CHAPTER 6
Bin Qasim sat before the computer and checked for messages. It was brilliant and poetic the way it was done. One of the billions of pornographic websites the Satanic Westerners loved had pictures modified with encoded dots. He downloaded the images in question and ran them through for decoding. It was obscene the things the Godless enjoyed. Two scrawny, half-fed women, their loins shaved, licked perversely at each other. Somehow, this abomination was considered exciting.
But of the billions of sites, it was statistically impossible for the security forces to find this one, deduce the algorithm for the code, and crack it. Even then, it was a positional notation of numbers that had to be fed through a proper matrix of the Arabic alphabet to make sense, and code words were used. No code was unbeatable, but this was very secure. And very ironic to make their technology a weapon to be used against them. Especially when it generated some tens of thousands of dollars a month.
While the program worked on the series of images of Jana and Laurie, the Teen Sweatbox Lesbians, bin Qasim pondered other issues.
The newspaper woman was becoming jaded. No longer was she reacting with terrified eagerness. She knew what he expected, and it seemed she no longer really cared. It was always that way. They learned fear and obedience, then they learned contempt, then they had to be dispensed with, like a dog that would no longer follow commands.
Still, he considered, that meant he could strangle her, slowly. That would elicit a response. She’d quiver and gasp and thrash around, and that would be exciting. He understood, he thought, why Western men liked responsive women. But allowing them to join the world of men was a dangerous way to get a thrill. Far better this way.
Yes, she’d gasp and moan and her muscles would tighten under him. It was time for that final thrill before he moved on. And he’d be relocating his headquarters within a day or two anyway. There was no need for excess baggage.
The system was done. Turning his attention back to the screen, he opened a window. The information there made him smile. Another revolting club was about to feel the wrath of Allah, if not through Osama, his chosen instrument, then through bin Qasim, his messenger until the grace of God returned Osama to them from hiding. From bin Qasim the progression led to a lesser courier, to the man who would plant the bomb. Thus did Allah light the way for dozens of the Faithful to fulfill His commands.
He typed a reply that would be uploaded later that evening, with a “new” series of images. The photographer through whose camera eye these disgusting pictures were captured had no idea of how useful he was being. Nor would he be killed. His sins were, for now, of use. It would be just to gouge out his eyes, but punishment often waited for Allah, as was proper. Only certain actions in the mundane world were justifiable. Lesser evils would have to wait, and patience was one of the virtues.
Bin Qasim had been patient. Now he would take that bitch by the throat and enjoy the justice he would deliver. It was a small justice, but it gave him pleasure, and if Allah was thereby served, that pleasure was not a sin.
So far, so good, Kyle thought the next afternoon. Of course, all this, with stuffy bureaucrats, paperwork, jet lag, and crowding had been really minor compared to the leg ahead of them. Any deployment was like that, on the way in and the way out. The closer one got to the objective or home, the worse the trip became.
But they had all their gear prepped and ready, a TEMPER tent to themselves to rest in, the weapons sighted in and cleaned, then stuffed into soft cases wrapped in rags. If they could only get some rest, they’d be good to go at 0400.
Kyle had a problem, however. He could never sleep well the first night anywhere. Or, right before a major move. So more fatigue was in the cards for him, despite the nap he’d caught in the stuffy heat of the day. He sighed and lay still, comfortable enough in borrowed blankets on an actual issue bed frame, and focused on a spot on the side of the tent, hoping to zone himself asleep.
It didn’t work, but somehow he got an hour or two of honest rest anyway.
They were up at 0400, and out the gate at 0600, chauffeured by two MPs in civvies, one with an M4 and the other with a pistol. They rode in a civilian Suburban rather than a CUCV, so they could pass as press or other foreign visitors, as long as no one took a good look inside the vehicle. The troops on gate control had been warned to expect them, and made no comments, only nodded.
Then they were in the streets of Kandahar, stomachs full of butterflies. Kyle was regretting the oily coffee he’d had to warm him and wake him.
It was a city that was alive. Dirty it might be, with culture ranging from medieval barbarous to twenty-first-century hi-tech, from donkey-drawn carts with produce, textiles, and livestock, to the occasional cell phone and computer. But it was unique and interesting. The wandering armed men, burqa-clad women and rag-clothed children clashed with business people in Western-style suits or fine jellabas with kaffiyehs, turbans, or local hats. Persians, Indians, Afghans, Tajiks, South Africans, Pakistanis, Indonesians, Chinese, and almost every other culture were represented in some degree. Despite the early hour, a respectable portion of the populace was awake and about.
