by Jeff Buick
"I'm almost out of ammo," Andrew said.
"One mag left," another man said. The others agreed. Everyone was low.
"Switch to single shot," Andrew said, adjusting his M-4 from three-round burst. The rest of the men did the same.
Andrew's squad exited through the rear of the house, five of them followed by Russell and Andrew bringing up the rear. Russell hit the pause button and the machine went to record mode. He taped the men ahead of him as they moved slowly up the alleyway toward the canal. There was gunfire on both sides and grenades were exploding almost directly ahead. Russell panned the camera 180 degrees and focused on Andrew, who was intent on keeping their tail clean.
Russell didn't see the Talib with the black turban until he was leveling the gun at Andrew. He came out of a doorway so narrow that he couldn't keep his gun parallel to the ground, and that gave Andrew a half second to react. The specialist spun fast, his finger tightening on the trigger. A single shot ejected from the barrel, the casing flying back and bouncing off the soldier's helmet. The bullet sliced through the hot summer air and smashed into the Talib's face, just above his nose on the right side. The bullet exited his head and took a massive chunk of skull and brains with it, splattering the mess across the door and the dusty wall. The man dropped to the rough stone, blood leaking into the sand and porous rock.
Andrew turned to Russell and stared at the camera. Neither of them spoke. The line of men ahead of them were stopped and looking back. Andrew gave the all-clear sign and jerked his head at Russell.
"Let's move," he said.
The final fifty meters to the north end of town was uneventful. Any Taliban who had been in the center part of town had melded back into the dust and rocks from where they came. Andrew sat on a short wall with a view over the canal. He held out his hand and Russell relinquished the pistol.
"Did you fire it?" he asked.
"No."
Andrew lit a cigarette and watched the troops moving out of the narrow streets to the west and east. The explosions had stopped and there was a spattering of small arms fire. The battle was over. It had been tense for a half hour, then training and determination had kicked in and swayed the outcome. If anyone in the company had ever wondered why they spent so many hours running drills, they weren't wondering anymore.
"Shit, I hate mowing the grass," he said.
Russell looked at him, away from the activity near the canal. "What are you talking about?"
"The FOB is our little garden. No weeds inside the wire. Lots of weeds and grass growing everywhere else. So we have to mow it. If you don't mow the grass, the weeds take over."
"And you have to keep mowing it," Russell said.
"Exactly. You have to keep mowing it."
"Like today."
"Yeah, like today." Andrew closed his eyes and sucked on the cigarette. He blew the smoke in the air and it slowly dissipated on the breeze.
The left and right flanks had secured the back end of the village and the Taliban were beating a hasty retreat down the irrigation canal. Going after them was out of the question. If the troops entered the canal and came up behind them, the Talibs only needed to turn and shoot to kill the first man. Chasing them by running alongside the canal wasn't an option. The entire stretch was likely mined on both sides. The company regrouped at the canal and established its losses.
Three dead, seventeen wounded, seven Strykers destroyed. They called in MEDEVACs and Armored Recovery Vehicles to bring out the salvageable Strykers. Three of them were beyond repair and the company commander called in a Blow In Place strike. The platoons pulled back from the village and cleared a space for the choppers to land to ferry out the wounded, leaving one squad in the village to mop up and ensure the enemy didn't return and start firing RPGs at the helicopters.
When the ARVs arrived to tow the disabled Strykers and the BIP strikes had destroyed the final three Strykers, Andrew and Russell returned to their vehicle and they retraced their way back to the road. The sun was low as they headed back toward Spin Buldak. To safety behind the wire in the FOB.
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Chapter
22
Kandahar, Afghanistan
The request to meet the man from Peshawar came from Ahmad, with the promise that something good was afoot.
Early in the morning, Kadir hand-washed his shalwar kameez in a rusty bucket and hung it in the open air to dry. Afterward, he trudged back up the stairs to their apartment. A picture of Halima that had been taken about a year ago was propped up on the piece of scrap wood that he used as a chopping board. It was a gift from a nurse at a mobile medical clinic they had attended a month before the snow began to fall. It was his only picture of her, and the edges were dog-eared and smudged with dirt. Halima was smiling at the camera, and her eyes were bright with excitement. He treasured the photo more than anything else he owned. He tucked it into his shirt pocket and set about to making the girls a rudimentary breakfast.
