by Rich Johnson
“You do not appear to be fine,” the man continued.
Sergeant Adams was the A-team O&I specialist. All operations and intelligence men were trained as interpreters, so he was fluent in the Arabic language. He finally looked up into the watery eyes of an old man. The younger man stood back a little ways, allowing the elder gentleman to do the talking. “Well, I’m not really fine,” the sergeant admitted. “My girlfriend back home has sent me a letter.”
“Oh,” the old man said, smiling. “That must make you happy.”
“Normally, it would. But this letter is to tell me ma’assalama – goodbye.”
The old man’s gaze fell to the ground, and he wiped his eyes. “Oh,” he said softly, “that is too bad. A sad day for you.”
“Yes, very sad,” Sergeant Adams agreed.
“I am sorry for you,” the old man said. “May Allah bless you.”
“Shukran, shukran,” Josh said softly, thanking the man twice for his kind wishes, then lowering his head as if to sleep. But he did not sleep, he just thought about the letter.
One thing Josh Adams had discovered while in Afghanistan is that the rural folks in this unfortunate country were just as nice as the folks in his rural home in South Carolina. These people were caught in a bad situation, and had been for decades. But now the Special Forces teams were in the villages trying to befriend the people and help them recover from the devastation of the wars. There were schools to build, water and sanitation systems to repair, and bad feelings to mend.
A primary mission for his A-team was termed ‘public affairs’, which was just another way of saying public relations – helping the indigenous population come to understand that the United States was not their enemy, but was there to help them. His ability to speak their language went a long way toward fostering trust between them. He taught basic English classes to the school-age children, and that placed him right in the beam of the village spotlight because everybody wanted to learn English, even the older folks. It seemed that the whole village knew Sergeant Josh Adams, and most of the people liked him.
Beneath the surface, his work with the villagers had another purpose. As the people came to trust him, he asked them for their help in finding out who was setting improvised explosive devices along the roads to ambush American soldiers. “The sooner we get rid of the insurgents,” Josh told the people, “the sooner life can become safe and normal in your village.”
Most of the villagers seemed to trust the Americans, but there were always a few who held back, keeping to the shadows. The strange thing was that among the friendlies, nobody was willing to talk about those men. Josh saw fear in the eyes of the women and children, and men averted their eyes so Josh could see nothing there at all.
Major Alan Covington, the team commanding officer, found Josh sitting in the shade, his head down, the letter in his limp hand. “Hey!” the major said, “On your feet, sergeant. We’ve got work to do.”
Josh raised his head and stared at his CO, then lowered his head again.
“I said on your feet, soldier!” Covington shouted in his most powerful command voice. “I want you on your feet now!”
This time, without even raising his head, Josh muttered, “Meaning no disrespect, but I don’t feel like it, sir.”
Major Covington squatted down and yanked Josh’s head back so he could look him in the eyes. “You been taking drugs, boy?”
“No sir.”
“You been shot?”
“Nope.”
“Then what’s wrong with you? Get on your feet. Show some respect. How do you expect the villagers to respect us if we don’t show respect to each other?”
Josh looked up. “I honestly don’t care, sir. You can take this war and shove …”
“Shut your mouth, son, or I will shut it for you,” Covington warned through gritted teeth. He stood, grabbed Josh by the shirt and lifted him to his feet, then slammed him back against the wall and shoved his nose right up in Josh’s face. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. You got that?”
A small crowd of villagers gathered to watch what was going on. Old men muttered among themselves, and women whispered to each other. Children stood with wide eyes, staring at their trusted teacher being dragged to his feet by the major. Hearing the murmur behind them, Covington turned to look at the crowd. He waved his arm as if to sweep them away. “Go on now. Keep moving,” he yelled in English. But they didn’t move. They just pointed and talked among themselves about what was happening. “Tell them to get out of here,” the CO commanded Josh. “You know their language.”
“You’re so smart, sir, you tell them yourself. The way I figure it, this is their town; they ought to be free to stand there if they want to.”
“I’ll have you up on charges of insubordination,” the major threatened.
“Go right ahead, sir,” Josh said. “I don’t want to be in this man’s army anymore anyway. It’s done nothing but ruin my life.” He waved the letter in front of the major’s face.
“What’s that?”
“A letter from my girl, sir. She’s dumped me ’cause I’m not around much anymore. It’s hard to be there for her and here for you and all of them,” – he swept his arm toward the crowd – “all at the same time. And I sure don’t love you or them as much as I love her. So go ahead and write me up and send me home so I can take care of more important business. ’Cause I don’t care about any of this anymore.”
Major Covington let go of Josh’s shirt, stepped back and dusted the sergeant off. “Listen, kid,” – he changed his tone – “you’re just upset because some cheatin’ chick back home is whining about not having you around. Give it a day or two, you’ll get over it. Take my word, you’re better off without a girl who dumps you just because she’s lonely. If she’s got no more grit than that, you’re lucky to find it out this early in the game. Now go clean yourself up. You’ve got an English class to teach.”
