Pashtun

by Ron Lealos

  Instead, he blew on his tea, trying to cool it down. He bowed to the man.

  “Thank you for your gracious hospitality. We are honored to be here. It is so rare that men from our differing cultures can share a quiet moment.” He set the tea on the table. “Let me introduce us. I am Lieutenant Ty Washington.” He nodded to me. “This is my escort and personal assistant, Private Frank Morgan.”

  The man smiled, gently.

  “There is no need for names. We are brothers, and will all be Mohammed when we rise to heaven.”

  It seemed my role was supportive in the bullshit. I kept silent and let these two fence.

  “Yes,” Washington said. “I believe the Koran says, ‘And if ye die, or are slain, Lo, it is unto Allah that ye are brought together.’ I trust your intentions are pure in that regard.” He smiled.

  The man allowed himself to chuckle.

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” he said. “The Koran also says, ‘He who crosses your doorstep is like a King.’” He sipped his tea. “It is interesting to speak to an American who has studied the Koran. Where did you learn?”

  “There are many Americans versed in the Koran. I am just one.”

  A single word or gesture from this man and we would be flayed and boiled in one of the cauldrons waiting outside to cook a batch of opium. I was sure he was Sheik Wahidi. If he wasn’t, he was a high-level Taliban. The relatively sumptuous quarters, the latest technology, the number of men under his command, and the mass of valuable product outside the door meant he had to be someone Omar and his ministers trusted.

  Gray streaked the man’s beard, and tinted hair curled at the ends in fine wisps. One eye drooped just enough to notice. His fingers were long, easily wrapping around the tea glass, and his straight white teeth held no steel that I could see. He spoke softly, as if we were delicate treasures he did not want broken. While he was nearly as tall as Washington, he appeared to be fifty pounds lighter. His tanned skin was dotted with moles, and wrinkles creased his forehead. Even with the droop, his eyes were clear and deep and spoke of things divine. He was the incarnation of serene, educated evil.

  “I know that to be true,” the man said. “There are a number of scholars of the Koran in America. Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf has written many fine treatises on the Holy Book. I believe he lives in New York and has even lectured your FBI.”

  “Yes,” Washington said. “I have read his books and have especially appreciated his interpretation of the verses as they apply to women. That is always a topic Americans want to discuss. Imam Rauf quotes Verse 33 often to explain that the Koran does not value a man more than a woman. ‘For men and women who remember God constantly, for all of them has God prepared forgiveness of sins and a mighty reward.’”

  Through the door, men were trudging past the gate carrying burlap bags over their shoulders. Guards accompanied them, AKs at their waists and not acting hostile. They took the bags to a shed and threw them in piles already threatening to fall over. The dogs came out and smelled the men’s sandaled feet, hoping they might have tracked in a meal on their toes. The men sat and lit cigarettes, talking softly.

  After a few more minutes of scholarly discourse and our decline of a second cup of tea, the man said, “I believe we have business to attend to. Please follow me.” He rose and waved us past him.

  As we stepped onto the porch, another sortie of A-10s appeared on the horizon, streaking in our general direction. The man stopped and shaded his eyes with his hand, staring skyward. The planes roared overhead, leaving a vapor trail and disappearing, followed in seconds by the sound of explosions. The man didn’t say a word, just sighed and motioned us to follow.

  The truck had been parked out of our sight. Now, I could see men were just finishing loading the back of the 6x6 with heroin packed in used metal ammo boxes. No one appeared relaxed, part of their riches being handed over to infidels.

  Our host stopped by the truck. Without looking at either of us, he said, “I believe you have something for me. Please get it now.”

  Washington nodded to me. I was his boy, and the dirty work would fall into my hands. No offense. For now.

  The truck’s hood latch was between the struts of the ram guard. I pushed the handle to the side, and the hood popped open. Metal arms held the bonnet so it wouldn’t crush someone with their head inside. I secured the supports and stretched to reach over the wheel well, freeing the first ammo can. One was secured to each side. Washington just watched while I struggled with the awkward weight.