The driver sought the designated meeting place, weaving through tight, narrow streets that had been built with no thought for automobiles. They squeezed past a truck that looked to be seventy years old, with green plywood framing the cab and bed. It was stacked fifteen feet high with goods. It was well they had a Suburban, because a Humvee wouldn’t have fit. In fact, a smaller Toyota would have been large for these routes, and less conspicuous. The roads were what an American urbanite might call alleys, like those behind 1920s houses for garage or delivery access, except that shacks and buildings with raised wooden porches butted right up to them, with barely enough sidewalk for vendors. Merchants and foot traffic spilled right out into the street. Everything was a dun, dusty color.
Finally, the driver stopped. “Okay, we’re here. Now what?”
“We wait,” Kyle said. They were supposed to meet their local escort and guide, and be driven over the border quietly. It had all been arranged ahead of time, and by messages he was assured had been received. He’d feel better if he knew who had sent them, and what method had actually been used. Phone? Radio? Messenger snail?
“Okay. But can you help keep an eye out? I’d like to still have all four hubcaps when I return.”
“Sure.” Heck with the hubcaps, Kyle thought. They’d be lucky to hang on to their boots. Children were scraping at the doors, holding up food, jewelry, trinkets, even spare car parts. He’d forgotten what it was like in the third world. Bosnia had been much the same, as had Egypt during that training mission.
He was startled from his musing by loud honking from behind. The horn was flat and wheezed, but it was obviously intended to get their attention. Then the vehicle with it, a shabby old Toyota that might be twenty-five years old, pulled around them, close enough that Kyle expected sparks.
Their driver, Sergeant Fleming, carefully rolled down the window to the gestures from the passenger, and a torrent of Pashto came through. There were four men in the crew cab, and three more in the bed. In the Suburban, the specialist riding shotgun was clutching at his M4 and looking very nervous.
“Hold on!” Fleming said, gesturing.
Kyle in back tapped his partner on the shoulder and said, “Wade, let me over,” and began to scramble in the tight confines. The web gear they were wearing didn’t help. Wade squirmed underneath, Kyle on top, and they managed to swap places. He got the window down and said, “Ta tarjumen larey?” Do you have a translator? What was wrong here?
In response he heard a long but slow and enunciated phrase in Pashto and caught only “translator,” “dead,” “soon” and “sorry.” He thought he heard “Taliban” in there, too.
“Great,” he said to Wade. “Do we still want to go?” The irregularity was not reassuring. Frankly, he wasn’t convinced it was a good idea. So far, the whole thing seemed cobbled together.
“I think we should,” Wade said. “It’s not tripping my ohshit meter yet. But let’s keep an eye out for other irregularities.”
“Yeah.” Kyle thought about calling in on the Iridium, but there wasn’t much anyone would be able to tell him. He’d have to make the decision.
Suppressing a mental image of things going to hell and them getting shot, Kyle indicated the gear in back with his thumb, and pointed at the back of the other truck. Grinning wide teeth through his beard, the driver pointed forward, indicating they should follow. His teeth were dirty but intact. He probably didn’t get a lot of sugar here, but he likely didn’t have a toothbrush, either.
Fleming followed the truck into an alley, whereupon the passenger in the bed indicated they should reverse in. Fleming nodded and pulled them around, while the specialist riding shotgun kept a firm grip on his weapon and scanned every face he saw.
But there were no incidents as Wade clambered into the back cargo area, climbed through the back window and dragged the fabric-wrapped rifle case and two old battered rucksacks behind him, with Kyle bringing up the rear. Kyle relaxed his grip on the little Colt in his pocket, and hopped over the side of the bed to get in the empty front passenger seat.
“Sta nooni tse day?” he asked. What’s your name?
“Qalzai,” was the answer. Good. That was who he had been told to meet. At least the names matched. Now he just hoped they hadn’t been compromised. Though it could still be a Taliban setup to kidnap or murder them. Kyle was flushed, and his pulse was likely over 100 beats a minute.
“Okay,” he shouted back to the MPs. “Follow us until we’re out of town, and I guess we find a new translator as we go.” He was still prickly. He wanted a translator.
