Pashtun

by Ron Lealos

  In the daylight, the marked Bird wasn’t attempting stealth. We flew down the Shah-i-Kot Valley, a small stream dividing the ridges on both sides. Spindly trees stood out like a tuft of grass in the desert, lining the newly paved road leading to the city. Vehicle traffic was mostly military and small Korean, Indonesian, and Japanese pickups—transportation of choice throughout Afghanistan. The men wore either turbans or helmets, and the few women were covered head to toe in burqas of various colors, mostly black. Many carried baskets on their heads, and children danced circles around them, pointing and throwing rocks as we passed overhead.

  Brown. Even the water in the stream was chocolate colored. Trees that should have been green were coated in dust that blew in the ceaseless wind. No vegetation beyond a hundred yards of the creek, only rocks. It looked like the world had been drawn with non-fat latte crayons. Old CIA hands spoke about the assault of green in ’Nam. The suffocating sense of humidity, decay, and lush color. It was the opposite here. Arid. So dry, snot wouldn’t harden in my nose. It just got sucked away in the breeze.

  Closer to Gardez, we flew over the refugee camps. Seemingly endless scatterings of tents with people walking aimlessly between. Trucks with the UN logos and white vans with Red Crosses painted on the top were parked on the dirt paths. Ditches lined the perimeter, sewage darkening the clay. Smoke rose from cooking fires, and the smell of crowded, dirt-poor humanity reached even as high as the Bird.

  A few klicks outside Gardez, the Special Operations Group base was surrounded by sandbags and razor wire. Compared to the randomness of the refugee camps, the base was an example of modern military planning: tents in rows, all leading to a central administration compound, housing the command center. Heavily armed Rangers walked between the wide aisles, and a detachment surrounded the Bird’s landing area. The base was under constant threat of mortar attack from the caves and crags of the nearby mountains.

  Two grunts led me toward the operations tent. Nothing cried out I was a Company man, but the Rangers knew I was from Spookville. The old cliché of heightened awareness in a combat zone was true for these grunts. I was outfitted pretty much just like them. Semi-automatic H & K, ammunition belt, helmet, and drab brown uniform. No grab-assing or jive talk. No smiles. Just “Follow me, sir” from the leader.

  The tent could have been any one of thousands around Afghanistan. Folding tables and chairs with computers and documents. Charts covering all the walls. Helmetless buzz-cut soldiers with headsets talking, scanning monitors, or adding pins to maps. The constant low-level chatter of radios and the smell of coffee and sweat. We walked through the ordered disorder into a side room with one large map of Paktia Province on the far wall, a large conference table, and a half-dozen chairs.

  A smooth-faced black Ranger the size of Mike Tyson sprawled in one of the seats, helmet on the table and H & K resting against his thigh. Even in a slouch, he was as graceful, strong, and as athletic as an NBA star. Hooded eyes didn’t hide an attitude of intelligence and suspicion. He had probably graduated head of his class at John Wayne High School in Fort Bragg. Rangers never liked working with spooks. The missions too often ended with litter cases being loaded on the evac chopper. Or stories that were more secret than ears-only classification. He just stared lazily, seemingly confident that he was smarter, tougher, and, certainly, better looking than the other guys in the room.

  My escort left without any farewells, and I sat across from the SF soldier who had to be Washington. No nametag stitched to his chest, which was threatening to bust the seams on his camo top. No salute. No exchange of greetings or friendly banter. Not even a nod. The gaze of a man who had four aces in his hand. Or a sniper with an open target in his laser sight at fifty yards. Washington was trying to show he was in control, knowing full well he was dispatched as a grunt on this mission and was under my orders. I took off my helmet and set it on the table across from his.

  “Donovan,” I said. “And you must be Washington.” I waited for his acknowledgment.

  His eyes opened only fractionally wider, but he didn’t straighten up. Like he was awakened from dreamland and only wanted to get back to sleep.

  “Lieutenant Washington, 3rd Special Forces Group,” he said. “MAIN 3415778. Wanna see my ID card, spook?”

  A smirk. The more he chuffed me, the easier this would be.

