Sergei strode up the main street, such as it was, of Bulola. Dirt and dust flew up from under his boots at every stride. In Kabul, even in Bamian, he probably would have felt safe enough to wear his Kalashnikov slung on his back. Here, he carried it, his right forefinger ready to leap to the trigger in an instant. The change lever was on single shots. He could still empty the magazine in seconds, and he could aim better that way. Beside him, Vladimir carried his weapon ready to use, too. Staying alive in Afghan meant staying alert every second of every minute of every day. Vladimir glanced over at a handful of gray-bearded men sitting around drinking tea and passing the mouthpiece of a water pipe back and forth. Laughing, he said, Ah, they love us. Don't they just! Sergei laughed, too, nervously. The Afghans' eyes followed Vladimir and him. They were hard and black and glittering as obsidian. If the looks they gave us came out of Kalashnikovs, we'd be Weeding in the dust. 'Fuck em, Vladimir said cheerfully. No, fuck their wives these assholes aren't worth it. He could make it sound funny. He could make it sound obscene. But he couldn't take away one brute fact. They all hate us, Sergei said. They don't even bother hiding it. Every single one of them hates us. There's a hot headline! Vladimir exclaimed. What did you expect? That they'd welcome us with open arms the women with open legs? That they'd all give us fraternal socialist greetings? Not fucking likely! He spat. I did think that when I first got here. Didn't you? Sergei said. Before they put me on the plane for Kabul, they told me I was coming here to save the popular revolution. They told me we were internationalists, and the peace-loving Afghan government had asked us for help. They haven't changed their song a bit. They told my gang the same thing, Vladimir said. I already knew it was a crock, though. How? How? I'll tell you how. Because my older brother's best friend came back from here in a black tulip, inside one of those zinc coffins they make in Kabul. It didn't have a window in it, and this officer stuck to it like a leech to make sure Sasha's mother and dad wouldn't open it up and see what happened to him before they planted him in the ground. That's how. Oh. Sergei didn't know how to answer that. After a few more steps, he said, They told me the Americans started the war. Vladimir pointed out to the mountains, to the gray and brown and red rock. You see Rambo out there? I sure don't. We've got our own Ramboviki here, Sergei said slyly. Bastards. Fucking bastards. Vladimir started to spit once more, but seemed too disgusted to go through with it this time. I hate our fucking gung-ho paratroopers, you know that? They want to go out and kick ass, and they get everybody else in trouble when they do. Yeah. Sergei couldn't argue with that. Half the time, if you leave the ghosts alone, they'll leave you alone, too. I know. Vladimir nodded. Of course, the other half of the time, they won't. Oh, yes. Ohhh, yes. I haven't been here real long, but I've seen that. Now Sergei pointed out to the mountainside. A few men Afghans, hard to see at a distance in their robes of brown and cream were moving around, not far from where the bumblebee had flayed the ghosts a few days before. What are they up to out there? No good, Vladimir said at once. Maybe they're scavenging weapons the dukhi left behind. I hope one of the stinking ragheads steps on a mine, that's what I hope. Serve him right. Never had Sergei seen a curse more quickly fulfilled. No sooner had the words left Vladimir's mouth than a harsh, flat craack! came echoing back from the mountains. He brought his Kalashnikov up to his shoulder. Vladimir did the same. They both relaxed, a little, when they realized the explosion wasn't close by. Lowering his assault rifle, Vladimir started laughing like a loon. Miserable son of a bitch walked into one we left out for the ghosts. Too bad. Oh, too bad! He laughed again, louder than ever. On the mountainside, the Afghans who weren't hurt bent over their wounded friend and did what they could for him. Sergei said, This won't make the villagers like us any better. Too bad. Oh, too bad! Vladimir not only repeated himself, he pressed his free hand over his heart like a hammy opera singer pulling out all the stops to emote on stage. And they love us so much already. Sergei couldn't very well argue with that, not when he'd been the one who'd pointed out that the villagers didn't love the Red Army men in their midst. He did say, Here come the Afghans. The wounded man's pals brought him back with one of his arms slung over each of their shoulders. He groaned every now and then, but tried to bear his pain in silence. His robes were torn and splashed soaked with red. Sergei had seen what mines did. The Afghan's foot maybe his whole leg up to the knee would look as if it belonged in a butcher's shop, not attached to a human being. One of the Afghans knew a little Russian. Your mine hurt, he said. Your man help? He pointed to the Soviet medic's tent. Yes, go on, Sergei said. Take him there. Softly, Vladimir told him.
