by Russ Linton
The hike under the weight of her fully loaded pack was brutal. She'd never dealt with altitudes like this before. The highest she'd ever been off the ground had been her fifth story dorm room. On the windswept prairies of Texas, oxygen came in big, fat gulps.
Mid-morning brought the same unseasonable humidity before they descended to the valley's riverbed. A stream mostly. The broad, rocky wash and steep banks were remnants of spring thaws. Jackie wobbled her way across the smooth boulders. A hand caught her elbow. Jacobs.
"Go change a G.I.'s diaper," she said, snatching her arm away.
He backed off, and as he did, her sudden movement played too far into the pack's awkwardness. Survival gear, a heavy collection of lenses, tripods, emergency rations, spare batteries and solar chargers fought to pull her down. Jacobs took note and hovered.
Her monopod in one hand, she stabbed at the ground and caught herself. Never designed to be a walking stick, the extension collapsed, but She'd bought enough time to plant her feet firmly.
"I'll go fuck off over there," he said, pointing a few heads up in the column of men. "Holler if you need me."
She watched him walk away. The guy knew she had zero inclinations toward the more simian sex. None. Even if, as every day was, this could be her last. No amount of chivalry could overcome pure biology.
But no, Jacobs wasn't one of those, that wasn't why he hovered. She watched him pat the water bladder on a soldier's back. Both a greeting and a subtle check. He must've come from a big family. Maybe he was the oldest, taking care of all the little ones. Could be he'd spent his youth as the man of the house. Like she had.
They broke from tree cover to expose terraced fields carpeting the lower slopes. Above those, the village climbed steep inclines. On the western side, a collection of solar panels glinted in the sun. She stole a shot of the oddity.
"What do you know about this Landigal?" she asked Aazar.
"Very small, but very powerful. The elder sells woods...timber. Very rich."
"They friendly?"
"For us?" Aazar smiled and maintained it. "No. Big time Taliban."
Wonderful. She managed a smirk and snapped a shot of their guide.
For days the squad had been meaning to visit. A bomb had gone off-target and shattered a home. Army brass had decided killing people wasn't enough, they needed to blunder into villages and apologize. Surprisingly, this never went over well. With the latest news though, Jackie figured the real purpose of this patrol was to gather intelligence. One final trip through the valley to assess enemy strength—see if they'd heard of the trouble back home and if they were preparing for their own offensive.
Beyond the forested river banks, a group of young women washed clothes in the meager stream threading between rocks. The girl's bright dresses brought a smile to her face. She unshouldered her pack to retrieve a couple of lenses while the squad filed past. Telephoto, a fixed 35, one of her favorites. She broke from the group, leaving her pack behind.
"Franklin," she heard Jacobs say.
The crunch and slide of boots over stone told her she'd been given a new minder. She paused to take several shots with the telephoto and switch lenses, long enough to let Franklin catch up.
"Watch my pack?" she asked. Before he could answer, she took off toward the girls.
The ruse didn't last. It wasn't like somebody was going to crawl up out of the rocks and steal her gear. She turned to face the pursuing soldier. Franklin's eyes landed everywhere but her. They'd left all cover behind. The other soldiers maintained their formation and hustled across the shallow stream toward the village.
"A few minutes, that's all I need," she said.
"You can't wander off by yourself," Franklin grumbled. On patrol, he buried the prankster side deep enough she wondered if he'd be able to dig it back out.
"You hunt the terrorists, let me hunt the little girls doing laundry."
"Captain told me to watch you."
That was an argument she knew she couldn't win. "Watch me from over there," she said, indicating her bag. "From the shade. You'll scare them off."
He considered her offer and the distance from the rest of the patrol. "Fine. But one of them goes all Allahu Akbar on you, that's your problem."
"I'll take the risk," she said, solemnly as she could.
Crazy as fear of women doing their laundry sounded, the guy had every right to be wary. She knew she needed to be cautious.
