Pashtun

by Ron Lealos

  “Either the Abduls want us to fly,” Washington said, “or we’re about to get patted down. They better not touch Mr. Happy.”

  “Just be cool and cooperate,” I said. “And Mr. Happy might get another chance to grin.”

  We held our arms up and spread our legs. The men confiscated pistols, Ka-Bars, ammo, and cell phones. They missed the knife attached to my forearm. Washington’s too. They did find the sissy revolver strapped to my ankle. The men walked back to their group, and we were signaled to move to the side, where Washington and I leaned against a kermes oak tree that looked as old as the hills across the valley to the south. The oak’s branches were skinny and gnarled, more like thin, bent arrows with sharp tips and barbs than healthy growth. Someone had carved a few indistinguishable words in Arabic in the tree, behavior I was sure would be punishable by a public amputation. There was a famous picture making the rounds on the internet of a young Taliban carrying severed feet and hands through the streets of Kabul. The greenish-colored limbs supposedly came from convicted shoplifters and were mounted on a line. The boy was smiling and holding them up like he’d just caught a few record-setting bass.

  Just behind us, a drainage ditch had been dug, leading to the creek below. A few gooseberry and hawthorn bushes were scattered along the banks. Only a hint of water darkened the bottom of the channel. No rain had fallen in weeks. I scuffed the toe of my boot in the dirt, rolling around a golf ball–sized pebble.

  “Are you gonna detonate the Abdul shit?” I asked Washington.

  “Just funnin’,” Washington said. “I can switch to Mohammed if you think that’d be less edgy. Maybe Mo for short.”

  “Worse,” I said. “How ’bout you don’t use any names.”

  At times, Washington loved the ghetto shtick. But I knew he was a University of Michigan grad with a degree in economics and co-captain of the Wolverine wrestling team that was NCAA champions the year Washington took third in the 197-pound division. He carried less bulk three years ago. He pushed back his helmet and continued watching as the men gathered together in front of the 6x6.

  “I do think Mo might be better,” he said. “It’s the most popular name on Earth. Better chance of gettin’ it right.”

  “I thought it was ‘dick head,’” I said. “Maybe you should use that if you feel compelled to name-call. They won’t understand.”

  I was certain none of the men were named Bob. And they weren’t intimidated in the presence of a CIA agent. No way could I bluster my way through like back at the base.

  During the banter, I knew both of us, no matter how relaxed we might appear, were ready to cross the ditch and try to dissolve into the rocks. Unarmed, our chances were slim to none. Only our lips moved. Not our eyes. Those never strayed from the Abdul conference now taking place within the length of a Humvee stretch limo.

  “Dick head. That’s a white boy name,” Washington said. “Never heard no black man use it. All it would mean is that the brother had a large head anyways.”

  “Oh, there it is,” I said. “It took all these hours for you to finally bring that urban myth up. You just had to get it in before we both died.” I crossed my legs, leaning harder into the oak. “Good timing.”

  “And you should see me jump. I can dunk with the ball between my elbows.”

  “I suppose you can dance as well as Michael Jackson, too. A true renaissance man.”

  One mujahedeen broke away from the group and walked quickly in the direction of the smoke. The others either rested the butt of their AKs in the dirt or kept the barrels pointed at us. Several lit up Marlboro cigarettes.

  “Sho ’nough, Morgan,” Washington said. His eyes tracked the man moving away, while mine stayed on the hadjis gathered by the truck. “Right now, I wish I smoked. Like Sammy Davis Jr. in those old black-and-white photos. He always seemed to have a cigarette in his right hand and the smoke curlin’ around him.”

  “Or Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct,” I said. “When the police officer tells her not to smoke. She crosses her legs and lights up anyway. Then takes a drag that lasts longer than it took me to unzip my fly.”

  Overhead, a formation of A-10s appeared with a roar from behind the mountains to the east. The planes dipped into the valley and headed toward us. The Taliban pointed and screamed “alwateka!” Airplane. Some of the men ran for cover behind the closest boulders. The others just watched the A-10s close the distance.