  Finally, the Taliban leader beckoned one of the dope loaders to help. Together, we freed the cans and set them on the ground. My helper stepped back.

  “Please leave them there,” the mullah said. “I believe it is time for you to go. You should be far away before nightfall. I hear the roads are extremely dangerous in the dark.” He turned to walk away, not bothering to give any orders concerning the millions of dollars in cash inside the duffel bags and ammo cans. It would be foolish to stiff the Taliban while we were still in their sector.

  “Inshallah,” he said.

  “Inshallah,” Washington said. He walked to the driver’s side and pulled himself into the truck. I went to the passenger’s door and climbed in. All our weapons had been replaced, but twenty rifles were now pointed directly at our heads.

  The opium stirrers watched, not taking their hands off the poles. A faint lye smell hung in the air. If there was a time to send us to God, it was now. My hand was on a grenade.

  During his interrogation, Washington had forgotten to mention part of the process. The step required after boiling opium was to sift the remaining white material through one of the burlap bags stacked against the side of the shed. The substance that remained was morphine. In another out building, men were drying the bags and straining the morphine, ready to begin adding the chemicals to finally turn it to heroin. Fifty-five gallon drums marked sodium carbonate, ethyl alcohol, ether, and acetone in English were lined up in the shed beside a number of other, unlabeled barrels.

  Washington started the truck with the usual cloud of black smoke billowing over the front and the rattling sound of a hundred old men with tuberculosis. He eased the 6x6 around the courtyard so the front faced down the road. No one waved goodbye as we left the compound.

  “You’re a piece a’ fuckin’ work, Washington,” I said. “What was all that satanic verses gibberish? You a member of the Nation of Islam? A follower of Farrakhan?”

  “Nope,” Washington said. “Just a student of theology. You know, find out why we’re here and where we’re goin’ in the eyes of different religions. Not just blindly chase the bible according to Langley like you spooks. If you gave it a try, you might find out there’s a world of possibility outside a training manual.”

  His focus never left the road and the sentries we passed at walking speed. He grinned. “Ah, fuck that. Life’s too short, and I ain’t getting’ no seventy-two virgins. Did ya hear about the CIA firing squad that stood in a circle? Or the new CIA secret weapon? A solar-powered flashlight.”

  As we left the last sentry, Washington sped up as fast as our backs could tolerate. The cans of heroin bounced around the back, causing a vinegar smell to invade the cab. The sun had already dropped behind the closest hills, and we wanted to get as far away as possible before the A-10s arrived.

  The two closeby A-10s missions had been diversions to cover what would happen in the next few minutes. Dunne had sewn detonating devices in the bag holding the money. They were remotely wired to ten pounds of C-4 in each can, enough to leave a big hole in the ground where the Taliban compound and dope refinery used to be. A switch below the dash would set off the plastic explosives instantly when I pushed the disguised button. The range was four miles, and we needed to get that far away quickly. Hopefully, the blast would be considered just another bombing raid by other invaders in the vicinity, not linked to us by any of the checkpoint personnel or valley watchers. The crucial part was that all communications equipment from the Taliban
opium factory was destroyed. If not, it would be a short ride for me and Washington. An A-10s fly-by was scheduled in five minutes, and we were supposed to match setting off the C-4 with their arrival.

  The Company was expert in shape-charging bombs, and the false panel in the ammo cans should conceal the deadly plastic long enough for Washington and me to be safely down the potholed road. When the bombs went off, each charge held enough C-4 to destroy a twenty-inch steel beam. Or a tank. More than adequate to obliterate pole sheds and mud houses. And people.

  The money wasn’t an issue. Dunne’s slush fund seemed limitless. The cost per head to kill each al-Qaeda or Taliban terrorist was calculated at about $200,000. At least twenty-five would soon be dead. We were saving taxpayer dollars.

