Lilith
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 7: Forward Operating Base Lightning
KANDAHAR PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN
AUGUST 10, 2015
The mountains changed everything.
Iraq had been flat desert, urban sprawl, heat that rose in shimmering waves. Afghanistan was vertical—jagged peaks, narrow valleys, altitude that made breathing hard and shooting harder.
The C-17 landed at Kandahar Airfield, the massive coalition hub in southern Afghanistan. From there, Shira and a dozen other soldiers transferred to a Chinook helicopter for the flight to FOB Lightning, a smaller base nestled in the mountains between Kandahar and Helmand Province.
Through the helicopter’s window, she watched Afghanistan pass below—brown mountains, green valleys, scattered villages that looked medieval. This was where empires came to die. The Soviets had learned that lesson. Now it was America’s turn to try.
The Chinook descended into a valley surrounded by peaks. FOB Lightning sat on a hillside—blast walls, guard towers, prefab buildings, helicopter pads. Smaller than FOB Marez in Iraq, more isolated, more exposed.
As she climbed out into the thin mountain air, Shira felt the altitude immediately. They were at 7,000 feet elevation. Her breathing was labored, her head slightly light.
A master sergeant approached—older than Garrett, maybe forty, with a Ranger tab and the weathered look of someone who’d spent years in these mountains. His name tape read KOZLOV.
“You Abrams? The sniper from Iraq?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Heard about you. The 1,800-meter HVT kill. Impressive.” He gestured toward a building. “Come on, I’ll show you around. Then we brief tonight’s operation.”
“Tonight, Master Sergeant?”
“Taliban don’t take days off. Neither do we.”
FOB LIGHTNING - ORIENTATION
The base was austere—functional but spartan. Everything here was harder than Iraq. Resupply came by air because the roads were too dangerous. Water was rationed. Electricity was spotty. And the cold—even in August, the nights dropped to near freezing at this altitude.
Kozlov walked her through the compound. “We operate differently here than Iraq. Taliban control the high ground in most areas. They know this terrain better than we ever will. Our advantage is technology, training, and precision.” He looked at her. “That’s where you come in.”
He led her to the operations center—a reinforced bunker with maps covering every wall. The terrain was daunting—mountains reaching 12,000+ feet, valleys cutting between them, villages scattered throughout.
“Second Platoon, Bravo Company,” Kozlov continued. “Sixteen Rangers, plus attachments like you. We run night raids against Taliban leadership, weapons caches, IED facilitators. Most operations are in the mountains—which means a lot of climbing, a lot of altitude, and shooting in conditions that’ll make Iraq look easy.”
“Understood, Master Sergeant.”
“Your weapon?”
“CheyTac M300, .408 caliber.”
“Good. We need the range. Taliban snipers like to sit on ridgelines 800, 900 meters out and take potshots. You’ll counter-snipe and provide overwatch.” He pointed to the map. “Tonight we’re hitting a compound in the Arghandab Valley. Taliban commander we’ve been tracking. You’ll fly in with us, establish overwatch, keep us alive. Standard mission.”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“One more thing: altitude affects ballistics. Thin air means less drag, which means your rounds will fly flatter and faster than at sea level. You’ll need to adjust your calculations.”
Shira nodded. She’d read about this but never experienced it. The .408 CheyTac round would behave differently here. She’d need to recalibrate.
“Get settled, check your gear, be at the briefing at 1900 hours.” Kozlov paused. “Welcome to Afghanistan, Lilith. It’s not Iraq, but the mission’s the same: keep Rangers alive.”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
FEMALE QUARTERS - 1600 HOURS
The quarters were smaller than Iraq—only two bunks this time. One was already occupied by gear. A note on the wall: Capt. J. Reyes, Medical - Currently at Aid Station.
Shira stowed her gear, unpacked the CheyTac, and began her pre-mission routine. Fieldstrip, clean, inspect, reassemble. Check magazines. Load fresh ammunition. Review ballistics cards for high-altitude shooting.
The door opened. A woman entered—late twenties, Hispanic, wearing ACU uniform with a Caduceus insignia. Medical Corps. Her name tape confirmed: REYES.
“You must be Abrams. The sniper everyone’s talking about.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shira stood.
“At ease. I’m Captain Reyes, battalion surgeon. Or I try to be—mostly I just patch up people who underestimate these mountains.” She dropped onto her bunk. “You’re attached to Second Platoon?”
“Yes, ma’am. First operation tonight.”
“Arghandab Valley raid. I know. I’ll be on standby in case anyone gets shot.” She studied Shira. “You look young for someone with your reputation.”
“I’m twenty-three, ma’am.”
