SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  Sikander never saw them again.

  Abdul Latif, Ejaz, and Abdul Majeed looked on, moved by the sadness on all sides. The six escorts turned back toward the village. As Sikander, Abdul Rahman, and Saleem compared their identical gifts, Ejaz sidled up alongside Saleem.

  “What was that?” he asked, combining curiosity with complaint. His eyes darted between the other two returnees looking for a revelation of some sort. “Saleem?” he pressed.

  “Aamir and Yassir aren’t who they appear to be,” responded a giddy Saleem.

  “Well, yes…but who are they?”

  “They‘re British military officers, brother, and they are very good at what they do.”

  “English, you mean?” asked Ejaz, making little progress with his brother.

  “That’s right! Imagine our surprise when we first learned of it.”

  Abdul Rahman, Sikander, and Abdul Latif exchanged knowing glances. The group proceeded down into the village with Ejaz finally getting the explanation he was looking for. He felt envious at what he’d missed, but mostly he was pleased that his brother and the others had made it safely back.

  Rabia didn’t take long to be persuaded that Sikander’s poor taste in humor should be forgiven. In less than three days, she was almost her usual self toward him.

  One evening, after a combined family meal, Sikander picked up several dishes and walked into the back where she had already begun cleaning them. Having gone to the washroom, Noor wasn’t with her daughter as she might ordinarily have been, and the rest of the family members were gathering the remaining dishes. Sikander seized his opportunity to deliver a direct apology.

  “Rabia, um, about the handkerchief. It was insensitive…what I said, I mean. I shouldn’t have said it. You made an effort to welcome us back and I…I poked fun at it.”

  “Yes. You did, Sikander. But I’m over it now, and you don’t need to bring it up again.”

  “So…I’m forgiven?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “But?”

  “But it’ll take more than just words, Sikander.”

  “I see. What did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure yet, but you’ll know when the time comes.” The gleam was back in Rabia’s eye, leaving Sikander sure of only one thing. Her badal would be fitting. Sikander returned to the main room to collect more dishes just as Noor came back.

  Sikander and Rabia continued to interact, though always in the shadow of Noor or Razya. Rabia pressed Sikander to tell her of his recent adventure. Unsure of what he should or shouldn’t reveal, he made his descriptions of the trip enchanting, but terse.

  It was mid November and those fields designated for poppy had to be planted. The hardy crop could easily survive in weedy and rough soil as long as it was planted now. Although they understood something of the negative effects of addiction to the refined heroin that came from their opium, the villagers gave it little thought, seeing it as a necessary cash crop.

  November rolled into December and life in Laghar Juy was mostly calm, punctuated occasionally by the distant sounds of fighting. The Soviets and the DRA were clearly uninterested in trying to invade and hold territory in the rural areas, preferring to focus on the larger cities and the main routes between them. Yet that didn’t stop them from attacking villages in which their reconnaissance had shown mujahideen resistance building up or in conducting reprisals against whichever village their own intelligence suggested was responsible for the most recent ambush. Likewise, the mujahideen maintained a close watch on arms or troop buildups and would typically try to ambush them during any force movement.

  With winter closing in, there was a lull in the fighting and Abdul Latif used this brief time of peace to train his villagers to be more effective in tactics and the use of weapons.

  Sikander grew increasingly proficient with his AK-47. He was outshooting Abdul Majeed—the acknowledged marksman of the family—about half the time. He finally grasped some of the nuances of his weapon, which he, along with the others, had retrieved back in Jamrud. It had a slight tendency to pull to the left, which he quickly learned to allow for, and he also mastered the super-elevation required to compensate for gravity, but he was still working on leading with his aim on moving targets. Whenever the “brothers joined him” they practiced procedures for a Stinger attack with the training hardware. They had been given specific instructions about practicing to maintain proficiency but they enjoyed putting on a show for others. It was also an ideal time to introduce both Abdul Majeed and Ejaz to some of the simpler aspects of supporting the operation of the Stinger.

