by Tom Young
“They lit us up pretty good,” Parson said. “But I don’t think we were who they wanted.” He explained about the missing boys.
“The Taliban has used child soldiers before,” a CENTCOM colonel said. “But they were recruited out of madrassas in Pakistan. Taking them by force is something new.”
As Parson listened, he found foam cups and poured coffee from a pot placed atop a stack of MRE cartons. He handed one to Rashid and drank from the other. The coffee had gone bitter from too much time on the hot plate.
“This stuff sucks,” Parson said.
“Indeed it does,” a major at Bagram said. Parson had meant the coffee, but he agreed with the major’s statement.
“Some Taliban rank and file have taken us up on the amnesty program,” the colonel said. “And even a few of their commanders have put down arms. But this seems like two steps back. It’s hard to see how this fits in.”
Parson didn’t care how it fit in. Divining the intentions of terrorists seemed a waste of time. Analysts fretted over how to interpret a statement, how to view an action. To Parson, the only way to view the Taliban was through crosshairs—which he’d done more than once.
Rashid sipped his coffee and frowned. Parson knew how the Afghan pilot felt this morning. He’d lost a crew member and an aircraft. That was a special pain Parson well understood. But the man still had a job to do, and Parson figured the best thing was to get him back in the air as soon as possible. At the moment, Rashid twirled his lighter between his fingers like his mind was somewhere else and he wanted a cigarette.
The major in Bagram excused himself from the teleconference, then returned. “Intel shop says Al Jazeera has a new video from the bad guys,” he said. “We’ll try to put it up if you like.”
“Please do,” the colonel from MacDill said.
“Yes, sir.”
Parson looked at Rashid and the intel officer, shrugged. The screen went to snow, and when the picture returned, it showed a bearded man in white robes and a black turban. No salt in his beard; he looked to be in his thirties. On the wall behind him hung a green flag. Two AK-47s leaned against the wall, beside another weapon Parson had not seen in terrorist videos before: a curved Arabian sword, called a saif, resting in its scabbard. Silk tassels dangled from the hilt. The scabbard’s chape and locket gleamed of old silver. The man in front of the weapons spoke in accented but fluent English.
“With great regret we note that some of our former Taliban brothers have capitulated to the crusaders,” he said. “They have entered talks with the puppet government in Kabul, which is religiously forbidden. Some have announced they will cease offensive operations due to the natural disaster.
“We view these measures as apostasy and declare these former brothers kafirs. The earthquake was an act of God, a holy punishment for cooperation with infidels. Therefore, we forbid any acceptance of relief from infidel nations. Likewise, we forbid the pigs and monkeys of Jewish and Christian aid organizations from entering the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. God alone shall provide according to His will.”
The man reached for the sword, drew it from the scabbard. Engraving ran the length of the blade—words in Arabic that Parson could not read. He’d seen such weapons on display in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. Some of them were hundreds of years old and fetched high prices from collectors.
“In addition,” the man said, running his thumb along the flat of the blade, “we shall strengthen our numbers with the youth of Afghanistan. We shall redouble our jihad under the symbol of the Black Crescent and the sword of Islam. This holy weapon has been blessed by God and shall never know defeat.”
The video then cut to a graphic: a black sliver of moon against a green background, two swords crossed in front. Well, Parson thought, at least now we know our enemy. One crazy enough to bring a sword to a gunfight.
“Bastard,” Rashid mumbled. A word Parson had taught him.
“Who is that dipshit?” Parson asked.
“We don’t know,” the major said. “And we’ve never heard of a group called Black Crescent. A splinter organization, apparently.”
“I guess the Taliban was too moderate for them,” the colonel said.
“Well, I saw last night what he means about strengthening numbers,” Parson said.
“No doubt,” the colonel said. “Problem is, we can’t guard every village. We were stretched thin even before the earthquake.”
“How about ISR assets?” Parson asked. He’d take all the intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance he could get. Keep an eye on things, at least.
