by Mark Terry
She shrugged. That was what he was afraid of. He and Johnston and Noa had stepped aside to discuss the plan. Johnston was going to stay behind and discuss other matters with Anwari. They were uneasy about splitting up, but this was where Noa and Johnston’s goals diverged.
Anwari was sending two of his muj with them in an ancient truck. The two muj would get them to within about six miles of Shing Dun before they expected to run into the Sheik’s patrols. From there it was a fairly straight shot to the Russian’s house.
Noa went inside to change into camos she would wear beneath her regular clothing. Derek was certain she was going to be armed to the teeth. He looked at Johnston. “I’m the one that suggested this and I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Do you think the kid will survive?”
“If they get him to a doctor, maybe. If they don’t get him to a doctor, I’d give him twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours. He lost a lot of blood and the abdominal wound is ugly. The shoulder wound is worse. The bullet’s still in there and you and I know that there’s a lot of nerves in that area. It would be a miracle if he didn’t lose the arm, even if we do get him to a doctor tonight.”
Johnston eyed him. “So your suggestion of the helicopter pilot is what? A wild-assed attempt to keep him alive?”
Leaning against the house, keeping out of the rain beneath a tin overhang, Derek said, “Noa needs an excuse to get in there, doesn’t she?”
“Yes. And you supplied it.”
“And I can give her backup and if this Russian is at all amenable, we’ll have an escape route. And maybe we’ll get back here and save this kid’s life and get ourselves out of this country.”
“Or you’re walking into a lion’s den.”
“Yeah. Well…”
Johnston gripped his shoulder. “Good luck.”
They were interrupted by the bark of a gun and a scream. It came from outside the village. The gunshot was immediately followed by shouts and more gunfire. Anwari burst from his house, AK47 in his fist, eyes wild. He shouted something in Pashto and raced out of sight.
Derek and Johnston rushed toward where they had left their gear just as Noa appeared. The village was in an uproar.
“Any idea what’s going on?” Derek hissed, jamming a magazine into his own AK47. Noa, hefting an RPG, said, “Abdul Karim Azimi’s people, I think. Full-out attack on the village.”
“Shit.” Derek pulled on the NVGs. “Do we have a plan?” A half-dozen muj from Zin raced by, heading toward where the trail emptied into the village.
“I would like a good position,” Noa said, “with decent cover and a wide field of fire.”
Derek pointed with his thumb. “The roof?”
She nodded. He made a cradle of his hand and hoisted her up onto the roof of the house. “You’re next,” he said to Johnston.
Johnston shook his head. “I’m going to give Anwari backup” and started to run in the direction of the crowd. Derek sprinted after him and caught his sleeve in his fist, spinning him around.
“You are going to get up on that roof with an AK47 and an RPG and as much ammo as you can just like I am and try to keep our asses from getting shot.”
“I’ve got a job to do here, Derek.”
“Yeah. And being on the front line with a warlord isn’t it. Get your ass up there or I’ll shoot you myself.”
Johnston glared at him, then chuckled. “I need a lift.”
“You need a kick in the ass.” He raised his hands and lifted Johnston onto the tin roof of the house.
Derek went through their things and tossed up as much of their sparse gear as he could. Then he jumped up, caught the tin roof with his hands, and levered himself onto the roof.
The rain was coming down still and the tin roof was cold and wet. But Noa and Johnston had spread out blankets to separate them from the chill of the tin. Johnston was on the left side, Noa on the right, AK47s at the ready. Johnston said, “Since you’ve got the night vision, you’re in the middle.”
Noa echoed, “I can’t see shit.”
Derek crawled to a spot between the two of them, his AK47 on his right, his RPG on his left. He scanned the village with his NVGs. People were running everywhere.
Searching to the south, toward the hills, he saw movement. Dozens of men on foot and on horseback were rushing toward the village.