  The women of the extended family busied themselves with preparations for the wedding. Everyone agreed to postpone the date until May. Too much attention had been consumed by repair and reconstruction efforts after September’s attacks and Hinna’s family was in any case far from ready. The delay brought welcome relief.

  Since Rabia was the only girl available of similar figure to Hinna, she was chosen to model the bride’s new clothes, including the lehenga suit for the wedding. Ejaz was naturally called upon to try on those being made for him and he enjoyed critiquing both, always in good humor, but often to the annoyance of his mother and aunt.

  More than once, Sikander happened to be present during such trial fittings and had to be discreet in his own reactions to Rabia. She was becoming a young woman whom he had to admit he was growing increasingly fond of, a fact not lost on the keenly observant Razya, who was routinely at Noor’s place working with her on the sewing.

  To an Afghan woman of Razya’s age, it was a matter of significant prestige to arrange a match between an eligible boy and girl, and though she was happy for Ejaz, she couldn’t hide her disappointment at having been robbed by circumstance in his case.

  On the morning of December 13, Tahir, a man from Anarbagh village, whom Abdul Latif knew well, hurried on horseback to Laghar Juy. He brought news from Jalalabad. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum, brother!” he greeted Abdul Latif, who was walking home from Noor’s with Sikander and Abdul Rahman.

  “Wa ‘alaykum assalaam, Tahir. What brings you here in such a hurry?”

  “It’s the DRA. They’re readying another attack on this area. They haven’t forgotten the pounding you gave them and their Russian friends in September. Their reprisal wasn’t sufficient payback as far as they’re concerned and they’ve been waiting for your planting to be done before getting their complete badal. Do what you can to prepare yourselves.”

  Sikander was intrigued by how the age-old Pashtunwali notion of badal pervaded even the Afghan army. Unless the retribution felt equitable, those seeking revenge would be left with the gnawing sense that more should have been done, while having to live down likely ridicule from friends and family.

  Abdul Latif stroked his rusty beard. “Any idea when?”

  “Indications are it’ll be three days from now, but honestly? I wouldn’t rely on that. It could be tomorrow, or they may just let the weather decide.”

  “Hm… What kind of attack force?”

  “Hinds, most likely. If they’ve waited for everyone around here to be done with planting, it would make sense to be targeting the fields. I don’t think they have any relish for a close combat engagement. Costs them too many defections,” Tahir snickered.

  Whenever soldiers from the DRA forces were treated well in captivity or managed to “sell” their weapons in exchange for security and protection, word spread and encouraged more of their colleagues to change sides, while limiting unnecessary loss of life. It also meant debilitating consequences for the enemy. Any such transfers subtracted from their forces and added to the mujahideen—always a much better outcome for the mujahideen than a simple enemy loss. In many cases, the only deterrent to switching sides was the knowledge that the government could retaliate by harming a soldier’s family.

  “Remember, brother, Anarbagh has a ghundi with Laghar Juy as do other villages in these parts, so let us know if you need us to come,” Tahir reminded his f
riend.

  Abdul Latif pondered the situation. Obviously the jirga would need to be informed, but he already understood what to do.

  “Brother Tahir, JazaakAllah for the information. We’ll prepare to evacuate the village by tomorrow evening and post lookouts on high ground to the south. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay with us before heading back to Anarbagh if you’d like.”

  Tahir accepted the offer, and Abdul Latif’s house was naturally where he would stay. By now it was understood that whenever guests stayed at Abdul Latif’s place, Sikander spent the night with Noor’s family, which he didn’t mind doing as it was barely fifty meters away. That night was to be no exception, but in the late afternoon, just before Sikander was about to leave, Abdul Latif asked his sons and Sikander to meet with Ejaz and Saleem, to redouble their exercises in readiness for a helicopter attack. They were the only ones with any training on the Stinger and it would be down to them to lead the defense.

  The three young men marched to Noor’s home, found Ejaz and Saleem, and proceeded into the open yard at the back of the house to practice with their proficiency training hardware. They were eager to demonstrate their new skills in more than just the childish make-believe way that it seemed to require.