  “Nah, troop,” I said. “I don’t want to get to know you. We’re just gonna be buddies for the day. Any problem with that?”

  Washington slowly unwound, stretching lazily, stressing the buttons on his shirt. He sat forward, eyes now fully open.

  “Every time I go out on one of these ops, somebody dies,” he said. “I wanna make sure it’s not me. And I won’t do anything that puts me in harm’s way before you, Donovan. You’re no brother of mine.”

  Getting simpler by the second. I smiled.

  “A man can’t be too careful with his choice of enemies, Washington,” I said. “An old Irish saying that has great meaning in this rock pile.”

  “Did you read the book How to Rent a Negro?” Washington asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I didn’t write it,” he said. “And I sure as shit ain’t for rent.”

  “How about a short-term lease?” I asked. “And don’t worry. No Company voodoo. You’ll be back in your cot by lights-out without a curse on your ass.”

  “As long as they’re not stuffing my parts in a body bag,” Washington said. “It appears I ain’t got no say in the matter anyway. Just wanna make sure you know where I stand on the issues. It’s you before me.”

  “If it gets to that,” I said, “I’m sure I’ll make the appropriate command decision.”

  Across Afghanistan, soldiers were beginning to rebel. With the Pentagon’s “stop-loss” directive, grunts didn’t know when or if they were going home after their tours were involuntarily extended to cover a shortage of troops. Not yet as bad as ’Nam, where lieutenants were as likely to be killed by a grenade from their own personnel as the enemy, but angry soldiers were refusing to go into the caves at the whim of the Fobbits. No officer murders had been publicly reported, but I had access to more intel than even Seymour Hersh. The Army’s response: Prozac. It could be why Washington, still seemingly relaxed, was sending out veiled threat vibes.

  “Ten four, boss man,” Washington said, leaning back. The chair squealed in agony.

  No paperwork. No map. Just an anonymous picture given to me earlier by Dunne. The snapshot looked like a million other Pashtu males in man-jammies. I handed the photo to Washington.

  “Atal Ghazan,” I said. “We’re headed to his house in the city. You can guess why. For certain, not to share a hookah. Just know, he’s a bad guy.”

  Washington held the picture in his hand, shaking his head.

  “Sure it’s not another clusterfuck?” he asked. “Been on enough of those to fill a comic book.”

  He handed the photo back, and I shoved it in my pocket.

  “No guarantees,” I said. “You know who I’m working for.”

  Washington, and thousands like him, had been ordered out on ops that were not only dangerous but also seemingly stupid and unproductive. When the intel was paid for and came from locals who would laugh at American blood, it was hard to trust. The one sure thing—someone was very likely to die, innocent or not.

  “We’re part of the morning convoy,” I said. “We’ll slip away from a patrol when we get to Ghazan’s neighborhood. We’ve got a place to hide out ’til night. Then, we’ll give Ghazan Allah’s greetings.” I stood, picking up my helmet.

  “Let’s saddle up,” I said. “The transports’re waiting.”

  Washington pushed back his chair and put his helmet on, letting the H & K droop easily from his hand. He followed me out of the tent into another blue-sky day.

  No kids playing soccer in the roads or legless beggars in doorways. No one headed to the market or the relief trucks for food. The street telegraph had told everyone of our presence, and the
civilians had retreated behind mud walls, knowing the appearance of a heavily armed infidel patrol was often the target of insurgents. No telling when violence would break out or a langarei, mortar, would cloud the street in red. Washington and I were on drag, making sure no eyes followed us onto 28 Asman Street. The squad leader knew his only job today was escort, and he expected us to go missing. He just didn’t know where or when it’d happen.

  We walked a few doors beyond 28 and stopped, checking all perimeters for watchers. No one about. I gave Washington a hand sign, and we stepped back to number 28, slipping inside the unlocked wood door.

  A walled courtyard with a well in the middle. Buckets sat below the hand crank. The ground was swept, hardened clay. Everything was an off-white color—the motif most favored by Afghan designers. Flower pots, their stalks unwatered and spindly, withered under an archway. Blue sky and the bright sun cast silhouettes off the overhangs. Two crows were silent sentries perched on top the far wall above a carved doorway. Everything tidy and in order. Washington followed me toward the back, his eyes scanning, never idle to possible danger.