“The Predators have a pretty high ops tempo already,” the colonel said. “I’ll check, but I can’t promise anything.”
“What about taskings for the Afghan Air Force?” Parson asked.
“I wouldn’t expect that to change,” the colonel said. “Get the supplies where they need to go.”
Parson had mixed feelings about that. He wanted somehow to chase after these Black Crescent lowlifes. But the pallets of relief supplies stacking up at Mazar and the other airfields couldn’t do anybody any good sitting on the tarmac. Maybe the best thing for Rashid would be to take a new Mi-17, fill it up with rice, potatoes, and cooking oil, and go fly a mercy mission. Rashid came from a culture and a religion Parson would never understand. But Rashid was a guy. A crew dog. Parson could relate to that part of him. Nothing better for a crew dog than a good day’s work with his buds. Especially if at the end of that day he could think about how people would eat that night because he had flown them some food.
That video, however, sucked away any satisfaction Parson might have felt about a relief flight. What kind of sword-wielding asshole would tell those people they couldn’t have the food?
Parson knew such people existed. Very early in his career, he’d flown loads of Unimix into Somalia. The stuff didn’t look appetizing. Unimix consisted mainly of corn flour and soybeans, with the smell and appearance of cattle feed. But dangerously malnourished people could eat a porridge made of it and not throw it up. Then, as they got stronger, their stomachs could tolerate real food again.
Those missions purified him, Parson had believed. Nullified a few of his sins and justified the space he took up on the planet. The Somalis would help push the pallets of Unimix off the airplane and then dance a little jig, perhaps a dance of gratitude, of happiness. But later, Parson learned most of that food had just lined the pockets of warlords. The end result was a failed military intervention in a failed state. A Black Hawk down, then another, and eighteen dead Americans.
That’s when Parson quit trying to save the world. He could save only the person right in front of him, the buddy next to him. At best. A harsh lesson in a harsh world.
In a way, it had liberated him, taught him to leave infinite problems to an infinite power. But it had also broken his heart.
5
Gold wanted to get Fatima to eat something. The UNHCR staff at the airfield passed out boxes of Humanitarian Daily Rations—like military MREs except in yellow packaging. Gold took one marked VEGETABLE BARLEY STEW and carried it to Fatima’s cot. The child lay curled under a woolen Army blanket, eyes open.
“Sahaar mo peh khair,” Gold said. Good morning. She lowered herself onto the edge of the cot.
Fatima did not respond.
“Are you hungry?” Gold asked. She opened the pouch of stew. Lettering on the side read FOOD GIFT FROM THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Fatima shook her head. Gold held her hand, tried to smile at her. No telling how the horrors of yesterday affected the girl. Not even an adult should have to witness the things she’d seen. Gold wasn’t sure what else to say, so she just sat with Fatima to keep her company. After several minutes, Fatima finally spoke.
“Is my brother here?”
The sadness in that question struck Gold with tactile force. Her palms grew clammy. She felt that clutch of anxiety in her chest, the same burning under the breastbone that came when bad memories intruded on the pres
ent.
“He is not, Fatima. We do not know where Mohammed is.”
Gold struggled for more words. Then Parson came into the tent. He was dressed to fly. Body armor over his flight suit, survival vest over the armor. The weight of the gear seemed to make his limp more pronounced. Gold felt unaccountably glad to see him at this moment, as if the weapons and gadgets in his pockets offered some kind of deliverance.
“How’s she doing?” Parson asked.
“About like you’d expect. She’s asking for Mohammed.”
Gold rubbed the back of Fatima’s hand, thought her skin was the color of the pistachios that grew in the orchards around Mazar. Fatima looked up at Parson, then at Gold.
“Is that man your husband?” she asked.
Gold half smiled. “No, Fatima.”
“Is he your brother?”
“No. Well, no,” Gold said. “He is a military officer. We work together. He brought you here to keep you safe.”