A purple, formless dress covered the youngest's undefined body, her legs and arms bare. The girl stared into a metal tub, prodding the clothes inside. The middle child wore a firaq, gold on her chest and a patchwork of colors below the waist. Her pants were pushed up scandalously to avoid the water. A brilliant red scarf covered her hair, but her face remained exposed. Curious, intent, her features held the androgyny of a pre-teen, though her assignment already been made.
The oldest could have been their mother or an older sister. Her green hijab piled loosely around her shoulders. She watched Jackie approach. They continued speaking, their small voices masked by the river's whispers.
Jackie had forgotten to get her own headscarf out of her bag. She'd sometimes been able to wander village streets here and elsewhere without a second glance. An Asian boy, some assumed. A few took the time to scold her.
Jackie waved and touched her hand to her heart as a show of goodwill. The youngest squinted and flapped her arm. She still had the attention of the middle child. She couldn't make out the words the oldest spoke as she scrubbed more furiously at the clothes.
"Hello," Jackie said, trying Pashto.
The middle girl hadn't even blinked yet. The eldest dipped the tub into the water. Following her lead, the small one rattled her tub across the rocks and toward the bank until a sharp reprimand stopped her.
"Do you mind if I take your picture?" Jackie asked, again in Pashto.
"You want picture?" replied the oldest, her English clear.
"Yes, I would," she said eagerly. The girl continued scrubbing to the point where Jackie wondered if she'd heard her speak at all. No, she had. "My name's Jackie."
The woman stopped and brushed a strand of hair from her face. A swat in the air broke the middle child's stare, and she listened to a quick demand. With parental patience, the middle child guided the youngest and her tub to the river's edge. The woman stood, cradled her own tub against her hip, and began walking.
"Come. For picture."
Jackie glanced in the distance at Franklin. Like every other member of the squad, he would follow his orders. If she walked into danger, any one of these highly trained, hard to replace special ops guys would wade into withering gunfire to retrieve her. She knew better than to make a scenario like that happen. Didn't she?
As far away as Franklin was she could see the trepidation, imagine she heard the cursing under his breath. She threw up her hands and jogged after the woman.
The village ahead appeared deserted. Wherever the rest of the squad had gone, likely every able-bodied man had followed. A glance over her shoulder and she saw Franklin dragging her pack behind with one hand on his rifle. She felt terrible, the guilt nearly made her stop, but the woman was relentless. Determination filled every stride and Jackie had to know why.
She was being led somewhere important. They'd never try to kidnap her with an entire squad here or start a firefight in their own village, Jackie told herself. The cat and mouse games in the valley always ended when the two sides got this close. Villagers would suffer invasive searches and detainment then, when the soldiers left, take to the countless mountain trails and return to their guerrilla tactics.
Franklin huffed far behind, a stream of curses she could hear clearly now. Worst case, he did something rash. Naw, he was just pissed at his bad luck, stuck with the reporter. If he'd been worried about safety, he'd have left her bag by the stream.
They stuck to the edge of the village, navigating a low wall by the fields. She could hear voices echoing higher up the slope. One stone buildin
g after another passed on their right, with little space between them.
The woman made a hard turn and disappeared.
Jackie's heart skipped. Franklin was still too far away, but he'd noticed the villager drop out of sight. Waiting would be the best idea yet she didn't want to lose the opportunity. She gave Franklin a pleading look, and he froze. As she stepped around the corner, she saw him ditch her bag and break into a run.
Her guide hadn't gone far. Motionless, her laundry tub rested on her hip spilling brightly dyed clothes, the woman stood outside a broken house. Her hijab had shifted and trailed past the crown of her scalp, ebony hair exposed. Jackie readied her camera and joined her.
Smoke stained the green-trimmed windows where an inferno had vomited from the tiny house. A shattered brick wall stair-stepped counter to the flow of the valley. Chewed and blackened, half the roof had vanished, the supporting timbers exposed. Debris covered the floor. Mixed within the rocks were signs of furniture blown to splinters. Metal glinted. Bowls or silverware. A shoe no bigger than her hand lay beside a puddle of curdled blood.