“Are you sure you’ll find one, sir?” Fleming asked. He hadn’t been introduced to Kyle until that morning, and to him, any American in this region in civilian garb was a “sir.” Delta, CIA, whatever, they were above his level.
“No, but it’s likely. We all want the same thing, so I expect some cooperation.” Kyle just wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
“Very well, sir.” It was clear the driver wasn’t very happy with the idea.
Turning back to Qalzai, Kyle said, “Lar,” and hoped it meant “go.” Whether it did or not, his meaning was clear and Qalzai grinned, nodded, and slipped the clutch.
The ancient vehicle’s gears ground and caught and they pulled away quickly. The Army driver followed at a reasonable distance as they wove through the streets. While it was clear Qalzai wasn’t trying to lose them, he was cheerfully and carelessly buzzing along.
“Um, ah,” Kyle said as he fumbled for the right phrase. Dammit, he needed to calm down. He was dwelling on the past again, not paying attention. He was a shaking bundle of nerves.
Wade spoke from the back, “Mehrabani waka pa karar kooz sha,” straight from the phrase book by rote. Please slow down.
With a quizzical look, Qalzai eased off the gas.
In a few minutes, they were at the edge of town, the shacks looking more and more bedraggled until there were none left. The ground was reminiscent of western Texas—slightly rolling, scrubby and fertile enough for a few hardy crops. The shacks were gone, Kyle noted, but occasional wide tents with sloping sides were visible here and there. To the south were the hills they’d have to cross.
With all the formalities taken care of, they waved a clear signal to the MPs that everything was as it should be. At least, they hoped so. Kyle felt suddenly very alone.
Shortly, they pulled over to the roadside.
“What’s happening?” Kyle asked, suspicious at once.
“We’re cool,” Wade said. “Clothes.”
“Ah. Good,” Kyle agreed with relief. From behind him came a local “chappan” jacket in bright cotton, a hat and head cloth, and a rough shirt for later. He got out, swapped jackets, climbed back in, and they were off once again in their Central Asian Plateau limousine. He was reassured. If they hadn’t been shot and dumped here, it was likely as it should be. But he was still nervous.
Trying to get names, Kyle turned toward the truck’s bed and introduced himself. “I am Kyle,” he said, thumbing his chest.
Qalzai chattered and pointed while Kyle and Wade wished he’d keep his hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, though there wasn’t much to hit on this plateau. Except boulders. Herds of goats. Maybe the occasional unexploded Russian bomb or land mine or Taliban artillery shell. But from the gestures and a few snatched words, they gathered the gist. Behind Qalzai was his son, Khushal, twenty something and not yet aged beneath his beard. Behind Kyle was a nephew, Shamsuddin, who looked about fifteen and skinny, though not naive. In back now with Wade were Udyat, Mirza, Qalandar, Bait, and Ajmal. They were all cousins or nephews of Qalzai, and varied from Ajmal who also looked like a teenager, through Bait, about thirty, who had leering, weird eyes, to Mirza who was about forty, though well worn for his age. They were all skinny, leathery, and with ragged hair. Their garb was boots, trousers, coats, and wool hats. Mirza’s coat was an old Soviet armor NCO’s overcoat.
With nothing else to do, and hoping to improve relations, Kyle pointed at the coat, back through the glassless rear window and over Shamsuddin’s shoulder. “Coat?” he asked, indicating his own jacket.
It worked. Mirza launched into a long story that almost certainly started with the Pashto equivalent of “No shit, there I was, thought I was gonna die. . . .” He talked loudly, to be heard over the vehicle noise, for a good fifteen minutes, to chuckles and jeers from his fellows, while Kyle and Wade picked up local intonation and rhythm for the language, and got an ear on phonemes. As to vocabulary, they only caught about one word in ten or fifteen, but that was enough to confirm that he’d fought the Soviets as a boy and was quite proud of his trophy. And the story was a familiar social interaction to Kyle. It helped calm him down.
The road across the plateau was fairly decent by local standards. It was dirt, but marked with rocks periodically, and signs put up by some residue of government long ago. Most of the signs had been salvaged as building materials over the years. Debris was mostly cleared to the sides, and picked through for anything useful. They rumbled along to war stories from Mirza and Qalzai, punctuated by grinding gears, occasional backfires, and a clatter from the rusted exhaust.
Kyle learned to loathe the vehicle in short order. Sure, it had character, with its chipped and faded paint, exposed and crumbling foam in the seats, the hole rusted in the floorboard, and the missing roof, replaced by a sheet of tough canvas attached to the pillars.
