by Lee Stone
Right now, the tattoo itched like hell, but Miller had assured him it would calm down within a couple of days. He thought about her for a moment. She had a good soul and honest, intelligent eyes. Not to mention that she had a great figure, and she smelled better than anyone else he’d met in Afghanistan. But he had promised himself that he wouldn’t become too attached to anyone while he was traveling, and he could tell that she wasn’t the kind of girl would appreciate it, anyway. It had been a fun night, no more and no less. Another memory to savor.
Finishing his meal, Lockhart decided that he would walk by Miller’s tent tomorrow and see if she was about, but if she wasn’t that would be fine. She’d understand, too.
As he was leaving the dining facility, Lockhart caught sight of Ajmal ducking inside the blast wall and out of sight. Lockhart doubled back on himself and quickened his pace so he could catch up with his friend; perhaps there would be news about when the convoy was heading back. Besides, he needed to tell Ajmal that he might not want to head back to Quetta with the convoy.
But by the time Lockhart rounded the corner of the building, Ajmal had vanished. Lockhart checked both sides of the blast wall, but he definitely wasn’t there. Half way along the wall there was a metal ladder which led up to the roof of the canteen and as Lockhart looked up, he saw a flash of Ajmal’s Salwar disappearing over the top.
Lockhart didn’t stop to think. On impulse he headed towards the ladder. He was three steps up when a soldier called out to him.
“There’s someone on the roof,” Lockhart yelled. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew something was wrong. The soldier was already calling others, and Lockhart could hear someone shouting into his radio. By the time he was on the top rung of the ladder, he could feel the vibrations of heavy boots clambering up behind him.
He could see Ajmal standing dead still in the middle of the roof, with something in his hand. As it glinted in the sun, Lockhart realized that Ajmal was holding a mirror. He called out, but Ajmal ignored him, focused on the mountains beyond the outer perimeter.
Lockhart realized what was happening at once, and in horror he broke into a run. There were five hundred men below them, eating lunch and watching television. All of Ajmal’s focus was on the mountain, but Lockhart bounded across the roof at full speed. As he leaped into the air, he realized that he might run out of roof, but it didn’t matter. If he didn’t act, he would be dead anyway.
His shoulder hit Ajmal square in the ribs. He knocked the mirror from his hand, and it fell to the floor and smashed. Ajmal hit his head as he fell and Lockhart tumbled past him rolling perilously close to the edge. A marine who had followed him up the ladder was right behind him. He lunged out and caught Lockhart by his boot to stop him going right over. A second Marine had drawn his weapon and had it trained on Ajmal who was lying crumpled at his feet. He had a scruffy hand-drawn map in his hand.
The alarm was already sounding around the camp and the men on the roof wondered whether Ajmal had signaled to the grenade launchers in the mountains before Lockhart had smashed his mirror. They would know within a few seconds. The marines had seen the tactic before: a local contractor up on the roof using a mirror to guide in the rocket-propelled grenades. The soldiers watched the sky but nothing happened.
After two minutes, the Marines man-handled Ajmal off the roof. He was handed to some military police at the bottom of the ladder. He glared furiously at Lockhart through the window of the military police jeep. He was still glaring as they hooded him. Anger and frustration left him wide eyed and angry as they drove him away. That was the last Lockhart ever saw of Ajmal. So much for neighbors he thought. He deserved everything he would get.
The group of soldiers helped Lockhart down the last few rungs of the ladder. Not because he needed help, but because they wanted to congratulate him. Word had quickly gone around that he had almost thrown himself off the roof to save the five hundred men in the dining facility. And he was a civilian.
The highest ranking among the group of soldiers was a USAF Lieutenant Colonel who stepped forward from the small crowd.
“What’s your name?” he asked. Lockhart remembered the advice that David Barr had given him on the front gate. Somehow it seemed like a good idea to stay as anonymous as possible.
“Fearless” he replied.