  If we were going to bolt, now was the time. But I knew there was no escape. If we were the target, the A-10s would reach us in a second. They were armed with a GAU-8/A Avenger 30 mm cannon. It could shoot the 480 explosive rounds in less than five seconds and drop one of its 1,000-pound bombs before we could scramble to safety. The safest place would be more than a hundred yards away; everything else would be vaporized or shredded. I knew Dunne was responsible for this air raid.

  The A-10s passed by without even a wave, disappearing over the hills to the west. Seconds later, the first concussions shook the ground and smoke painted the horizon. It was the first time Washington and I had looked away from the Taliban. When we turned back, they were jumping up and down, rifles raised to the sky, cursing the infidel planes, celebrating that they hadn’t been in the drop zone.

  “Those dick heads need a dancin’ lesson,” Washington said. “That must be the jihad jig. Never been done in any joint I been in.”

  “I don’t think Arthur Murray’s got a franchise in Jalalabad,” I said. “And no MTV.”

  We watched while a few of the Taliban hugged and did the kiss-kiss routine on their bearded cheeks. Their joy would soon turn to anger against America, and we knew we were the nearest representatives.

  “Who’d you sign your SGLI over to?” I asked. Servicemen’s Group Life Insurance. “Hope it’s somebody that appreciates your supreme sacrifice and they spend it on something other than a new Cadillac.”

  “Yaw’ll furgits the bucket’a fried chicken and watermelon, massah,” Washington said.

  If it weren’t for a band of fuming mujahedeen waving their rifles at us, the course of discussion between Washington and me might have been different. As it was, there were no limits. And we both knew it was just a form of macho Hallmark cards and the soldier’s inability to say “I love you” before his world incinerated.

  “In the almighty words of the Reverend Al Sharpton,” I said, “prepare for the end.”

  Two of the men separated from the group, waving their arms and striding toward us. One was screaming “zwhan mar shay!” I think that meant “you will die young and unmarried!” Or it could have been one of the other popular Pashtun insults. “Your grandmother is dead, and her pussy is still moving!” The second furious hadji pulled a knife with a curved blade from his belt. He was within ten feet, waving the dagger at us, still advancing. His eyes were glazed, and he was soon to reach rapture. Washington took one step forward, shaking out his arms and spreading his legs.

  “Fuck that candy ass knife shit, Abdul,” he said. “Bring it on.”

  I moved to his side. The man would have two targets, both experienced in disarming a man with a blade. And killing him.

  Before the hadji could raise the knife, a shot echoed through the rocks. The bullet whizzed over our heads and embedded in the oak behind us. The man froze, then turned around. It was the mujahedeen with the walkie-talkie. His AK was pointed at the three of us. A faint wisp of smoke drifted from the barrel. No friendly smile. He didn’t say a word, just nodded his head to the right, indicating the men should move away. Muttering, they did. Washington and I relaxed.

  “I want to comment on that Cadillac slur, honkey,” Washington said. “What I wanna know is why white folk think an SUV has more class? Get through all them snow drifts in Florida blockin’ the funeral procession?”

  The Taliban appeared to be deciding what to do next. And when. We observed, and Washington continued.

  “Speakin’ about white people and fags, you hear the one about why gay white men use ribbed condoms?” H
e didn’t look at me, and I didn’t respond. He would tell me the answer. “Traction in the mud.” Washington slapped his thigh and whooped.

  In the last gasps of life, nothing was sacred. Dis everyone.

  The mujahedeen glared. I smiled and shook my head, pointing to Washington, hoping my gestures let them know the laughter wasn’t directed at them.

  “Jesus, Washington,” I hissed. “These guys don’t tell jokes unless they involve donkeys. Or dead infidels. Stow it.”

  Washington pointed to his chest, grinning, trying to signal it was all about him.

  “Gotta wrap it up,” Washington said. “At least my people have rhythm. Did you see Cheney dancin’ in the video on YouTube? I coulda’ looked better if I had rigor mortis.”

  “All out’a your system now?” I asked. “They’re comin’ over again. I think it might be time to change the subject and focus on dope.”

  “There you go. Again,” Washington said. “Black men and dope. One and the same to whitey.”

