Mixed with scrabble on the one side of the rock was the dusty stub of a cigarette. I poked at the stray with a stick and saw tiny marks etched on its side. I could not guess the source. Few men in our village wanted or could afford foreign tobacco.
I didn’t like the idea of a stranger loitering on the hillside so close to my secrets. With my shoe, I tucked the dirty thing back into its hiding spot, before circling the clearing. The sudden drop-off made me dizzy, and I backed away to sit next to Ali on the sofa-rock. He pointed toward two large rocks—a frame to the scene of thirty-odd structures that made up our village.
Someone is watching us, Ali commented. I just nodded, but he pressed, Should we tell the others?
Not yet, I whispered. It could be someone from our village. I held his stare and didn’t have to explain that prying on fellow villagers could be more dangerous than observing foreign soldiers. This shelter looks temporary, I tried to reassure him.
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I suggested that he walk ahead and whistle if he spotted any disturbance. Waiting for the sound of his footsteps to fade away, I returned to the rocky ledge—and knelt, reaching for an opening that I had detected while climbing. A rock partially covered the opening, and I pushed it aside before feeling cool metal.
Looking about, I checked that Ali was well on his way before extracting the small flat box. Inside was a pile of documents, all similar, with lines and characters that I could not read. There was also a stack of strange money, with images of a stern man, no hair on the top of his head. It wasn’t Afghan currency, and again, I couldn’t read the few notations.
Such documents and foreign currency were useless for people in Laashekoh, but I had my own reasons for coveting paper. Surely whoever had left the documents on our remote hillside wouldn’t miss one.
So I took one, folded it several times, and tucked it into my clothing. Resisting the temptation to take more, I returned the box to its hiding place and moved the rock back for cover. I could return later, I promised myself. With any luck, the intruder was merely passing through and wasn’t curious about my own activities along this mountainside.
Chapter 2
Someone else was keeping watch, but Joey Pearson couldn’t help himself. Leaning against a rock wall, he surveyed the scene with field binoculars, patiently following the valley’s countless edges and folds. The day was unusually hot, and except for river water trickling along the rocks, nothing moved. No birds, no wood smoke, no breeze. The river didn’t roar. The mountains were not the most majestic. But the place was remote, and for Joey, that was beauty. He couldn’t wait to leave camp and walk it alone.
But that had to wait until the camp was settled and the contractors left.
Scanning the skyline, he caught movement, a glimpse of a face—a woman laughing. In an instant, the face vanished.
He waited, but there was no other sign. He couldn’t get her smile out of his mind.
A loud voice announced from behind: “Captain Cameron Janick, sir, reporting for duty.”
Annoyed about the interruption, Joey waved his hand. “At ease,” he said tersely. Janick took that as an invitation for an extended conversation.
“So what are you looking for?”
Joey put the glasses down. “The quiet.”
The man glanced toward the direction where Joey had aimed the glasses and then turned toward the temporary living unit. Tossing his bag aside and making no secret of his distaste for the flimsy structure with thin aluminum walls, Janick said: “So this is our home for the next three months?”
Inwardly rolling his eyes, Joey thought to himself—a jolly complainer, what every operation needs.
Janick settled in to talk about himself, reciting his résumé. Somewhere in the long list, Joey heard “member of an agribusiness development team,” and was tempted to ask if that was a fancy word for farmer. But he refrained. Janick wouldn’t understand that Joey genuinely preferred farmers over agribusiness developers.
Instead Joey introduced himself as a major on special assignment to organize and secure the outpost and the team of agricultural workers, including civilians. He had to remind himself about his own plan to rely on first names of team members.
Cameron opened the door and tossed his belongings on the cot closest to the doorway and rejoined Joey to gaze at sheer mountain walls exposed by the harsh midday sun. “Hell of a place to call home,” he pressed.
Joey offered a noncommittal grunt. He wasn’t going to argue. Space was tight at the outpost, and the team was new. Air-conditioning, cots, private bedrooms, cooked meals made the place a five-star resort compared to most accommodations in Afghanistan.
Cameron Janick would find out soon enough.
The two men leaned against the wall, observing the rapid construction underway. Team after team of specialists flew in, each completing their tasks—dropping off housing units, assembling them, hooking up generators, stockpiling food and other supplies, installing fence posts and stringing them with razor wire. The installers would be gone in a week, and the small band of military and agriculture experts would be on their own to patrol the area, offer agriculture assistance to nearby Afghan villages, and prepare a report on whether the area would be suitable for a large training facility for Afghan recruits.
Joey didn’t say much, but that didn’t stop the man from talking about his home, wife, and two daughters in Janesville, Wisconsin. He grew up on a farm, but left to become a territorial sales manager for a biotech multinational.
“But you know about farming—irrigation systems, crop rotations, fertilizer?” Joey pressed.
“I sell the technology,” Cameron boasted. “We have to know more than the farmers do.”
“It’s primitive out here,” Joey warned. “They’ll be more than happy with basics.”
“Good—our products will look like magic,” Cameron said with a laugh.
