by Eric Meyer
"Stoner, you can't go on. You keep doing this and you’ll die."
"Just give me a hand into the jeep. We can make some progress now, and we can't be far from Chilas.”
"You need medical attention. Don't do this."
“I need to get them out. That’s all that matters.”
“This is about Sara, isn’t it? If it weren’t for her, you’d consider a delay to get medical attention. If she were here, she’d tell you she’s not worth dying for.”
He stared back at Greg. “I don’t agree. She is worth dying for. So let’s get the wheels rolling and find those hostages.”
He drove on, and they drew nearer to Chilas. At least they should have been nearer to Chilas. They may have been closer, or maybe not. They were lost. They came to the end of the track, and in front of them they found just muddy paths, churned by the hoofmarks of sheep and goats, five different paths, branching in five different directions.
Greg halted the GAZ. "Any ideas where we go from here? Does anyone even know where we are?"
He was greeted with silence, but Jamal Sama piped up. He was riding in the back, perched on a wooden crate, after they'd decided he was not likely to escape.
"I know where we are. I've been here before." Stoner didn't trust him that much. "Noyan, do you have any ideas?"
"None. I told you I'd been in this region before, but not here." He looked up at the stars, as if they would help him navigate, and shook his head, "I'm sorry. I don't know."
"I told you. I can help," Sama repeated, "The path we need is that one there."
He was pointing to the second path from the left, and on the face of it, it didn't look like it would take them in the right direction. "There are several branches on the way into Chilas. This track is very rarely used, and there are a number of trails that crisscross it. I will guide you in."
Noyan stared at him, his face screwed up an intense suspicion. "Why would you do that? We've already spared your life. If you lead us into the town and they catch you, you know what will happen. Your death will be very long, very hard."
Now the threat of a huge dagger plunged into his belly had receded, he'd cheered up immensely. "Sir, I have faith in you, and I don't think we will be caught. You men are experts. Besides, there is something else I was hoping you would help me."
"Help you with what?"
He waved a hand in the air, as if to take in the entire region. "You’ve seen this place, and you understand how terrible and poverty stricken it is. I want to get out, and I thought about the cities. But there are many men like me struggling to earn enough money to eat, and many turn to begging on the streets. Life is very hard."
"So what do you want from me?"
He stared at the veteran Talib; his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “I want you to take me back to Afghanistan."
Noyan grunted, "What would you do there? There are many people starving and begging on the streets of Afghanistan, little different to the way it is here.”
"You don’t understand. I wish to join your group."
"You mean my warband? You wish to fight the Allied Coalition, the Americans, Afghans, the British, and every other nation which declared war on us?”
His head bobbed up and down. "Yes, yes. I've heard the Taliban offers generous rewards to those men who fight for them."
Noyan grimaced. So that was what it was all about. Loot. “Listen, my friend. If a fighter is successful and kills many enemies, and manages to survive, which is no mean feat, yes, there may be rewards."
"I will survive, and I will fight."
"I will think about it."
Stoner was appalled. The Taliban was the sworn enemy of America, and they were talking about recruiting yet another man to join the fight. He tried to dissuade Sama.
"There may be one thing you haven't thought of, Jamal."
"What is that?"
"You join the Taliban, and you'll have the armies of several nations doing their best to kill you. I know you’re trying to get away from the hardscrabble existence around here, but the Taliban is no solution. Tell him, Noyan. Tell him what it's like."
The man inclined his head gravely. "It is true. Our life consists of fighting, running and hiding. It is not easy."
"But the rewards…"
"The rewards, yes. There are rewards, if you survive. Frankly, I have my doubts."
He didn't discuss it anymore, and Stoner wondered if he still planned to go ahead. He was also wondering if he should kill him. Or maybe there was another way.
Is it possible I could turn Abbas Noyan and Mohammed Nadiri away from the path of religious lunacy?
He got to thinking what these men really wanted.
Forget the Islamic nonsense. Most of the Taliban couldn't give a shit about Islam, and even less about the Prophet. So what do Noyan and Nadiri want? Christ knows, to keep on fighting, the forever war? Probably. What would make them stop, other than death?
They drove on, and he chatted with enthusiasm about the new life he planned for when he joined the Taliban. His eyes were filled with images of piles of cash, women, and he didn't mention the downside. The fighting, every hand turned against you, every gun pointed in your direction, until Greg pointed out the truth that only the extremist killers themselves failed to acknowledge.
"They're murderers, Jamal, the Taliban, al Qaeda, and every other Islamic extremist group tearing Afghanistan apart. Most folks just want to live in peace, but they don't give them the chance."
"You invaded my country," Noyan growled, "What did you expect us to do? Lay down and die like dogs?"
"I didn't invade anyone," Greg asserted, "I'm Afghan."
Noyan raised his eyebrows. "You don't look like an Afghan."
"My father was a Russian."
Nadiri guffawed. "A Russian? They were the worst of the lot. Cruel infidel invaders who killed tens of thousands of Afghans, and we sent them running back to the Soviet Union with their tails between their legs. Many went home in body bags.”
