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CHAPTER 7



Kyle and Wade were both still gritty-eyed and exhausted when dawn turned to a boiling oil sunrise oozing over the ranges. They hoped to reach their destination today and start the mission proper. Aching and stiff, still chilled from the night, they crawled back into the truck.

Qalzai turned the heater on, and it worked after a fashion. The fan had long since burned out, but motion created positive airflow. With the windows closed and the broken back glass wide open, all they succeeded in doing was drawing hot air past the boots and up their legs, but that helped immensely. Kyle shivered in his Goretex parka and pants and Nomex gloves, and wondered how Wade was managing in back. The day warmed slowly.

Amazingly, he did manage to nod off, head lolling forward. He awoke like that around eight, and had an excruciatingly stiff neck to go with the acid stomach and headache. Sighing, he drank water, that being all that was currently available. He longed for the one thing he couldn’t have: bacon and eggs.

Qalzai said little, but he did mention “Da sail ar chai” and “rasturan.” Breakfast tea something restaurant. Kyle agreed and nodded.

They splashed across a shallow ford of the Pishin Lora River. What was here might have been a road and proper crossing at some point. Now it was just a wide spot with flat rocks. The vehicle tilted and swayed at a steep angle, but they were across soon enough.

Their first destination became visible as they cleared a rise beyond the bank. Berishtiya was a sizeable town, which surprised Kyle, it being located in the ass-end of nowhere. It was likely a center for what passed as trade and government out here.

“Not even a McDogfood’s,” he quipped to Wade, who chuckled. They could see all of it easily from here. It was all block and bleached tin roofs packed in closely.

Wade leaned close and whispered, “Not even a bar or whorehouse. No wonder some of these guys are mean.” They both stifled laughs from that.

Khushal was giving them an odd look as Kyle turned back around. “Just a joke about the terrain,” he said, figuring to be vague. “It’s similar to some of our Western desert.” Then it took ten minutes to use the laptop to assemble the sentences into something understandable. By then they were near the town.

“I think America is green?” Khushal asked, looking quizzical.

“Oh, no,” Wade cut in. “Desert, mountain, arctic cold to the north, wet forests, plains, swamps, some of everything. We just don’t have time to visit a lot of it.”

Kyle added, “And we don’t often fight in the mountains. More often in the woods or cities.” They picked out enough words to get the points across.

Khushal studied the screen and nodded. “All mountains here. Pretty, yes?”

“Sure are,” Kyle agreed. If you dig bleak, cold, and lifeless. But he wasn’t going to insult a man who was his host, brave enough to fight the bloodthirsty freaks who were not anxious to relinquish this land, and who was necessary to keep him alive.

Berishtiya was in a high valley. There actually was quite a bit of greenery there, compared to the stark cliffs. Flocks and herds of sheep and goats munched here and there, and they had to slow to get through them. The roads were dirt mostly, though there was one section that had been paved sometime in the last century, and some graveled areas.

Traffic wasn’t heavy, but the streets were as narrow as they’d learned to expect. Donkey-drawn carts, VWs, rattly old Mercedes cars, and unknown Indian cars fought for space, drivers cheerfully shouting and waving fists at each other, demanding Allah bless or curse the obstacles in front of them, depending on mood.

Among the shanties and shacks were a few better buildings. Some appeared to be civic centers. There were nicer houses, in that they had land, block walls with pierced concrete, stone walls around courtyards, sheds, or garages and balconies. One had a worn fountain or pool, now dry and choked with dust. The mayor and chief of police lived here, Kyle surmised. Or perhaps some local warlord or black marketer. He didn’t need to know and wasn’t going to ask.

Small shops were scattered, and small was the operative word. Some of them might be a hundred square feet, a ten-foot hut with an awning, open in front. Some were more spacious. Kyle didn’t understand that. With all the empty room they had, why not make use of the space?

Then his thoughts were distracted by the smells of food.

They pulled up near a clutch of small buildings with a courtyard. A fire was going in a brick stove, and pots were crowded on the surface, with other things in the oven area. Two women in long dresses and veils were bustling about tending the food, and several children, better fed than their northern neighbors, scurried about, helping and hindering and being chastised.

Qalzai and Khushal hugged another man and swapped greetings, then laughed loudly. Shortly, they were all hunkered down around a low table, drinking at hot, sweet tea and tearing at bread, with jam and goat milk to spread and dip. It wasn’t the most appetizing breakfast the Americans had seen, but they managed.

Kyle grabbed the laptop from his coat—he’d been carrying it alongside everywhere, figuring it was harder to replace than a rifle, and easier to steal. He opened it up and grabbed the dictionary program, so they could communicate more.

