American Blood: A Vampire's Story

by Gregory Holden

Sergeant Bob disappeared back inside the cave while Ryan watched the distance between Calida and himself widen on the screen.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Our enemies our innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.”

  —George W. Bush

  The two old Soviet built KrAZ-255B troop trucks bumped and jostled their way along what had little resemblance to a road.

  Calida had used her short time alone with Amina to persuade her, in a very vampiric way, to remain behind. The men of the tabar now had a little wolf in their midst. The test for Amina was to stay hidden from all eyes during the seven days of transformation. She would then have to take on a new appearance. In some ways, Amina was now her daughter, but Calida held no illusions of a special bond existing between them. Once she turned a woman, they would become fiercely territorial and not suffer the presence of another female vampire, even her. Calida had told Ryan she wouldn’t harm this daughter, but she wondered if he would interpret what she had done to Amina as leaving her unharmed. Whether the decision was good or bad, at least the beating of the women and children would soon end.

  They had journeyed to the southern end of the Sardar’s valley where it opened up into a small, relatively flat confluence with a small canyon that ran down from the mountains to the east. To the west of the confluence, a forty-foot cliff guarded a narrow mountain lake fed by a glacier attached to the mountainside three thousand feet above.

  Just over this last ridge of mountains to the east was the city of Quetta, which served as a strategic hub for the movement of arms and opium, a mecca in its own right for weapons traders and militants looking to thwart America’s growing influence in the region.

  And it was here, in the mountains and plains north of Quetta, where the Taliban’s exiled leader of the faithful, the Amir al-Mu’minin, maintained his control of his followers in Afghanistan. There were many inhabited valleys and remote tribal villages sympathetic to the Taliban in this area, but the Amir found it prudent, and of course safer, for the various tribal sardars to come meet him on his own terms which meant he kept on the move.

  So the trucks left the valley and soon came upon three large tents sitting next to a huge extrusion of naked granite that had been thrust up in the middle of the confluence by the shifting faults deep below the earth.

  Calida was in the truck with the other five daughters. No other women from their tabar were allowed to accompany them to this special jirga between the Sardar and the Amir. The truck came to a stop and two Pashtuns from their tabar quickly opened up the canvas flap at the back of the vehicle, ordering the six women to get out. The women were herded like a small flock of blue wraiths to a place away from the tents where several men, in the characteristic black garments of the Taliban, searched them without any regard for their observance of purdah. After the men were satisfied there were no obvious dangers beneath, or within the women’s clothing, they were passed over by hand held metal detectors.

  “Oh, do not weep my little blue flowers,” one of the Taliban warriors said. “Have you not heard that we do not always beat our women?”

  “That is true,” another said, smiling at the women. “You shall only be beaten if you do not obey the laws of the Sharia.”

  Calida understood that this meant they could be beaten for anything that these men on a whim decided was a transgression of Islamic law.

  After being subjected to several minutes of waving and prodding with the metal detectors, the six women, most of them quietly weeping, were led into the middle tent.

  The space inside was well lit with rugs of all sizes covering the ground. A semicircle of seven men sat with their legs crossed making humorous conversation with each other. Calida noticed that the Sardar and Husaam were sitting to the right of a man with a long unkempt beard wearing a perfectly straight, simple black turban. She also observed that his right eye was missing, but he wore no patch over the vacant socket. The three men on the other side of the one eyed man were dressed in black qmises and shalwars with white sleeveless vests over the qmis. They also wore the same straight black turbans.

  The six women were led before the men and instructed to sit on their knees with their feet directly beneath.

  “They possess no hidden dangers,” said the Taliban warrior who led the daughters into the tent.

  The Amir nodded and the warrior left the tent. “Your tribute has pleased me,” he said to the Sardar, his voice was high pitched and rough sounding. “Many weapons can we purchase in Quetta to fight the American infidels.”

  “My eldest son has brought you a great cache from selling the opium to the decadent west. He is honored that you are pleased.” The Sardar turned toward his son and smiled.

  “Thank you, father.”

  “And what do I see before me?” the Amir asked.

  “Another tribute, great one, but of lesser value than the money, I fear.”

  The Amir laughed, unpleasantly. “What can be more important than the American dollars to buy the weapons we need to fight them in our homeland?”

  “Nothing, Amir.” The Sardar turned and faced the women and waved his hand in a sweeping arc. “These are my most beautiful daughters,” he now proudly said in a loud, clear voice. “May they be allowed to serve the kahwah I have brought?”

  The Amir looked at each daughter—his single eyed stare was more unsettling then a man with only two eyes. “This shall be our third cup of kahwah between us,” the Amir said.

  “Yes, we have shared tea twice before,” the Sardar said. “The kahwah that I’ve brought was prepared with only the finest spices grown in my valley.”

  The Amir held his hands out. “I shall accept this kindness after you tell me how your kahwah tastes.”

  Calida silently observed this exchange of distrust between the two men.

  “Husaam, my son, have your sisters bring us the kahwah.”

  “Which of my sisters shall pour?” Husaam asked.