“Yes, sir,” Josh said, putting his helmet on and bringing his right hand up in a slow salute that had no heart in it. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Covington alone on the street where the crowd still stood watching. Shaking his head, the major turned and walked in the opposite direction.
An hour later, Josh sat in a small dusty room, surrounded by villagers of all ages and both genders. One of the women noticed his downcast expression and asked, “What is the matter Joshua?” The villagers always called him by his full first name. It was easy for them, because it was a name right out of their scriptures, the leader who came after the prophet Moses. They knew of his girlfriend, Rachel – another name from their scriptures, the wife of Issac, son of the prophet Abraham. These were links that endeared Josh Adams to the people of the village, because they felt as if he were somehow one of their own.
“Ah,” he said to the woman, “it is nothing to bother you about.”
“Please,” she said, “sometimes a burden shared becomes lighter.”
He hesitated, then took the letter from his pocket. “I received this from Rachel today. She says she no longer loves me and she is going to marry another.”
The woman broke into tears and sobbed, as if she were mourning for her own son. Josh reached out and touched her shoulder. “There is no need for tears. It is something I can do nothing about,” he said.
“What would you do, if you could do something?” one of the men asked.
“Go home and fight for her heart,” Josh answered.
“As any real man would,” the man said, and the crowd murmured agreement.
“As much as I want to help your village, I am sorry to say that I no longer want to be here. I no longer want to be in the army. If it were not for the army, I would be home with Rachel and everything would be okay.” He stopped for a moment, then put the letter back in his pocket. “But right now, it is time for your English lesson.”
****
Class went well that day, but everyone was a little downcast in spirit. It was apparent that they all felt b
ad for Joshua, their teacher.
That evening, as Josh was hanging his uniform shirt next to his bunk at the barracks where the American team slept, he faced unrelenting lack of sympathy from his fellow soldiers. The story had gotten around about the incident after mail call that day, and the men were not about to let him off easy.
“Hey Josh,” the weapons specialist Tony Blanco yelled across the room, “what’s the matter, couldn’t hold onto your baby?” The room erupted with laughter.
“Where did you guys get that from?” Josh challenged, knowing full well that Covington must have spilled the story to the rest of the team members. It wasn’t necessarily a cruel thing to do because the major knew that the team came to feel like a band of brothers, and even though brothers give each other a hard time, they still support one another.
While Josh’s attention was focused on Tony, one of the guys sneaked around behind his bunk and grabbed the letter from the shirt pocket. Waving it like a victory flag, he pretended to read it, using a falsetto voice to mock Rachel. “Dear Josh,” he screeched, “I don’t love you anymore.”
Josh charged through the crowd of men as the one with the letter retreated for safety, then threw the sheet of paper and escaped out the door. Josh gathered up the wrinkled letter, folded it and placed it in his pants pocket, to the enthusiastic razzing of the men. “You’ll pay for this, all of you,” Josh shouted above the noise.
In the dimly lighted corner of the room, an Afghani boy who was hired by the team to keep their quarters clean laid aside a broom and dustpan. As the ruckus kept everyone’s attention on the other end of the room, slowly he inched along the wall toward the door. His eyes were wide and staring at the fracas. When he reached the door, he quietly slipped outside and disappeared into the night.
Major Covington stepped through a door at the other end of the room. Almost immediately the place fell silent as he held up his hands and waved the noise level down. To a man, they all swung their heads to look at the open door, then their eyes turned back to Josh and then to the major.
“Good job, guys,” Covington said. “A convincing act. I think we’re off and running.”
For the next several days, Josh was sullen and found reasons to be apart from the rest of his team. He ate alone, worked on the school building alone, refused to talk with the other soldiers. His face was no longer jovial, and his sense of humor seemed to have died. The change in his demeanor did not escape the notice of his English class members. When one of the women asked him how he was doing, he almost spit his answer.
“I hate the army and what it has done to my life. I’d do anything to get out of here, and when I go, I’ll make sure they are sorry for what they’ve done to me.”
The woman patted his arm in sympathy, and retreated quietly. From a place in the shade, Josh saw her later talking with a man he did not recognize, as they stood in the shadow at the corner of a building. The woman looked around nervously and seemed to be talking fast. The unknown man had thin eyes beneath bushy black eyebrows. His face was bony and covered with leathery skin. He reminded Josh of a shadowy figure that hangs around the dark perimeter, like a hungry wolf that shuns the light of the campfire, always waiting until the right moment to attack.
The next afternoon, that man came to Josh’s English class, took a chair and sat quietly in the corner. After class, all the villagers left the room, but the stranger stayed.
“Can I help you?” Josh asked in Arabic.
“I believe I can help you,” the man answered. “I understand you want to get out of my country and return to your home.”
“Yes,” Josh said.
“There is a woman I want you to meet.”
“I don’t need a woman,” Josh said.
“No,” the man smiled thinly, “not that kind of woman. She is old, and she can help you.”
“How can she help me?” Josh asked.
“She knows people who can get you out of Afghanistan so you can go home, but you must confide in her your true feelings so she can decide how best to assist you.”
“An old woman?” Josh asked. “A mother figure for me to talk to?”