Parson seemed to realize they were talking about him. He kneeled beside the cot to be at Fatima’s eye level. Gold could see scratches in the back of his neck from the RPG attack yesterday. Shards flung by the blast had left claw marks still red and raw. The wounds weren’t serious, but they had apparently bled a little since Parson’s shower in the latrine trailer that morning. He smelled of soap, though he wore a dirty uniform. Gold knew he’d been busy, and she supposed all his other flight suits were balled up unwashed in a laundry bag.
“Hello, Fatima,” he said.
“Salaam,” Fatima said.
Parson stood and said, “They’ve already assigned Rashid to another aircraft and crew. We’re taking some bags of rice to a refugee camp over in Samangan Province.”
“I’ll get my things,” Gold said.
“Don’t rush. We still have some flight planning to do. Just meet us in command post.”
Gold found one of the UN staff, a French nurse, and told her about Fatima. The nurse agreed to keep an eye on her, but Gold could see the medical workers were busy. The Mazar refugee camp already held about two hundred occupants, and it wasn’t hard to imagine two hundred personal tragedies like Fatima’s. Some refugees wore casts and bandages; some stared at the tent walls as if catatonic; a few wailed aloud.
In her own tent, Gold donned her MOLLE gear, the field vest that carried her hydration pack, ammo, and other equipment. She checked the magazine in her rifle and the three spare magazines that were snapped and Velcroed into pouches of heavy-duty nylon. Gold opened another pocket to make sure she had sunglasses, a rainproof writing pad, and her two black ballpoint pens labeled SKILCRAFT—U.S. GOVERNMENT. She tied her hair in a tight bun, put on her Kevlar helmet, and headed across the tarmac to command post.
In the flight planning room, she found Parson and Rashid poring over a chart spread across a card table. Parson clenched a blue highlighter marker between his teeth. Gold wasn’t trained to use aeronautical charts, but she noticed he’d drawn a course line that zigged and zagged.
“The scenic route to Samangan?” she asked. Samangan was the next province over to the southeast.
Parson removed the highlighter from his mouth and said, “The minimum risk route. A couple of Mi-17s have come back with bullet holes since yesterday.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Not this time.”
“Anything new on the abductions last night?” she asked.
“Yeah, there’s a video from what looks like a Taliban splinter group.”
When Parson finished telling her about Black Crescent, she felt sick to her stomach. She remembered talking with Afghanistan’s national directorate of intelligence about reports that the Taliban forced teenagers to carry out suicide bombings. Unfathomably heinous—but isolated incidents. A renegade campaign to gather up child soldiers, to create child terrorists in quantity, was another thing entirely. Few people would suspect a ten-year-old was the one wearing a suicide vest in a crowded market.
Worse, terrorist trainers could work with the children well into adulthood, indoctrinating them, teaching them skills. By the time those kids taken last night reached their twenties, they might speak good English with an American accent. They might take jobs in government agencies in Afghanistan or anywhere else. They might learn to make bombs, mix poisons, fly airplanes.
Most terrorists were radicalized in early adulthood, Gold considered. But kids brought up to kill would not come to radicalization; they’d have little memory of anything else. Robbed of their childhoods and the affection of family and friends, the children could be trained to have the remorselessness of psychopaths.
That people could even think of such a scheme ran against all Gold wanted to believe about humanity. Ultimately, this plot could create a new strain of terrorist free of all conscience and empathy, just when coalition forces were drawing down in Afghanistan. Gold didn’t know what it would take to stop it. But she knew somebody had to try.
* * *
Two Afghan crew members came into the flight planning room, a sergeant and a lieutenant. Rashid’s new engineer and copilot, Parson assumed. He didn’t know either one of them, but Parson had not yet found time to meet everyone involved in NATO Air Training Command–Afghanistan. Both wore American-style desert flight suits with the black, red, and green flag of their country on the right sleeve. The engineer was a clean-shaven man in his twenties, with friendly, almond-colored eyes. The copilot looked older, closer to Parson’s age. His beard was trimmed close, so wiry it reminded Parson of steel wool, and his thin build bordered on gaunt. The man carried himself with an intensity, not merely looking at his surroundings, but staring. Rashid spoke to them in Pashto, and Gold joined in.