But then there were the ticking valves and the cylinder that kept missing, the carburetor that backfired whenever the engine revs changed substantially, grinding gears, and howling differential. The combination made conversation impossible. That “tough canvas” over the cab was full of pinholes worn by age and flapped and snapped in the wind. And there was a spot on the seat worn to bare metal, which kept jabbing Kyle in the spine and right kidney, even through his jacket and load vest underneath it. They jounced over a potholed strip that could only charitably be called a road and every bump and shimmy caused him to be stabbed again.
And that shimmy . . . he could swear a motor mount was broken, and perhaps an axle mount, too. He was just glad they were not yet riding the edge of those mountains. This was a hell of a way to travel. He almost wished for a horse, though he’d only ever ridden nags at fairs or on his uncle’s neighbor’s farm.
It was a long trip, even as short a distance as it officially was, less than 200 miles. Besides the worn truck, there were detours around flocks, holes, burned or broken vehicles. Those last were quickly stripped of anything useable, and were mere hulks. It seemed as if any car parts were quickly scavenged, and it didn’t take long for even engines to be pulled. He’d seen a couple of truck beds used as wagons, too. The materials were too valuable to waste.
He wondered how much money he could make by opening an auto parts store.
They ate on the road, cold goat and rice and beans. It was mostly bland under a sauce that provided heat but little flavor. Goat was close to lamb, of course, but stringier. Still, it seemed sanitary enough, and was nutritious if boring. Water was from their own CamelBaks, and they’d filter everything they came across. While it was supposed to be a short mission, Kyle didn’t crave screaming diarrhea while he tried to take a shot. There were at least three rivers on the route, and they’d crossed the Tarnak and Argestan Ruds already.
The trip was dusty. It had started chilly in the morning, was warm at midday, and quickly cooled again. The local clothes were stale and smelled of dried sweat, but kept him warm. The hat and head cloth were actually quite comfortable and practical, and would mask his features. He hoped no one noticed Wade. Height might be overlooked, but black skin was very out of place here. On the other hand, Wade was a good sergeant, a great shot, and very steady and reliable. It was an Army thing that Kyle wasn’t going to dig into. He was quite sure Wade had his own musings on the subject.
They passed through several small villages, drawing gasoline from 1950s-style pumps, from rusty gravity-flow tanks set on scaffoldings and from cans they carried in the bed. It seemed precarious, especially as the gas gauge didn’t work. None of the instruments worked, in fact, but their host was cheerful and unconcerned. He acted as a tour guide, pointing at sights and waving and gesticulating. Kyle nodded back, made “yeah” sounds now and then and tried to feign interest in little huts, rocky ridges, and bends in the road. He couldn’t tell if the stories were “we fought a great battle here” or “here’s where my youngest boy’s son was born” or “best breakfast in the country, until they got shot up.” Still, he tried to be polite.
By late afternoon it was chill as they rose higher into the Toba Kakar Range toward the border, then turned to follow it east along a very crude track that could only charitably be called a “road.” They wished to avoid the refugee camps at Chaman, and to the west was lifeless desert. Toward the mountains was their best route. Traffic was almost nonexistent and what there was was animal drawn.
The road had been built in the 1970s, as a U.N. project. The U.S. had built a modern, two-lane road around half the perimeter of Afghanistan. It had been a good road in its time, but thirty years of weather, wear, and abandonment had reduced it to rubble. It was a pity. To the north and east, the Soviets had outdone themselves and built a modem, multilane highway. Everyone had wondered why, until their tanks had rolled in by that route a few years later.
Kyle mused until they pulled off into a draw that paralleled the road, apparently in search of shelter.
A canvas tarp was stretched out from poles set into crudely welded rings in the truck’s bed, and stretched out with thin nylon twine and metal stakes forged from rebar. They were done in time for sunset, and prayers were chanted, everyone facing southwest toward Mecca. After that, Shamsuddin and Mirza lay down in the truck bed, across fuel cans and spare tires and went straight to sleep. Bait and Udyat, mean and worn-looking, walked off a few feet with their AKs and lit up cigarettes while they stood watch. Wade commented, “Think we should tell them how badly that screws up their night vision?”
“Nah,” Kyle replied. “We’re taking turns on watch. I don’t trust anyone with our package,” he said, referring to the cloth-wrapped, cased Barrett.
