by Scott McEwen
Forogh smiled dryly. “Because the Americans have blocked the road into the Panjshir . . . which I’m sure you know.”
The guard accepted that. “What business do you have with the Karimovs?”
“I told you . . . they’re family.”
“Do you come to herd goats with them?”
Again Forogh’s dry smile. “They do not herd goats. They cut timber in the mountains to the north.”
The guard grinned crookedly. “Give him his rifle.”
Two of the sentries remained at the pass while the leader and his partner drove Forogh into the village. They stopped in front of the home of Orzu Karimov, the oldest of Forogh’s uncles, the family patriarch. Forogh jumped out of the back and called into the house.
Orzu and two of his sons came outside.
Forogh noted the surprise in his uncle’s eyes, but it was brief enough that the sentry would not have picked up on it.
“This man claims to be your nephew,” the sentry said from the passenger seat.
Orzu Karimov was sixty-five. His face was lined and weathered, but his eyes were keen, teeth strong. “He’s the son of my oldest sister. Welcome, nephew. It’s been a year. Are you finally ready to work?”
Forogh shrugged. “Is there any?”
His uncle laughed and looked at the guard. “He’s been lazy his entire life. He prefers following after goats to working for a living!”
The sentry laughed back and slapped the driver on the shoulder with the back of his hand, signaling for him to pull off.
Orzu signaled Forogh to precede him into the house, giving his sons a menial errand to run. Once inside, he barred the door and turned around. “I’ve received word you’re working for the Americans.” It sounded almost like an accusation. “Is this true?”
“Who else knows?” Forogh was very surprised. “Who told you?”
Orzu leveled his gaze. “I have friends everywhere. You should know that by now. You’re here because of the American woman.”
Forogh took a knife from inside his robe and used the tip of the blade to remove the screws from the buttplate of the AK-47. The infrared strobe slid out onto the table. “This flashes a light that only the Americans will be able to see. I will use it to mark the building where she’s being held.”
Orzu’s eyes were steady and unblinking. “They pay you well, the Americans?”
“Well enough, but that’s not—”
“Well enough to endanger your clan?” his uncle asked harshly. He pointed at the strobe. “That’s enough to see every one of us shot.”
Forogh was surprised by his uncle’s anger. “I promised them you would help, Uncle.”
“That was a naïve promise to make.” Orzu dropped into a chair. “Why would I ever agree to such a thing? The Americans are leaving this country, and the Hezbi grows stronger every day. Making friends with the US now would be suicide.”
Forogh sat across from him. “I told them you would help because Massoud was your friend, and Massoud would not have tolerated the Hezbi taking over the Panjshir.”
Orzu remained obdurate. “Massoud is dead, and the Hezbi is a devil we must learn to live with. Once the Americans have gone, they will leave the Panjshir because there’s nothing here for them.”
“Aren’t they taking a portion of your profits from the timber?”
“If they are, that’s no reason to take twenty men up against six hundred. They leave us alone to live our lives, and that’s how I intend to keep it.”
Forogh understood his uncle’s reasoning. “In truth, I knew I was lying when I told them why you would help.”
A shadow crossed his uncle’s face. “Lying?”
“The real reason you will help, Uncle, will be to save the village from total destruction.”
Orzu sat forward, making a fist on the tabletop. “The Americans aren’t that stupid. If they attack, the woman dies—instantly.”
Forogh slipped the strobe back into its hiding place. “There is a man hiding in the mountains above the village. You will help me find a way to mark the woman’s building with this light.” He began to screw the screws back into place with the knife. “After the building is marked, we will ride out of the village with your men, up into the mountains as if we’re leaving to cut timber. Then we will circle back to the junction with the Khawak Pass to set up a defensive perimeter for the Americans’ extraction zone. While we are doing this, the American will sneak into the village and take the woman. He will then ride north with her to meet us. After the woman is lifted from the ground, we will all disappear into the mountains to begin cutting timber.” Forogh chuckled. “Well, you and my cousins will begin cutting timber. The American and I will make our way back to friendly territory on horseback . . . and the Hezbi will never be wise to your helping. Even if we have to fire on them to protect the extraction zone, they won’t know who’s shooting at them, and they’ll never be able to give chase in the mountains without horses.”
Orzu gaped at him. “The Hezbi aren’t stupid, either! And even if they were, this American of yours will fail.”
“If he does,” Forogh said with a shrug, “then I will be stuck working with you in the mountains until you decide to return to the village.”
Orzu stood up from the table. “No, Nephew, I will not help you mark the building, and I will not put my men in danger to help the American.”
“Yes, you will, Uncle. Because if you do not, tomorrow night the village will be attacked with bombs and helicopters and soldiers. The Hezbi will fight to the last man, and many Tajik will die in the crossfire . . . and so will their horses—so will your horses.”
“I could warn them,” Orzu threatened. “Tell them to get the woman out of here before the attack begins.”
“That would change nothing,” Forogh replied. “They would keep the woman here, and Americans would still attack. But that’s unimportant because you would never warn the Hezbi.”
“Why are you so sure, Nephew?”