  Indeed, the young men appeared to Rabia like overgrown schoolboys playing with sticks for weapons. Repeatedly, she secretly peeked through the square opening that was the kitchen’s window into the backyard and had to cover her mouth to conceal an irrepressible giggle. Unknown to her, Sikander had noticed but hadn’t let on—preserving his own dignity as much as anything else. He was in no hurry to let his embarrassment grant her the badal from the handkerchief incident that she had still to exact.

  Abdul Latif consulted with the jirga who resisted any evacuation unless the lookouts had a confirmed sighting of the enemy’s helicopters. Abdul Rahman suggested that from that point forward, he and Sikander should each carry a Stinger on its sling strap. Saleem, Abdul Majeed, and Ejaz would carry replacement missile rounds. BCUs would be at the ready in improvised bags strapped around each of their waists. The arrangement allowed for five firings in short order. Abdul Rahman couldn’t imagine the enemy dedicating five helicopters to the attack. Even if there were more, the remaining pilots would surely retreat if they saw just one or two of their colleagues dropping so readily at the hands of such a new weapon. Given the Stinger’s four-kilometer effective range, they could engage as soon as the first helicopter was within two kilometers of the village, which would trap an oncoming formation in a killing zone from which escape would be all but impossible.

  The following day it rained heavily, having the beneficial effect of removing the haze that had built up over the past few weeks of dry weather. That in turn, made the lookouts’ jobs easier once the rain stopped. It also meant that no helicopters would be attacking just yet.

  The day after the rains was spectacularly sunny and clear, quickly drying out the ubiquitous mud from the previous day. Many villagers had just re-awakened after their usual post-fajr sleep. At around half past nine the lookouts were still at their posts and as the morning shift was just about to take over, there was a shout from one of them.

  “Hinds!” he proclaimed. “Half a dozen maybe! Can’t be sure. They appear to be headed in this direction, fifteen, maybe twenty kilometers away!”

  A messenger hurried to Abdul Latif’s house in less than a minute.

  “Start the evacuation!” Abdul Latif ordered. “Sons, get Saleem, Sikander, and Ejaz. After that you know what to do. Hurry!” he prodded, as everyone scrambled out of their dwellings.

  The two men ran to Noor’s house. Quickly, they stirred the other three, and the five of them bolted with weapons slung over their backs toward a cluster of mud-brick homes downhill from their present location. Villagers noisily rushed past them in the opposite direction. Sikander tapped Abdul Rahman’s shoulder as he pointed to the top of one of the taller homes with three floors. Abdul Rahman nodded in agreement. In short order, they slipped into the house, climbed the steep mud-brick steps, and reached the roof.

  “Sikander, you and I should stand together here,” ordered Abdul Rahman. “When both missiles have gone, Ejaz will pass you his replacement, and I’ll get mine from Abdul Majeed.” Turning to Ejaz and Abdul Majeed he directed each of them to prepare ready rounds.

  “Saleem, you stand in between us,” continued Abdul Rahman. “You’ll need to do targeting for both of us. Sikander, I’ll fire first, but at the second helicopter. The lead pilot won’t be able to see any more than the missile trail and it’ll surprise him. You take the lead pilot with your missile and then we’ll attack whoever comes closest. May Allah remind those haraamzadas of their cowardice when we destroy one of them!”

  And their stupidity when we’ve taken four! Sikander prayed silently.

  In reality with the targets being slow, poorly maneuvering helicopters, neither Saleem, as gunner lookout, nor the missile itself would be challenged to deal with any evasive action. However the men’s highly polished routine offered a reflection of the training that was drilled into them, and was now guiding Abdul Rahman. Sikander glimpsed in the man some of Abdul Latif’s style as he busied himself preparing for the attack.

  Four heavily armed Hinds in line astern formation and one on each flank, making an overall diamond pattern, barreled in toward the fields outlying Laghar Juy and a few nearby villages. By now the lead helicopter was less than two kilometers away with the next one about fifty meters further back and slightly lower. The remaining two in the line astern formation were likewise separated both vertically and horizontally. From the onlookers’ perspective, their approach exposed the left side of the entire formation to them, as it headed for the fields to the right.