At once, he was surrounded by a mob of children, who were highly impressed and very excited. They’d likely never seen anything like it, heard only stories, and here was a tiny TV with images on it. They were delighted.

Kyle swore, and heard Wade mutter, too. The last thing they needed was publicity. While it wasn’t an obvious connection from computer to assassin, it was certainly a hint of visitors from the West, and that combined with a shot or two would be serious intel for their target, the Pakistani authorities, or anyone.

He closed it at once, shooed the children away, and Qalzai said what was clearly, “You children go play and leave the adults alone.”

“Phrasebook for now,” Kyle said to Wade.

“Apparently our best choice,” Wade nodded.

After eating, they sat back as the men pulled out a tall vaselike ceramic container with a narrow neck.

“That can’t be what—” Kyle started to say as Wade said, “Hashish pipe.”

“Oh, great,” Kyle said.

“Typical here,” Wade said. “Hash has been used in Central Asia for at least three thousand years. Just smile and ignore it. If they make a stink, fake a hit.”

“I’m sure the Army will love this in the after action review,” Kyle said.

But the man charitably offered to share, and simply smiled when Kyle and Wade declined. The others each had a few good lungfuls, and seemed to mellow out. It didn’t appear to be an addictive habit for them, merely a social thing like a drink. But Kyle hoped they didn’t plan on driving again soon.

He was relieved when Qalzai said, “We stay here,” or something close to it, with, “Friends help.” So they were waiting for allies, or spies or something. Fair enough, as long as it wasn’t too long a wait. Kyle and Wade both knew they were nervous, and kept eyeing each other, waiting for one of them to express their distrust. It wasn’t that their guides were unreliable, it was that the locals were well networked and they weren’t. The word would get out sooner or later, and that would make their stalk and shoot much more problematical. Best to do it quickly, shoot and scoot, before anyone had any suspicions. But if they needed more intel, they’d have to wait.

They spent all day in the compound. At least it felt like a compound. Wade explained the reason it felt that way.

“The home is all-important. So the buildings look in on the courtyard. It’s part of why they’re so clannish and have so little nationalism. Comes from early times, and was reinforced when Alexander stormed through here; they built to provide defensive walls. And since then . . .”

“Since then they’ve been at each other’s throats in some fashion,” Kyle offered.

“Yes,” Wade said. “Mongols, Moghuls, the Afghan empire, the Kazakhs, the British, the Soviets, always someone.”

“Wonderful,” Kyle groused.

“They’re a very proud people,” Wade said. “Unfortunately, they’re stuck in the Middle Ages.”

“I wondered,” Kyle said. “They seem to have bright cotton fabrics, lots of horses, all stuff that would have made them rich five hundred years ago.”

“It did,” Wade nodded. “But they haven’t changed much since. And the Taliban influence took them back even further. The burqa used to be a mark of a high-class lady who didn’t need to show her face. Now it’s a prison.”

“So let’s get our shot and leave them in peace,” Kyle said.

“Suits me.”

They passed the day reviewing manuals mentally, looking over maps, practicing the language, handling gear and discussing it, talking tactics, and swapping war stories. Lunch was brought to them by a very pretty young girl, perhaps ten, in bright diamond-patterned cloth with a scarf over her chestnut hair. She smiled and blushed and gave them a flat bowl of mutton and lentil pies.

“Sta na shukria,” Kyle said. She giggled and left.

The only odd part of the day was the constant prayers. Five times a day, everyone bowed to the southwest where Mecca was and prayed.

“That’s a lot of time used up,” Kyle said.

“And keeps them subservient. The nutcases make use of that.”

“Yeah. Remember the plane flight and the map?”

“Exactly,” Wade said.

Kyle leaned close and spoke softly, “Do you notice anything odd about Bait?”

“You mean that he’s always watching us and has beady eyes?” Wade replied.

“So it’s not just me.”

“No, I see it, too. I think he’s the real contact here.”

“So why isn’t he open about it?” Kyle asked.

“Dunno. Bears watching though. Or he could just be curious.”

“Could be,” Kyle admitted. He didn’t believe it. The man looked at them every time he passed by. Either he’d never seen Americans before, or he wanted something.

Or maybe he was just eager to have the shot taken. Perhaps he’d lost family in the war? Many had.

Kyle and Wade were busy enough reviewing maps and texts, and Qalzai and his men returned around dinnertime. They couldn’t converse much. Khushal gave them what he could. They would rise early, and then would travel again and work on the shot. That seemed reasonable, and they nodded agreement.