Joey held his tongue again. The outposts were another experiment in the long, drawn-out war, more than a decade of modern weaponry and Western ideas clashing against a poor and primitive culture. Joey had spent enough time in Afghanistan to know that modern ways did not always win over hearts and minds.
But his mission was support—anything to get cooperation started with the villages. Who knew, maybe Janick’s “magic” would win them over. But the task wasn’t as easy as presenting good ideas and then waiting for villagers to express gratitude.
Cameron added, “My sales background could help move some ideas. Especially demonstrations.”
As Cameron went on about Wisconsin, wheat, and experimental plots, Joey held back on talking about his own background, growing up on a family farm in rural western Maryland and enlisting in the military more than a decade ago to escape a religious mother who rarely smiled and an angry father who drunkenly railed about modern farming and peddlers of “biotech magic.” Of course, Maryland was lush compared to Afghanistan, but his family still contended with fickle pricing and weather that defied his mother’s desperate prayers.
Every decision Joey made in life, every bit of advice he handed out to others, involved resisting the fear and desperate attempts at self-control that ruled his parents. Over the years, commanders had complained about his playing fast and loose with rules and regs. But they liked the results, and as Special Ops, he had leeway.
Eventually, Cameron asked about Joey’s role in the Army Rangers. Joey tersely explained that his assignment as lead military officer and translator was temporary. He’d train a small group of Afghan soldiers who would take over guarding the ag advisors during visits to nearby villages—and then the Afghans would advise the team on approaching villages. That would take no more than eight weeks.
What he didn’t mention was that, depending on intelligence reports, Joey and others like him stationed throughout the province could get called out on special missions. With a few hours of notice, he could slip away from the outpost for a deployment anywhere in the world, never seen by Cameron Janick and the rest of t
he team again.
Joey’s schedule and duties were on a need-to-know basis, so he threw out a few standard lines to describe his work to Cameron: He’d train a small group of Afghans in surveillance, combat, and security procedures; collect data for area commanders deciding on a site for a regional training area; and do what he could to help the team build connections with area villages.
It would take months for the Afghans to trust the strangers in their midst—and that was if all went well. In the remote corners of Helmand Province, the team could expect to find three categories of Afghans—hard-core Taliban, moderate Taliban, and skeptical bystanders. Soldiers in Afghanistan had learned the hard way that, depending on day-to-day encounters, news reports, or rumors, any Afghan could slide from one category to another and back again in a week.
Joey was the first to admit that the villagers had good reason to doubt newfangled ideas from the Americans.
“You’ll be with us when we go to the villages?” Cameron asked.
“Early on—yes,” Joey said.
“So you’re the guard dog.” Cameron laughed at his own joke and then pointed to Joey’s scruffy beard, thick with several weeks of growth. “Should I start in on one of those?”
Beards were common among members of the special forces. But commanders prohibited most other troops from growing them, not that Joey cared. “If you want to,” he said.
Cameron stared off toward the river. “And you don’t have a problem if I start an experimental plot. Maybe over there by the river.” It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t mind, but don’t start projects until the civilian command arrives and gives the go-ahead.” Joey was firm. “Setting up the outpost will keep us plenty busy.”
Cameron shook his head. “Okay, we can play it by the rules and see if she knows what she’s doing. A woman and an academic.”
Joey didn’t like his tone, but Cameron didn’t notice. Instead, he stepped inside and looked around the space—thin walls separating a common area and three closet-sized bedrooms reserved for outpost leaders. “I thought it was just the two of us?”
Joey smiled from the doorway. “No, we’ll have the lead Afghan in here, too.”
That got Cameron’s attention, and he didn’t speak for a moment. He looked around at the tight space and then turned to Joey. “An Afghan?”
Joey nodded.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
Joey rubbed his chin. “I’ll be honest, if the civilian commander was a man, you’d be in the other quarters. We’re mixing Afghans with our people, civilians and military.”
Cameron shook his head slowly and then muttered, “We’ll see if any of them last, especially this civilian commander.”
Joey gave a curt nod and stepped away from the door, turning his attention back to the valley and surrounding peaks. Joey had read up on Mita Samuelson and had his own worries about how Afghans would react to the woman. But he wouldn’t talk about her with the likes of Cameron. About 15 percent of the troops deployed in Afghanistan were National Guard. On his fifth deployment in the country, Joey had worked with men like Cameron before, eager for fast success, full of ideas that the Afghans would reject or misunderstand—and just as quick with blame and disrespect for the Afghans when the projects didn’t pan out.
Time to try something new, he reminded himself. The general had promised that Mita Samuelson was capable, practical, yet innovative.
Joey hoped that was true because he didn’t like babysitting dreamers. Strike operations were down, and Joey wasn’t thrilled about a shift in strategy that broke up his Special Operations unit. Instead of taking on high-risk missions, his unit was temporarily divided, assigned to securing teams of specialists while training small groups of selected Afghans in reconnaissance and security procedures.
Special Operations troops were flexible, ready to serve under any type of command structure. But if asked, Joey wouldn’t lie—he preferred working with other Rangers.
Cameron stepped back out into the sunlight. “We’ll know if she’s right for this job if she goes for my ideas on wheat,” he confided, and kept on talking about statistics and wheat as a global staple.
