by David Berens
“Alright, boy,” he shrugged, tucking the two apples into his thigh pockets, “let’s go.”
The dog ambled down the street until he came to a parking lot in front of what looked like an abandoned bank. The building looked vacant and hollowed out, a broken down ATM machine stood watch nearby with its single blinking light, and there was a group of kids in the lot kicking a dirty, red, playground ball around. Troy watched for a minute and the dog laid down next to him. One of the older kids spotted him and shouted something. They all scattered in different directions… except for one. It was the kid who had delivered the box. He was watching Troy warily and clicked his tongue at the dog, beckoning him to come. The dog looked up at Troy. Troy nodded and he got up and walked over to the boy.
The kid petted the dog and then turned to go. He looked over his shoulder at Troy and tilted his head away from him as if to ask, you coming or not?
Troy jabbed his finger at his chest, “me? Come with you?”
“Come,” the boy said in heavily accented English.
Troy gave a quick nod and followed the boy. As they walked, he got the distinct sensation that they were being watched. Eyes seemed to peer out from every dark door and every shadowy corner. Troy let his hand slide down to his gun, but he left it in its holster.
4
Sick
Troy followed the boy careful to remember which way they were heading. After a few turns down roads that all looked the same, he realized they were getting farther and farther away from the embassy. He wondered idly if he’d be able to find his way back. The eyes he felt on him began to materialize in the form of young Afghan men, glaring at him under dark eyebrows. He thought once he saw an AK-47 in the hands of one of them. This was a mistake. Follow the kid who’s been bringing someone’s bones to the embassy and find out where they’re coming from… brilliant. Let’s follow the lion into his den.
“Here,” the boy pointed to a building.
It was like any apartment building in any third world country. Grimy, dusty, dirty, and crowded. Most of the apartments had at least one window broken and a baby crying inside. Some of them had people hanging out the windows smoking cigarettes. One of them had a flag hanging from its window sill… the black, red and green flag of Afghanistan. He watched as the boy ducked into the open door and up the stairs into darkness. Troy took a small flashlight from his belt, but didn’t turn it on. He didn’t want to be the image of a soldier raiding the building. Locals knew a raised flashlight was usually followed by a raid and were likely to shoot first and ask questions later.
As he walked up the stairs, a yellow light began to filter down from the hall. At the top of the stairs, the boy met him and beckoned him past apartment doors. Some had numbers, most had boot marks from being kicked in, all had locks.
Halfway down the hall, the boy stopped at a door. He knocked four times, distinct and slow. Then he turned the knob and went in. The smell of mold, stale and vinegary hit Troy like a wall. He pushed in and closed the door behind him. His eyes watered from the pungent odors and he wiped them clear with his fingers. Blinking, he looked around the room. An empty recliner sat near the front window. It looked as if the duct tape on it might be the only thing holding it together. Next to the recliner was a matching couch, no duct tape. The boy was standing in the middle of the room staring at Troy.
“Your home?” Troy said loudly.
Everyone knows that if you’re talking to someone who doesn’t speak your language, they will understand better if you talk louder.
“Yes,” the boy spoke in his thick accent, “Home.”
It looked like a completely harmless place. There was a living room with a small television, the recliner, and the couch. A couple of books were laying on a table beside the recliner. Troy thought one of them was a copy of the Koran, but couldn’t be sure without closer inspection.
An awkward silence appeared between them. Troy thought this was a bad time to ask the boy where the fingers had come from… but, he wasn’t really on a schedule anyway. Outside the window, the sun began to glow orange as night crept closer.
“Um,” Troy licked his lips, “anybody else home?”
He motioned around the room to indicate his question about any others being here. The boy looked around.
“Yes,” he shook his head and smiled, “is nice home.”
Troy smiled, “it is. But that isn’t what I…”
“Aasif!” a voice called out from the next room.
Troy’s hand snapped to his gun and nearly had it drawn when the boy raised his hands.
“No, no,” he said quickly, “is mother.”
“Aasif,” the voice called again, “who are you talking to?”
The voice was definitely a woman and came between heavy, labored breaths. Aasif, as the voice had called the boy, motioned for Troy to come with him into the room.
As they entered the room, the sickly odor grew stronger. Troy wondered what manner of plague he was exposing himself to by walking in there. He instinctively covered his mouth with his hand, but thought it was probably too late anyway.
“Ahhh,” the woman wheezed, “you have brought me an American soldier, eh, Aasif?”
Her English was perfect, though her accent was heavy like the boy’s. Aasif nodded to her.
“Be a good boy and get us some dinner,” she motioned past the boy, “You will stay, won’t you, sir?”
“I, um,” Troy realized his hand was still over his mouth; he dropped it quickly, “I should be getting back.”
“You don’t have anything to fear, young man,” she chuckled and coughed, “I have emphysema. I am not contagious.”