“No problem. Four hours?”
Kyle nodded, “Yup. I got some bad z’s in the cab. How about you?”
Wade smiled, teeth white in startling comparison to the locals. “That’s the most comfortable bed full of sharp metal, spares, guns, rotten boots, slimy muck, gas cans, trash, and assorted crap I’ve ever slept in.”
“Well, good. I’ll swap off with you tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Wade said, shaking his head. “I’d be cramped as hell in that tiny cab. The honor is all yours.”
“Right. Goodnight, then,” Kyle said, pulling a poncho and liner from his ruck and using those as his bedding.
“Sweet dreams, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Kyle did sleep well. He didn’t realize how comfortable he was until Wade woke him at 0200.
“Rise and shine,” he heard, and shook himself awake. It was chill out, and he realized he’d been clutching the poncho liner around himself. It was like camping again, as it had been when he was fourteen. Only that had been his uncle’s farm and this was a range of mountains where unfriendly strangers would try to kill him.
“I’m up,” he said, standing, stretching, and taking the M4. He made a quick and automatic chamber inspection. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Just you and our two teenage chaperones,” Wade said, indicating the two boys on watch. “Though they seem reliable and not too nervous.”
“Good,” Kyle said. “Not nervous is good.”
“Right,” Wade agreed. “See you in four hours.” He had his own poncho in the truck with his gear, but it made more sense to just swap off as they had weapons. Less packing was less time wasted. He lay down and was snoring before Kyle had walked out to the patrol point manned by the two locals.
“Assalam u alaikum,” he said in Pashto. Peace be unto you, the local equivalent of “Good evening.”
One of them replied, “Wa alaikum u ssalam.” And upon you peace.
“Saba hawa tsanga da,” he asked. What will the weather be like?
“Hooriaz rag'la,” he heard. Cloudy. Then a bunch of what was gibberish.
“Ze ne pohigam, wobakha, ” he said. I don’t understand, sorry. He’d memorized that one early.
They shrugged back and all three resumed silence. He’d used much of what little Pashto he had to stay in practice. It wasn’t enough, even with a laptop and phrase books. There was no time for that while shooting. So they’d still need an interpreter to get anything done. But hopefully they’d find one soon.
The teens were quiet. They stayed still and didn’t fidget, and didn’t smoke at the post, taking turns to go back behind the truck and shielding their eyes. Decent discipline, for what were essentially militia. Kyle was reassured. At least they weren’t bumbling amateurs, even if they were largely illiterate tribespeople.
It was a good watch, which is to say a boring one. Absolutely nothing happened before 0600. No animals stumbled across them, no one attacked, no stray rocks dislodged and fell. Nothing created any disturbance. Kyle was relieved to see dusk grow from gray to purplish blue overhead.
They drove as soon as everyone was awake and prayers said. Breakfast was bread and a few precious cans of soup, heated over the engine during a few moments’ rest an hour later. Kyle and Wade settled for MRE spaghetti, also heated against the block.
Looking over, Kyle asked, “Got enough hot sauce there?”
Wade grinned and finished emptying the tiny bottle. “I carry extras. Always useful. Makes the stuff edible, at least.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty bland,” he agreed. “But some of the new ones are decent.”
They dug in with spoons, stirring to mix the hot and cold areas of the packets into something resembling warm food. It wasn’t really breakfasty food, but it was familiar and nourishing. “You did bring extra toilet paper, I hope.”
“Four rolls,” Wade agreed. “Dunno what they use here. Leaves, sand—”
“Skidmarks,” Kyle suggested.
“Thank you,” Wade said. “That goes so well with spaghetti.”
“You’re welcome,” Kyle replied, smiling. He reflected it was a good thing he wasn’t a coffee addict. Coffee here was almost nonexistent, thin and bitter, the imported Arab beans not the best.
Of course, heating it on the engine didn’t improve the flavor. Though likely some of the glop that passed as engine oil would. Some of the men were grumbling about not having any tea, but they’d have to wait until lunch.
While they stood around the opened hood, their escorts jabbered back and forth. A couple smoked unfiltered cigarettes down to bare stubs, which they saved for reuse later. Unlike Western cigarettes, they came in bundles, not packs, and were slightly conical rolls. Kyle had wondered at first if they were joints, but they did smell like tobacco. The smoke was fragrant. “Indian,”‘ Wade said. Kyle took his word for it. He sucked down a few cupfuls from his CamelBak to stay hydrated. They had spare canteens along, but would still have to find a well or river soon.