“About three dozen coming in on the trail. I’m having a hard time seeing our own people.” If the Zin folks could be called their own people.
Suddenly gunfire lit up off to their left and their right. Derek saw a couple of the invaders go down, but they kept on coming.
He took his RPG up and aimed. Fired. It sailed over the heads of the invaders and exploded. “Shit. Too high.”
Johnston and Noa fired almost simultaneously, targeting in on Derek’s misfire.
Explosions erupted around them. They sounded like grenades. Twisting to look around, Derek said, “Crap. They’ve got a lot of people. We’re flanked.”
Noa and Johnston were reloading their RPGs. And then something clattered on the roof. Instinctively Derek kicked it. The grenade slid off the tin roof and detonated below them.
Derek didn’t have a chance to reload the RPG. He grabbed the AK47, searched the horizon and started firing.
The air filled with gunshots and explosions and screams. Another grenade landed on the roof. This time Noa kicked it off.
“This isn’t such a great idea,” Johnston said.
“They know we’re up here,” Noa said, and fired off her RPG at a cluster of muj who were firing on their location.
From a hundred yards out they heard a distinctive whooshing sound. A second later they saw the contrail of an RPG headed their way. All three of them flung themselves over the edge, tumbling to the ground. The resulting explosion tore up the building, which caught on fire. Debris rained down on them.
Derek crouched, scanning through the NVGs. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t know who the good guys are. Stay close.”
He rushed from the cover of the house toward a wooden paddock where a half-dozen horses whinnied and kicked in fear. Noa and Johnston were right behind him.
They hit the ground. Derek scanned. He waved with a hand. “There, there, and there,” he whispered, pointing out insurgents.
Johnston muttered, “What supplies do we have?”
“First aid kit, AK, NVGs, knife. Clothes on my fucking back,” Derek said. “You?”
“AK, map, handgun, poncho.”
They glanced at Noa. She whispered, “AK, map, handgun, two knives, poncho, jerky, water, extra ammo, two grenades and money.”
“I love you,” Derek said. “If I create a diversion, can you two get three horses?”
“Yes.” Johnston pointed. “One klick in that direction. Thirty minutes. Can you do it?”
Derek nodded. “And if I’m late, head for Shing Dun.”
Noa handed Derek the two grenades. “Make them count.”
“Will do.” He slithered away.
15
DEREK SLOWLY MOVED BACK TOWARD the village. He spotted three muj on horseback, firing into every doorway they came to. Crouching at the corner of a house, he flipped the AK to single fire. Taking aim, he shot the first rider in the chest. Moved immediately to the second, fired. Then the third.
Just like that.
The muj’s horses reared, then raced off. Derek considered trying to catch one, then decided it was a bad idea.
He sprinted to another house. Outside this one was the pump the village used for its water supplies. Crouching behind it, he scanned around. Twenty yards away he saw a line of muj stalking toward the makeshift hospital.
Derek pulled the pin on one of the grenades and flung it at the group. The distance and timing was right on. They didn’t stand a chance. The grenade landed right in the middle and went off almost instantly, tearing the infiltrators to shreds.
Sprinting to the house, he crept in, checking on his patient and the other sick people who had
been there. His heart sank.
Everyone was dead. Gunshot wounds in them all, including the woman who had been in labor. The stench of blood and shit and body gases filled the air.
He stepped out face to face with a muj.
They both were startled. The muj, who looked about thirty with a dark beard, was just raising his AK47 to fire when Derek shot him.
Time to get out of Zin. He should have gone with Noa and Johnston in the first place.
Turning away, he started toward the back of the village, staying to the shadows, but moving quickly.
At one point he stopped at three corpses. He flipped up his NVGs and looked closer. One of them was Anwari, their host.
Hearing a shout behind him, Derek dropped the NVGs back down over his eyes and broke into a sprint, zig-zagging as he went. Gunfire popped behind him.
And then he was to the village wall and he was up and over and running for the hills.