Troy sighed inwardly trying not to show his sudden relief. He sniffed reflexively and regretted it instantly. The old woman noticed.
“The smell,” she waved her hand toward an incense burner on the table next to her bed, “is terrible, but helps my breathing.”
“I wondered what that was.”
“Disgusting, but seems to work,” she breathed a heavy, raspy breath.
Another awkward silence. She smiled and broke it.
“Aasif probably thinks you can help,” she said, “that is most likely why he has brought you here.”
“Ma’am,” Troy shrugged, “I’m just a pilot. Dang, I don’t even know how to spell emphysema.”
She laughed and ended up coughing harshly.
“It is ok,” she wiped some moisture from her lips, “I am beyond medical help. The doctors here are very good and they have tried everything.”
Troy nodded.
“Please, don’t tell Aasif,” she glanced toward the open door, “but it won’t be long now.”
“I’m very sorry ma’am.”
“Please call me Sedra,” she said, “and I am not worried; Allah will take me.”
Troy was lost for what the proper response was, but said, “I hope so, ma’am.”
He was rescued by the boy coming into the room.
“Dinner is ready,” Aasif smiled.
Troy pictured a tray with all the gruesome delights a third world country dinner might be, lamb’s eyeballs, monkey brains, and donkey hearts, basically all the stuff they ate in Indiana Jones movies.
“Oh gosh,” he said looking at his watch, “I really should get back.”
“No, please. You must stay,” Sedra groaned and shifted her legs off the bed to stand, “here, give me a hand.”
Great, Troy thought, maybe there will be some salad or something I can eat. I’m a vegetarian, he would tell them, yes, that would work, a vegetarian.
He put his hand under the woman’s arm and could feel her bones jutting out from her body. She was skin and bone. He was as gentle as he could be, but still felt he might be hurting her.
As he shuffled her into the dining room, a very pleasant smell wafted in replacing the stink of the incense from her bedroom. To Troy’s surprise, the table held a steaming hot pizza box. It was open to reveal a pepperoni pizza.
As he
sat the old woman into a chair he said, “I guess I could stay for a piece or two.”
She laughed knowingly and Aasif handed her a plate. They sat in silence eating for a time. Sedra pushed one piece of pizza around for a while, Aasif ate two pieces and Troy ate the rest. The dog laid under the table begging for scraps. Sedra dropped the remains of her slice on the floor and he greedily wolfed it down.
When he leaned back from the table wiping his mouth, he said, “thank you for the dinner. Our rations are pretty crappy compared to that.”
Aasif looked at him, confused, “what is… crappy?”
“Oh, the rations we get,” Troy rolled his eyes.
Sedra touched his arm a twinkle in her eyes, “he doesn’t understand the word, crappy.”
“Ah, gotcha,” he nodded, “Um… it’s like… well, uh… tastes like shi…”
Sedra squeezed his arm harder than he would’ve thought possible and interrupted him.
“He means it tastes bad,” she eased her grip.
“Yeah,” Troy added, “very bad!”
Sedra wiped her mouth, “Aasif, go and wash up for bed. I will take care of the dishes.”
The boy put the plates in the sink and nodded. He held up a hand as if to tell Troy goodbye and the dog followed him into the next room.
“And now,” she turned back to Troy, “let us talk about why you are really here?”
Troy took a couple of swigs of his warm glass of water. He relayed the story of the boxes and the bones and that Aasif had been the one to deliver them.
Sedra pursed her lips, “Aasif is not a bad boy. How is he getting involved in all of this?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Troy looked out the window at the complete dark of night, “but if I don’t get back soon, I’m gonna be travelin’ through dangerous waters.”
“No, no,” Sedra looked confused, “you are far from the nearest water.”
Troy opened his mouth to explain metaphor, but she stopped him.
“I am kidding,” she said smiling, “come back in two days. Give me a chance to talk to Aasif. I will find out what is going on.”
“Thank you,” Troy walked to the door, “Now, um, which way should I head out of here?”
Sedra shrugged, “back the way you came, I suppose.”
Troy nodded, “Yup. Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”
He closed the door behind him. Two hours later after at least twenty wrong turns, he crawled into his bunk and fell into a deep sleep.
5
Drop
General Buff Summerton dropped the last stack of hundred dollar bills into the army green duffel bag. He snorted around the unlit cigar jutting out of the corner of his mouth.
“Okay,” he huffed, “it’s all there. One point five mil. I still say this is a goddamn shame.”
A younger man, gangly and freckled, held out a small black box no bigger than a stack of fifteen business cards. He toggled a switch on the side of the box and handed it to Ambassador Bill Willams. He, in turn, tucked the box into a cutout carved into a stack of twenties and then covered it with a portion of whole bills. When it was wrapped with the currency strap, it looked like any other stack of bills in the bag. Williams dug it into the bag and stuffed it halfway down. It was gone. Disappeared. Undetectable until the stack was disturbed.