  Abdul Rahman and Sikander screwed in their BCUs, and shouldered their weapons. “Now!” Abdul Rahman commanded. Both men tracked their designated targets. Abdul Rahman pressed his impulse generator switch and immediately the BCU’s chemical charge and electrical power sprang into action. He now had a little less than a minute before the BCU would run out of power and IR sensor coolant.

  Once the system locked on target, all that the gunner needed was to squeeze the trigger. About six seconds into the startup sequence, Abdul Rahman’s IR sensor emitted the tone indicating a lock. In English, he instinctively shouted, “Weapons free!” and pressed the uncage button followed by the firing trigger.

  Agog with amazement, Abdul Majeed and Ejaz, having never witnessed a launch, looked on as the rear cover burst open and the blast from the launch motor hurled the Stinger forward, shattering the IR window. The missile continued trailing the attached lanyard until it was taut then broke free. The rocket’s boost-sustain motor ignited on cue from the detaching lanyard, startling both men a second time. Trailing a long arc of smoke, the missile closed in on the target helicopter. About a second before impact, its internal guidance switched over from its heat-seeking IR mode to its target adaptive guidance circuit, modifying its trajectory away from the engines as heat source, toward the main body of the helicopter. The missile exploded on impact, destroying the second helicopter.

  Sikander had already made it past the BCU impulse generator switch, spun up the electronics, and, as the first missile exploded, he pressed the uncage button and then the firing trigger. The same launch sequence ensued.

  The weapon’s deadly contents dutifully pursued the lead helicopter. Having caught the previous oncoming missile from the corner of his eye, its pilot had already banked sharply to his left to steer away from the village fields, but as Abdul Rahman had correctly anticipated, they were too far into the killing range of the missiles for any maneuvering to allow escape from subsequent salvos. Struck from the rear by Sikander’s missile, his target was destroyed, killing the three-man crew. The third helicopter, sustained some damage from the blast debris of the one in front, and its pilot also began banking sharply left to avoid being the next victim.

  Abdul Rahman had meanwhile loaded and latched in
a third missile round handed to him by Abdul Majeed, while Ejaz passed his round to Sikander. Again Abdul Rahman fired. His missile sped swiftly in a leftward arc to meet and exterminate the rightmost helicopter in the formation. In vain, its pilot had decided to bank to his right, away from the explosion in the middle of the formation.

  Sikander was about to hit his impulse switch once more, but as it became clear to the Afghan pilots that with a three out of three hit rate, it would be unwise to take on this new weapon, they abandoned the run at the village. He held off from depressing the impulse switch and unshouldered his weapon, saving the BCU in the process. Conserving these valuable missiles was clearly important and it would be better to wait for the next threat than needlessly to destroy another helicopter.

  As he lowered the weapon, he was overwhelmed by a great sense of accomplishment, then awe—and then, a new sensation engulfed him. It was terror, and it was like none he could recall.

  The best he could do at that moment was to join in the chorus of “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” that had begun rising behind him from among the rapidly returning villagers below and was now also being uttered by his four companions on the rooftop. Even as he shouted the words, he felt strangely detached from the scene. As if stepping out of himself to see himself, his mind settled on the terrible fact that this time he had actually killed people. How could that be? Just weeks ago he’d been a Shakespeare-reading student at University Public School. How could it be?

  Why the school comparison bubbled up so vividly in his mind he couldn’t say. He couldn’t even dedicate the attention needed to pose such a question consciously to himself. His connection with the human race had been severed. The eerily slow-motion inhumanity that seemed to permeate him right now had its antipode in his most human self-image as a student in Peshawar. Consciously, he could only marvel in horror. It wasn’t the same as watching his friends attacking in Batawul or being with Abdul Latif improvising with an RPG. This time he had pulled the trigger and now a few millimeters of index finger movement had changed who he was. Forever.