The colonel looked confused. Then he reached out and examined the contractor ID that Lockhart was wearing around his neck. When he saw the same name on the badge, he looked back up and smiled.
“Well, I guess the name fits.”
The crowd laughed, and the remaining Military Police started taking witness statements about the mirror, the insurgent, and the man called Fearless who had saved five hundred soldiers that afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan.
“I have held the hand of the devil; it was warm in the night.”
– U2, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.
People survive in this place by staying anonymous thought Lockhart as he watched the packs of men moving around the Airfield. They don’t make choices for themselves, but they stay in the middle of the shoal and let the river flow along its course. They think it’s safer. Lockhart knew that he didn’t belong in the middle of the shoal. He thought one of the worst pieces of advice he had ever been given was that the things you are searching for are always in last place that you look. Well, obviously. Why would you keep looking once you’ve found them? Lockhart hadn’t worked out what it was he was looking for; let alone where to find it. So, he kept moving on and kept his heart open to opportunity.
Despite all of this philosophizing, he still arrived outside the tattooist’s room with no real idea how he got there. He had been half daydreaming and half planning his next move. Lockhart knew that it was time to move on. Kandahar was locked down and bleached out. He was a tourist, and he wanted to feel real life, and vibrancy, and fun and enjoyment. He was looking forward to reaching a country where he could have a beer and talk freely.
Over the months, his soul had been nurtured by the people he had met on his journey. He had loved the conversations, the arguments, the meals. He had learned about the things that made people different and the things that made us all the same. He wanted to get back on the road.
The tattooist wasn’t in her room, but Lockhart pulled a small glass jug from his rucksack and placed it outside her door. She liked presents, and he thought it would look nice on the top of one of her huge speakers, rattling from side to side as Harry Edison or Nina Simone let rip.
On a scrap of paper, he carefully copied the Arabic script from his new tattoo; دون خوف. He rolled the paper and left it in the top of the glass jug and smiled as it reminded him of notes his mum used to leave on the doorstep about how much milk she wanted delivering. Back in the day.
He walked alone to the dining facility, swiped his card, and washed his hands. He picked a green salad from the buffet and grabbed a glass of dark syrupy grape juice and scanned the room for a table. As he made for a vacant table in the middle of the room, a soldier stood up and beckoned him over to join him.
It was Captain Barr from the front gate. He was eating on his own and had almost finished his meal, but he didn’t seem to be in a rush to head off. Instinctively, Lockhart shook his hand as he reached the table. Even though Barr was almost a stranger, he was the only person in the room that Lockhart recognized.
“I heard you’ve been living up to that name of yours?” he asked Lockhart, pointing at his contractor ID.
Lockhart shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I guess it leaves you without a ride back out of the country?” Barr continued.
Lockhart looked up; he sensed that Barr was about to offer him a choice.
“The thing is, we’ve impounded the other trucks from your convoy, and we’re questioning the other Pakistani nationals,” Barr continued slowly. “But I guess you’ve earned our trust by almost throwing yourself off the roof to save a bunch
of guys in the canteen.”
“Well, I thought I might see if I could get a lift back to Pakistan with another convoy,” said Lockhart. He had traveled for long enough to learn the art of improvisation.
“Would you like to see Herat?” asked Barr. “I need a delivery taking there tonight, and I need someone I can trust to do a good job. Herat is full of history, and it’s safer that Kabul right now.”
Lockhart was smart enough to know that “safer than Kabul” didn’t mean much. Even so, it would be better than heading back to Quetta. Now that he had started along this path, he didn’t particularly want to turn back. Make a choice and stick to it, he thought.
“How about using a couple of your men?”
“I need someone I can trust not to ask questions” said Barr, and he held Lockhart’s gaze long enough for him to understand that the enterprise wasn’t entirely legitimate.
Before Lockhart could ask any more questions about the consignment, Barr explained his terms in a low voice so the Marines on the next table wouldn’t overhear him.