“There won’t be any shame when we track this money to their hideout and retrieve Mr. Phillips,” Ambassador Williams said clapping the dust from his hands.
“My granddaddy is probably turnin’ over in his grave,” Buff harrumphed and shook his head, “No way his generation woulda stood for this crap.”
“Buff,” Williams looked at him incredulously, “they sent us a toe. So, presuming he’s still alive, Phillips is now fingerless on one hand and they’ve started on his foot. We can’t let this go on.”
“It’s a goddamn pinky toe!” Buff grunted, “Who needs a damn pinky toe anyway?”
No one responded.
“Are we guaranteed this contraption is gonna work?” Buff asked clearing his throat.
Williams nodded his head to the young tech who’d produced the box. He pulled a tablet from his briefcase and clicked it on. Tapping the screen a few times, he opened an app. The screen flickered and a satellite image of the surrounding area came into focus. A few more taps made a flashing red light appear in the center of the screen.
The tech handed the tablet to Ambassador Williams. He pinched out with his fingers on the screen and the image zoomed in. After a second, the resolution increased and a building came into focus. It was a picture of the roof of the embassy they were standing in. Williams smiled and handed the tablet to Buff.
The general took it and huffed, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Pretty impressive,” Williams beamed, “isn’t it? It’s based in part on the systems used to guide our missiles to their targets. The box simulates the laser marking that we used to need a man on the ground to produce. By translating that into a microwave…”
Summerton clapped him on the back of the shoulder interrupting him, “don’t need a goddamn science lesson, Bill. Just glad to see it works.”
Williams swallowed and opened his mouth.
The general turned away, still holding the tablet. When he got to the door, he turned around.
“By the way,” he took the moistened cigar out of his mouth, “who the hell we got on this drop?”
* * *
Troy Bodean tamped the pack of Morven Gold cigarettes on his palm. He’d wanted Winstons, but the corner store was sold out. The owner said all the American soldiers kept buying them, but he recommended the Morvens and promised they were just as good, if not better. Harry Nedman poked his head out the door and nodded him into the building.
“Briefing time, brother,” he said to Troy.
Putting the unopened pack of cigarettes into his thigh pocket, he walked in. He and Harry both snapped to attention when General Buff Summerton stuck his head out of his office.
“At ease, boys,” he waved them into his office.
Cigar smoke wafted in the air making Troy’s mouth water. The general obviously had a better stash than his Morvens. Summerton dropped heavily into his chair.
“Shut that,” he pointed to his door and Harry complied.
He ran his hand through his salt and pepper flat top and unfolded a map on his desk. Troy recognized the terrain of Kabul.
“Okay, boys,” the general started with a finger pointed at the map, “here’s the deal. These bastards want us to helicopter over this area.”
Troy looked at Harry. It was a no-fly zone, known for heavy anti-aircraft fire.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Summerton looked up at them, “but we’ve been assured that there won’t be any resistance when you make the drop.”
Troy cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak. The general didn’t let him.
“You boys can fly in high, drop down low, throw out the bag and skee-daddle outta there before anyone knows you’re coming,” he said.
Harry Nedman inhaled sharply to protest, “but dropping a bag from that height and that speed… it’ll be dang near impossible to hit that target.”
Buff Summerton stood and dropped his fist on the desk, “these are goddamn orders, son.”
Harry stifled his retort. Troy held up a hand to the general.
“Sir,” he smiled, “we’ll drop this bag on the money. Heck, I used to bullseye womp rats in my T-16 back home.”
Neither of the other two men got the reference.
When no one spoke, Troy asked, “when’s the drop?”
“Oh four hundred hours,” the general sat back down, “the bag will be in the Apache before you leave.”
Troy and Harry both saluted in unison and the general returned it without much enthusiasm.
“Boys,” he said in a low voice, “I doubt you need to hear this, but… this is a shoot with extreme prejudice kind of mission. Don’t wait, don’t ask questions, d
on’t tell. Just kill anything that moves before they kill you.”
“Yessir,” Harry snapped reflexively.
As they walked out the door of the embassy and headed down the street, Troy pulled out his cigarettes.
“Want one?”
“Nah,” Harry frowned, “those things are shit.”
“Yeah,” Troy replied, “but it’s better than nothin’.”
Harry looked at him, “you sure about this drop?”
“Should be a piece of cake, why?”
“Cause if they told us they weren’t gonna shoot, why is it an extreme prejudice kind of mission?”
Troy thought about it for a second, “Cause we’re in a war, man.”
* * *
The drop did not go as planned.
The AH-64 was met with heavy machine gun fire. As they swooped in low to try and make the drop, a massive round blasted past them clipping the tail and sending them into a spin. Troy was able to wrestle control back, but they were wobbling bad enough to send them running home.
Summerton met them as they exited the smoking chopper, tugging the bag of cash with them. Troy and Harry snapped to a rigid salute, sure that a furious barrage was going to come from the general at any second.