A fleabite might not bother a sleeping man. If he'd been bitten before, though, he might notice a second bite, or a third, more readily than he would have otherwise. The dragon stirred restlessly.
Satar squatted on his heels, staring down at the ground in front of him. He'd been staring at it long enough to know every pebble, every [dot] of dirt, every little ridge of dust. A spider scuttled past. Satar watched it without caring. Sayid Jaglan crouched beside him. I am sorry, Abdul Satar Ahmedi. It is the will of God, Satar answered, not moving, not looking up. Truly, it is the will of God, agreed the commander of the mujahideen. They do say your father is likely to live. If God wills it, he will live, Satar said. But is it a life to live as a cripple, to live without a foot? Like you, he has wisdom, Sayid Jaglan said. He has a place in Bulola he may be able to keep. Because he has wisdom, he will not have to beg his bread in the streets, as a herder or peasant without a foot would. He will be a cripple! Satar burst out. He is my father! Tears stung his eyes. He did not let them fall. He had not shed a tear since the news came to the mujahideen from his home village. I wonder if the earthquake made him misstep, Sayid Jaglan said. Ibrahim said the earthquake was later, Satar answered. Yes, he said that, but he might have been wrong, Sayid Jaglan said. God is perfect. Men? Men make mistakes. Now at last Satar looked up at him. The Russians made a mistake when they came into our country, he said. I will show them what sort of mistake they made. We all aim to do that, Sayid Jaglan told him. And we will take back your village, and we will do it soon. Our strength gathers, here and elsewhere. When Bulola falls, the whole valley falls, and the valley is like a sword pointed straight at Bamian. As sure as God is one, your father will be avenged. Then he will no longer lie under the hands of the god-less ones . . . though Ibrahim did also say they treated his wound with some skill. Jinni of the waste take Ibrahim by the hair! Satar said. If the Shuravi had not laid the mines, my father would not have been wounded in the first place. True. Every word of it true, the chieftain of the mujahideen agreed. Satar was arguing with him, not sitting there lost in his own private wasteland of pain. Sayid Jaglan set a hand on Satar's shoulder. When the time comes, you will fight as those who knew the Prophet fought to bring his truth to Arabia and to the world. I don't know about that. I don't know anything about that at all, Satar said. All I know is, I will fight my best. Sayid Jaglan nodded in satisfaction. Good. We have both said the same thing. He went off to rouse the spirit of some other mujahid.
Shuravi! Shuravi! Marg, marg, marg! The mocking cry rose from behind a mud-brick wall in Bulola. Giggles followed it. The boy or maybe it was a girl who'd called out for death to the Soviets couldn't have been more than seven years old. Little bastard, Vladimir said, hands tightening on his Kalashnikov. His mother was a whore and his father was a camel. They all feel that way, though, Sergei said. As always, he felt the weight of the villagers' eyes on him. They reminded him of wolves Tracking an elk. No, the beast is too strong and dangerous for us to try to pull it down right now, that gaze seemed to say. All right, then. We won't rush in. We'll just keep trotting along, keep watching it, and wait for it to weaken. Sergeant Krikor said, How can we hope to win a war where the people in whose name we're fighting wish they could kill us a millimeter at a time? I don't know. I don't care, either, Vladimir said. All I want to do is get back home in one piece. Then I can go on with my life and spend the rest of it forgetting what I'
ve been through here in Afghan. I want to get home in one piece, too, Sergei said. But what about the poor bastards they ship in here after we get out? They'll have it as bad as we do, maybe worse. That isn't fair. Let them worry about it. Long as I'm gone, I don't give a shit. Vladimir pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Like anyone who'd been in Afghanistan for a while, he opened it from the bottom. That way, his hands, full of the local filth, never touched the filter that would go in his mouth. He scraped a match alight and cupped his free hand to shield the flame from the breeze till he got the smoke going. Give me one of those, Sergei said. He knew cigarettes weren't good for you. He couldn't count how many times his father and mother had tried to quit. Back in Tambov, he never would have started. But coming to Afghanistan wasn't good for you, either. He leaned close to Vladimir to get a light off the other cigarette, then sucked harsh smoke deep into his lungs and blew it out. That made him cough like a coal miner with black-lung disease, but he took another drag anyhow. Vladimir offered Krikor a smoke without being asked. Of course, Krikor was a sergeant, not just a lowly trooper. Vladimir was no dummy. He knew whom to keep buttered up, and how. Krikor didn't cough as he smoked. In a few savage puffs, he got the cigarette down to the filter. Hardly a shred of tobacco was left when he crushed the butt under his heel. To hell with me if I'll give the Afghans anything at all to scrounge, he declared. Yeah. Vladimir treated his cigarette the same way. Sergei took a little longer to work his way down to the filter, but