Lone Survivor_ The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10 ( PDFDrive )

My radio headset had been ripped away during my fall down the mountain,
but I still had the wires. And I somehow rigged up two of my chem lights, which
glow when you break them in half, and fixed them to the defunct radio wires.
And then I whirled this homemade slingshot around my head in a kind of
luminous buzz saw the first moment I saw a helicopter in the area.
I also had an infrared strobe light that I could fire up, and I had the laser from
my rifle, which I took off and aimed at the regular U.S. flyby. Jesus Christ! I was
a living, breathing distress signal. There’s got to be someone watching these
mountains. Someone’s got to see me. I was using this procedure only when I
actually saw a helicopter. And soon my optimism turned to outright gloom. No
one was paying attention. From where I was lying, it looked like I’d been
abandoned for dead.
By now, with the sun declining behind the mountains, I had almost all of the
feeling back in my legs. And this gave me hope that I might be able to walk,
although I knew the pain might be a bit fierce. I was getting dangerously thirsty.
I could not get the clogged dust and dirt out of my throat. It was all I could do to
breathe, never mind speak. I had to find water, and I had to get the hell out of
this death trap. But not until the veil of darkness fell over these mountains.
I knew I had to get myself out, first to water and then to safety, because it
sure as hell didn’t look like anyone was going to find me. I remember Axe’s
final words. They still rang clearly in my mind: “You stay alive, Marcus. And
tell Cindy I love her.” For Axe, and for Danny, and above all for Mikey, I knew I
must stay alive.
I saw the last, long rays of the mountain sun cast their gigantic shadows
through the canyon before me. And just as certainly, I saw the glint of the silver
barrel of an AK-47 right across from me, dead ahead, on the far cliff face, maybe
150 yards. It caught the rays of the dying sun twice, which suggested the
sonofabitch who was holding it was making a sweep across the wall of my
mountain, right past the crevasse inside of which I was still lying motionless.
And now I could see the tribesman in question. He was just standing there,
his shirtsleeves rolled up, wearing a blue and white checkered vest, holding his
rifle in the familiar low-slung grip of the Afghans, a split second short of raising
it to the firing position. The only conclusion was he was looking for me.
I did not know how many of his buddies were within shouting range. But I
did know if he got a clear sight across that canyon and somehow spotted me, I
was essentially history. He could hardly miss, and he kept staring across, but he
did not raise his rifle. Yet.