Joey continued to survey the landscape without responding. Cameron was crazy if he thought he could line others up on his side before even meeting Samuelson.
He’d never tell Cameron, but part of the job in keeping a remote outpost secure was looking for signs that one of their own guys was ready to crack. And it was only the first day.
Joey missed comrades who lived by the same set of rules and habits. He could meet another Ranger for the first time and it wasn’t long before they sensed each other’s thoughts without a lot of talk about families, homes, or superiors. He reminded himself that Cameron and Mita Samuelson were part of a new strategy from top commanders for the decade-old war. New strategies were in need.
Cameron, trying to be jovial, had moved on to another topic, his dislike for the province. “Helmand,” he spat out the name. “All it needs is one more l. I never thought I’d miss Kabul.”
The joke was old, but Joey nodded and smiled. Anything less would only encourage Cameron to push the issue. The guy was nervous and new and had a lot to learn.
A helicopter swept over the mountains to the east and circled the base, and Joey’s radio crackled. “Major Pearson, the Afghan troops are landing.” Joey waved to Cameron and started for the field to greet the young commander and his men.
Cameron called out. “Wait a minute—do you trust those guys?”
Joey laughed, ready to start planning for the next eight weeks. “This is their territory. We have no other choice.”
Chapter 3
The next morning we woke before the sun rose. Ali’s clothes were packed, ready for the day-long trip to the maktab where the boy would spend the next several years, reading, studying religion and maybe even mathematics. The boy couldn’t be more eager than I was about the opportunities awaiting him.
As my husband went outside to ready the donkey, I stoked the oven’s fire, ready to prepare a warm breakfast and pack meals for the two of them, and then paused. The house was too quiet. I had expected Ali to be bursting with anticipation, ready to leave.
I hurried to the dark corner where my boys slept. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw four mounds, not five, and I was pleased. Ali was excited and outside, helping his father prepare. Surprised at not hearing him rise, I hurried out to check.
Early-morning mist blurred the outlines of the mountains, homes, fields, and paths in similar shades, like crumpled gray cloth. Parsaa broke through the gray mist, pulling the donkey with twitching ears, close to our entryway. He was alone, and the only sound was invisible birds chattering in the nearby poplars.
Ali is ready? he asked softly, not wanting to disturb nearby villagers. We can eat our breakfast as we walk.
He’s not inside, I whispered. I felt ill, and joined Parsaa in scanning the courtyard and nearby paths.
But he wouldn’t have taken off, my husband murmured, and I nodded, as the fear pricked our hearts. Hurrying inside, I shook awake two of Ali’s brothers to search the village. I also went to Gul and Mari, our dearest friends, who lived in the next home.
Mari was delighted. Don’t make him go. He changed his mind about school!
He wouldn’t change his mind, I insisted. Her daughter scolded Mari. Leila looked wretched, as if ill. Irritated, she offered to keep an eye on the children as the rest of us joined the search.
We searched and then we knocked on every door. By afternoon, members of every family in Laashekoh searched for Ali, checking homes, fields, and paths that led away from the compound. Like Mari, others asked questions, laughing at our worry and pointing out that sons naturally resist school. My embarrassment turned into panic. I was desperate to find and hold Ali.
As the sun climbed into the sky, vultures ended their morning ritual of lifted wings and began circling over the ledges that Ali and I had climbed only the day befo
re. My husband, anxious, redirected his search near that precipice and found Ali’s battered body on the boulders below. Parsaa embraced the boy with both arms, carrying him like an infant, and once inside, gently placed what was left of our son on a white sheet. The leader of our village and Parsaa’s good friend, Gul, stood back.
The boy had taken quite the tumble, his body scraped and broken, his finest clothes for school torn and bloodied. The most severe injury was to the back of his skull.
A horrible accident, Gul said. Where did you find him?
Parsaa pointed and described the area just below the ledge and hiding spot I had discovered the day before: I don’t understand why he went there before we were set to leave.
I didn’t understand either, so I remained quiet, too sick to speak about the previous day with others. Questions from others would transform a few moments of joy and beauty into wasted, stolen time, perhaps a reason for the boy’s death. Besides, it wasn’t a good time to raise worries about foreign troops or papers.
Mari and Leila brought containers of soup and meat, with piles of warm bread, for our family to eat. I ordered my sons to accept the gifts, but to allow no others inside. The women called out for me, and reluctantly I went to the doorway.
You shouldn’t be alone, Mari cautioned, offering to help prepare the body for burial.
I shook my head. Like most young men, Ali would want only his parents to see him so vulnerable. I kept thinking of him as a being who could still decide his future—and that led to a rush of hot tears. This shouldn’t have happened. It’s not what he deserved.
The faces of the two women were lined with concern, and Leila’s eyes were red from weeping. They hovered close, pressing to enter.
There’s nothing you can do to stop this pain, I insisted.
We’re here, Mari promised. Let us know if we can help in any way.
I thanked her and disappeared inside. Outside our home, other villagers gathered with Gul, Mari, and Leila to cry and pray. Grateful no one expected me to join them, I sat alone and blamed Allah for not protecting us from this death.
Fear of Beauty Page 2