Then they were back on the road as the shadows shrank and the few brave drops of dew lost their battle with the arid environment. A dry wash was to their right and south, weathered and old. Farther west, it became a stream.
Shifting in the seat, Kyle tried to get comfortable in some fashion, back at an angle against the seat, feet toward the drive hump, elbow on the window ledge. It didn’t work, though he could have been much more uncomfortable, he thought. The bench seat was far enough forward for Qalzai, who might be five feet six. Kyle broke six feet and was much longer limbed. He wondered how Wade was managing in the back, crammed in with junk and five militiamen. Plus their very expensive and very precious rifle.
Ahead, he could see what was the peak of this particular ridge of the mountain range. There were likely others beyond it. Wade had been right; it was much like Nevada, only more lawless and desolate.
He didn’t realize that he managed to doze. His body had adapted to the inevitable, head on hand, and the steady bouncing had a hypnotic effect. That combined with the warmth, the very short sleep plus the fatigue of the trip zoned him into a nap.
He was still out when the rickety old vehicle braked and stopped. “What’s going on?” Kyle asked, shaking himself awake. They were alongside a vehicle that was coming the other way, and Kyle was disturbed that he’d been asleep. If it had been a threat . . .
But it didn’t appear to be. Qalzai spoke to the other driver. They rapid-fired words at each other, loudly and with furrowed brows. Gestures passed back and forth as both troops grasped at pistols, just in case. Kyle opened up the laptop, keeping it in the footwell for now. He had a feeling the dictionary was going to be useful.
As the other vehicle drove off with waves all around, Qalzai spoke to his son. Kyle handed him the laptop, and the boy brightened. A computer was a neat thing to him, and after a quick explanation, he scrolled through the words on screen and said haltingly, “Border ahead. Guarded American Marine soldiers.”
“Oh,” Kyle said. It was the smartest thing he could think of to say.
Wade asked, “Bypass it?”
“No,” Kyle said. “We’ve got ID, we’ll go through. Let me handle it.”
“You’re the boss,” Wade agreed, sounding unsure.
Kyle turned back to Khushal and said, “Approach slowly and let me talk.” He used his hands a lot to get the point across.
As they reached the peak of the rutted pass, the road split. To the left was the road to Ghazluna, which they wanted to avoid. Not only was it a visible area, but there were solid border patrols. Instead, they curved off to the right and south. Ahead could be seen a checkpoint, clearly guarded by Marines in Humvees mounting M19s and M240s, and a Pakistani detachment with an M113 APC. Apparently, something was expected to cross the line that the Marines wanted to take a look at. But they’d be easier to deal with than Pakistani guards in a populous town, with no U.S. presence, had they taken the other route.
One of the armored and helmeted figures waved them forward, palm flat to indicate they should slow and stop. Qalzai eased the grinding clutch in and crept up. Everyone had his hands visible. The tracking guns helped keep everyone’s attention.
As they stopped, the M4-armed Marine spoke in halting Pashto. Kyle drew back the cloth over his face and said, “I’m American, Marine. So’s my assistant.”
“Who are you, sir?” the kid asked. He might be twenty-two at most, but he spoke the language, was dusty and dry and had eyes too wise for that age. He might be surprised but he wasn’t impressed. Across from him was another youngster with an SAW.
“Army. Intel. Monroe, SFC, and Curtis, Staff. Here’s our orders and our ID,” he replied, handing forward the documents as Wade uncovered his own face. His dark skin actually helped here, as further identification. There were almost no blacks in Afghanistan, and almost certainly none who weren’t American or French. “We need to talk to your commander.”
The Marine read over the orders a bit haltingly, strange acronyms giving him pause. But they were clearly U.S. Army orders, and the accompanying letter said to extend any requested facilities or equipment to the two soldiers identified. “Gunny Reagan is in charge. Come with me, but leave the weapons, please.”
“Can do,” Kyle agreed, and climbed out the back slowly. Wade would stay to guard the gear.
Gunny Reagan was obvious. He had a slight grizzled look, a demeanor that bespoke confidence and command. This was a man who wouldn’t need to raise his voice. He extended a hand for the orders, and said, “Gunnery Sergeant Reagan, and you are?”