  “I wasn’t the one who recruited you for this deal,” I said. “Take it up with your minders. They coulda’ chose Thorsten. I’ve been wonderin’ why it was you.”

  “Like I said, black men and dope. The only reason I can come up with. Make’s me hate ’em even more.”

  The hadji with the walkie-talkie led the way. He pointed to the truck. Washington and I mounted up and were signaled forward, AKs not wavering from our heads. Washington started the truck, and we moved forward at two miles an hour, the mujahedeen walking along beside us as armed escort.

  Around the bend and over a slight rise, the poppy meadows opened up. At each one, a guard with an AK protected the perimeter. The plots were broken up by rocks, paths, and a few withered wild privet tress and camel thorn bushes. The bucolic scene was spectacular, right out of Better Homes and Gardens. Pretty white blossoms swaying in the breeze with only a few reds and blues giving depth to the carpet of flowers. Harvesters in the field, stooping to tend the crop, all framed in blue sky and snowcapped mountains. A small sparrow hawk rode the wind stream, gliding slowly above. The smell was like someone had just mown wet grass. At the edges of the fields, burlap bags were piled, some already containing the fruits of the day’s yield. Washington made a couple of turns, the terrain constantly rising. After a klick, we began to drop toward a small valley and the first signs of habitation.

  A few mud-walled houses, the biggest with a wooden porch and an antenna attached to a tile chimney beside a small satellite dish. Pole structures with roofs covered in plastic tarps. A dented and scratched Land Rover parked by the rusting bodies of two old Toyota trucks with the windows blown out and flat tires. Chickens pecking in the dirt and dogs lying in the sun, panting and watching the invaders pull into the courtyard. All around, men at work and the sound of a generator. Some were stirring large cauldrons, while others stacked bricks of heroin or moved bags of opium from place to place. One of the huts held the printing press, and a man was stacking pieces of paper after they were stamped. At every corner of the compound, an armed guard faced outward. On the roofs, more lookouts. Just before the gate, a hadji manned a Russian-made PK 7.62mm machine gun surrounded by sandbags. The man beside him had an M79 bloop gun. Washington stopped the truck. He didn’t even need to apply the brakes, and the 6x6 didn’t jerk as if we had been speeding. He simply shut down the engine.

  “Hey, Morgan,” Washington said. “They didn’t ask about the money.”

  “I suppose they think we’d be foolish to come here without it,” I said. “Or suicidal.” I slowly turned my head, counting the number of men and munitions. “It’d take a battalion of Rangers to root out these bad guys. They probably have underground bunkers, too, so even the GMLRS smart bombs would just be a hiccup.”

  A hadji in a long, flowing robe stepped out of the door of the largest house and onto the porch. He was unarmed and had a black scarf around his neck, curled below a black turban. Over six feet tall, his beard was untrimmed, touching his chest. The sandals on his feet weren’t dust covered like everyone else’s, and his robe had been freshly washed. A cigarette was in his right hand. He beckoned us to come inside.

  “If there is such an Abdul,” Washington said, “that’s Sheik Wahidi. He didn’t introduce himself last time around.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “No ‘Abdul’ shit with this mullah. Lots of them speak English. Learn on the Internet or at foreign schools. Comes in handy when they’re trying to intercept our communications. Or torturing prisoners.”

  We stepped down from the truck and walked across the dirt courtyard, still accompanied by our AK-carrying ushers.

  The only sound was the crackling of the fire and the hum of the generator. The chickens hopped away, wings flapping and raising dust. Skinny dogs slunk under the porch. None had barked. The Taliban were known to cut out dogs’ tongues for quiet but kept them around to hunt snakes. Smoke from the cooking opium rose to our left. The smell was like cedar burning. No one talked or prayed. It was still too early for Salatu-I-Asr. Afternoon prayer.

  “Greetings,” the man said and went on in perfect lyrical British boarding-school English. “Please come inside. We can speak and have a cup of Tora tea. I’m sure you’re tired after your journey.” The man turned to the side, careful not to show his back, gesturing us to enter.

