by Ilsa J. Bick
Now, though, the majority of these fields was fallow, the soil littered with withered poppy stems but not recently tilled. This was a bit of good luck because then something out of place—a pile of rocks or fresh area of overturned earth—was a dead giveaway.
A few areas were cultivated, though. To her far right, a wide swath of tall wheat fed by irrigation canals gleamed like gold. On the slopes above, a large herd of goats clambered over rocks to tear at thorny scrub of glycer and silvery stands of mugwort and broom grass. Beyond the wheat field, a clutch of willows, mulberries, and ash formed a small oasis of green around a large stone well. She could just make out the tiny figures of girls, laden with plastic jugs and containers, trudging like ants up and down the path to the well.
Her eyes flicked from the girls to the sunbaked mud houses staggering up the mountains’ deep creases and wrinkles. Dun-colored and squat, the blocky dwellings were nearly indistinguishable from the rocks and so densely packed the door of one house opened onto the roof of the dwelling below. Other houses stood in small, far-flung compounds scattered on the plains and nearer the fields, but Kate had never visited them.
From the number of figures gathered on distant rooftops—men in loose white cotton perahan tunban and their women in drab dresses and head scarves—they’d been spotted, probably by scouts, long before Jack ordered the convoy to a halt. Many villagers were already making their way down stone steps and meandering paths to what counted as a village center—really just a flattened area of a few shops, a communal oven for baking bread, and a square where the men would gather in prayer.
Dog team notwithstanding, Kate stepped carefully, never straying far from this meandering cut of a path winding from the road to the village which was still another half mile in the distance. Six was good at working off-lead, and she trusted the dog and Tompkins, but only to a point. The weight of a dog versus the weight of a person made a difference in just what went off when and no matter what Jack said about prime real estate, a field was an excellent place to plant a few IEDs. Anyone either in the village or squirreled away in the rocks and ridge above had a perfect vantage point from which to detonate a bomb. The only saving grace was, this far out, there were no cell towers. If there were any IEDs, they were likely pressure-activated, either small toe-poppers designed to take off a leg or two, or a larger device that could shear a person in half. Either going off would be bad, but the hole in which an IED was buried would also be relatively shallow. Tompkins himself might spot one or something else odd before the dog got a good whiff.
“How does the handler know when the dog has found something?” Bibi matched Kate step for step. “The dog looks like it is only wandering from side to side.”
“That’s how he scouts an area,” Kate said. “It also depends on how long something’s been buried, the wind, how big the scent pool is.”
“Scent pool?” Bibi was never still, scanning right, left, ahead, and then down at her feet, her careful eyes seeming to note every pebble, each and every fold of earth. “You mean, like water?”
“Sort of. It’s something Tompkins told me about. The longer something’s out in the open or buried, the wider the pool becomes. Like if you’ve got a body? For a brief time, the scent is localized to a small area, but as the body decays, the dog can pick up on the scent from farther and farther away. It’s like a drop of ink in a cup of water; the longer it sits there and the more you shake the water, the more the ink disperses. Same principle here. Wind can affect a scent pool, too. So can rain .”
“But how can you tell? The dog seems so... erhm”—Bibi wrinkled her nose—“how do you say? Aimless, yes.”
“His body language. It’s hard to explain. You’ll sort of know when you see it, but sometimes it’ll be subtle. All of a sudden, Six will stop or turn around, or his head will go up, or his ears will swivel forward. Sometimes, his tail will stiffen. When I see it, I’ll tell you, but after he’s done it once, you’ll know.”
“Can the dog smell other things? A body or a chicken or a dead goat?”
“Well, Six is a multipurpose dog, which means he does bomb detection, but he’s a patrol and attack dog, too.”
“Yes.” Bibi cocked an eyebrow. “So I have had the privilege of discovering.”
“He would probably alert if he smelled someone who’s not us. I wasn’t there, but on one patrol, he sniffed out some guy hiding in an irrigation ditch. I think he’s trained to ignore dead animals, though. I mean, he’ll be interested. He’s a dog, after all. But that’s not what he’s trained to find, and he won’t be rewarded if he alerts to a bone or something.”