  Five of the women cast nervous glances at each other from behind their veils and after a moment one of the Sardar’s daughters gracefully stood up.

  “Show your hands,” said one of the Amir’s men.

  The daughter put out her hands and showed her palms to the men. The Amir nodded and she bowed. She walked over to a small rug that had a metal tray with shallow silver cups and a large pitcher of steaming liquid. She knelt down in front of the tray and carefully poured a dark green aromatic tea with hints of spice into the seven cups.

  “Who shall bring the sugar?”

  A second daughter stood up, showed her hands, and after being given permission from the Amir, walked over to the tray and picked up a small glass container that had cubes made from unrefined sugar cane.

  “Bring to me the kahwah and sugar,” the Sardar ordered.

  The two daughters came to the Sardar who held out his right hand. The daughter with the sugar took a single cube from the glass dish and placed it in the Sardar’s hand. The Sardar put the cube in his mouth and his other daughter gave him one of the silver cups that he brought up to his lips and quickly drained.

  “Ah, yes, it is the finest quality kahwah. The spices from my valley are the best in all of Pashtunistan.”

  The Amir studied his guest and after several moments, he appeared to relax. “You may have your daughters bring the cup to me.”

  The two daughters stepped over to the Amir and again a sugar cube was placed in the Amir’s right hand, which he put in his mouth and then accepted the cup of kahwah. He brought the cup close to his face and breathed in deeply.

  “Yes Sardar, it smells of your beautiful valley,” he said, and began to sip from the cup. After a moment, he looked at the two daughters. “Serve the others then sit with your sisters.”

  The daughters did as instructed and after serving the remaining five men in the same manner, went back to their places among the other women.

  “Which three shall you choo
se?” the Sardar asked. “They are all beautiful. Now that we have shared the third cup of tea, we are family. Their purdah is no longer required.” The Sardar turned to his daughters. “Lift your veils and show the Amir how beautiful you are.”

  The daughters looked toward each other and removed their veils, but they kept their eyes lowered toward the ground before them.

  “Have I not told you the truth?” the Sardar asked. “All are young. All are beautiful.”

  “You have given me three difficult choices.” The Amir put down his cup and continued his inspection of the women. “You,” he said, pointing. “The one who stood first . . . what is your name?”

  “Nafisa is my name.”

  “Lift up your face,” the Amir requested. “Yes, you are very beautiful.”

  “And you, the eager one with the sugar, what is your name?”

  “Amina.”

  “I know this name.” The Amir gave the Sardar an approving nod. “Amina was the mother of the prophet Muhammad. It is an honored name among Muslims.”

  Calida smiled but remained silent.

  “And you are also very beautiful . . . but what is that on your hand?” The Amir began to shake his head. “How did you come by this scar on your hand?”

  Calida reached out to Husaam. “It happened when I was a little girl,” she replied.

  “How?” the Amir again asked.

  There was an image now in Husaam’s mind. He remembered.

  “The Amir shall not ask a third time,” the Sadar said, agitated.

  “The scar was given to me by Husaam when I was ten,” Calida answered.

  “Why would Husaam do this?” the Amir asked.

  “I had shamed him by winning a contest of buzul-bazi before the other boys.”

  The Amir laughed and was joined by the other men except for Husaam. “Sardar, your son does not take losing kindly, even to a little girl while playing with sheep knuckles.”

  Husaam turned to the Amir as if to speak, but gave out a short breath and remained quiet.

  The Sardar stopped laughing for a moment. “He has been raised well, Amir. Since he was a small boy others have learned to be careful when challenging him to any contest.”

  “It pleases me that he has been raised in the oldest traditions of our people,” the Amir said. “I have need of such honorable men in the jihad against the invaders of our homeland.”

  “We are very pleased by your graciousness,” the Sardar said. “Husaam is ready to bring my tabar’s honor to your service.”

  “Then we shall talk about Husaam,” the Amir said. “But I still have not chosen the three daughters who shall come and bring service and honor to my tent.” He again turned his eye to Calida. “You are chosen if only to keep Husaam’s anger from again marking your lovely skin.”

  “And what of the other two?” the Sardar asked.

  “Nafisa I shall also take. She is the youngest and the most willing to please.” The Amir looked at the remaining four daughters. “I shall leave the third choice to Husaam. Only he would know if one of the remaining four has shamed him while playing games.”

  The men again laughed while Husaam quietly sat with his eyes fixed on his sister, an embarrassed grin across his face.

  Calida kept her head down and let go of Husaam. He was of no further use to her and was now merely food. If she again mind-locked with him it would be to acquire a blood meal. She trained her mind on the Amir. When she had picked up the sugar cube for his tea, she released the messengers from her fingers onto the sugar. Already they had traveled inside his blood to his skull.

  As Husaam finally chose the third daughter, Calida entered into the private sanctum of the Amir’s thoughts. The tenants of his faith, just as with Husaam, made for difficult reading and his mind was also plagued by a cloud of distrust that was the lens through which he interpreted the world. Even through this cloud Calida found a name that had a presence in his thoughts, a presence that was almost an obsession.