When they were finished eating, he retraced his steps down the treacherous stairwell, retrieved his shalwar kameez and slipped it over his loose-fitting cotton pants. This meeting was beyond important. It was the opportunity of a lifetime - for Halima and her sisters as well. It held the potential for his oldest daughter to be in school, learning to read and write. It was a dream beyond anything he had hoped for. Perhaps it was a manifestation of Halima's dream that she had envisioned and shared with him a few days ago. What was it that she had said? People were talking about her. They had pictures of her. That she had changed the world.
"Yes, of course," Kadir mumbled to himself. "Halima wants to be a teacher. And students always talk about their teachers." He checked his garment for stains but there were none. He turned and waved to the girls who were clustered at the top of the staircase watching him. They waved back as he ducked out from the courtyard into the street.
The distance between the condemned building where he lived and Ahmad's house seemed greater today. Despite walking faster, the trip took longer. Or so it seemed. He arrived twenty minutes before the prearranged time. Ahmad immediately served chai sabz with sugar. Kadir sipped the green tea slowly, wanting more before the first cup was finished. When the last drops had wet his lips, he set the empty cup on the low table next to the cushion where he anxiously waited. Ahmad leaned over and poured a second cup and Kadir offered his thanks.
"When is this man arriving?" he asked.
"Soon," Ahmad said. "It's a long journey from Peshawar and the roads are dangerous. Many soldiers use the highway and the Taliban have been busy planting explosives."
"What is his name?"
"Tabraiz Khan," Ahmad replied, adding the Pashto word for mister to the man's first name. Respect for others was paramount in Afghanistan and there were few surer ways of insulting a man in a position of wealth or power than to address him solely by his first name.
"And you have met this man," Kadir said, phrased as a statement, not a question.
"Yes. Once. The day he came for the girl who lived in the tent. He was very polite. And well dressed."
Kadir's hands were shaking as he lifted the simple cup. The tea tasted so sweet. "Then I'm sure he is an honorable man."
A light knocking sound reverberated through the small room. Ahmad rose and opened the door. The hinges squeaked, a tiny detail that had never seemed important. Until now. Framed in the doorway was a tall man dressed in Western-style clothing. His white cotton shirt buttoned up the front and was fitted at his narrow waist. He wore beige dress pants, a brown belt and polished brown shoes. His hair was thick and recently styled, every strand behaving itself. He had a thin face, which suited his trim body, and dark brown eyes. Kadir thought he looked like one of the models in the magazines that were on display in t
he marketplace.
"Tabraiz Khan. Welcome to my humble house," Ahmad said. He backed up slightly and the man from Peshawar entered the room. His presence immediately dominated the small space.
"Good morning, Ahmad Khan," Tabraiz said. He bowed his head almost imperceptibly to his host, then looked at Kadir. "And you must be Kadir Khan," he said.
Kadir stood and bowed. He kept his useless hand tucked into the folds of his shalwar kameez. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."
"Some chai sabz or chai siaa?" Ahmad offered. He pointed to the largest and most ornate pillow in the room. "Sit, if it pleases you."
"Chai siaa," Tabraiz said, removing his shoes, then sitting and smoothing out the creases on his dress pants. "I much prefer the black tea to the green tea. Much more flavor." He smiled, an easy gesture that revealed slightly crooked but very white teeth. "Thank you for the offer."
Ahmad's wife, her face covered with a translucent scarf, served the tea and prepared a space on the low table for food. She disappeared into the rear courtyard without uttering a word. None of the men offered a salutation.
"How was the trip from Peshawar?" Ahmad asked. He sat, careful not to point his toes toward his guest, a sure sign of disrespect.
