by Tal Bauer
The international airport at Tashkent looked like a haphazard series of shipping containers stacked together. Once, it had been painted powder blue, probably by the Soviets, who had a thing for pastels. The flight line was cracked asphalt, weeds filling the divots and cratered holes, never to be repaired. Sinkholes marred the expanse, filled in with cheap tar and sand.
Decrepit MiGs from the days of the Soviet Union languished next to mothballed military helicopters. Nothing had flown in years.
Light spilled from the open doors of a squat hangar, its windows broken, where a team of Special Forces operators sat around a mountain of gear.
The political officer pulled up in front of the hangar. A Special Forces team member stepped forward, a giant of a man with fiery red hair and a thick beard. He waited as they all piled out. Frigid wind whipped through Kris, cutting through his fleece jacket as he stood on the busted tarmac.
“Captain Sean Palmer?” George strode ahead, hand outstretched.
“That’s me, sir. Special Forces ODA 505, at your service.” Palmer and his small operational detachment of six men would be reporting to George, putting themselves, for the duration of the mission, at his and the CIA’s command.
George introduced his team, Captain Palmer shaking hands as they went around the circle. George turned to Kris last. “And, this is Kris Caldera. He’s the agency’s Afghanistan expert, my political affairs officer, and our linguist on the ground.”
Palmer looked him up and down before holding out his hand. Kris was less than half his size. “Sir,” was all Palmer said.
Kris nodded as they shook, gave Palmer a half smirk, and then shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He tucked his face into his scarf.
Palmer brought them into the hangar, to the circle of men they’d be operating with. Some cleaned their rifles and handguns. Others joked around. One was reading.
“Everyone, our CIA people are here.” Palmer introduced them, going from man to man—Jackson, Warrick, Rodriguez, Cobb—before finally coming to the last. “And this is Sergeant David Haddad, team medic.”
Haddad nodded to Kris and held out his hand, stepping forward to meet him halfway. Kris shivered, but Haddad’s hand was warm as they touched. Unlike the others, Haddad didn’t hesitate, or raise his eyebrows, or give him the skeptical once-over. “As-salaam-alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum as-salaam.” Kris tried to smile. His lips were still buried in his scarf.
Palmer spoke, pulling Kris’s attention from Haddad. “Gentleman, I’d like to get on the same page with you ASAP. Do you have time for a briefing?”
George nodded and beckoned Kris and Ryan to join him and Palmer at Palmer’s small command post—a map and a laptop open next to a flashlight—while Jim, Derek, and Phillip stayed with the Special Forces team. Kris looked back once.
Haddad caught his gaze. He smiled, nodding to Kris before turning back to his book.
“Kif h’alek?”
Haddad turned away from his book, looking up at Kris. A ghost of a smile curved one corner of his mouth. “Wa’enta, shen h’alek?”
Kris smiled. “I thought I placed your Arabic accent. Libyan, yes?” He’d said hello to Haddad in the Libyan dialect, with the softer Bedouin phrasing and the Egyptian-Tunisian influences of the Maghrebi dialects.
“I grew up in Libya. My mother is American, though.” His eyes drifted, just over Kris’s shoulders, for a moment. “We moved when I was ten.” He peered at Kris. “You? I can’t place your Arabic.”
“I’m Puerto Rican, actually. Not Middle Eastern.”
“From the island?”
“No, the other Puerto Rico. New York.”
Haddad chuckled. “I didn’t think they spoke Arabic in Puerto Rico.”
As curiosity about his age went, it was one of the nicer, and subtler, questions. At Langley, one of the range officers who’d signed off on Kris’s weapons qualification before the mission had stared at him and outright asked, “Aren’t you a little young for this op?”
“I studied languages in high school and college. I pick them up easily. I was fluent in Arabic in two years, familiar with most of the dialects in three. Farsi a year after that. I taught myself Dari after the agency hired me.”
“You speak Spanish, too?”
“Sí. Y tú?”
Haddad grinned. “I’m just the team medic. It’s a good thing I already knew Arabic. You can’t teach this dog any new tricks.”