  Calida was startled by a sudden revelation. She reflexively looked up at the Amir and just as quickly lowered her eyes. The man she had been forced to find and kill; the man who was the single most hated enemy of the American government; the man who through his warped understanding of the Islamic faith had brought the Afghani people yet another war . . . the Sheikh, the exiled son of Saudi Arabia was—

  “Amina?”

  Calida looked up.

  “We must leave the Amir and Sardar to discuss their matters,” Ghazala said. “Come to the tent that has been prepared for us.”

  Amina replaced her veil and stood up. She followed Ghazala and Nafisa outside where the three daughters who had not been chosen were waiting with two Taliban guards. They were led toward one of the other tents and as they walked, one of the daughters joined Calida who was last.

  “Oh my sister,” Pamir said. “Shall I not see you again?”

  Calida stepped close. “Do not be surprised if you find me back with our tabar . . . perhaps very soon,” she whispered.

  “How is this possible?”

  “It has been arranged with Husaam . . . now be silent and do not tell the others.”

  “I shall keep this secret between us.”

  “You are a wise sister,” Calida said. “Perhaps I’ll be able to help you and all the sisters of the tabar in the days to come.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “But you shall.”

  Ryan studied the tracker. “She must have stopped . . . yeah, we’re slowly getting closer now.”

  “That’s the compound.” Sergeant Bob pointed down into the blackness where several fires dotted the valley floor. “I think if we stay up along the western slope we can skirt it without being seen.”

  “Nine kilometers is a long way with all of these rocks and crevices,” Ryan said. “At this rate it’ll take us until the sun comes up to get there.”

  “It’s 0130 hours,” Sergeant Bob said. “Sunrise will be at 0612 . . . it’ll be close, but she’s no longer in the valley. They must have stopped on the plain that the valley opens onto.”

  As the three men slowly made their way toward the valley’s southern end, Ryan lagged behind at times to get a position check and a few seconds of rest. The two rangers would stop, allow him to catch up, and then continue. Ryan checked their progress. They were averaging a gain of one kilometer toward Calida’s location every thirty minutes.

  Ryan started moving again, but he had only taken three steps when he felt a now familiar presence within his mind.

  Why are you so far away?

  “Don’t you say hello first?”

  I have gone before the Amir . . . and I have been chosen.

  Ryan’s jaw dropped. “Where are you now?”

  The two rangers stopped, turned around, and looked at Ryan.

  I am in one of his tents past the end of the valley.

  “We’re coming to you but it’ll take until dawn.”

  Things are moving fast . . . maybe too fast . . . he is here.

  “The Amir? He’s with you in the tent?”

  No, dummy, the target . . . your terrorist . . . the Sheikh is here. He and the Amir will be traveling to Quetta to buy weapons.

  “Christ!”

  “Keep your damn voice down,” Sergeant Bob said in an angry whisper. “There could be a hidden cave with guards anywhere.”

  “Sorry.”

  Why?

  “I wasn’t talking to you . . . so where is he?”

  The Amir has placed three large tents within the moon shadow of a giant rock. The Sheikh is in a cave nearby, but I don’t know where. The Amir’s mind is full of caves.

  “I’m sure, so what will you do?”

  The Amir will be going to the safety of this cave after the Sardar leaves. I can now locate him . . . do you understand?

  I—I understand. So what are you doing right now?”

  I am making bread with my sisters.

  “No, I mean how will you be able to get to him?�
�

  It will be difficult. There are many men, all with guns.

  Ryan paused and took a deep breath. “Have you killed anyone?”

  Haven’t your soldier friends already killed two so far tonight?

  “That’s different . . . all right, no it’s not . . . but are you safe?”

  Why are you worried about that?

  “You know why . . . don’t you?”

  Those feeling are your own.

  “How can I be sure?”

  That’s up to you.

  “And what are your feelings . . . for me?”

  You already know . . . so why ask?

  Somewhere deep inside him a hollow and helpless feeling began to build. “Just stay safe . . . we will get to you . . . I promise.”

  I must let go . . . men have entered—

  “What’s happening?” Ryan asked, and he waited for a long moment; there was no answer. “Damn it, she broke contact.”

  “Mister, that was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen,” Squalls said. “You do that back at the base and the MPs will put you to sleep and you’ll wake up in a padded cell.”

  “I’m kind of new at having a vampire in my mind.” Ryan made no effort to hide his frustration.

  “Do you have to talk out loud while she’s in your head?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Probably not . . . it’s just that I actually hear the sound of her voice as if she was standing in front of me. It takes getting use to.”

  “Are you going to let us in on what she said?” Sergeant Bob asked, impatiently.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Ryan said, and as they scrambled up and down jagged rocks and folds in the terrain, he repeated Calida’s side of the conversation.

  “We’ve had intel that he comes down to Quetta to buy arms,” Sergeant Bob said. “But I don’t know, maybe I should call this in. We could have several hundred airborne in the area by noon tomorrow.”

  Ryan grunted. “Haven’t you guys been trying it that way since coming over here?”

  “It’s not us on the ground screwing it up . . . the higher up the decision is made the more cluster-fucked the mission becomes.”

  “Amen.”