“I’ll have a Mastiff ready for you at the main gate first thing tomorrow morning. It’ll be loaded already, and you just need to drive it to Herat. Don’t stop for anyone or anything, don’t tamper with the cargo, don’t use the official comms. There will be a pre-tuned radio on the passenger seat, use that if you need anything. Your contact at Herat will guide you in once you get close to him.”
Lockhart looked at Barr. He knew that war was an opportunity, and there would be plenty of people working their side line while they were in Afghanistan. As gatekeeper, Barr had the perfect chance to skim a bit from the smugglers and make some decent cash. He earned a few dollars; the smugglers got rich, and the people inside the wire got alcohol, or whatever they needed. Barr was right. Lockhart didn’t need to know the grubby details.
“I can offer you two thousand dollars for the job, and transit documents for a swampy flight at Herat. You’ll be out of the country by tomorrow night.”
Lockhart wondered why Barr was smuggling things out of the Airfield, but decided not to ask too many questions. He could choose not to help, but as a result he would probably be deported back to the UK or left to fend for himself outside the wire. Neither option sounded great.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Highway 1, Afghanistan. November 2009.
“The 18-wheeler and the payback dives,
Gravity pulls on the power lines.
A jetstream cuts the desert sky,
This land could eat a man alive.”
- REM, Low Desert
By the time the sun was properly up the next morning, Lockhart was alone on the Herat road, and he was happy. He had traveled thousands of miles on his own before he arrived at Kandahar, and he liked his own company. After a while he had found the military base oppressive. Apart from Miller and her makeshift tattoo parlor, everything was geared towards conformity and routine, and Lockhart had not set out on his journey to find either of those. So, he was glad that he was moving on and glad to be on his own.
In the back of his armored Mastiff were about 30 blocks wrapped in durable blue shrink-wrap plastic. Each block was about the size of a small hay bale. As promised, Barr had left a two-way radio on the passenger seat and had buzzed him for an update twice already.
Lockhart wasn’t too pleased that he was smuggling something elicit between the two military bases to ensure his own safe passage from Kandahar, but needs must when the devil drives. Besides, the whole country seemed lawless, so it didn’t hurt him to be pragmatic. He could use the proceeds to fund the rest of his otherwise wholesome trip. Everything he had heard about Herat sounded enticing and he was looking forward to wandering around the place later.
He wondered what was in the blue blocks crammed into the back of the Mastiff, but he remembered David Barr’s warning about not interfering with the goods.
Lockhart had met Captain Barr at the front gate as planned before first light, and with minimal fuss he took the wheel and headed out of the base through the main gate area. With Barr orchestrating, Lockhart and his Mastiff were led down the overflow channel away from prying eyes and out onto the freedom of the highway.
Soon the sun was strong, and Lockhart was driving straight into it. He was careful to keep his wits about him. After his experience with the truck convoy, he knew how dangerous the roads in Helmand were. Still, despite his best efforts, the glare of the sun made it difficult for him to see too far ahead.
The view from the road was barren. Lockhart wondered why so many civilizations had spilled blood over the place. He understood that it was strategy and politics and oil and opium, but to look at the prize it all felt senseless. Empty and pointless.
There was little of interest to see along the road. Occasionally, huge puck marks in the sand dunes either side would tell a story of conflict. Some scars were new, but others told older tales of Russian helicopters and stubborn Mujahidin.
After about an hour driving, Lockhart rounded one of the few corners on his journey, as the road passed between two fairly pronounced undulations in the otherwise flat landscape. As the road expanded back out towards the horizon, Lockhart spotted three unmarked jeeps blocking the path in front of him. They were beaten up and dusty. They didn’t look official.
Instinct told Lockhart to check his mirrors to see if there was anyone else coming to block his exit. He saw nobody behind him, or on top of the high ground, but thought better of turning away. Where would he go if he turned back, anyway? He would be a sitting duck if they aimed at him while he turned. Besides, he might trigger a mine or some old ordinance if he strayed from the well-worn road.