“And you’ve already done a combat rotation in Iraq.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Reyes whistled. “Jesus. Most people your age are still figuring out college. You’re out here making mile-long kills.” She paused. “You okay with all that?”
It was a surprisingly direct question. Most officers didn’t ask.
“I do my job, ma’am.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Shira met her eyes. “I’m fine, ma’am.”
Reyes looked like she wanted to push further, then shrugged. “Okay. But if you’re not fine, medical is where I work. Not just for bullet holes—for everything else too.” She stood. “Good luck tonight. Try not to get shot.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
After Reyes left, Shira sat on her bunk and thought about that question: Are you okay with all that?
Was she?
56 kills in Iraq. More coming in Afghanistan. She was 23 years old and she’d killed more people than most soldiers did in entire careers.
Was that okay?
She pushed the thought away. Mission briefing in three hours. No time for philosophy.
BRIEFING - 1900 HOURS
The operations center was packed. Second Platoon—sixteen Rangers, plus Shira and a JTAC (Joint Terminal Attack Controller) for air support. The platoon leader was a first lieutenant named Vance, young but competent-looking.
Master Sergeant Kozlov ran the brief. “Target tonight: Taliban commander named Qari Ismail. Mid-level leadership, responsible for IED attacks on Highway One and several attacks on Afghan security forces. Intel places him at this compound in Arghandab Valley.”
The map showed a village in a valley, surrounded by steep ridgelines.
“We insert by Chinook at 0200, two kilometers from the objective. Move in on foot, hit the compound fast. Capture or kill Ismail, seize any intelligence, exfil before Taliban can organize a response.”
He pointed to a ridgeline overlooking the village. “Abrams, you’ll be here—800 meters from the compound, elevated position. You’ll insert with the assault element, then split off and climb to overwatch while we move on target.”
Shira studied the terrain. The ridgeline was steep—maybe 500 feet of elevation gain in half a kilometer. At 7,000+ feet base altitude, that meant she’d be operating around 7,500 feet. Thin air, hard climbing, and then precision shooting.
“Understood, Master Sergeant.”
“Taliban in this area have been active. Expect resistance. ROE is standard: anyone armed who threatens coalition forces is hostile. Questions?”
A corporal raised his hand. “What about civilians?”
“The village has about 200 people. Most will be inside sleeping. We’re going in quiet, hitting one compound, getting out. Minimize collateral damage.” Kozlov looked around. “Anything else?”
Silence.
“Kit up. Wheels up at 0130.”
MISSION: ARGHANDAB VALLEY
AUGUST 11, 2015 - 0200 HOURS
The Chinook flew low through the mountain valleys, hugging terrain to avoid Taliban spotters. Shira sat with the Rangers, fully geared, CheyTac across her lap, mind focused.
Her first Afghanistan mission. Different terrain, different enemy, same job.
The helicopter flared and landed in a dry riverbed. The ramp dropped and the Rangers poured out, weapons up, scanning for threats. Shira followed, boots hitting Afghan soil for the first time.
The Chinook lifted off immediately, leaving them in darkness and silence.
Kozlov signaled: move out.
They patrolled through the valley—single file, night vision active, weapons ready. The terrain was rocky, uneven, harder than Iraq. Shira’s breathing was labored from the altitude, her legs burning as they climbed.
After thirty minutes, they reached the split point. The assault element would continue toward the village. Shira would climb the ridgeline to establish overwatch.
A Ranger corporal named Davis accompanied her—security while she shot.
“Stay close,” Davis whispered. “These mountains are crawling with Taliban.”
They began climbing. The ridge was steep, loose rock and scrub brush. At this altitude, every step was effort. Shira’s lungs burned, her heart pounded, but she kept moving.
After twenty minutes of brutal climbing, they reached the crest.
Below them, 800 meters away, the village was visible—mud-brick buildings, narrow alleys, the target compound marked by its distinctive blue gate.
Shira deployed the CheyTac, settling into a hide position behind rocks. Davis set up security with his M4, watching their flanks.
“Overwatch in position,” Shira transmitted.
“Copy. Stand by,” Kozlov replied.
Through her scope, Shira watched the assault element move through the village—shadows flowing between buildings, closing on the target compound.
Then she noticed something: movement on another ridgeline, 700 meters across the valley. A figure with a rifle, also watching the village.
Taliban spotter.
“Overwatch has hostile, ridgeline northeast of compound, 700 meters. Armed, observing.”
“Can you take him?” Kozlov asked.
Shira calculated quickly. 700 meters at 7,500 feet elevation. The thin air would affect trajectory—less drag meant flatter trajectory but also less predictable wind drift.
“Affirm. Engaging.”
The target was stationary, focused on the village. He hadn’t seen her.