“Reward?” Bibi snorted. “What does he get, to chew an arm?”
Kate laughed. “His Kong.” She hooked a thumb at the bulge in Tompkins’s right pocket. “It’s a big red hard rubber ball. Tompkins only brings out that particular toy when Six has to go to work. It’s a cue so Six knows what he’s looking for. If he finds something, he gets to play.”
“All this, the dog risking its life...it is a game?”
“I guess, to Six, yeah, this is fun...” Kate stopped talking and pointed. “There, right there. See? He lifted his head really fast.”
“I see, but...” A frown in Bibi’s voice. “What is happening? What is the dog doing now?”
Beats me. Everyone else had also stopped to look as Six quickly pivoted left.
“Tompkins?” Jack, followed by his radio operator, stepped up to stand with Stone, fifteen feet behind and to the right of the dog handler. “He got something?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Tompkins sidled a very small, cautious step toward the dog. “Six?”
The dog twitched but didn’t turn. Instead, he stood, rigid, head high and ears pricked, and stared into the distance. What does he see? Shading her eyes, Kate squinted against sun dazzle. Very far to the left stood a compound of several low, battered mud buildings she hadn’t noticed before. Roofless, their walls only so much rubble, the structures looked long abandoned .
Then, out of the very corner of her left eye, she caught a flicker, low to the ground. Raising her rifle, she peered through her scope. Oh holy shit. “Captain? About nine o’clock off that old compound.”
“Yes, I see them.” Jack sighted through his rifle, too. “Tompkins?”
“I count four dogs, sir.” Tompkins looked back at Jack. “Probably strays.”
Scoping the dogs, Bibi nodded. “They are most definitely strays. Any dogs that truly belong to anyone would be tied up. It is not haram to own a dog for hunting or guarding a home or livestock, but a villager wouldn’t have anything to do with dogs otherwise.”
Which means they’re probably rabid. The animals were very thin and only a shade darker than the desert they roamed. They gathered around, tugging and tearing at something on the ground. She played with her sight, tried to bring the pack into focus. Saw a flash of rumpled brown and dirty white. What was that?
“Looks like they’ve got a goat, sir.” Though Tompkins sounded doubtful. “Too far away to be sure.”
“Likely, they cut out a weak or young one from that herd,” Bibi said.
“Really?” Kate studied the goats ranging on the far hills. “That’s a long way to drag a goat.”
“If you’re a dog in Afghanistan”—Bibi shrugged—“your owners can turn on you in an instant. They’re being smart the way we women must. Keeping their distance is how . . .”
From his place next to Jack, Major Gholam rapped a command in hard, rapid-fire Pashto. Bibi flinched, her head snapping slightly as if she’d ducked a slap, and dropped her eyes. Aasif, who stood to Jack’s right, opened his mouth, seemed to think he was better off shutting his mouth, and instead studied the tops of his boots.
Another burst from Gholam, this one rising in a question. Pulling herself to attention, Bibi responded, her tone stolid but bland, though two high spots of color flared on her cheeks. Kate’s Pashto was rudimentary, but she caught no, majer which was Gholam’s rank—and Chwaschina em.
<
br /> Which meant I’m sorry.
Okay, on the one hand, she could see the major getting hot about a subordinate badmouthing a country, its customs. Their own sergeant, Stone, would have felt the same, but unless it was a matter of life or death, she bet Stone would wait until he was someplace private before tearing you a new one. But, no, that bastard Gholam has to take her down in public. The smirks had crept back onto the faces of Gholam’s men, too. Asshats.
Neck prickling with irritation, Kate turned her gaze back to the dogs still gnawing and fighting. One reared back and danced away, stiff-legged, a long spaghetti-strip of flesh clenched in its jaws. A flick of its head, and the dog wolfed down its prize, swallowing the meat on the fly.
After a moment’s silence, Jack cleared his throat. “Well, if those strays aren’t coming any closer, we’re good. Tompkins, want to get back to work there?”