“Because of Massoud, Uncle. Massoud would never do such a thing, and I know that he is still the only man you have ever admired.”
44
AFGHANISTAN,
Bazarak
Khan sat listening to the rattle in Sandra’s lungs, then plucked the stethoscope from his ears and turned to Kohistani. “I warned you this would happen. She’s been in this bed fighting infection for ten days and now she has pneumonia. She’ll be dead in a week.”
Kohistani stood looking at the withering American woman who lay sleeping, her eyes beginning to sink in her face. “You’re certain?”
“That she has pneumonia or that she’ll be dead?”
“Of both.”
“Yes,” Khan said. “Penicillin isn’t enough. I told you.”
Kohistani bridled at the continued impudence of the village doctor. “You had better learn to curb your tongue with me, Doctor, or I will have you beaten before the entire village as an example.”
Khan’s mouth remained a thin line, his gaze not quite defiant. “Are you going to ask the Americans for medicine for her? They could drop it from a plane.”
Kohistani shook his head. “If they suspect she’s dying, they’ll attempt to rescue her—there would be nothing for them to lose at that point. Is the leg wound healing?”
“Yes, finally, but that’s the least of her worries now.”
“I see.” Kohistani stood stroking his beard. He didn’t want the American to die yet, but her death was inevitable, and she had already served the greater part of her purpose. The last two of weeks of preparation had been critical to the valley’s defenses. If it was the will of Allah for her to live, she would live whether she was given a different medicine or not. Doctors put too much faith in medicine and too little in Allah.
He turned to the teenage guard sitting in the corner sharpening a knife. The boy was his dead brother’s only son. “They could come for her any night now, Nephew,” he said in Arabic so that neither Khan nor Badira could understand. �
�When the village falls under attack . . . as it must . . . you are to cut the American’s throat first . . . then that of this pig doctor as well.”
“It will be done, Uncle.”
“Very good.” Kohistani left the building.
The moment he was gone, Sandra’s bloodshot eyes opened and she looked at Badira. “So what’s going on?”
Badira averted her gaze. “Kohistani has sent for the medicine.”
Sandra coughed, and a sardonic chuckle slipped out. “Like hell, he did. He’s going to let me die. He’s worried my people will do something desperate if they find out I’m sick . . . right?”
Badira looked at Khan, started to say something, then stopped and nodded her head. “Is he correct? Will they attack if they think you are dying?”
Sandra drew the blankets up close to her chin, shivering with fever. “I don’t know what the hell they’ll do anymore. Can you give me some opium . . . please?”
“No. Khan says it will weaken your lungs.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Badira, I’m dying. What the fuck does it matter? Just let me have the goddamn shit.”
Khan heard the crossness in her tone. “What is she upset about?”
“She wants opium.”
He reached for his bag on the table. “I can give her pills for the pain.”
“It’s not only her leg she wants it for. She seeks oblivion.”
Khan shook his head and got up from the chair. “In that case, no. Opium smoke will speed the deterioration of her lungs. If she dies sooner than expected, Kohistani will hold me responsible.”
“Perhaps you could inject it,” Badira suggested. “We have heroin.”
Again, Khan refused. “Give her pills for the leg pain and keep her warm. Also, water and hot tea . . . lots of water and hot tea. And get her on her feet at least once every hour when she is awake, and keep her sitting up as much as possible.”
Badira let out a sigh. “We might as well put her on a horse and send her out to play buzkashi with the Karimov clan.”
Khan smiled his gentle smile, remembering their tender lovemaking the night before, Badira agreeing to remove the veil only after the candle had been put out. “I know you have become friends. But if you want her to live, you must be firm with her.”
“What’s he saying?” Sandra wanted to know, aggravated by all of the unintelligible talking going on around her. “He’s saying I can’t have the opium, right?”
“Yes,” Badira said. “He’s also saying that you need to get up and walk more.”
“Sure,” Sandra said, even more agitated. “Why not send me out to play a game of football while I’m at it?”
Badira’s eyes twinkled above the veil. “I told him the same thing . . . but you’re going to have to try. Also, you have to drink more of the tea.”
“It tastes like goat shit. Khan can drink the tea his damn self.”
Khan was watching Sandra with curious eyes, unaccustomed to seeing a woman so outspoken. “What’s she saying now?”
“That she doesn’t like the tea.”
He snorted. “You didn’t tell her what’s in it, did you?”
“Do you think I’m stupid? Her guesses are close enough.”
“So what’s in the tea?” asked the teenager in the corner.
“A fermented fungus,” Khan said offhandedly, knowing it was the boy’s job to kill Sandra at the first sign of American treachery and detesting him for it.
Sandra inched up against the wall, drawing the blanket back to her chin. “So, have you two done it yet?” she asked out of the blue. “Fill me in here before I’m dead. Have you two lovebirds hooked up yet, or what?”
Badira’s eyes grew wide above the veil.
Khan saw this. “What did she say?”
Sandra recognized his inquisitive tone, snickering as she made the gesture for sexual intercourse with her thumb and forefingers. “Sex, Khan. Have you two had sex yet?”