"Slow," Tabraiz replied. His voice was deep and didn't match his thin frame. "It's always slow now. ISAF troops are everywhere and the Taliban target their vehicles. I've taken to driving south through Quetta and crossing the border into Afghanistan near Spin Buldak. It's faster, but more dangerous."
"The Americans have a lot of men near Spin Buldak," Ahmad said. "Many tanks."
"It's a Stryker Brigade, not tanks," Tabraiz said nonchalantly. He turned to Kadir. "I understand you have a daughter who would like to attend school."
"Yes, Tabraiz Khan," Kadir said quietly. "She is very smart and would do well with her studies."
"Halima. Is that her name?" Tabraiz asked, then continued when Kadir nodded. "How old is Halima?"
"Eleven. She will be twelve in two weeks."
The Pakistani nodded his approval. "An excellent age to join a family with means. Young enough to learn new skills, and old enough to realize what an opportunity she has." He sipped his tea and leaned closer to Kadir, his eyes focused on Halima's father. "She will have to work hard for the family. Does she understand that?"
Kadir nodded. He knew without thinking that it would not be good to tell the man he had yet to discuss the issue with Halima. "Yes, she does. Halima is a very hard worker. On the days when I am working, she watches her two younger sisters. She fetches water from the well every day and buys our food at the market."
The man raised an eyebrow. "She negotiates with the sellers in the market?" he asked.
Kadir allowed a small smile. "She does. Last week I gave her two American dollars and she returned home with enough food for a week."
"So she is smart and capable."
"Yes," Kadir said.
Tabraiz finished his tea and held out the empty cup as Ahmad hoisted the pot and refilled it. "Tell me of your family, Kadir Khan. Your father and your mother. Your many brothers and sisters."
Kadir's chin fell to his chest. How could it not? A horrible disgrace was upon him. "I have no family. They are all dead."
"Everyone?" Tabraiz asked. His face registered surprise.
Kadir could barely raise his head to answer. Nothing mattered more in Afghanistan than family. Blood and tribal allegiances were the mortar that bonded a besieged population and defined who you were. Without family, without a tribe, you had no identity. At least, not one worth mentioning. Tragedy and death were his heritage. His father, dragged off to Pul-i Charkhi prison by the Russians and eventually shot in the head. His mother, raped and beaten to death by more of the same soldiers. His brother had died as a warrior, fighting with the mujahedeen against the Russian tanks and jets. Cousins, aunts and uncles, nephews - everyone murdered by one form of conqueror or another. He and his three girls were alone in a country that counted family before money.
"Everyone," he said, his voice nothing more than a whisper.
There was a brief silence, then Tabraiz said, "Then it is all the more important that Halima be given a chance to have a good and prosperous life."
Kadir swallowed and raised his eyes. A full minute passed, then he cleared his throat and asked, "What family would Halima be living with?"
"A good question. My client is an accountant for a large mulTinational company. He has a wife and four children. Two boys and two girls. The oldest child is nine, so Halima would spend a considerable amount of her working hours tending to the children and helping with meals. It is a busy house and with her in school four days a week, Halima would be very tired at the end of each day. Because of this, her wages will be considerable. About one hundred Afghanis a day. But she will have no expenses, so she will be able to save most of what she earns."
Ahmad's wife returned to the room with three plates heaped with food. Borani, fried vegetables covered in yogurt sauce, was the largest dish, with sides of mantu and rice. The men dug in with their fingers and Tabraiz commented on the high quality of the mantu, a ravioli-like pasta with lamb filling. The Pakistani asked about Ahmad and his family, and the conversation centered on the host while they ate. When they were finished, Ahmad's wife returned and cleared the dishes. More chai was served and the men settled back into their cushions.
Kadir was amazed at the money the family in Peshawar would pay Halima. The amount was incredible. If she was paid one hundred Afghanis a day, Halima would earn the equivalent of fifteen US dollars a week. A fortune for a twelve year old.
Almost as if he read Kadir's mind, Tabraiz said, "My clients are quite generous. They feel that by offering their servant girl a decent wage that she can save, it will give her a chance to own a small house after ten years. I trust that seven hundred Afghanis a week is suitable."