As it grew dusky, the sun leaving violet streaks over the plains to the west, they rolled out their bedding, set their gear for easy access, and tried to sleep.

The hut they were in was crude but weatherproof. The blocks were tight against wind and the corrugated sheet-metal roof kept potential elements at bay. The floor was earth, but packed hard enough from years of use to be almost concrete. There was a faint smell of goat. Still, they decided to swap off on watch, cradling the loaded M4. Kyle paced quietly, far back from the lone window, occasionally sneaking a peek through a chink in the back door. That way were mountains and nothing else. Out front was the courtyard, plunged in deep shadows with little going on, except the occasional person walking through to the latrine out back. An occasional passing vehicle overheard outside—he counted only three in four hours, and one of those a donkey-drawn cart—was the limit of activity. He scratched at his scraggly, growing beard. It was one more minor annoyance that wouldn’t go away.

When he swapped off with Wade at 0200, he was drained from the tension, and managed to sleep easily.

Still tired and aching, they cleaned up with bleach wipes and headed out. Qalandar nodded from across the small compound where the others were, and soon Qalzai and Khushal joined them. Qalandar stayed behind and the four walked into town. Kyle was nervous as hell about leaving the weapon unattended, and said so to Wade.

“Yes, but we’ve got to show some trust. Besides, I’ve got the bolt and the ammo,” Wade noted.

“Yes,” Kyle said. “But I signed for the damned thing. This is very nonreg.”

“So it is,” Wade agreed. “So’s the whole mission. But if we make a point of always leaving one of us by the truck, everyone will figure out in a hurry that there is something there of interest to the Americans. Guarding the truck is good. Only us guarding the truck is bad.”

“You’re right,” Kyle admitted. “But I still don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Wade said. “I’ve got to keep the radio with me. That’s even more accountable than the rifle.”

“True.” The encryption hardware for SINCGARS was something any foreign government would pay a fortune for. It wasn’t excessively large, but had to be carried at all times. Wade had a small, nondescript canvas bag to tote it in.

Dawn brought activity, and the townspeople were soon bustling with their day’s activities. There were cries from peddlers, occasional curses from teamsters wrestling carts or trucks through the narrow accesses, and smells of animals and food.

“Very Middle Ages,” Kyle commented.

“Except for the Mercedes diesels, yes,” Wade replied with a wry smile.

“I dunno. Looking at the shape that sucker is in,” Kyle said as he pointed at one such, “I could believe it’s five hundred years old.”

“Nah, not more than two hundred. It still has unrusted sections.”

“That’s due to the dry climate,” Kyle replied. This was fun.

“You win,” Wade conceded.

Indicating with a tilt of his head, Kyle said, “Those hills are just as impressive from this side.”

Wade said, “Yeah. Greener than Nevada, about like northern New Mexico. Or maybe parts of the Arizona desert, but more bush and less cactus.”

“What’s that sound?” Kyle asked.

“Hold on,” Wade said, and cocked an ear. It was a repetitive, rhythmic droning. “I think that’s a classroom.”

As they walked the noise grew, and became discernible as a chant of children. It did sound like a classroom, not a mosque.

Wade said, “Yup, right in there,” and pointed with a head tilt. They’d both become very good at not waving fingers around in just a very few days.

Through the open door they could see the stereotypical schoolmarm, except dressed in a full dress and with her head covered. Like many in the region, she wasn’t subtle. Her dress was purple with a shawl of checked blue and yellow, and her sleeves were embroidered as well. She was scribbling squiggly phrases on a blackboard and coaching young children through them.

“That’s a good sign, in this area,” Wade said.

“Yup. Best chance to end the paranoid theory that the Religion of Peace has to blow up every other group on earth.”

“It’s weird,” Wade said. “Since we got in theater, everyone has been kind, generous, decent. No one has mentioned you being white or me being black. We’re Americans, we’re not Muslim and they know it, and no one treats us badly because of it.”

“Yeah, it only takes a few assholes to make an entire nation look bad. Like this scum we’re going to bag.”

“Or Congress,” Wade added.

Kyle laughed, deeply but quietly. “We aren’t supposed to think seditious thoughts like that, my friend.”

“What sedition? I’m talking treason.”

“As long as it’s just talk,” Kyle said.

“Oh, sure. I’ll trust the political process. But I’m sure you agree there’s a few honorable members of Congress who’d look better as a billboard ad for the benefits of life insurance.” “Yeah, and if we all did that to our own tastes, we’d have no Congress left.”

“I don’t see what your problem is,” Wade replied, deadpan.