  All of this could have been done easier if Washington had given us the coordinates of the dope stronghold. He wasn’t exactly sure, and the valley was sprinkled with other small factory and living sites like this one. No one really wanted to disintegrate civilians, even if they were dope growers. The decision had been made to make the pickup so that Phase II could become a go. That didn’t cancel the need for retribution. As long as we weren’t at a checkpoint, our chances of a healthy return to base were at least 50-50. Much less if angry mujahedeens were picking themselves up from the gravel with easy targets available after the A-10s roared past and the ground shook like one of the earthquakes familiar to all Afghans. My hand was close to the button and waited for the appearance of the A-10s.

  “So I’m a private,” I said.

  “Yup,” Washington said. I had interrupted his humming of “Sweet Georgia Brown.” “You’re my boy. Piss you off to have a brother in the power seat for once?” He looked at me, the first time his eyes had been off the rutted road since we left the poppy fields. “Handle it.”

  Shadows covered the hills surrounding us. Rock outcroppings as big as condominiums towered above us on both sides. The creek we followed was sprinkled with boulders, and saw grass grew between the stones. Rippling brown water cascaded in small rapids and formed eddies close to the banks; there was too much irrigation going on from the plateaus above to keep the water clear. The sky was the nearly transparent blue of Morocco. Chukars rose from the long grasses along the stream bed as we passed, clucking in horror. If we had to make a run for it, this was the only road. And there was no return.

  On the hillside, mountain goats picked their way between crevices on the steep slope. The six or seven bearded and horned free-range animals were lucky to be in the wild, not used as the prize in Buzkashi, the national sport of Afghanistan. In that game, a dead goat was placed between teams of mounted horseman. The first to drag the carcass across a pre-set goal was the winner. The contests sometimes lasted more than a week and were meant to re-enact ancient mountain goat hunts. Both horses and riders often died, not to mention the already dead goat that was nearly shredded by the time the game ended. I had watched one of these matches outside Jalalabad, pitting two rival villages. Lots of Afghani currency exchanged hands amidst the dust and parked Toyota pickups.

  The first A-10 appeared over the hills, followed immediately by a second. They would reach their target in a few heart beats. I waited only long enough to count to five and pushed the detonator switch under the dashboard.

  Two explosions, not far apart in distance and within a few klicks of our position. Washington stopped humming and held up his right hand waiting for me to give him some skin. I didn’t.

  “I’m still pissed at being made your slave,” I said. “And a fucking private? You could have at least said I was a sergeant.”

  “Get over it, white bread,” Washington said. “No use carryin’ a grudge.”

  “Okay,” I said, and slapped his hand, both of us grinning like the Wolverines had just won the BCS.

  Washington turned his grinning face back and concentrated on the obstacle course of road in front of the 6x6, pushing his helmet higher on his head.

  “You think any Abduls survived?” he asked.

  I took out my Ka-Bar and mindlessly rubbed it on my thigh.

  “Not likely,” I said. “Dunne treats C-4 like it’s Play-Doh and he’s makin’ little art projects. He’s a master of molding the gunk into tight places and packin’ enough charge to do the job right. My guess is that hadji factory better have its insurance premium up to date.”

  “Boys and their toys.”

  “The man who dies with the biggest bang . . . dies.”

  “Speakin’ a philosophy, did you know what Muslim women use for birth control?”

  “Nope.”

  “Their faces.”

  Washington hadn’t met Khkulay and didn’t know anything about her. By now, Finnen, the dog that he was, had probably become acquainted, weaseling his Irish charm into her hijab, but not her knickers. I couldn’t wait to get back to the base and defend her honor from an attack by limerick. I put away the knife and stared at a yew tree pocked with bullet holes alongside the road.

  “Jesus, Washington,” I said. “You’re a sexist racist chauvinist religious bigot.”

  “Born in the land of equal oppor-tun-i-ty.”

  “Offend everyone.”

  “Do you know how many Afghans it takes to change a light bulb? None. They sit in the dark and blame the Jews for it.”

  It was hard to reconcile this man with both his record and the scene of him bleeding and taped to a chair in a Jalalabad safe house, mocking us. Humor of the macabre. I only wished I could enjoy life the way he did in this rock pile stained in crimson. Nevertheless, besides Finnen, I was coming to believe there wasn’t a man in Afghanistan or on the planet who I would rather have alongside me to face the beards.