AN HOUR LATER, Derek figured he was either lost – a real possibility – or he had missed his deadline and Noa and Johnston had gone on ahead.
The third possibility was that they had been captured and killed trying to leave the village. He tried not to think about that.
He found a road heading north. It wasn’t much of a road, really more of a two-track through the hills. Staying just off to the right, he walked in the darkness, rain still coming down steadily.
A couple times he heard people or a horse passing by and he shrank into the shadows and waited for them to pass.
About three hours later he encountered what he thought were the first of Shing Dun’s outer perimeter guards. A couple of muj smoking cigarettes, AK47s slung over their shoulders, talking in low voices.
Derek had been on the lookout for just such a group, and kept a good distance as he silently crept around them.
Staying off the road, he took his time, moving through the darkness, NVGs on, looking for more guards. He wondered where Noa and Johnston were, if they had already made it to the Russian and his helicopter, if they had gotten captured or killed, or lost.
The NVGs were a godsend, but there wasn’t a great deal of depth perception with them. Suddenly Derek stepped into what almost seemed to be a smaller crater. Nearly twisting an ankle, he slammed to the hard ground. Struggling to his hands and knees, he froze.
He was nose to nose with a face.
Derek reeled back in surprise. He flipped up the NVGs, but that wasn’t much better. Fighting to control his rapidly beating heart, he edged closer to the face.
He realized he was looking at a corpse. It had been out here for some time and appeared almost mummified, which he supposed wasn’t completely unexpected in the dry and cold climate, although there was nothing currently dry about the rainfall in this part of Afghanistan. The skin was blackened, tight over the bones, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes gone, empty sockets staring into the rain-darkened sky.
Scanning over the body, he noted that both legs appeared to be gone just above the knees.
Things clicked.
Derek’s heart hammered harder. He had tripped in a crater. The body’s lower legs were gone.
Afghanistan was littered with landmines. The Russians had left millions of them lying around.
In an act that Derek felt could only be described as evil, the Russian Army had disguised landmines as toys, so children would pick them up. There was a generation of maimed Afghan children.
This poor bastard had tripped a landmine, gotten his legs blown off, and died here, body left for the carrion and the weather to desiccate his flesh.
And where there was one landmine there were usually more. Many more.
Derek shivered, thinking of all the time he had been hiking off-road. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
For a moment Derek grayed out. He began to hyperventilate, his heart racing. For a moment he wondered if he was having a heart attack. Calm down, dammit! His fists tightened, clinging to the muddy ground and the blood seemed to roar in his ears.
Derek felt frozen. His nerves felt like they were sizzling, muscles jumping under his skin. What the hell was happening to him?
Closing his eyes, he imagined himself somewhere else … anywhere else. On his boat. He lived on a boat, a sixty-foot Criss-Craft Constellation he had bought off a wealthy widow. It was teak and mahogany and fiberglass and parked in a marina in Baltimore. The water was blue, the waves gentle; the sky the color of faded denim, a mild breeze on his face.
Slowly his heart rate slowed, his breathing regulated.
Derek was able to sit up. Good God, he thought. What the fuck was that? Was that a panic attack?
Rocking back on his heels, Derek surveyed the area. Ideally, he should backtrack the way he came. The rain had wiped out his footsteps, but he was fairly certain he knew the way he had gotten here.
Climbing to his feet, he carefully followed the route he had taken back toward the road, gaze focused on the ground. His heart beat a little harder, but otherwise he seemed in control, moving his feet carefully, walking slowly.
Finally stepping onto the harder surface of the road, he realized the two muj were standing, waiting for him. Their AK47s were aimed right at him. He held his hands out. “Hello.”
16
IT WAS A LONG HIKE and his captors weren’t chatty types. They took his weapons, searched his rucksack, then pushed him on ahead. After about forty minutes they passed a large, sprawling house made of mud brick with a tin roof. A helicopter was parked next to it. He guessed he knew the location of the Russian pilot now.