Something curled through Kris’s veins, a familiar warmth. “Oh, I’m not sure about that.” He winked, his flirty nature naturally rising—
Mortification drenched him, sliding down his bones and under his skin like hot oil. What was he doing? Flirting? With a soldier, a member of the Special Forces? On a mission? His face burned, and he looked away, squinting at the open doors of the hangar and the flight line. Would the ground open up beneath him, please?
God, had George seen that? After his ridiculous spiel to Kris about keeping himself contained and to not advertise? There he was, flirting with the first hot soldier who gave him the time of day. Proving George’s bullshit. Fuck.
Haddad reached for Kris’s ruck, lying nearby. Their gear had been brought to the airport and dropped off, ready and waiting for the final flight into Afghanistan. Haddad dragged the ruck between them. “I added more gear you’ll need.”
Kris crouched, hiding his groan. Not more shit.
Haddad pulled out each item one by one. “Your headset and radio, extra ammo—” Kris already had his 9mm strapped to his thigh. “—compass, beacon, maps of all our areas of operations marked with escape routes, sleep sack, poncho liner, night scope, day scope, flashlight, backup flashlight, GPS, spare batteries, more spare batteries, and more batteries. And everything else you brought.”
His clothes were squished in the bottom, next to a paperback he’d picked up in Germany and his all-weather CIA laptop. “Will two million in cash fit?” He still had one of the duffels under his control. For the moment, it was at the embassy, locked in the ambassador’s safe.
Haddad stared at him. “We talking in ones or in hundreds?”
“Twenties and hundreds.”
Shrugging, Haddad pointed to the bottom of the ruck. “In between the flashlights, maybe?” He grinned. “We should be able to make it all fit.” He shoved everything back and stuffed the ruck closed. “Here, try it on.”
The pack was definitely heavier than before. A radio antenna stuck out over one of his shoulders now. His sleeping bag pushed his head forward. He stumbled under the weight as he hefted it on his shoulders, but managed to get the pack settled.
It felt like he was carrying an elephant on his back. If he took a step, he’d collapse.
Haddad stared at him. “Good?”
“Yeah.” Kris tried to smile. His eyeballs were going to pop out of his skull if he breathed too deeply.
He probably weighed one-third of what Haddad did. Haddad’s biceps bulged out of his long-sleeved undershirt like he was a professional NFL linebacker. His chest was solid muscle, tapering down to a trim waist. Next to him, Kris wasn’t a twink, he was a twig. He was a matchstick, and the ruck was going to snap him in half.
But Haddad smiled at him again, that small, tight smile.
Kris’s knees weakened, and not from the load.
Shit. He was fucked.
Haddad was gorgeous. He’d recognized that immediately. Someone would have to be blind to not see Haddad’s good looks. Bronze skin, a wide face, sweeping cheekbones, a jawline chiseled from granite. He was impressively built, with sculpted muscles that screamed of hours spent in the gym, training his body to perfection.
But, there was more, too. There was depth in his dark eyes, something that viewed the world unflinchingly. And something deeper. Something that seemed to tug at Kris, a force that made him want to fall into David Haddad. He had a presence, a pull, and it worked on every bone in Kris’s body. Haddad had his own gravity well, and Kris was a shooting star, brushing too clos
e to his orbit.
No, he couldn’t go there.
Part of him felt like he was falling already, flying at the speed of light right at Haddad.
God, he was fucked. So fucked. He was here to fight a war. Avenge the people who had died, whom he’d let die. Try to fix, somehow, everything he’d done wrong, everything he’d let happen. Not crush on a Special Forces soldier. The Army frowned on men like him, anyway. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was the rule of law. Anyone in the military who was as gay as he was had to keep their mouth firmly shut.
That wasn’t his style. And it didn’t seem like Haddad’s, either.
“Let’s get this off you.” Haddad helped him slough off the pack, taking the weight easily in one hand. It had to weigh at least seventy pounds. He tried to hide the deep breath he took, the way he rolled his shoulders. They felt like he’d ripped them off and tried to shove them back into their sockets the wrong way.