This time they both laughed.

They found an actual restaurant, and had scrambled eggs for breakfast with fresh flat bread. The tea was strong and very sweet. It was better than coffee, Kyle thought. Tasted lighter and cleaner, had caffeine but it wasn’t the kind that gave shakes nearly as much. He remembered in time not to insult the staff by leaving a tip—it implied that they weren’t paid enough. He did pay for all of them, and Qalzai hugged his thanks.

Back out on the street, the day was in full swing. There were numerous and varied people running around, some locals, some obviously transported refugees from Afghanistan. They were identifiable by the scrawny children. There was a boy of possibly five who might manage twenty pounds. Sad. And propaganda aside, the blame for that was purely on the Taliban for not letting the nation advance out of the Dark Ages. There simply wasn’t enough food, distribution, or education to operate. Reading scripture was a good thing, in Kyle’s view. Reading nothing but scripture, and doing nothing but read it, was a waste of life.

Back at the farm, while the men went out with their local cousin to ask questions, Kyle and Wade slept in shifts all afternoon, catching up from the draining travel. It was comfortably warm in the hut, if dusty. The little farmstead had a well and cistern that gave enough pressure to shower with under a bronze head well encrusted with scale and green with verdigris. But there was real soap, and they got clean. The women and children washed their clothes and kept them fed.

They used the well to fill up the five-gallon can they’d brought for the purpose. Once done, they siphoned the water through a filter and decanted it to their CamelBaks and canteens, then refilled the can for later use. They weren’t about to risk untreated water here, even after typhoid shots. If necessary, they had water treatment tablets, but those didn’t improve the taste any. Filtered was their choice.

The men all returned in time for dinner, and curried chicken over rice was served. They’d smelled it all day.

“You know,” Wade said, “if these people opened a restaurant in New Orleans, they’d have people flocking.”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Kyle agreed, throat worn rough from cumin and eyes watering. Holy crap, but it was hot. He’d had south-Texas ass-burner chili that didn’t come close. But Wade was packing it away with ease. Kyle consoled himself with the thought that it would come out as corrosive as it went in, and Wade wouldn’t be so calm then.

But he did thank their hostess, Noor, and her daughters. He’d seen the scrawny old chickens they had to work with, yet the meat in the dish was tender and juicy. They had to have been stewing it for a week to get it that soft. And under the heat it was tasty, far more so than the beans and rice they’d boiled or had cold en route.

That evening, they went out for another walk. The town rose up from the valley floor to the hillside where they were. Everything was dun and brown under pale green and straw growth. The buildings were amazingly like Southwestern adobe buildings. Form followed function, Kyle guessed. They were roofed in tile, sheet metal, or occasionally wood.

The streets weren’t in a grid, but wandered around. Between rickshas, carts, wagons, horses, donkeys, occasional Bactrian camels and pedestrians, even the late evening quiet kept them alert.

Something made Kyle stop for just a moment. He cocked his head and listened. “What was that?” he asked.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Wade said.

“Wait,” Kyle said.

Wade nodded silently.

“There it is again,” Kyle whispered. It was a hissing crack followed by a muffled, whimpering cry.

“Down the alley. Watch it and stay clear,” Wade warned.

They stepped past the dark tunnel carefully, peering into the darkness. Then the noise came again. Suddenly, the shadows resolved as an image, and Kyle flinched.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he did know that hitting a woman was unacceptable to him, and, as far as he knew, unacceptable to Muslims. As far as flogging and kicking and punching and ripping at her robe was concerned, he wasn’t going to stand for it no matter the local customs. He sized up the terrain quickly. It had trash cans, piled crates and pallets, some cardboard boxes, and a heap of something. There was enough room to maneuver, and it looked clear enough otherwise.

He slipped down the alley quietly but with haste, grabbed a good position behind the short, little asshole, and went to town.

Kyle knew how to “fight like a man.” He also knew it was usually a good way to lose, and that this punk didn’t deserve it. His first punch slammed the man in the kidney enough to make him stagger and cry out. He smashed his boot toe into an ankle, then spun the figure around and caught him a stiff hook up into the guts.

His victim dry-heaved and his eyes bugged out. Kyle took that as a sign, and pasted his left fist into the right eye, knowing it would bruise his knuckles and not caring. He followed with a right across the jaw, and a symbolic kick to the groin. He had near eight inches on the man, probably fifty pounds, and was in top shape. The snaggle-toothed little cretin tumbled back and struck his head on the wall and collapsed unconscious, broken and bleeding in the dust and grit.