An hour later they came to what Derek assumed was the village of Shing Dun. It was probably a hundred buildings within a stone and mortar wall. They spoke with two guards. His rucksack was torn from his back, then he was led to a small building and shoved inside. The wooden door slammed shut after him. He heard a latch clang home.
“Dandy,” he said.
It was completely dark. No light whatsoever, no windows.
Carefully he pressed his hands to the wall. He made a slow circuit of the room, which was about fifteen feet square. Bare dirt floor – dry, thankfully – with a bucket in one corner.
With a sigh, Derek sprawled next to one wall and did his best to get comfortable. It had been a long day. He dozed off.
An unknown time period later, the door opened. Gray light filtered in. It was daylight and the rain had turned to a fine mist. Two muj stood there, both armed. They spoke to him in Pashto and waved him forward.
Climbing stiffly to his feet, Derek followed them out. He thought he might be able to take them and get the hell out of there, but he didn’t know how many armed men were in the village. Hoping that learning as much about what was going on before attempting an escape was the best plan, he decided to cooperate.
He was hungry and thirsty, but otherwise in decent shape.
They walked through the village, which was waking up. East of the village were fields of maize and other vegetables. Smoke drifted out of chimneys. Goats and horses and chickens made barnyard sounds amid the sound of morning chores being started.
They led Derek to the largest house, knocked on the door and were let in by a muj. Derek studied this muj, and decided he didn’t look Afghani or Pakistani. He thought he looked Arab.
The Arab looked at him. He was bearded and wore a patterned kaffiyeh on his head. His nose was a pronounced beak and his features were sharp beneath bronzed skin. “Please,” he said in accented English. “Take off your shoes. The Sheik would like to speak with you.”
When in Rome…
Sliding off his shoes, Derek said, “Your English is very good.”
“Thank you. You are American?”
“Yes. Derek Stillwater.”
“Come this way, please.”
They passed from the entry area through a doorway into a larger room. A tall, thin man in white robes and turban lounged on pillows before a small table. He had a long, bushy black beard and a t
hin, ascetic face. A fire crackled in a fireplace. Sitting around the table were two other men. One of them Derek recognized as Khan, the man whose camp he had decimated. If Khan recognized him, he didn’t show it. The other was younger, severe looking, with a black beard shot through with gray. His right eye was black, apparently blind.
The ascetic-looking man with the beard gestured to the pillow along the table. “Please, sit.” His English was also good, with a noticeable accent.
Derek did. The heat from the fireplace felt wonderful.
The man smiled pleasantly enough, although his expression was serious. “I am Sheik Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden. Welcome to Shing Dun.”
Derek nodded. “Am I a guest here?”
“We have not decided. You were found wandering by yourself on the road into our town. You are American?”
There was something about the way Osama bin Laden said the word “American” that made Derek nervous, but he said, “Yes. I am from the United States.”
“Your name?”
“Sorry. My name is Derek Stillwater.”
Osama bin Laden reached down beneath the table. Derek tensed. The Saudi brought out Derek’s rucksack. He pulled out the first aid kit and the chemical test kit. “You are with the U.S. Army?”
Shaking his head, Derek said, “No. I’m with the International Health Alliance. I’m a scientist. I’m preparing reports for the IHA and World Health Organization on contaminants in the food and water here. I’m trying to help.”
“You are U.S. Army.” It was a statement this time, not a question.
“No,” Derek said. “I am not. The IHA is an NGO. You understand NGO? A non-governmental agency?”
“If you are not Army, you are CIA. This first aid kit and this--” He pointed at the chemical test kit. “—are clearly labeled U.S. Army.”
More emphatic now, but not panicking. “I am a scientist with the IHA. I try to help. The U.S. Army makes very reliable and compact first aid kits and chemical analysis kits, which is why I prefer them.”
“Why do you carry a rifle?”