“Kyle Monroe, SFC, U.S. Army. Pleased to meet you.”
“What’s the deal?”
“’Fraid I can’t say, Gunny. Sergeant Curtis and I are cleared to cross the border, and we may or may not be back this way. In the meantime, I need to ask that you and your men forget I was ever here.”
Reagan nodded that he heard the statement, but not that he agreed. He looked over the letter, flipped back to the orders again, scanned them, and said, “Then let me call in this code here and see what I’m told.” He looked at Kyle for any evasiveness.
“Go right ahead,” Kyle agreed. He didn’t blame the man. Documents could be forged easily enough, and the two could be reporters, spies, drug dealers, sympathizers, or anything else, even antiwar nutcases wanting to make headlines. The Marine strode briskly over to the nearest Humvee, climbed in the passenger side but left a leg dangling, and reached for a radio.
It could be a few minutes, with relays through various air and ground stations, so Kyle dropped into parade rest and waited. It was a comfortable enough position and it wasn’t likely to make anyone nervous. He was glad of the cloth over his head in the hot sun. He hoped no one lost a file and left him with the Marines. It would be embarrassing.
Shortly, Reagan came back. He handed over the dusty sheets and the ID and said, “Forget what?” There was a perfectly rehearsed confused look on his face. He gave a thin, tight-lipped smile, extended his hand to shake and said, “Good hunting, whoever the hell you are and whatever the hell you’re doing.”
“Semper Fi, Gunny,” Kyle grinned back.
“Semper Fi. No problem. Good day.” He turned and said, loud enough to be heard but not shouting, “Let this vehicle pass.” One of the troops repeated it in Pakhto to the Pakistani squad. The two and their guides were scrutinized curiously, but they weren’t hassled with further questions.
They resumed their jolting, dusty progress. The only good thing, apart from the few minutes of respite, was that the gunny’s call had confirmed their whereabouts for the chain of command and made the next call-in less urgent. Still, Wade dialed in and reported their position. Things got lost in passage, and it was better to contact directly. “We’re good,” he said as he disconnected. “Spoke to his exec.”
Kyle had thought downhill would be less nerve-wracking. He’d forgotten that the truck’s brakes were as bad as the rest of it. They squealed and slipped and pulled to the right, while Qalzai ground the gears to torque-brake against the engine, and pulled on the hand brake, too. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be necessary to use feet. Once, when they met a car coming the other way, also overloaded with gear, they seemed to hang in empty space. Kyle held tightly to the door handle, clutched at the seat and said nothing. Somehow, the thought of a roll down the mountain was less appealing than that of being shot. He reminded himself that Qalzai had done this before, likely for his entire life, and that it should be safe. While he did so, the wheels slipped for just a moment on a slope that was a bare hairsbreadth from the cliff.
Kyle was only too glad when they hit a wide spot with rock on both sides, and took a break. He had to piss very badly, and Wade did, too.
They continued up and down sharp ridges and escarpments, the road cut at steep angles and worn. The wind and the weight of vehicles and even the centuries of animal hooves and human feet had worn things down. Many of the routes had never been intended to take motorized vehicles, and had been damaged further. Sometimes, the truck would scrape one side or the other on rocks as they negotiated a narrow stretch. Qalzai could be heard to mutter what could only be curses.
That was scary, Kyle thought. If the local guide was worried, he probably should be, too. He began to wish they’d simply parachuted in where they needed to go.
But they were stuck with this, and it had only been two days so far. Two long, aching, sweaty, gritty nerve-wracking days.
It was dusky by then, making the descent even more interesting. Kyle heaved a sigh of relief, as did Wade, when Qalzai leveled them out at the bottom of the slope. They stopped again for the night on this local plateau. It gave them good visibility against incoming trouble, but less protection against wind. As dark fell fast and hard, Qalzai pulled them off into the scrub and picked a spot where they should be slightly hidden. They were behind a slight rise that would also give them the tactical advantage if attacked.
“We shouldn’t be at risk,” Wade said. “Pakistan is friendly territory and a civilized nation.”
“Do you really believe that?” Kyle asked. The two were standing back as the Pashtun pitched the canvas tarp.
“No, but I sound convincing, don’t I?” Wade grinned.
“Yeah,” Kyle said. “Keep that thing loaded and a sharp eye out.”
“Right,” Wade agreed with a nod. He was still smiling, but serious underneath.