Jackie checked the woman. She appeared composed, but the blank stare only masked an inner turmoil Jackie knew well. She’d worn that mask while watching a cremation through the glass window of an incinerator. The funeral director had gently told her she did not need to be present. But he didn't understand Jackie's need to see her father finally consumed by the forces which had wrecked his life.
She snapped a picture.
"We were like sisters," the woman said, ignoring the camera. "Her husband, a good man. Her daughter." She couldn't continue.
Jackie had captured the girl gazing into what might as well be a freshly dug grave. She hated herself for this part of the job. These scenes of death and loss would haunt her later when she chose the most damning portraits of her avarice to submit for publication.
Franklin stumbled into view, rifle raised. The somber atmosphere didn't set him at ease. The woman tugged her hijab into place.
"Come closer," she commanded Franklin. "See what you have done."
Franklin gaped at her use of English. It was a rare thing to be able to speak to anyone in the valley without an interpreter. Even more rare for a woman to speak openly to a stranger. Rifle at his cheek, Franklin stepped up and swept the gutted home.
"Back to the river," he said to Jackie. "Now."
"The elders will not show you this. At the sura, your men will receive nothing but demands for payment. I am not allowed to question," she spat, her hands balled into fists, eyes full of fury. "They will say my sister went to live with relatives. But she seeks revenge. Not holy Jihad by the will of Allah. She will walk outside his blessed presence. Cursed. Because of you."
The harsh words drew a long stare from Franklin.
"Now!" he repeated.
Jackie felt the woman's helplessness more than she felt threatened. But alone, with a foreign man, she could very well be beaten or worse if anyone saw them speaking. The risk was hers, not theirs.
Jackie took one more picture. She didn't try to apologize or thank the woman. Nothing anybody could say would help, she knew. Their presence was salt in a wound. She and Franklin hustled away.
Revenge, the woman had said. She'd taken a risk to tell them this but for what purpose? To become another photo op of the victims of a war they'd become inured to back home?
No, she'd done this because she wanted them to know. She truly believed they'd be held accountable. All of them.
CHAPTER 6
THE HOLLOW CRACK OF splintering wood woke Jackie. Lying on her back in the bunk, she held perfectly still and scanned the walls. Her quarters, meant to be temporary, had been shored up with sandbags. Gray light leaked through holes scattered at eye and chest level. Hundreds of bullets had gouged splintered trails through the thin plywood and exposed braces. No way she could tell which were fresh.
Close to the command post, she was supposed to be safe. Safer. Safe-ish. She laughed.
Their two weeks was nearly up. Every outpost had been evacuated except for theirs. Whether the insurgents had heard of what happened in America didn't matter anymore. The steady flow of helicopters out of the main Korengal Outpost had been enough to spur the enemy into a vicious counter-offensive.
Shouts of "contact" filled the base. What was that? Fourth time today? Fifth? Had it been a day?
Return fire vibrated the shack, and she rolled to the floor, skinning her elbows as she hit, a sharp pain stabbing her hip. Scrambling for her backpack under the makeshift bed, she noticed a dirty ray of sun lancing the murk.
A round hitting the wall at that angle would have to be either fired from someone standing next to her bunk or from a helicopter. Insurgents didn't have those. Or did they? An overrun base or airborne jihadis; she needed the photos. She slipped outside into the pummeling gunfire with her camera.
Smoke streamers drifted above the trenches. The perimeter positions belched fire and molten lead into the valley. She kept low and sprinted for the trench. Halfway, she slid to a knee to grab a shot of Donovan, punishing some unseen enemy from the crow's nest with the 50 cal.
Jackie skipped the ladder and skidded down the steep embankment into the trench. The vague discomfort in her hip returned. Camera in one hand, she touched the spot. Splinters embedded in her cargo pants snagged her palm. No blood.
"You hit?" Jacobs trundled toward her, draped with machine gun belts and ammo boxes swinging at his side. She shook her head mutely. He came to a stop, his eyes demanding a verbal answer.