“Exactly,” the man said.
“I don’t need a mother figure to talk to.” Josh stood up as if to leave.
“You will find this woman helpful,” the man said, and handed Josh a piece of paper. “This is how you will find her.”
Josh looked quickly at the paper, then hearing someone enter the room, he folded it quickly and tucked it in his pocket. “Sergeant Adams,” the voice called from the doorway. Josh recognized it as Covington. “I need a word with you.” The major looked long and hard at the stranger. “Who’s this guy?”
“Nobody. Just a fellow who thought he might like to learn English. But I don’t think this class is what he’s looking for.” Josh shook the man’s hand and said in Arabic, “I will seek her out. Thank you.” The man lowered his head, bowed slightly and brushed by Covington on his way out the door, and he was not seen again in the village.
That night, Josh hit the bunk as usual and lights went out at 2200 hours. At 0400, one of the team members up for an early run to the toilet noticed that Josh’s bunk was empty. A search of the compound turned up nothing. Sergeant Josh Adams was missing.
Chapter Five
Fierce wind beat against the tent walls, thrumming the taut material and whistling around the guy lines. Bits of sand made a speckling noise against the fabric as the desert storm raged. Inside, Sorgei Groschenko looked from one to the other of the two men seated at the table. Then he began. “I am a scientist. I worked in the field of weaponry until the collapse of the Soviet Union. That is all you need to know.”
Husam al Din shook his head. “That is not all. Tell us about your motive for being here. I know these things, of course, but Sergeant Adams does not. And I am sure he will feel more comfortable about his role in all this if he understands your level of commitment.”
Groschenko was quiet. Sensing the Russian’s reluctance, Husam al Din turned to Josh Adams and continued. “He is here because he hates America for their interference in his country’s affairs. It ruined his career. So, now that he has nothing else, he is here for the money. Everyone has a price, and our people are willing to pay it.”
Josh Adams nodded. “Yeah, well I don’t hate America, but I hate what America is doing here. We have no business even being here in the first place. The politics involved in this war are sickening. I’m only here because I have to be. I’ve got a contract with the army, but they’ve messed up my life plenty.”
“Yes,” Husam al Din said. “They deployed you to a war zone where you are very isolated, and now your girlfriend, Rachel, feels abandoned, but there is nothing you can do about it. Last week, you received a letter from her. She has plans to marry your old friend Randall Stroppe, who lives at 1547 Huntington Avenue in Palm Harbor, Florida. Am I correct so far?”
A look of bewilderment crossed Josh’s face. “How do you know all of that? And how is it you speak English so well?”
Al Din showed his teeth through a cold smile. “As to the second question, I have had good teachers who believe it is important to know everything about the enemy, including his language. As to the first, it is my business to know what I need to know. And I know everything about you, Joshua Paul Adams. I know where you were born, where you went to school, where you have worked, your favorite foods, everything. Do you understand?”
“What does that have to do with anything? I only came here because I want out of the army. The old woman said you could help me. That is why I am here.”
Husam al Din shook his head. “You are here because you were chosen. I chose you.”
Josh stared across the table at al Din. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. What do you mean that I was chosen?”
Husam al Din’s smile disappeared and his eyes closed half way, showing dead pupils behind lowered lids. “You were chosen because of your special talents. If you refuse to cooperate wi
th what I am about to tell you, I will simply find another to replace you. Someday your remains might be discovered along the Afghan–Pakistan border, a frozen and dehydrated mummy.”
Josh stood up and slapped his hand on the table. “That sounds like a threat, and I don’t like being threatened.”
Husam al Din jumped to his feet, his eyes flashed and in his hand was the dagger. In a blur of motion the dagger came down hard; the point buried itself in the wood less than an inch from Josh Adams’ splayed fingers. Josh leaped back with a startled yelp and at the sudden sound, two men stepped in through the tent door with AK47’s pointed at his chest.
“Before you get yourself killed,” Husam al Din warned through clenched jaws, “I suggest you sit back down and listen. You have a decision to make. If you decide to cooperate, you will eventually be set free and will be given a very large sum of money. You will be out of the army, and can go anywhere in the world you choose. If vengeance is in your heart, you can take care of Rachel and Randall Stroppe yourself or pay to have it done. Cooperate with me and maybe I can even work something out in that regard. We have people everywhere, even in Palm Harbor, Florida.”
Josh shot an angry look at Husam al Din, glanced over his shoulder at the two men then rubbed his jaw and sat down. “What exactly is going on here?”
“It is very simple,” Husam al Din said. “You have been kidnapped as easily as offering candy to a child to lure her into a stranger’s car.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Josh exclaimed.
“Don’t look so surprised. It has happened many times before. Do you remember the reporter who was kidnapped and then was released six weeks later? What do you think he was doing for those six weeks? What happens to you after you are released depends upon you. If you are smart, you will take your money and keep your mouth shut. Just say you were not mistreated and let it go at that. You will be interrogated by your own government, but I am sure your Special Forces training will prepare you to handle that.”
“How much money?” Josh asked.