“This is Sergeant Sharif and Lieutenant Aamir,” Gold said. “I’m afraid they don’t speak any English.”
That didn’t surprise Parson, especially with regard to the sergeant. The Afghan military had a problem getting NCOs who could read and write in their own language, let alone speak English. There wasn’t much of an educated class left in Afghanistan after decades of war, and real fluency in English was rare even among the officers.
“No problem,” Parson said. “Are they ready to aviate?”
“They sound like it.”
“Good. Tell them we have some help today, too. A couple of Mi-35 Hinds are going to ride shotgun.” The Mi-35s, Russian-built gunships, would provide armed escort. Parson looked forward to seeing them work.
When Gold spoke to the Afghans, they nodded but said nothing. Parson figured they were old enough to have seen Hinds flying for the wrong side. He put the cap back on his highlighter, folded the chart, picked up his helmet bag, and said, “All right, let’s do this.”
Out on the flight line, the Mi-35s seemed to threaten even when sitting still. Like the Marine Corps Cobras that had escorted the Osprey, something about a helicopter gunship just looked mean. The Hinds had stubby fixed wings in addition to their main rotors. Parson supposed the wings generated some lift at high speed, but they also provided pylons for mounting bombs and rockets. With a nose gun for a beak, the Mi-35s looked vaguely like pterodactyls. Ugliest damned flying machines he’d ever seen, but effective as hell.
Parson followed Rashid and his crew into the Mi-17, and he strapped into a troop seat along the side of the cargo compartment. Gold sat next to him on his left. Reyes was already on board with his medical pack and weapon. PJs normally worked in groups of two or three, but the earthquake response had spread medics so thin, Parson felt grateful to get even one for whatever injuries they found at the refugee camp. A three-ring binder with the aircraft’s maintenance forms lay on the seat to Parson’s right. He opened it and leafed through the pages.
The forms showed a fairly new helicopter: only a little more than two thousand hours on the airframe. Inspections up to date, oil serviced in both engines. Recent sheet metal repairs for a hairline crack in the door frame and a bullet hole in the tail boom. Signatures from an American maintenance supervisor and Rashid’s Afghan crew chief
.
Good. They were learning to document everything.
He took his headset out of his helmet bag, put it on, and plugged its jack into the interphone system. Clipped commands in Pashto: the crew running checklists and the engines about to start. Parson thumbed a switch on the battery pack connected to his headset cord, and a green indicator light began flashing. Green meant a good battery for the noise-cancellation circuit, so maybe those Russian turbines wouldn’t give him a headache today.
Gold wore her own headset. She pressed the talk button, uttered just a couple words in Pashto. Then she said to Parson, “They have their flight clearance.”
“Good.”
The muscles in Gold’s jaw tightened like she was nervous about something. Parson knew she had no fear of flying, and she’d almost certainly spent more time in helicopters than he had. She was still upset about what she’d seen yesterday, he supposed, especially since it involved kids.
Gold was made of stronger alloys than most people, Parson still believed. But every substance had limits. He thought of the airplanes he’d flown. Each had a performance envelope, and you could fly it to the edge of that envelope with no problem: a certain speed, a certain angle of bank, a certain power setting. But when you demanded more, you could expect consequences.
As Parson looked forward through the cockpit door, he saw gloved fingers punch the start buttons one at a time. The engines above his head ignited, and then he heard the whine of gearboxes as the main rotor began to turn.
The lead gunship called for takeoff clearance in passable English. “Golay flight, cleared for takeoff,” the tower answered. “Wind calm.”
Rashid waited for the Mi-35s to depart ahead of him. Peering out the window, Parson saw the Hinds hover-taxi into position. As they accelerated into the air, a cloud passed over the runway, and the pavement dimmed and brightened as if the gods turned a rheostat.