Pain wasn’t sexy. Struggling wasn’t sexy, either. He had to carry his weight. Not fall behind or slow the team down. He’d sworn he would shove George and Ryan’s skepticism in their faces, rub their snide looks in his success. He’d sworn he would do the right thing, dedicate everything he had to the mission, to revenge.
He wouldn’t have time for crushing on Haddad.
He’d broken out in a light sweat hefting the pack, but now that it was off, the frigid Tashkent wind chilled him to the bone. He shivered, shoving his hands back in his black jacket and tucking his face into his wool scarf.
Haddad pulled out a beanie from his cargo pants. “Here. This will help.”
Kris frowned. His hair was his best feature. He’d actually been able to style it that morning. Maybe the last morning for a long, long time. He wanted to enjoy the feeling.
“Your hair is very stylish.” Haddad winked. “But I promise you. You’re going to want this. It’s only going to get colder.”
Cheeks burning, Kris took the beanie.
Tashkent, Uzbekistan
September 22, 2001
The weather cleared overnight. At daybreak, Kris, George, and the rest of the CIA team left the embassy, heading back to Tashkent airport. Derek, their pilot, had stayed behind, bunking with the Special Forces team.
When they arrived, the team was loading the squat, fat helicopter that would take them over the Hindu Kush and into Afghanistan. The rotors spun as the soldiers stacked the gear waist-high along the center of the cargo area, strapping everything down in a hodgepodge game of Tetris. Mini mountains of equipment and rucks filled the cargo area, almost butting into the fold-down canvas seats along the bulkheads. Kris searched for his, trying to find the smallest rucksack in the pile of gear.
“Caldera.” Haddad’s deep voice called out to him, barely audible over the roar of the rotors. Haddad beckoned him from near the front of the helo. He had Kris’s ruck on the deck, next to his own.
Haddad’s medic pack made Kris’s ruck look miniscule.
Kris picked his way through as Palmer’s men and his CIA coworkers crammed themselves into too-small seats and shoved their legs around the cargo. There was just enough room for the gear and their bodies if they kept their knees up to their chests.
Around him, the helo rumbled, vibrating like it was trying to shake them all out. He imagined every screw turning loose and falling out, the helo coming apart into a billion pieces on the tarmac and leaving them standing in the center of the rubble. The engines roared, the rotors sounding like the uptown express in Manhattan was rumbling over his head, over and over again.
Haddad passed Kris a headset with padded earphones. He slid them on, careful of his spiked hair. The roar faded, the volume on the world turned down. Kris still felt the vibrations in his bones, felt his organs rumble and pulse, but at least he could hear himself think.
Haddad’s smooth voice came through the headset. “You’re going to want to put on that beanie I gave you. The rear ramp and side doors will be kept open so the door gunners can hold position throughout the entire flight. It’s going to be frigid.”
Kris tugged on Haddad’s beanie and zipped up his fleece. He had his thick outer jacket shoved in the top of his ruck, and he crouched down to grab it. As he did, the helo’s engines turned over, spinning up with a wail. He pitched sideways and then forward, the helicopter shuddering and shaking. He reached for what was closest to brace himself. Both his hands wrapped around Haddad’s thighs, his face mashed into Haddad’s hip.
“Sorry! Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Kris scrambled back, falling on his ass. He’d inadvertently hit on Haddad yesterday, and now this? He could practically feel George and Ryan’s scorn burning into his back, feel the weight of judgment crashing down on him. This wasn’t the time, or the place. He had assholes to prove wrong.
Gently, Haddad helped him up, holding his elbows until he was steady on his feet. Haddad grabbed the helo’s handholds and pulled Kris’s leather gloves and camo poncho liner, a silken, down-filled blanket that had felt like a slice of heaven when Kris had first handled it, out of his ruck. “Put on the gloves, too. And keep the liner near. You’ll probably want to wrap up in it.”
Kris nodded, looking away. Was bone-melting mortification going to be his default setting now, especially around Haddad? He was off to a great start.
He strapped himself into his seat, waiting stiffly as Haddad buckled in next to him. Haddad’s muscles, wrapped up in his own layers of fleece and heavy jacket, pushed against Kris, their bodies pressing together from shoulders to ankles. He tried to shift away as subtly as he could.