Khan recognized both the gesture and the word sex. He looked at Badira and laughed, his face flushing slightly. “Americans,” he said, shaking his head. “Irreverent to the last.”
45
AFGHANISTAN,
Panjshir Valley, Bazarak
Gil watched the young sentry search Forogh at the foot of the mountain, relieved they had decided against an attempt to smuggle any sort of communications device into the village. The sentry’s search was thorough; nothing the size of even a small cellular phone would have escaped him. Gil lost sight of the pickup truck almost at once when they drove into the village, but he took it as a good sign when the truck returned to the roadblock without delay and the sentries resumed their lackadaisical watch.
He then spent the next six hours resting his body and his mind. This was done without napping or closing his eyes, utilizing a technique he had developed over the years, consciously resting his body while remaining alert to his environment. Breathing deeply from the diaphragm to fill his lungs completely allowed him to stretch the muscles of the chest and shoulders where the tension could tighten the tissues and endanger his accuracy. This type of exercise also helped to regulate the heart rate and keep the muscles well oxygenated and ready to move. The stresses of combat were not always caused by bullets and blood. For a sniper they were often caused by extended periods of motionless anticipation. During these dangerous periods, the sniper had to be careful to occupy his mind in a way that did not lull him into a lethargic state. Both the mind and the body needed to remain alert and elastic, ready to spring into action the instant the shit unexpectedly hit the fan.
With the coming of twilight, he shook off the calm and got mentally attuned to the mission ahead. Forogh had been in the village for a little over six hours now, and though there was still no sign of the infrared strobe, he told himself it was too soon to worry. He continued to study the various sentries around the village for any hint of where Sandra might be. Some of them held static positions while others roved freely about. Fortunately, these rovers did not wander randomly. Their routes were not set, but it was apparent each group of sentries had a particular zone they were responsible for. Also, there were three shooters with Dragunovs posted on a few of the higher rooftops.
The valley floor south of the village was sectioned off into more than forty farm plots, each varying in size and shape, none larger than a quarter acre in size, and each of them enclosed by a waist-high stone wall. There were a number of trees between the farm plots and the buildings, and Gil judged that from ground level the snipers would probably not have a clear view of his approach. This would allow him to creep within two hundred yards of their positions—the effective range of the subsonic rifle ammunition he would use to silently remove them from the game board.
There were various stables and mangers located south of the village as well, and Gil had already made a mental note of the route he would take to reach the horses. Luckily, the goats and sheep were not allowed to roam free, and he hadn’t seen or heard a single dog all day. With luck, this meant that canines were few and far between. A dog could see ten times better than a human in the dark, and there was something about a shadowy figure in a combat crouch that put your average dog in the mood to bark its ass off. Gil thought of Oso and smiled. He was in no mood to shoot a dog tonight.
As the light continued to fade, his attention was drawn abruptly to a building located on a small rise in the center of the village. He lifted the Remington and watched through the night-vision scope as six armed men gathered on the roof. At least four more took up positions on the ground below, and electric lights came on inside and out. A pair of pickup trucks appeared out of nowhere and began to unload half a dozen men each.
“Shit,” Gil muttered, watching as the building quickly took on the appearance of a well-defended command post. “He got himself caught!”
He continued to watch, and a few minutes later, a band of twenty men appeared, making their way down the alley toward the stables where the horses were kept. Each man led a horse fr
om the stable into a square paddock where they began to saddle them up.
Swearing like the sailor he was, Gil made ready for a quick departure. Even from this range and elevation, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the HIK with just three hundred rounds between the Remington and the M4. All they would have to do would be to use their trucks and cavalry to outflank him, and then, once he was good and surrounded, they could zero his position with a mortar and burn him down. There was no way of knowing whether Forogh had been made to talk yet, but there was no point in waiting around. Everybody talked sooner or later, and Gil didn’t figure on Forogh giving up too many fingers before he told them what they wanted to know.
FOROGH TIGHTENED THE horse’s girth strap and pulled himself up into the saddle.
His uncle Orzu mounted up next to him. “Can you still ride, Nephew?”
“It hasn’t been that long, Uncle.” Forogh switched on the infrared strobe hanging from his neck by a lanyard. He couldn’t see the light that it emitted even in the dark.
“Good!” his uncle said with gusto, reining the horse around. “Before this night is over, you may have to ride to save your fruit!”
Forogh’s uncles and cousins laughed.
“You’re sure no one can see that thing but the American?” one of Forogh’s other uncles asked.
Forogh held up the strobe. “It’s working now. Can any of you see anything?”
Satisfied that the instrument could be trusted, Orzu tapped his heels against the horse’s flanks to set it walking. “Remember, don’t place it before the shouting starts.”
“I won’t, Uncle.”
The column rode out of the paddock, each man with an AK-47 across his back, their extra magazines hidden beneath their cold-weather clothing. They rode two abreast up a slight incline toward the river, then turned north up a dirt lane, passing before a row of concrete houses on the left toward an intersection shaped like a T turned over on its left side. The top of the T ran north to south, and the bottom ran east to west through the center of town past the well-lighted command post.