He slowed the Mastiff to a crawl and stared into the sun, trying hard to see what was happening in the road in front of him. It wasn’t until he was about a hundred and fifty yards away from them they revealed their weapons. A rocket-propelled grenade came flying at Lockhart before he’d had time to think, and exploded just in front of him, close enough to rock the Mastiff. Suddenly, the radio on the passenger seat crackled and David Barr’s American accent filled the cab, all jovial and reassuring.
“How’s the road trip so far, dude? Did you take any pictures?”
Lockhart had bad news for Barr’s investment. It was about to go up in smoke. He explained the situation over the radio; the jeeps, the grenade, the options. But as he was talking, his voice was drowned out, even through the thick glass of the armored Mastiff.
A pair of light gray American A-10 Thunderbolts screamed so low over Lockhart that the cloud of black smoke belching out of the missile in front of him split into two. He heard the screech and dull thuds as they aimed round after round into the white jeeps in front of him. Sand sprayed and metal twisted and charred.
As the Thunderbolts approached, Lockhart had seen several silhouettes franticly scrambling behind the dusty windshields, grabbing at their AK47s on instinct. As if a Kalashnikov would help them. It took about three seconds before the two of the jeeps, the men and the AK47s were all twisted together in a deep crater about a hundred meters ahead on the road.
One guy had escaped from the only jeep that wasn’t hit directly. He was running hopelessly into the sand, anywhere. But the A-10s were ruthless. They screeched back around and came in for a second swipe. One plane took out the remaining jeep, and the other aimed at the fleeing driver.
Although the driver had just unleashed a missile in his direction, Lockhart still felt sorry for him. It was hard not to, given the hopelessness of his situation. Lockhart could imagine what the driver was thinking, scrabbling in the sand, looking for an escape, for hope, for a way to cling to life. Half of him already knowing his fate, half of him refusing to believe it.
He was up against millions of dollars of military hardware. Generations of science and funding all focused on the eradication of enemies. The A-10 was efficient. The pilot released one burst of five massive shells. Not in anger or haste, but coldly and clinically. Like pest control.
As L
ockhart watched, the driver disappeared into the sand. Completely. One minute he was there, the next he had gone. There would be no corpse or gravestone or dignified mourning. No trip home on a C-17, no flag-draped coffin. Just heat and flying sand and blood and nothingness. Another puck mark beside the Herat Road.
Although the driver would have killed him a moment ago, Lockhart couldn’t help but mourn the human life snuffed out. Just for a second. This is what you get if you mess with us. Lockhart embraced his sorrow. It held him back from the abyss. It was what made him human.
The A-10s could destroy tanks, and the thin rolled metal skin of the jeeps had been no resistance at all. Lockhart could see why they were nicknamed Thunderbolts, but they were ugly machines. Boxy and cheap looking. Not ergonomic like a Typhoon or a Raptor. They looked like gigantic Airfix models which had been stuck together by a ham-fisted eight-year-old whose parents didn’t love him enough to help him out. For all of that, Lockhart was glad to have them on his side.
The ruthless way in which they had cleared the road ahead was impressive and chilling in equal measure. Problem deleted. Lockhart was glad that his Mastiff had been recognized as a friendly, even if his business wasn’t entirely official. It was heavily armored and should have survived an attack by a few guys in the jeeps with their AK47s. But if the A-10s hadn’t recognized him he could have been burned up in friendly fire without too much trouble.
As the smell of burning fuel mixed with the exploded ordinance, Lockhart felt enveloped and cocooned by the chaos. The worst was over, and he was untouched. He felt a moment of calm wash over him, and he exhaled properly for the first time in a couple minutes as his rough hands twisted and broke the blue seal on another bottle of mineral water. David Barr’s voice crackled through the speaker asking for an update.