Through the headset, he heard Derek talk through their takeoff, their route through Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, over the mountains and into Afghanistan. Derek spoke to Tashkent tower, CENTCOM, and CIA CTC directly, bouncing signals off satellites to reach three different places on earth simultaneously. The flight crew, bundled up in cold weather gear, took up positions at the massive machine guns mounted at the side doors and rear ramps as the helo lifted off.
Their mission had officially begun. They were on their way to Afghanistan.
They banked hard and turned south east, flying low and fast toward the border. Tashkent disappeared, turning to sprawling farmland worked over by stooped men with wooden hand tools and mules. They were flying through time, it seemed, gazing down at centuries past. Dirt roads cut between the farms, snaking through untouched steppe and rugged wilderness.
Kris pressed against his seat, pushed back by the force of Derek’s acceleration. Rays of bitter sunlight spilled into the cabin, slipping through the freezing air. He squinted, fumbling for his sunglasses. Haddad, of course, already had his on.
Grassland and steppe faded, replaced by dust and scrub highland. Dirt roads vanished, turning to trails, then rutted tracks only camels could traverse. Part of Kris wanted to lean out and take it all in. These were ancient roads, caravan tracks used by Silk Road travelers, and before that, the first humans to cross the Asian continent. He wanted to revel in it, in history and sights no one had been able to see for years.
But he was too damn cold.
Ten minutes into the flight, he was a Popsicle. He shivered, huddling into his jacket as the temperature kept dropping. He burrowed under the poncho liner and tried to pull his beanie down farther. Tried to tuck his face into his scarf, the top of his jacket. The rest of the team was bundled up as well, but they all had at least a hundred pounds on him to begin with. He was the runt.
As if to spite him, Derek pushed the chopper faster, dropping altitude until they were running full speed down the length of a twisting wadi. There was nothing beneath them, no signs of life. The earth looked like the moon, like the oceans had been drained and they were the last humans on the planet at the end of the world. Ahead, the mountains on the border of Afghanistan soared, scraping the sky with peaks of snow and ice.
He left his stomach behind as the helo rose, a dramatic ascent that pitched them nearly vertical. He was strapped in, but still, he flailed. Haddad reached for him, wrapped
his poncho liner tighter around him. The mountains seemed to encircle them, getting closer, closer, until Kris was certain they were going to crash. He flinched, screwing his eyes shut.
Haddad’s hand landed on his thigh and squeezed once.
Kris heard Derek calling out altitude readings. He’d never heard Derek’s voice go that high, that strained. Back at Langley, Derek had walked them through the ball-shriveling terror that was flying over the Hindu Kush. Few Soviets had ever done it and lived. No Americans had ever made the flight. The mathematics and physics alone almost suggested it was next to impossible.
Most helo pilots thought they were hot shit if they flew up to ten thousand feet in altitude. The Hindu Kush started at ten thousand feet, and then went straight vertical, as if they held up the sky, poked through the atmosphere and jabbed at the stars.
When he opened his eyes, they had leveled off and were flying between two massive walls of snow-and-ice-coated stone. At fourteen thousand feet, Haddad signaled the team, and everyone reached for the oxygen masks above their heads. Haddad pulled Kris’s down and showed him how to hold it over his face. Cold oxygen flowed, frigid, but welcome. His head, which had started to ache, cleared.
Derek threaded the mountain passes, their rotors buzzing snow flurries off the sides of peaks, close enough that their revolutions whistled against the rock face. He could reach out and brush the mountain, if he wanted, the soaring, jagged peaks of untouched ice. Sunlight pierced the sky, falling through the mountains like samurai swords, like blades from a vengeful god. They and their helo were tiny, insignificant, and as far from humanity, from life as he knew it, as he’d ever been. Were there any humans on the planet more remote than them? If someone had told Kris they were actually on the moon, he would have believed them.
Did time still exist? Kris could hear his own heartbeat, the hiss of the oxygen, and the rumble of the rotors, but other than that, it was like being dropped into someone else’s memory. Each blink lasted a lifetime, the world a smear that passed before his eyes.