he made sure he did. It wasn't so much that he begrudged the Afghans a tiny bit of his tobacco. But he didn't want his buddies jeering at him. The ground shook under his feet, harder than it had the first couple of times he'd felt an earthquake. Krikor's black, furry eyebrows flew up. Some of the villagers exclaimed. Sergei didn't know what they were saying, but he caught the alarm in their voices. He spoke himself: That was a pretty good one, wasn't it? If the locals and the sergeant noticed it, he could, too. Not all that big, Krikor said, but I think it must've been right under our feet. How do you tell? Vladimir asked. When they're close, you get that sharp jolt, like the one we felt now. The ones further off don't hit the same way. They roll more, if you know what I mean. The Armenian sergeant illustrated with a loose, floppy up-and-down motion of his hand and wrist. You sound like you know what you're talking about, Sergei said. Don't I wish I didn't, Sergeant Krikor told him. Sergeant! Hey, Sergeant! Fyodor came clumping up the dirt street. He pointed back in the direction from which he'd come. Lieutenant Uspenski wants to see you right away. Krikor grunted. By his expression, he didn't much want to go see the lieutenant. Miserable whistle-ass shavetail, he muttered. Sergei didn't think he was supposed to hear. He worked hard to keep his face straight. Krikor asked Fyodor, He tell you what it was about? No, Sergeant. Sorry. I'm just an ordinary soldier, after all. If I didn't already know my name, he wouldn't tell me that. All right. I'll go. Krikor made it sound as if he were doing Lieutenant Uspenski a favor. But when he came back, he looked grim in a different way. The ghosts are gathering, he reported. Sergei looked up to the mountains on either side of Bulola, as if he would be able to see the dukhi as they gathered. If I could see them, we could kill them, he thought. When are they going to hit us? he asked. Before Sergeant Krikor could answer, Vladimir asked, Are they going to hit us at all? Or is some informant just playing games to make us jump? Good question, Sergei agreed. I know it's a good question, Krikor said. Afghans lie all the time, especially to us. The ones who look like they're on our side, half the time they're working for the ghosts. One man in three, maybe one in two, in the Afghan army would sooner be with the bandits in the hills. Everybody knows it. Shit, one man in three in the Afghan army is with the dukhi Vladimir said. Everybody knows that, too. So what makes this news such hot stuff? Like as not, the ghosts are yanking our dicks to see how we move, so they'll have a better shot when they do decide to hit us. Krikor's broad shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. I don't know anything about that. All I know is, Lieutenant Uspenski thinks the information's good. And we'll have a couple of surprises waiting for the Bastards. He looked around to make sure no Afghans were in earshot. You could never could tell who understood more Russian than he let on. Sergei and Vladimir both leaned toward him. Well? Vladimir demanded. For one thing, we've got some bumblebees ready to buzz by, the sergeant said. Sergei nodded. So did Vladimir. Helicopter gunships were always nice to have around. You said a couple of things, Vladimir said. What else? Krikor spoke in an excited whisper: Trucks on the way up from Bamian. They ought to get here right around sunset plenty of time to set up, but not enough for the ragheads here to sneak off and warn the ragheads there. Reinforcements? Sergei knew he sounded excited, too. If they actually had enough men to do the fighting for a change . . . But Krikor shook his head. Better than reinforcements. What could be better than reinforcements? Sergei asked. The Armenian's black eyes glowed. He gave back one word: Katyushas. Ahhh. Sergei and Vladimir said it together. Krikor was right, and they both knew it. Ever since the Nazis found out about them during the Great Patriotic War, no foe had ever wanted to stand up under a rain of Katyushas. The rockets weren't much as far as sophistication went, but they could lay a broad area waste faster than anything this side of nukes. And they screamed as they came in, so they scared you to death before they set about ripping you to pieces. But then Vladimir said, That'll be great, if they show up on time. Some of the bastards who think they're so important don't give a shit whether things get here at six o'clock tonight or Tuesday a week. We have to hope, that's all, Krikor answered. Lieutenant Uspenski did say the trucks were already on the way from Bamian, so they can't be that late. He checked himself. I don't think they can, anyhow. After what Sergei had seen of the Red Army's promises and how it kept them, he wouldn't have bet anything much above a kopek that the Katyushas would get to Bulola on time. But, for a wonder, they did. Better still, the big, snorting six-wheeled Ural trucks machines that could stand up to Afghan roads, which was saying a great deal arrived in the village with canvas covers over the rocket launchers, so they looked like ordinary trucks carrying soldiers. Outstanding, Sergei said as the crews emplaced the vehicles. The ghosts won't have spotted them from the road. They won't know what they're walking into. Outfuckingstanding is right. Vladimir's smile was altogether predatory. They'll fucking find out.