“Yes, sir.” Tompkins whistled. “Six? Come!”
The dog’s ears pricked, swiveled like a bat’s, as Six turned a questioning look over a shoulder. His tail moved in an abortive, twitchy little swish, as if to say, Seriously? The only time she’d seen Six hesitate like this was months back when the dog scented a cache of buried det cord and plastique, but then he also alerted by dropping to his belly and refusing to budge.
Six is definitely interested. Looking past the knot of quarreling strays, she scraped a gaze over that distant compound. Maybe worth checking out? Turning toward the village, she flicked a quick glance at the figures ranged on roofs. Much better view up here. If she had a chance, she might clamber to higher ground, scope out what the dogs were doing. Ten to one, Bibi was right and it was a goat. Except Six wouldn’t have cared quite so much.
In the end, Tompkins had to walk out to Six, snap on a lead, actually take the dog’s jaw in hand, and force the animal to pay attention. Tugging the dog back to heel, Tompkins came back, shaking his head. They started up again, the dog sweeping right and then left, though every once in a while, Six broke to give the pack a quick peek.
They continued after the dog team, crunching over dry earth and rocks. Bibi remained silent. Up at the village, kids clustered together now, many waving and some chanting, Six! Six! Dogs might be haram, but the children loved the shepherd and crowed even louder when Tompkins tipped them a wave.
“They’re the ones who will suffer. The girls, mostly, but the boys, too.”
Surprised, she slid her eyes in a sidelong glance. Bibi was back to scanning, the only lingering evidence of Gholam’s rebuke showing as a mottled flush along her jaw. Mindful of Gholam and Jack fifty feet ahead, Kate kept her tone low, spoke from the side of her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“As hard as it has been for me, things will be harder still for them. Despite what we women have managed, it is all…erhm...a slippery slope? Everything could disappear tomorrow. The Taliban are not the only ones who could make that happen either.”
“You mean, the elders? Tribal leaders?”
“I mean, everyone. The deck is, how do you say? Stacked against these children? My mother came from a place much like this village. Once they were in Kabul, only my father could work. Women were not allowed, and they couldn’t beg, either. Do that, and the Taliban would punish you. The Quran forbids begging.” A pause. “Perhaps that is a way of cutting down on the underclass, but I am no scholar.”
Okay, she should really stop this. Dealing with sexist asshats was one thing; bashing a religion could get you killed. “I’m not sure we should talk about this.”
“Why? You are the only person to whom a girl should listen? Because you know so much better, are so liberated?”
A needle of irritation, now. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was thinking about what’s safe for you.”
Bibi only moved a shoulder in a tiny, careless shrug. “Then don’t listen. I am talking to myself. I am telling myself a nice story of when I was a little girl and my mother taught me what the Taliban would do to children who dared to read anything but the Quran.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “What’d they do?” For God’s sake, why are you encouraging her? On the other hand, hadn’t she started this back at that Humvee, with Six?
“I will tell you what my mother told me. One afternoon, very late, we went to a park in the south of the city that had survived the civil war. Twenty years ago, this was. She took me to one particular tree, a very tall olive, and a little odd because instead of flowers around its base, someone had scattered white and gray pebbles. And then my mother said, Look here, Bibi, look into the tree, at what’s hanging from those branches. I did and thought, oh, these are only fruit bats. You see them sleeping this way in the parks, waiting until night when it’s safe to fly. But the bats seemed strange, and then I realized what I was looking at.”
“What?”
“Hands.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Hands,” Bibi repeated, her tone calm, her expression bland. “And feet. A few tongues, too, tough as shoe leather. Some were fresh. I remember one foot, quite slim and pretty, with very bright, very pink toenail polish. A lot of what hung there was bloated, though, rotting, the skin sloughing off in sticky runnels. Some had been there so long they’d completely mummified, the skin like leather. Many were only bones, pecked clean by birds, and that was when I realized that these were not stones at my feet, scattered around this tree of amputations. They were bones, tiny bones. Toes, fingers. Did you know that a hand has twenty-seven bones, over a dozen no larger than a coin? A pebble?”
