“All right,” said Sikander, “but is there someone in your mind or heart?”
“Maybe.” Abdul Majeed replied.
Sensing possible unease in this line of conversation, Sikander changed the subject. He looked around at the scene before declaring, “SubhanAllah! I never thought a place could be so breathtaking.”
Abdul Majeed nodded and this time, being more open, he volunteered that he had been through these parts more than once with his father, who had known the area well. “They have hardy mule breeds here and they can be as large as horses, only much stronger. I always enjoy coming up the mountains into the Aka Khel’s area, but last night was my first in that particular village. We normally travel to and from the Torkhum Road on a more southerly path via Sara Garhi.”
“Isn’t it dangerous? Ever been injured?”
“There are rock slides in the spring and summer. Huh! Sometimes those ravines can get so bad, we can’t recognize the landscape.” He gestured ahead and to his right. “In winter, ice cracks the rock. When it thaws, the rocks loosen and fall, especially after it rains. But it’s almost September, so it shouldn’t be so bad right now. The rains have pretty much died down. As for injuries…” Abdul Majeed glanced downward, directing Sikander’s gaze to follow. He raised his left shalwar leg to reveal a twenty-centimeter scar running up the length of his shin. Sikander winced. Abdul Majeed grinned.
Eventually, the group arrived at the ravine through which they would reach Showlghar and climbed into it. Thankfully, after the heat of the plain, the shade from the afternoon sun provided by the steep valley walls was welcome. But with it came a sense of foreboding. The slopes were devoid of vegetation and the boulders, rocks, and rubble all around had sharp, unforgiving features. Through the middle of this harsh scene, a rapidly flowing mountain stream drained out of the ravine onto the plain that they were leaving.
Abdul Latif deftly led the way over the rocks, knowing instinctively where the footing would be sure and where it would be questionable. No country for wheels, he mused. For feet and hoofs it was ideal.
The day wore on, and the group made slow but steady progress climbing and winding up through the pass. Once it had been crested, the going was much easier on their descent into Showlghar Kalay.
Afghanistan had embraced them. It was five in the afternoon, and they were now in the Spin Ghar Mountains of Nangarhar Province. It was also nominally enemy territory, so a direct run to Laghar Juy was out of the question. Instead, their onward route would have to remain on the mountain slopes. Their path was to take them west while making a large arc around the northern edge of the mountains, for a brief stop at Baro Kalay before moving on to Takhto Kalay. That was all still ahead of them. For now, it was time to greet some fellow Shinwaris, spend the evening with them, and relax.
Showlghar was a small village but many of the people had heard of the brothers Abdul Latif and Abdus Sami and were pleased to see the seasoned warrior with his young troop. They were more pleased to see fresh weapons being brought in to help with the fighting. The head of the village was a substantial man of forty-five by the name of Akhtar Ali Khan. He received the visitors warmly.
“They’ve been flying helicopters over this area most of the day. Must be looking for you people. Perhaps you were seen or given away by those Afridis. Huh! It’s money, guns, and opium with them. That’s all.” Akhtar Ali didn’t care for the Afridis and wasn’t shy about revealing it.
Being now engaged to an Afridi, Ejaz’s discomfort with Akhtar Ali’s words registered with Abdul Latif through a mutual exchange of glances. He took the cue to change the subject.
“Perhaps it was just a routine patrol,” Abdul Latif began. “This is, after all, a fairly loosely managed border, and there’s plenty of back-and-forth traffic. It’s hard to believe it was just for us.”
Abdul Latif couldn’t imagine that Yaqub or Khurram Afridi had sold them out, but one or more of Yaqub’s fellow villagers couldn’t be ruled out. He reflected on the good luck inherent in deciding not to come by way of Chenar. He had mentioned Chenar as a destination only when outside Yaqub’s house. If there had been any informants or, more likely, opportunists looking for some ready cash, they would have directed the Soviets there. But the thought of being so soon the focus of a search-and-destroy mission was disconcerting.
The day’s trek had been tiring and the travelers simply wanted a meal, a bath, and a night’s sleep. All of these were provided. The bath was no more than a closed off room into which some of Akhtar Ali’s people brought large buckets of hot and cold water and a metal jug. Bathing involved dipping the jug in turn into the hot and cold buckets and pouring its mixed contents over the body. If the mixing wasn’t correct, the experience could be “invigorating.”
An invigorated Sikander slept that night a deep and restful sleep. He longed to learn the conclusion of his enchanting dream. It had lingered in his waking mind, like some half-finished TV drama, but asleep, there was no such luck.
Any dreams Sikander had were forgotten when he awoke the next morning to an especially loud azaan from somewhere in the village. His first thought was to raise his mentor. This time he’d be ready for Abdul Latif, who had obviously needed more rest from the prior day’s journey. Shaking him vigorously and grinning, Sikander managed to jar him into consciousness. Abdul Latif wasn’t slow to awaken. His eyes opened abruptly as he quickly gathered his senses—a survival instinct born of the troubled times. Focusing on Sikander’s face, he emitted a soft chuckle, acknowledging the payback.
After performng the dawn prayer together with some of the villagers, Abdul Latif’s troop gathered their mules, bid salaams to the villagers, and proceeded downhill from Showlghar to the west. In less than an hour, they were at the bottom of the slopes and the terrain allowed them much easier passage than their approach to Showlghar had done the previous day.
