her. He looked at the black dot that had just appeared above the hills to the southwest.
“How many rounds do you have?”
“Twelve in the rifle. Twenty-four in reserve. Thirty-six total.”
“Best position on this base?”
“The water tower. Highest elevation, widest arc of fire.”
“The counter-sniper is dead. But there could be another one.”
“Sir, there could be. I’m going up anyway.”
Captain Victor Kowalski looked at Kirsti Duncan for one long, terrible moment. Then he took off his own helmet and held it out to her.
“Better liner. Better chin strap. Take it.”
“Sir, I can’t take your helmet.”
“Duncan—I’m the captain. You’re the shooter. This is how it works today.” He held it steady. “Take the helmet.”
She took it. She fastened it under her chin. It was too big, settling low over her eyebrows. She did not care.
“Duncan.”
“Sir.”
“Don’t miss.”
“Sir.”
She ran for the water tower.
0628. The helicopter was closer now—no longer a dot, a distinct shape against the pale sky, coming in fast and low, nose slightly down, the way a hunting bird comes in. Kirsti hit the base of the ladder and started climbing.
Robert Evans was there. He had been waiting at the bottom of the ladder the whole time—from the moment the rotor sound became audible—because Robert Evans, twenty years old from Tennessee, had understood before she had.
“Duncan—”
“Robert Evans. I’m coming up with you.”
“Robert Evans, no.”
“Duncan, I’m your spotter today.”
“You’re not a trained spotter.”
“I have two good eyes and I can call windage. I watched my daddy do it in a hunting blind since I was six.” He looked at her. “I’m coming up with you.”
She didn’t have time to argue. She nodded. They climbed.
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