"The Americans came for Osama bin Laden, and no other reason. The Taliban sheltered him, and we had no choice but to come after him. Like you said, Noyan. What were we supposed to do, lay down and die? Wait for the next hijacked planes to hit major targets in the U.S.?"
The Taliban commander shrugged. "You may have a point."
"So what would it take for you to stop fighting?"
He spat out the side of the jeep. "We've been fighting in Afghanistan for centuries. We had more nations than I can count try to conquer our territory. The British came more than a hundred years ago, Soviets, the Americans, and before that, many others. What else is there, but to fight?"
Stoner gave up. The guy also had a point, and although the American operation inside Afghanistan was righteous, the ordinary Joe hadn't conspired to hide Osama bin Laden from justice. The ordinary Joe just suffered when war broke out, and the bombs and bullets rained down on his family.
Javed was staring ahead, and he shouted, "Sirs, we are almost there. Look, Chilas."
His young eyes were sharp, and he believed him, although he couldn't see anything through the gloom, not yet. But then he realized the night had flown past, and dawn was starting to light up the sky. In front of them, he saw a huddle of stone dwellings. Chilas. They'd made it. Now came the difficult part.
* * *
They'd worked out the plan, and Barbara Adams persuaded the others to go along with it. It was simple, using Sara as bait. Two women who were both young and fit would hide either side of the door, and another woman who had some experience of fashion had managed to tear away the lower part of Sara's skirt, so it was shorter. Much shorter, and Sara protested she must look like a hooker. Barbara's response was dry.
"That's the idea. You need to look like a hooker to blind this man's eyes to everything except getting inside your underwear. All you need do is stand inside the room and look enticing. When he comes in, we’ll do the rest."
"What if there is more than one. Two men would be diffic
ult."
"Difficult, but not impossible. Two men enter, we’ll take them both."
"And if there are four men?"
The cell was silent. They all understood what she was asking and understood there was a single answer. If four men entered the cell, they wouldn't be able to overcome them. She'd have to take what they handed out, and she felt herself tremble at the prospect of one of those foul, stinking tribesmen rutting with her. She decided there and then that if it happened, she’d fight them every step of the way. No way would she ever give in.
She practiced different poses, and the women attempted to recreate the look of a femme fatale from a movie. One leg slightly bent, hip jutting forward, breasts pushed out, and head thrown back slightly, tilted to expose the throat. They told to lick her lips, in a semblance of arousal, and she felt impatient with the stupidity of what she was doing. Until they reminded her that the success or failure of her performance could decide whether they lived or died.
They came an hour later. A woman was standing next to the door, adhered to the woodwork, listening. She turned.
"I can hear footsteps. Someone is coming."
"How many?" Sara asked, feeling her heart flutter.
"I think there’s two. Yes, two men, definitely."
Barbara took command. "Stand back, all of you. You know what to do, and remember, if we get this wrong, chances are these men will kill us. We are fighting for our lives, nothing less, remember it."
They assumed their positions. Two women either side of the door, and Sara felt like an idiot as she stood in the center of the dark cell, with the rest of the women huddled against the walls. When the door opened, all they would see was her, slightly illuminated from the shaft of light that would come from the outside. The lock rattled, and the door opened. The light tracked across the floor, and she felt like a rabbit caught in the headlamps of monster truck. Two men entered the cell, the men she recognized from before who had pushed them into the cell.
When they first got there, they were talking to each other casually, but their rifles were held in a way that was anything but casual. Muzzles swept around the room, searching for any threat, until their eyes encountered Sara, and the muzzles of the rifles were still.
At first, they didn't say anything, and then they turned to each other. One man muttered something in Urdu, the native language, and the other replied. The first man stared at her and blinked several times.
"What is this? You look like a whore."
She'd expected their suspicion, and Barbara had prepared her for it.
"Mister, I can't stand being in this room. It's terrible. I suffer badly from claustrophobia, and I'm going out of my mind."
She met his eyes and gave him what she hoped was an inviting stare, "I hoped we could make a deal." She’d dropped her voice, so it sounded hoarse, and everything about her, the tone, stance, the eyes, was a direct invitation to sex. She was giving herself to them, and she was young, lithe, and pretty.
They'd have to have been less than human, not to feel so aroused their libido forcing them to take the bait, and the second man replied, "I can make a deal. We'll take you out of here and put you somewhere more comfortable."
"Yes, yes," she breathed, hoping she sounded sexy. Both men stepped further into the cell. They each took hold of an arm and turned around to lead her out. Seconds later, they realized their mistake when the women hiding either side of the door slammed shut to cut off any noise. The rest of the women in the room fell on them, punching, spitting, and in their fury at the way they'd been treated, led like slaves, some even got close and savaged them with their teeth. Two women had been assigned to stop them crying out, and they gripped their hands around their mouths, their legs around their bodies so they couldn't shake them off. The men fought hard, but Barbara Adams finished the fight by picking up a dropped assault rifle and slamming the butt into the head of each man. They stopped struggling and lay on the floor groaning. Barbara hadn't finished, and she slammed the butt repeatedly into the head of each of them until they were still.
Sara felt giddy with relief, but sickened by the way they'd attack them, like a tribe of savages. "You could have killed them, Barbara. In fact, you may have killed them."