"No, I'm good," she shouted.
An innocuous ”clack” punctuated her reply, and Jacob's eyes went toward the enclosed bunker where Miguel had launched a grenade into the valley. "Well then fuck off and shoot some war porn!"
Arms flexed, visage intense, lit by broad daylight over the open trench and backlit by the jittery void of the active bunker, what was meant to be playful posturing swelled into a portrait of eager violence. She took her shot. Before she lowered her camera, Jacobs turned and rushed into the fighting position.
Franklin and Miguel manned the guns, brass collecting at their feet. Both wore their vests, but Franklin stood shirtless in a pair of shorts. At least she wasn't the only one who'd stumbled out of bed.
Perrino squatted at a portable radio, and Jackie strained to hear. Positions, counts, air support requests, ammo, numbers, and locations barked between gunfire bursts. Jackie listened, hoping to hear a call for "heavies", or any other sign Augments were on the assist.
She pressed in close to the gunners and trained her lens across the valley. The fixed 35 had been all she grabbed. Good for portraits and distant landscapes, but useless for any meaningful shots of the evacuation half a mile away. Tucked defensively into the mountains, only a few towers and outer fortifications of the KOP were in plain view, but give up this position, and every evacuating bird could be targeted at its most vulnerable.
She yelped. Hot brass tagged her arm as it ejected from Franklin's gun. Thankfully, nobody heard her. The same reddish welts scored Franklin's legs. He wore boat shoes, not combat boots, his feet partially buried in brass. She snapped her shutter.
Smoking hot brass, he didn't notice, but a photo? He paused just long enough to offer an exaggerated wink before the stock of his rifle settled into his cheek again. From what she could see, they were firing on the naked valley. Insurgent positions rattled in over the radio. Every so often, she'd see the flare of a rocket, taking aim on the anxious swarm of helicopters. The men would swing their guns, concentrate fire. Attack helicopters would charge in, heavy guns pattering like a faraway woodpecker, the valley exhaling plumes of rock and dust with every burst.
They'd cover the evacuation from their vantage point then launch their own push to the KOP. Later tonight they'd be deep in the valley. There'd be no more bird's eye views. She needed to make the best of the daylight hours from their perch, so she needed her telephoto lens.
Jackie raced back into the open trench. No so
oner had she grabbed the ladder when Jacobs seized her arm. "Movement spotted northeast up top," he shouted. "Shooting gallery up there."
"You have a fucking telephoto in your ammo box?"
He backed away. "Just a heads up, hard charger. Run fast."
She scrambled up the wooden planks and darted across the open area. Stray rounds kicked dust on all sides. A pressure wave tickled the hair on her scalp. Jackie's gut fluttered and consumed raw fear, manufacturing a sudden dose of something better than speed, cocaine, or heroin. She'd tried them all before, and none came close.
Bullets whizzed by, and she shouted, incomprehensible. Guys atop the makeshift wall took note and indiscriminately fired on the upper slopes. Or maybe they'd dialed in while she played decoy. She'd long since stopped trying to make sense of the chaos surrounding a firefight. A few hours, days, maybe months from now she'd wonder what the hell she'd been thinking. But as she tumbled through the tarp covering the door to her bunk, she only wondered how many pictures she'd already missed.
Sprawled in the dirt, Jackie shuffled to her bunk. She ripped her camera bag from underneath and froze. The cylinder of daylight she'd seen earlier formed a steep angle straight through the plywood where she slept, the hole punched into the sleeping bag she'd used as a mattress. She paused long enough to touch her hip where the plywood shrapnel had embedded itself. That's what woke her. A few more inches, the bullet would've been hers.
The rush of adrenaline leaked away. Maybe she should just sit this one out, just this once. She could curl up under the bed. pull the sleeping bag down to make a fort. Like she did the first time she found her Dad passed out beneath the kitchen table.
Her finger absently traced the bullet hole in the bed. She felt the corner of her mouth tug upward and she laughed. Right. Cause that's a safe place. Nowhere's safe.