  Inside, a kerosene lantern on a table. No windows. A man sitting at a desk turned, a Browning automatic pistol in his hand.

  “Top’a the mornin’ to you fellas,” Finnen said, pointing the barrel toward us.

  Closing the thin door, I immediately pushed the nose of the .22 Hush Puppy into Washington’s neck and grabbed the H & K in my other hand. With the silenced pistol as guide, I directed Washington to the chair. He was grinning and didn’t appear frightened in the least. Or surprised. Even if he tried some Special Ops martial-arts move, the pressure of the gun and Finnen’s Browning aimed at his face made it obvious he would be dead before he could twirl and strike.

  As he began to sit, I kicked the chair away.

  “On your stomach,” I said. “Now.” I pushed the Hush Puppy harder into the top of his spine.

  In a slight crouch, he began to turn. I lowered the .22 and shot him in the back. The Kevlar vest wouldn’t let the bullet penetrate, but the force put Washington on the clay floor, groaning.

  Finnen stood and walked the few steps across the room. He bent over and took off Washington’s helmet and then patted him down, gathering grenades, a Ka-Bar, and a sissy little Colt pistol strapped to his ankle. He loosened Washington’s ammo belt and threw it in the corner.

  “A traitor is a man hangin’ by his fingernails over chaos,” Finnen said, standing up.

  Washington was struggling to get his breath, the thin air coming in gasps.

  Even in this compromised position, a man as highly trained as Washington was still as dangerous as a wounded grizzly. Finnen and I stepped back, the pistols never wavering from the target that was Washington’s head. We waited for a minute until Washington’s breathing settled. I didn’t want him to have a panic attack. Not yet.

  “Get the handcuffs,” I said to Finnen.

  He grinned and pulled the restraints out of his pocket.

  The Company favored the plastic cuffs. As strong as steel, but much lighter. And we didn’t need a key. Just had to cut them off.

  Finnen rolled Washington over and grabbed his arms. He steered Washington’s hands above and behind his head and snapped two pairs of handcuffs on his wrists.

  “Just in case,” Finnen said. “He’s as strong as a gale off the Irish Sea.”

  Smoke from the lantern did a belly dance on the walls. A rug hung on one side, colorful checked patterns woven in the wool. No human figures or lettering. Islam forbade that heresy. Above, wooden beams supported the mud roof. The room felt unused and ancient.

  Washington began to thrash, trying to get his arms comfortable.

  “Settle down,” Finnen said. “Tis better to be a coward for a minute than dead the rest of your life.”

  No hurry. We had lots of time to decide Washington’s fate, and I wanted him to wonder about his current situation.

  Finnen began to hum an old sea shanty, knowing as much as I did about interrogation technique. Establish superiority, and don’t rush unless you have to.

  Heroes. The man on the floor was one. Washington’s file listed numerous battlefield citations. His time in-country was spent mostly in the Korengal Valley, a nasty place near the northeast border with Pakistan. Stories coming out of that hell-hole were rife with insanities brought on in wars where captured terrain stayed occupied only during the day. At night, it went back to the locals as if nothing had changed. There was no front. No advances. No storming of the Rhine. When a cave was liberated, the history was written in blood, not freedom. It took a strong commander to keep troops fighting useless battles where there were no friendlies. And Washington was on the fast track to Captain, according to what I’d read in his file.

  In one of the ops, his squad had been ambushed by insurgents outside Yaka China. The attackers were mostly from a Wahhibi sect of Islam, fundamentalists nearly as rigid as the Taliban and mostly confined to the tree-lined valley. It was an insertion mission, but it seemed not even Rangers could go undetected. Washington and his wounded radioman called an airstrike on themselves to keep from being butchered in hand-to-hand combat. An AC-130 gunship blew away all the hadjis, leaving Washington with shrapnel cuts and one other squad survivor. His men had nicknamed him Shaq, as in “attack.”