"That would be fine," he said, trying desperately to keep his voice even.
"Did Ahmad Khan mention what sort of fee might be paid to you, her father?" Tabraiz asked.
Kadir phrased his answer carefully. The importance of the moment could not be underestimated. "My friend did mention a figure, but he also said that it would be negotiable."
"It could be, to a certain point. But only to a point, Kadir Khan."
Kadir's lips were quivering. The use of his name in the last sentence was a warning not to push any further. He was standing perilously close to the edge of a steep cliff and one wrong step could push him over and kill the chance of Halima having a decent life. He swallowed and lowered his gaze to the elephant-foot carpet adorning Ahmad's floor. The colorful medallions mocked the grayness that enveloped his heart. He was failing his daughter.
"What figure do you have in mind?" Tabraiz asked, a gentler tone in his voice.
"In Afghanis or American dollars?" Kadir asked, not looking up.
"Whichever you prefer."
He forced his eyes up from the carpet. "One thousand five hundred American dollars."
Tabraiz nodded slowly and rubbed his hand across his clean-shaven chin. "That figure is possible, if Halima is a hard worker." He paused for a moment, then added, "Do you have a picture of your daughter?"
Relief surged through his body as Kadir nodded his head. The negotiations were ongoing. He hadn't derailed things with his impertinence. "Yes," he said, digging under his robes. He pulled out the dog-eared photo and handed it to the Pakistani.
"I'd like to meet Halima," Tabraiz said. His eyes were focused on the photo, staring intently, unmoving. "Is that possible?"
"Yes. When and where?" Kadir asked.
"I'm in Kandahar for two more days," Tabraiz said. "Today is Saturday. Maybe we could meet here again on Monday. That would be August the 9th. Does that work for you, Ahmad Khan?"
Ahmad bowed his head slightly. "It is good.
"
"Kadir?"
The dates confused Kadir, but he understood Monday. Not tomorrow, but the next day. He nodded. "That is fine."
"Same time?" Tabraiz asked.
"Yes, the same time. On Monday."
"Can I keep this picture until we meet again on Monday?" he asked.
"Of course," Kadir said. Any apprehension that he might not get the photo back was beaten down by the opportunity that lay in front of him. Refusing to allow Tabraiz to keep the picture would be an accusation of mistrust.
Tabraiz stood up, as did Ahmad and Kadir. Without letting his eyes glance down, Tabraiz asked, "What happened to your hand?"
Kadir was taken aback by the question. He had kept his hand covered during the meeting. Somehow, the Pakistani must have caught a glimpse of it, perhaps when they were eating.
"I was accused of stealing and my hand was smashed."
"By whom?" Tabraiz asked.
"The Taliban."
Tabraiz eyed him carefully. "Were you stealing?"
Kadir shrugged. "I didn't think so. But he did and what he thought was what mattered."
Tabraiz looked down at Kadir's destroyed hand, now visible. "You must hate them," he said.
Kadir closed his eyes. Visions of his wife bleeding to death in the street flashed through his mind. The acrid smell of gunpowder stung his nose and the dust burned through his eyelids. He felt her blood, thick on his hands, and her last breath, a slight wisp of air against his cheek. He saw the rifle butt slamming down on his defenseless hand and cringed as the bones shattered and unimaginable pain coursed through his body. He opened his eyes.
"I hate what has happened to my country," he said.
Tabraiz walked to the door and paused, his figure backlit by the bright sun illuminating the street. "Maybe it's time for things to get better. For you and Halima. For Afghanistan." He bowed his head slightly and left.
Kadir stood, unmoving. It was possible that things were getting better. Tabraiz Khan had come into his life with the promise of a new life for Halima. And for him and his youngest daughters as well. A small house of their own, with money to buy food for months, maybe years. Clean water to drink and warm blankets in the winter. Shoes without holes that kept the water and snow from freezing tiny feet. So many intangibles that might now become realities. The future was opening in front of him with promise and purpose.