She was a medic. She knew all this. Her stomach did a sick, little flop.
“I remember my mother suddenly snatched my wrist, twisted it tight so the bones rubbed enough to hurt, and when I whimpered and told her so, she only said, ‘Break the rules, and this will seem pleasant. You will pray to Allah that this is all the hurt you should ever bear.’”
She didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry? She was only worried about you? The words felt inadequate, almost silly, and flattened on her tongue. She finally managed, “But that was twenty years ago.”
“Mmmm. If I remember correctly, you said these people here only now know about soap because of you.” Again, that deadpan expression. “I will tell you something even worse.”
Somehow, there being a worse, especially in Afghanistan, wasn’t a surprise. “What?”
“That my mother lied. The Taliban only cuts off the hands of thieves, not girls who read or boys who dare to memorize anything but the Quran.”
Only. As if a girl ought to count herself lucky.
“Oh, they will do many things if you break the rules, of course. Girls, they will flog. Wear polish, they will cut off your thumb, a finger, your toes. Get caught with a boy, they will bury you up to your neck then stone you to death. What you must understand is those ideas, that way of thinking, has been around so long, whether the Taliban thought of them first or not almost doesn’t matter. Change is dangerous. To my mother’s way of thinking, better she should lie than for me to want more. That is the world in which those girls of that village will live when you are gone.”
“No one’s leaving yet.” She hated herself for the lie. “Anyway, your mother got out. You’re educated, in the police.” Being continually tested, knowing the men wanted her to fail, but, hey, nothing was perfect.
“You think I am wrong to be so pessimistic, but I do not believe so. Do you know that another woman, not much older than me, was killed last year? Not by Taliban, either, but her own—”
A burst of irritation now. “You know, why don’t you just hold that thought?” She didn’t need to hear any more doom and gloom. Yes, Afghanistan was the ass-end of the universe. None of this was her fault. All right, maybe she should’ve been more careful about encouraging the girls, but that could be fixed, dealt with.
Everything will be fine. They were nearly across the field now. No one had gone boom. Six was back on lead, and the kids were still waving and smiling and calling for the dog. Watch her step; do her j
ob; then shake the dust of this place from her boots and get out. Go home. For God’s sake, she was only one person.
For some reason, though, she thought of the strays, how they kept their distance because they knew better. Maybe not such a bad idea. Because she sure as hell didn’t need this guilt trip or whatever.
“Look, I’m sorry things are so rough here.” She reminded herself to keep her voice low, even, what she might use with a casualty: Take it easy. It’s not so bad. Look at me, soldier. You’re going to be fine. “I’m sorry it sucks, Bibi. I guess all you can do is your best, right? Just be careful and watch your back.”
It was a brush-off, and from the way Bibi’s shoulders straightened, the other woman knew exactly what she was doing. She felt bad about that, but—really—this was not going to be her problem for much longer. Talk to the kids, do her job. Get the hell out.
“Yes, thank you. Sage advice. I will most certainly be careful.” The words were formal, the tone almost glacial, but then Bibi’s golden eyes sharpened and she leaned in, close. “You, too, Kate. Watch your back.”
PART TWO:
WALKING WOUNDED
THE BLACK WOLF WILDERNESS, 2017
1
It was the last day of September, a little past one. This north-facing slope was thick with lodgepole pine and Douglas fir. Pillowing stands of snowberry, their glossy green leaves almost black in the shade, were heavy with clumps of ghost-white fruit. Fallen berries snapped under Sarah’s boots with a sound like thin crackle ice on a wintry morning. On this side of the ridge, the shadows were already growing longer and deeper, and the air so much chillier Sarah was grateful for the off-trail tramping that kept the blood marching in her veins. As she negotiated her way around rocks and skirted deep potholes torn out of the mountain where trees had toppled, their root balls still clutching enormous chunks of earth, her breath smoked. She actually pitied James, the third member of their little training team, who was squirreled away somewhere on this slope and probably freezing his butt off as they all waited for Soldier to get his act together and find him already.