  The H & Ks leaned against the wall. Not too far to reach at the slightest hint of incursion but not of much use during an interrogation. I took off my helmet and laid it on the dirt floor.

  “I figure you get why this is happening, Washington,” I said. “Reading your dossier, it’s hard to understand why a patriot of your level would go bad. But you did. We can skip the denials. You’ve already been ratted out by Thorsten and some of the others.”

  Lies. I lived in a country where truths were as hard to find as beautiful women. They were all hidden. No one but a condemned dope pusher and arms dealer had betrayed Washington. He still had a slim chance to be free if he convinced us he was falsely accused. I didn’t think so. And I’d use any tactic necessary to get at the truth.

  Washington tried to roll to his side.

  “Can I sit?” he asked. “It’s getting really uncomfortable.” He smiled. “I know, I know. The fun’s just gettin’ started, and I don’t understand what ‘uncomfortable’ means yet. Ya da, ya da, ya da.” No more smile. “Go for it, white bread.”

  Finnen stepped to Washington and helped him to the chair.

  “Sure, laddy,” he said. “Can I bring you a spot of tea and some biscuits? We’re all civilized here.”

  Right now, my pattern would normally have been a bullet to the knee. Get his focused attention without letting him bleed out. In the field, there was no time for long-term questioning. Today, it was different. He was one of ours. There was no deadline. The compound was protected, even if I hadn’t seen anyone on the way in. And I didn’t have another soul on my dance card.

  I set the Hush Puppy on the table and pulled the other chair close to Washington.

  “Let’s start with where the money comes from,” I said. “The boys said you were the paymaster.” I was just guessing, but Thorsten certainly wasn’t the don of this syndicate.

  Silence. Washington was thinking. He clearly realized answers were his only salvation. He wasn’t trying to protect his country, religion, or loved ones.

  Outside, two crows were fighting, their squawks echoing around the courtyard. In the distance, sounds of an AK47 were answered quickly by semi-automatic fire. The patrol must have made contact nearby. The room was getting stuffier, smoke mixing with the smell of the unwashed. Not fear. It was poker time, and I had placed the first bet.

  Washington looked up.

  “I’ll talk if we can deal,” he said. “No excuses. No lies. Even if it means Leavenworth, I don’t wanna die in this shit hole.”

  Finnen chuckled.

  “That’s a fine lad,” he said. “And who do you think we are? Emissaries from the Holy Father here to give you dispensation? Remember,
a handful of truth is worth more than a bag full of gold.”

  If Finnen weren’t the best cut-out I’d ever worked with, I wouldn’t be so patient with his blarney. Behind the façade, he was as tough and mean as they came. Must be his Irish roots and his days in Rwanda and Angola after the massacres, still a time for vengeance. He was nearly as tall as Washington but forty pounds lighter. I wouldn’t bet on Washington if it came down to a death match.

  Minutes passed. I took out my Ka-Bar and mindlessly rubbed the blade on my thigh, composing an email in my head to my mother back home in the warmth and comfort of low-altitude Kansas, humming as I chose my words.

  Hi Mom,

  I hope Uncle Phil recovered from his gall-bladder surgery and Dad got the new engine in the Chevy. I sure miss those rhubarb pies you bake this time of year. Did Mrs. Skinner find her lost cat? I was wondering how the high school football team fared and if they’re celebrating down at the Tastee Freeze. Bob and Sally must be home from their honeymoon at Disney World. Give them my best. Here, not much. The cherry trees are fading around DC, and my job in the accounting office is kinda slow. Wouldn’t mind if I caught a cheater trying to pad his expense vouchers to find a little excitement around this place. Going sailing this weekend. Have taken up golf, too, and might get in a few more rounds before it gets cold. Gotta go. I think I might see a zero out of place. Love you and take care.

  P.S. Sorry I haven’t been returning your calls. My cell phone has been giving me trouble.

  There was no use writing to anyone in Millard about where I was or, especially, what I did. They would look at me like I was from another dimension. Better to keep up the lies from the Fairy Tale Kingdom. Anyway, I’d have to decide who I was before I could tell them.