  Ahead, two trucks with glaring red letters reading Cowboy painted on the doors were parked nose to nose, blocking the road. One had a light bar on the top for hunting nonbelievers in the dark and smokestack-like air ventilators running up the sides to more efficiently filter the dust. The pickups were in good condition and could be on a poster for the Toyota Motor company. The background was rolling hills, steep mountains, and blue sky. The downside was the AKs pointed in our direction.

  It was rumored Mullah Omar preferred Chevy Suburbans with tinted windows, and his ministers were partial to Land Cruisers. But 4x4 pickups were still the most common vehicle in Afghanistan. While the Taliban had waged jihad against technology, publicly hanging televisions, stringing light poles with tape pulled from video cassettes, digging mass graves for cell phones, and putting laptops to death, they were still addicted to trucks. The two Toyotas in front of us were owned by mujahedeen several levels below the elite. Washington shifted into first and slowed.

  “Should I stop or go to ram speed?” he asked.

  “Ya think?” I asked. It was becoming the standard reply to stupid questions.

  “Maybe we could nudge those trucks into the ditch and make a mad dash to safety.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Fuckin’ A, Morgan. You sound like a broken record. I’m tryin’ my best to come up with a plan to save your poppy-white skin, and you keep actin’ like a Valley girl.”

  Not again. Borrrring.

  “Duh,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s awesome. I’m sure that’ll like totally work.”

  Washington braked the truck and stuck his head out the rolled-down window.

  “Hey,” he said. “You Abduls know the way to Jalalabad? We’re kinda lost. Got sidetracked back at the mall.”

  Two men walked toward us. The other four stayed in the beds of the pickups. All six aimed their rifles at us, and I was sure several more hadjis were hidden in the brush beside the road, our heads in their sights.

  The man closest to Washington was the spokesman. He stood far enough from the 6x6 to not be slammed to the dirt if Washington decided to quickly push the door open. He wore a black turban and a dark-green vest with rips across the chest. An ammo belt hung from his waist and held several old Russian-made M76 bottle grenades and 30-caliber bullets. His pajama
s didn’t reach far below his knees, and dirt colored his ankles and calves the brown of the terrain. One of the fingers on his left hand was missing, but his hands were steady on the AK.

  “Raasem,” he said. Out.

  No antennas sprouted from the pickups, and I didn’t see anyone with a wireless radio. If they were still enraged about the bombings of the last half-hour, it wasn’t obvious. The Taliban always seemed pissed, as if fire ants were eating at their crotches—every breath from a non-Taliban or a woman was deeply offensive.

  Washington stepped down, and I climbed out the passenger side to the front of the 6x6. The fingerless hadji waved the barrel of his AK, indicating we should move away. We were unarmed, except for the concealed pistols and knives, not much protection against at least six automatics. Washington joined me, and we patiently watched while the Taliban searched the truck.

  “See that Abdul with the limp?” he asked, nodding toward a Taliban on our right. “I think that’s not really his foot in the sandal. Maybe stepped on one’a those Russian POMZ mines. They shoulda tried harder to match his skin color to that fake. Looks kinda like they pasted a big Barbie doll’s leg below his knee. Don’t think the Afghan prosthesis market is up to Western standards.”

  “Showin’ a little compassion, are we now?”

  From a Company report, I knew the Russians had left a legacy of nearly ten million landmines scattered across Afghanistan. Usually, the survivors of the blasts were seen begging in the larger cities, rolling around on skateboards or leaning into homemade crutches made from tree limbs. The United Nations had started the Mine Action Program in Afghanistan, MAPA, and had cleared millions of square meters of land. Still, much more of the country was infested with bombs than was bomb free. Only two million landmines had been destroyed, leaving millions more ready to blow off limbs. In bazaars around the country, men in stalls sold artificial feet, legs, and arms from piles that looked like mannequin-stump graveyards.

  The hadjis didn’t explore too long. It was likely their only assignment was to make sure we hadn’t made a detour and sold the heroin someplace else or stashed it in a cave.