“Tsanga ye?” he asked to the shifting form on the ground. How are you feeling? “Ye doctor larem?” He knew it was atrociously ungrammatical, but it was the best he could do.

A woman’s voice replied. He caught “okay,” “Allah” and “You (something) good.” Then she continued in accented but clear English, “Are you English?”

Wade hissed behind him, “Dude, this isn’t our fight!” and he laid a restraining arm back.

“We speak English,” he said. It wasn’t as if they could really deny it, but there was no need to admit a home country. There were Aussies and Brits here, not to mention a lot of Indian and South African traders who spoke English. It wasn’t much of a cover, but it wasn’t an admission.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “I am grateful to you.”

“What was that about?” he asked. He got a look at her now. Her face was red over the right eye, and would swell. Her lip was cut slightly, and had an ebon drop clinging. Other than that she was disheveled and dirty. Her attacker was still unconscious, though he wiggled slightly and moaned, so was obviously alive. That was Kyle’s only concern.

“I am a schoolteacher,” she said. “Some of the more . . . conservateef immigrants and refugees object to me teaching modem things. I’ve been harassed before, but never attacked.” He recognized her then. It was the woman they’d seen in class the day before.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asked. She was rising now, and he gave her a hand up.

“I have only bruises,” she said. “Besides, most doctors won’t touch a woman, and I have no man to allow it.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. If she wasn’t married or a daughter of someone, it would be hard for her to do anything. The Taliban-imposed customs required permission from a man, and without that she was not human, not to be dealt with. Kyle got angry all over again. The Taliban were officially gone, but their stink remained. Even across the border in Pakistan.

“We can find you a doctor,” he insisted. He wasn’t sure where, but he’d find one if he had to jam a pistol up someone’s nose.

“Really, I am okay,” she said. “I am bruised and sore, nothing else.”

A scheme began to form in Kyle’s brain. “Do you speak other languages?” he asked.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Hindustani, Pashto, Dari, and French. I went to college in France. Before the Taliban I was a professor of economics. Now all I can do is teach children, but I will do that no matter the beatings. They must be taught!”

The shock was getting to her at last. She was babbling and shaking. That was actually a good sign.

“We need a translator. Could you help us?” he asked.

Wade was covering the mouth of the alley, but overheard. “Oh, no way!” he hissed. “You’re going to get us killed!”

“But it’s perfect!” Kyle argued. “As a local woman, no one will notice her. And with a woman along, we’re less obviously an aggressive force. She can help us get set up, then we can give her some money or something to help with the school.”

“Translate?” she asked. “Don’t you have a translator?”

Kyle agreed that it was an odd situation. “He died, apparently, before we got here, and our company couldn’t find another one in time.”

“I see,” she said, slightly frostily. “An odd company that is so eager to do things that it can’t wait for a translator.” She sounded amused but disconcerted.

“Very odd,” he agreed. “Will you do it?”

“For how long?” she asked. “I’ll need to let the parents know, and find someone to teach, and someone to protect them. You’ll need to pay for that.”

“We can pay, we’re on an expense account,” he said. He wasn’t sure how much she had in mind, but it couldn’t be much in American money.

“Very well,” she said. “I am Nasima.”

“I’m Kyle Monroe,” he said. He was about to stick out his hand to take hers, but realized she hadn’t offered it. Instead, she bowed very slightly, eyes cast down. Right. No touching of women at all.

“Wade Curtis,” Wade said, and she bowed to him, too.

“Can you meet us at the inn tomorrow morning at nine?” Kyle asked. “And we’ll head out from there.” He gave her the name and street.

“I can,” she said. “Don’t mention me in public, though. Modesty is essential, especially with my position.”

“Sure, we try to be sensitive to local customs,” he agreed. “Can we help you home?” he asked.

“Thank you, but no,” she said firmly. “I must not be seen with men unless properly escorted. Especially now. I will see you tomorrow, Kyle and Wade.”

“Skpa dey pe khair, ” he said.

“Goodnight to you, too, dudes,” she said, smiling. The effect was spoiled by the blood on her lip.

After she left, Wade said, “I think it’s a mistake.”

“Wade, we need a translator. She’s available,” Kyle said.

“I’m sure if we ask around we can find a man who won’t be so obvious, and who won’t bother the locals. How did we meet her? Oh, yes, she was being beaten by a man for the crime of existing.” The sarcasm was clear in his voice.

“So we’ll cover for her. It doesn’t seem to be a big deal in the cities, it’s just the hicks who are the problem.”

“Yes,” Wade said, “and it’s those hicks we have to deal with.”

“Well, for now, she’s who we have.”


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