The night chilled rapidly. Udyat and Qalandar unpacked a salted haunch of goat, which they roasted over a small, smoky fire of scrub stalks. Along with beans and rice, it made an adequate meal. The beans and rice were so much cardboard to the Americans, but the goat had a rich aroma and the salted flavor was welcome, if a bit strong. It was stringy, chewy meat, too. Still, it was meat, and the smoke from the fire added to their hunger, even if it was a bit astringent and harsh. Kyle had brought a box of rations, and decided he’d break them out within the next day or two, to boost morale and pull favors, though the idea of pulling favors with MREs was hysterical.
Once done eating, Kyle slipped down into his poncho and liner, ruck as a pillow, and was soon in that warm state between dreams.
Then a shot crashed nearby.
He kicked off the covers automatically as he snatched for his .45. Wade was already dropping down behind him, safety coming off the M4 with a snick. Kyle’s heart was thudding as his body temperature soared and sweat beaded on his skin. He wished for something heavier than a pistol, but the Barrett was too heavy and there was only one M4. None of the locals had a spare AK, or if they did, now was not the time to be asking.
“What happened?” he asked Wade. He was shaking. The shot had his nerves fried.
“I dunno,” Wade said. There was yelling, and another shot as everyone else finished scrambling out and for cover.
Recalling what had happened so far, Kyle asked, “Were both shots outgoing?”
Wade hesitated, and said, “Yes.”
“Okay. So let’s not do anything sudden.”
“Agreed.”
Qalzai was yelling out at one of the others, who was yelling back. Then he went out into the dark, shouting as he did so.
“Who’s out there?” Kyle asked.
“Er . . .” Wade said, “Ajmal and Qalandar.” Shortly, Qalzai returned with Qalandar. Qalzai held both rifles. His face was a cross between amused and disgusted.
“What was it?” Kyle asked.
Qalzai said something that was hard to comprehend, but included “fighting” and “sick.” Turning to Wade, Kyle said, “Near as I can tell, the man suffers from PTSD.” He could see that. He had some of it himself. And right now, it was very near the surface.
Wade said, “Post traum—well, I guess that’s understandable.”
“Yup. And we’re not in any danger. So why don’t I take over on watch and you sleep?” “Sleep? After that?” Wade replied. “Funny. But I can hold your hand and sing you a lullaby until you calm down.”
They both laughed nervously. It had been terrifying for a few moments there.
“We’re both staying up, I assume?” Kyle asked.
Wade nodded, “Yeah, for now. Hell, we don’t need sleep anyway.”
It was cold, near freezing, with frost and hoarfrost and gelatinous dew clinging to every patch of green amidst a sinking, swirling mist that was starting to settle.
“If we’d had this fog when we woke up, I think I would have crapped my pants. This is creepy,” Wade said.
“Tell me about it,” Kyle agreed. “Isn’t it amazing how a mission so simple on paper can turn to shit at every stage?” Their mission was very simple in theory: go in, meet up with locals, find target, eliminate target, withdraw. He still doubted it would go that smoothly.
“The Army way. Has been since at least the Romans.”
“Yeah,” Kyle replied, his nod unseen in the dark. “Want me to get out NVGs or warm up something with an MRE heater?”
“Save the goggles,” Wade advised. “But yeah, something warm. Cocoa? Coffee?”
“Sure. How about a blend of both with extra creamer to create a nice Italian mocha latte?” Wade grimaced at the thought. “You can really be a sick son of a bitch, you know that?” They both chuckled and he said, “Just cocoa, thanks.”
The MRE heater was a calcium carbide grid in a plastic bag. Adding water made it churn out hydrogen bubbles and lots of heat. There were also ways to use them as small incendiaries, but Kyle hoped mightily they wouldn’t get that far down the drain on this mission, no matter what went wrong. He dropped one plastic heater package into each of their canteen cups, risking minor contamination and bitterness, which got the water boiling. He decided cocoa did sound preferable to coffee, and doctored his with extra sugar. Wade kept up a small patrol area, with the rise, the truck, and a rock dome as cover, while Ajmal and Shamsuddin watched the heaters in amazement. Their whispered conversation was unintelligible, but they were obviously awed by the technology. They knew of radios and small arms, artillery and aircraft, even chemlights. But there were many very basic military items they’d never encountered. These worked the same way as miner’s lamps of a century before, just without a flame. Here, they’d been forgotten or never known.