"You think I give a damn?" Her voice resounded with scorn, "Before we get out of here, I mean to kill every single one I can find. These fuckers deserve to die for what they've done to us. For what they plan to do to us in the future, rape, murder, who knows?”
“I thought they’d ransom us, Barbara.”
She sneered. “And you trust them? You saw their eyes when they looked at you, and you knew what came next.”
She shuddered. “Yes.”
She bent down to pick up a fallen rifle, and Barbara had hold of the other. She nodded to the woman by the door. “Can you hear anything out there?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, I think we’re clear.”
“Okay, it’s time to go.” She looked at Barbara. “There’s just one thing I need to get straight. I’ve done this before, in the U.S. Infantry.”
She nodded. “A lieutenant, I know.”
“So from here on in, this is my area. I know what I’m doing, and I expect the rest of you to follow orders. We have to move as a single unit. We won’t get out of here any other way.”
Barbara smiled. “You won’t get any argument from me, sister. Lead on.”
Sara stepped outside the cell, dropped on all fours, and crawled along the narrow passage that led to the entrance. She stopped when she almost walked over a man she’d missed in the gloom, but he was breathing heavily, almost snoring, fast asleep, his rifle lying next to him on the floor. He sensed movement from the dark edges of his consciousness, and his eyes flicked open. He stared up at the slim girl in the short skirt, and from the depths of sleep, automatically touched his groin.
Appalled and disgusted to the point she ignored the danger and slammed the muzzle of the rifle into his genitals. The eyes flared wide, and the mouth opened, about to scream a warning. Until Sara spun the rifle in a move that would have done credit to a parade ground drill and slammed the butt into his throat. Once, trice, three times. He clutched his ruined larynx, until Barbara stepped past her and hit him again. This time a stunning blow on the skull, and he slid over, lying in a pool of blood leaking from the crack in his cranium.
“That makes three,” she scowled, “Let’s see how many more of these fuckers we can kill.”
They were out in the open, a long straggling line of women, and the only route out was the main street. She had no idea where they were, in which part of Pakistan, or the name of the town or village. Only that they had to get out of it fast, and if they stayed where they were, the enemy would spot them immediately. The dawn was breaking, and she felt exposed without the dark cloak of night to hide them. She looked up and down the street and couldn’t make up her mind which direction to follow. She’d lost all sense of direction following their confinement, and the alternatives were few. All that faced them were the shuttered stone cottages, and every door was closed, and not a single window open. No gaps showed between the dwellings. Where a pathway existed, a stout fence protected it. She briefly considered climbing the fence to slip out through the back way, but they ran out of time.
Headlamps appeared in the distance, and they were closer than she realized. A large truck, coming in from the west, and before she made up her mind where to find any cover, the truck had turned into the street. The powerful beams of the headlamps lit them up, and she shaded her eyes against the glare. She knew instinctively the occupants of that truck would be hostile. She also knew they had no place to run, a bunch of women and three assault rifles in a small town filled with hostile enemy fighters. The moment the first shot was fired; they’d come pouring out. A gun battle would ensue, and it wasn’t hard to predict the outcome. At best, a beating and multiple rapes, at worst, death.
Slowly, she put her rifle on the ground and glanced at Barbara. “Put down the weapon. We’ve
lost this battle. All we can do is live to fight another day.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were pushing them back into their cave prison. They were not gentle.
* * *
They’d crept into the town, after hiding the GAZ in a dried-up riverbed. Greg wasn’t happy, but when Stoner pointed out the rotting branches scattered around, evidence the area hadn’t seen water in a long time, he relented. Their forbearance did not extend to the prisoner Jamal Sama, and they again fastened his wrists and ankles to the bodywork of the jeep. He had yet to prove himself as a willing recruit to Noyan’s war band, and besides, he’d changed sides at least once, to their knowledge. What was to stop him changing again? He had more than the ropes to prevent his escape. They left him with Archer to take care of him. When he understood the big German Shepherd was staying, he went quiet. He could reason with them, tell lies, cheat, and cajole. Archer wasn’t interested.
They came in through the back of the cottages, sneaking between what looked and stank like rows of opium poppies. They reached the front, protected by a high stout wooden fence. Javed shinned up to the top, and a moment later he was back down.
“Sirs, they are there! A line of women, it must be them.”
Stoner didn’t have the strength to climb the fence and dropped to the ground, peering out beneath the thick wooden boards. Their spirits rose. The line of women was less than fifty meters away, and out in front, leading them with a Kalashnikov held in her hands was Sara Carver. He wanted to cry out, but caution screamed at him as a truck came around the corner, and the headlamps lit up the street, causing the women to freeze. The truck halted, and he watched Sara and an older woman put down their rifles. A moment later, men came pouring out of the truck, and it was then he recognized it. He’d last seen it in Torkham, when he ripped out the electrical cables in the engine.
Colonel Rahman’s men had fixed it, and it was here. Complete with his unit of Afghan Special Forces, and they fanned out across the street with their rifles pointed at the women. Rahman was last to climb down from the vehicle, and he walked slowly towards the women, his lips twisted into an evil smile.