Above the mountains, stars glittered in the black, black sky like coals and jewels carelessly tossed on velvet. The moon wouldn't rise till just before sunup. That made the going slower for the mujahideen, but it would also make them harder to see when they swooped down on Bulola. A rock came loose under Satar's foot. He had to flail his arms to keep from falling. Careful, the mujahid behind him said. He didn't answer. His ears burned as he trudged on. To most of Sayid Jaglan's fighters, the mountains were as much home as the villages down in the valley. He couldn't match their endurance or their skill. If he roamed these rocky wastes for the next ten years, he wouldn't be able to. He knew it. The knowledge humiliated him. A few minutes later, another man up ahead did the same thing Satar had done. If anything, the other fellow made more noise than he had. The man drew several hissed warnings. All he did was laugh. What had been shame for Satar was no more than one of those things for him. He wasn't conscious of his own ineptitude, as Satar was. The man in front of Satar listened to the mujahid in front of him, then turned and said, The godless Russians brought a couple of truck-loads of new men into Bulola this afternoon. Sayid Jaglan says our plan will not change. I understand. God willing, we'll beat them anyhow, Satar said before passing the news to the man at his heels. Surely there is no God but God. With His help, all things may be accomplished, the mujahid in front of Satar said. And surely God will not allow the struggle of a million brave Afghan forebears to be reduced to nothing. No. He will not. He cannot, Satar agreed. The lives of our ancestors must not be made meaningless. God made man, unlike a sheep, to fight back, not to submit. That is well said, the man in front of him declared. That is very well said, the man behind him agreed.
To God goes the credit, not to me, Satar said. His face heated with pleasure even so. But the night was dark, so none of his companions saw him flush. Some time around midnight or so Satar judged by the wheeling stars the mujahideen reached the mountain slopes above Bulola. Satar's home village was dark and quiet, down there on the floor of the valley. It seemed peaceful. His own folk there would be asleep. The muezzin would not call them to prayer in the morning, not in a village the godless Shuravi held. Here and there, though, inside houses that hadn't been wrecked, men would gather in courtyards and turn toward Mecca at the appointed hours. Satar cursed the Soviets. If not for them, his father would still have his foot. If not for them, he himself would never have left Bulola. But I am coming home now, he thought. Soon the Russians will be gone, and freedom and God will return to the village. Soon the Russians will be gone, God willing, he amended. He could not see their trenches and forts and strongpoints, but he knew where they were, as he knew not all the deniers of God would be sleeping. Some of the mujahideen would not enter into Bulola. Some, instead, would go Straight to Paradise, as did all martyrs who fell in the jihad. If that is what God's plan holds for me, be it so. But I would like to see my father again. He took his place behind a boulder. For all he knew, it was the same boulder he'd used the last time Sayid Jaglan's men struck at the Shuravi in Bulola. His shiver had nothing to do with the chill of the night. His testicles tried to crawl up into his belly. A man who said he was not afraid when a helicopter gunship spat death from the sky was surely a liar. He'd never felt so helpless as under that assault. Now, though, now he would have his revenge. He clicked his Kalashnikov's change lever from safe to full automatic. He was ready.
Short Stories Page 2