She made her adjustments—less elevation drop than she’d need at sea level, windage for the light breeze moving through the valley.
Breath. Press.
The CheyTac fired.
Through the scope, she watched the Taliban spotter collapse and tumble down the hillside.
“Hostile down.”
“Good kill. Continuing to objective.”
The Rangers reached the compound gate. Breached. Flowed inside.
“Building entry.”
Shira scanned continuously. Another figure appeared on a rooftop inside the compound—armed, raising an AK toward the Rangers.
“Hostile on rooftop, southwest corner.”
She didn’t wait for clearance. The threat was immediate.
Range: 810 meters. Quick adjustment. Fire.
The figure dropped.
“Rooftop threat eliminated.”
Inside the compound, gunfire erupted—short, controlled bursts. The Rangers engaging targets.
“We have Jackpot,” Kozlov transmitted. “Ismail is KIA. Securing intelligence.”
More movement—this time on the village perimeter. Three fighters with rifles, moving toward the compound.
“Overwatch has three hostiles approaching from the west, 650 meters.”
“Take them.”
She engaged the lead fighter. Down.
Second fighter realized they were under fire, raised his weapon—
She fired again. Down.
The third fighter ran for cover behind a wall. She waited, patient. He leaned out to look—
Final shot. Down.
“Three hostiles down, western approach.”
“Outstanding, Overwatch. We’re extracting.”
The Rangers pulled out of the compound, moving fast through the village. Shira covered their movement, scanning for additional threats.
A figure appeared in a window—she started to engage, then stopped. No weapon visible. Probably a villager woken by the noise.
“Exfil to LZ,” Kozlov called.
Shira and Davis climbed down from the ridgeline—faster going down but treacherous in the dark. They linked up with the assault element at the riverbed.
The Chinook appeared overhead, landing in a storm of dust and rotor wash. The Rangers loaded up, Shira last.
As the helicopter lifted off, she looked back at the village—one dead Taliban commander, five hostile fighters eliminated, zero Ranger casualties.
First Afghanistan mission: success.
But she’d barely started.
FOB LIGHTNING - 0445 HOURS
The debrief was quick. Ismail confirmed KIA. Intelligence materials recovered. Five additional hostile fighters killed by Overwatch.
Kozlov addressed the platoon: “Clean operation. Good shooting, Lilith. Welcome to Afghanistan.”
As the Rangers dispersed, Shira headed toward the armory to secure the CheyTac.
A voice behind her: “Sergeant Abrams?”
She turned. A man in ACU uniform, captain’s bars, Medical Corps insignia. Early thirties, dark hair, intelligent eyes. His name tape read: COLEMAN.
“Yes, sir?”
“Captain David Coleman, battalion surgeon. I work with Captain Reyes.” He gestured toward the medical aid station. “I heard you just came off a mission. Everyone good? No injuries?”
“Everyone’s fine, sir.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” He paused. “I also heard you’re bunking with Reyes. She mentioned you’re the sniper from Iraq. The one with the long-range HVT kill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s impressive work. Must take incredible focus.” He smiled slightly. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to introduce myself. If you or any of your Rangers need medical support, we’re here. Day or night.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He nodded and walked away toward the aid station.
Shira watched him go, then shook her head. Officers being friendly. That was new.
She secured the CheyTac, returned to her quarters, and collapsed onto her bunk. Captain Reyes was asleep in the other bunk, breathing steadily.
Shira closed her eyes. Five more kills. Running total: 61 confirmed.
How high would the number go before she was done?
She didn’t know.
AUGUST 2015 - MOUNTAIN WARFARE
The rhythm in Afghanistan was different from Iraq. The operations were smaller, more surgical. The terrain dictated everything—narrow valleys, steep ridgelines, villages perched on hillsides like eagles’ nests.
And the altitude. Always the altitude.
Every mission started with brutal climbs that left even experienced Rangers gasping. Shira adjusted her ballistics calculations for the thin air, relearning her craft in an environment where oxygen was scarce and every breath mattered.
But the fundamentals remained: watch the Rangers, eliminate threats, bring everyone home alive.
MISSION VIGNETTE 1: THE RIDGE
AUGUST 18, 2015
Taliban fighters had been attacking Afghan Army checkpoints along Highway One, using a ridgeline position that gave them commanding views of the road. Coalition air assets couldn’t engage due to nearby civilian structures. Ground assault was deemed too costly.
So they sent Lilith.
Shira and a four-man Ranger security team inserted at night, climbed 2,000 feet of elevation to a parallel ridgeline, and waited.
At dawn, the Taliban fighters appeared—six of them, moving to their usual firing position 1,100 meters across the valley. They set up a PKM machine gun and began engaging Afghan Army vehicles on the highway below.
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