  No windows in the dark room. Candles burned from the top of a low table sitting on a large rug that reached to the corners. The carpet was decorated in twisting designs of red and green. Several old chairs and foot stools bordered the lacquered table. In the middle, a copy of the Koran was held open by a purple cloth place marker. A door led to what appeared to be a small kitchen, where a silver teapot was hissing, steam drifting toward the ceiling. Nothing on the walls. No pictures of Mohammed, heresy in the Islamic world, or photos of the family.

  “Please take a seat,” the man said. “I’ll attend to the tea.” He walked to the open door and began pouring the drinks into clear glasses.

  Washington and I moved the chairs so that we faced outside and sat, taking off our helmets. We both wore camo fatigues and bush boots.

  Lights blinked from a radio to our right, mounted on a shelf against the wall. Earphones dangled off the side, and the Bose imprint was obvious even in the dim light. A laptop computer sprouted wires that led to a hole in the wall, probably attached to the generator and the satellite dish. The Company knew Iran had launched the Safir 313 satellite years ago, not only to track possible missile attacks, but also to provide communications links for terrorists. A new color printer, scanner, and fax was on the floor next to a shredder. A cell phone sat in a cradle, the green light showing it was fully charged.

  “Equipped with everything the successful small-business owner needs,” Washington said, nodding toward the devices. “Ya think he dials up porn?”

  “More like Mullah Omar,” I said.

  Omar’s titles were Commander of the Faith and Emir of Afghanistan. The reclusive leader had been the Taliban chieftain since 1996 and had not been seen in public for years. Thought to be in his late forties, Omar was born to landless peasants and was a member of the Hotak tribe. He had instituted Sharia in Afghanistan, the strictest interpretation of Islamic law. One of his favorite punishments was to have married adulterers in Kabul beaten, stoned, flogged, and beheaded in the National Soccer Stadium. Omar also had the giant stone carvings of Buddha in Banyan destroyed, saying the idols were “an offense to the morality of Islam and signified worship of false gods.” The man brewing the tea in the other room was certainly in contact with Omar or his ministers. Even from a cave in the Hindu Kush foothills, Omar still needed money. He had instituted a 20 percent tax on opium farmers and the heroin trade. Cash for smack had to come from somewhere, even if it was passed to him from his sworn enemy, America.

  The wooden chairs weren’t in condition to hold Washington’s weight. His shrieked on every inhale, the legs bowing as if they were about to snap.

  “Comfy digs,” he said
. “Centuries better than some’a them caves we sanitized.”

  “Beats the tents back at the base, too,” I said.

  “What do you care? Spooks sleep in coffins anyways.”

  “Now there’s another myth. We use body bags.”

  “Speakin’ a your brothers. Did ya hear the one about the spooks that found three IEDs alongside the road? The head spook leans over to pick one’a the IEDs up. The other says, ‘Be careful, it might explode.’ The head spook continues to reach for the IED and says, ‘Quit worryin’. We’ll tell ’em there was only two.”

  “What do ya’ call two million Americans holding their hands up? The Army.”

  “Harsh, Morgan,” Washington said. “If Abdul wasn’t comin’ back with that girly tray full’a sissy tea, I’d have to show you what the Modern Army is made of.” Washington knew my name wasn’t Donovan. No need to hide behind that cover any longer. We were on the same team, even if his tour of the major leagues might only last for a cup of coffee and a donut.

  “And if you don’t can the ‘Abdul’ shit,” I said, “I’ll cut off your arms and legs and throw you in the road. Nobody in the Army will come to your rescue. They’re all in line to call home to their mommas anyways. Just be cool.”

  Without talking it over, one of us was constantly focused on the door facing the courtyard. The other watched the man who was stepping into the room with tea and a plate of cinnamon and honey-covered Naan. He set the tray on the table and handed us the clear glasses now turned a dark green from the tea. He sat in the empty chair.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Please partake of my humble offering of sweet bread and tea. I’m sorry we haven’t had time to prepare a feast for your arrival common among my people.” He pointed to the plate of Naan with a crooked finger like Moses parting the Red Sea. “Welcome to my house.” He bowed. “May Allah bless your hearths and give you many wives to keep you warm.”

  I expected Washington to say something like, “One would do. As long as she has huge tits.” He didn’t.