For several kilometers the Spin Ghar stretched in a southwesterly direction before turning almost due west. Their peaks defined the border of Nangarhar with Pakistan. Just as they had done when crossing the large plain the previous day, Abdul Latif decided to use the natural shadows cast by the mountains to provide cover for as long as the sun remained low enough.
They made good progress toward Baro. Farther north, the sun began to illuminate the gently sloping plains that led all the way to the Jalalabad-to-Torkhum road about fifteen kilometers in the distance. Dust trails could be seen from truck convoys moving back and forth between Torkhum and Kabul. The mountains behind the travelers kept them in the shade for a while longer as the peaks draped long westward shadows over the plain, almost pointing the way to Laghar Juy. Abdul Latif used the opportunity to bring Sikander alongside him.
“See that shadow, fourth from the right? Do you see its tip? That’s where we live and where we’ll be inshaAllah tonight.”
The thought of finally being back home gave Abdul Latif’s voice a noticeably upbeat tone, but he wasn’t about to abandon his instinctive caution.
“It’s too dangerous to make a straight run for it,” he noted. “Not with these weapons and mules. But at least you can see it now. Keep it in your sight while we head—”
Abruptly, Abdul Latif came to a halt and lifted up his right hand. Everyone stopped. He paused for a moment, and then a transformed look came over his face. Immediately, he directed the men to move deeper into the folds of the hills. He had heard the unmistakable sound of a Shaytan-arba, or “devil’s chariot.”
Sikander heard nothing. Probably imagined something. Perhaps with all that talk last night, he thought. Still, despite the extra effort, it didn’t seem wise to be the only one to ignore Abdul Latif’s order.
“Quickly!” urged Abdul Latif with a sternness that needed no shouting. The warning infused Sikander’s step with an extra level of urgency. His companions deftly climbed up the shadowy slopes, but at this altitude despite his youth and relative fitness, he was no match for them.
Leaving Kala with the others, Ejaz came back to reli
eve Sikander of Neela, freeing Sikander to find his footing and with a little effort, to join the rest of them in a deep crevice in the mountainside. As Ejaz followed with Neela, a piece of rock that had promised more, failed his right foot and dislodged. He tumbled and lost his grip of Neela’s bridle and of about fifteen meters of mountainside before he could arrest his slide. A short streak of blood painted the mountain slope. Looking on from the safety of the crevice, Sikander grimaced.
Saleem sprang from his hiding point to rescue his brother, while Abdul Majeed came out to retrieve Neela from where Ejaz had let her go. Abdul Latif fixed his gaze on the chopper whose sound was now audible to everyone.
It was a Hind—beginning with “H” as with all NATO codenames for Soviet helicopters. The name had found its way into mujahideen usage through their interaction with the Pakistani ISI, who in turn had picked it up from CIA contacts. To the Soviets, it was an Mi-24.
Always harbingers of destruction, the five titanium rotor blades chopped the air with their signature twenty-beats-per-second. Less than three kilometers away to the east was a visibly growing black dot silhouetted against the sky and maintaining a roughly constant fifty meters from the mountain slopes.
Abdul Majeed quickly brought Neela into the crevice to join the others. Saleem helped Ejaz to his feet but the brothers stayed low and moved slowly. To move meant being picked off against such a vast stationary backdrop. They also knew, however, that they had to get far from the rocks freshly disturbed by Ejaz’s slide, which if noticed by the crew of the airborne death-dealer, would lead them to investigate. The two crept a little higher up the slope and as far west of it as they could.
Stay put! That’s it; behind those boulders until the gunship flies past… Sikander’s eyes darted between the men and the helicopter. Its flight path would bring it past them, about forty meters farther out from the mountain. If they could remain hidden from the crew’s line of sight they’d be safe.
The Hind was a flying tank. Against its armor an AK-47’s 7.62mm rounds would have the effectiveness of blow darts. This much was clear to Abdul Latif. A 23mm round was the minimum caliber that would penetrate the helicopter—even the cockpit glass was virtually bulletproof.
That’s right. Don’t change course. Just keep flying and show me your butt, Abdul Latif prayed, his lips mouthing the silent words. Do that and I just might show you something you won’t forget. The helicopter proceeded obediently.
The pilot and gunner were chatting. They were bored. It had already been a long morning and they weren’t especially focused on the scene in front of them. The chain of mountains on their left extended sixty kilometers into the distance ahead of them. Boulders and rocks lay in the foreground. On their right was grassland—punctuated by scores of gullies and mountain streams—stretching all the way north to the Jalalabad-to-Torkhum Road. Nothing untoward seemed to be going on. Fortunately for the travelers, at that level up the slopes, detecting them in the visually noisy scene demanded more attention than this crew was willing to dedicate.
Maybe they’re not searching. A routine patrol? Sikander mulled hopefully.
Saleem and Ejaz remained crouched behind a large boulder, constantly adjusting their position to remain out of view of the helicopter crew. To Sikander’s relief, the helicopter flew past them until it was far enough to the west that everyone was now beyond the line of sight of its crew.
With a previously unseen agility Abdul Latif immediately untethered one of the RPG boxes, flipped it open and pulled out a grenade. Unstrapping a launcher, he readied it for firing. The shuffling drew Sikander’s attention from the helicopter as he gazed in puzzlement upon Abdul Latif. They had talked about their weapons earlier, and according to Abdul Majeed, the RPG was only effective against armored personnel carriers or tanks.
As the Hind was now about five hundred meters to the west, Abdul Latif gestured to the two brothers to hurry back to the crevice as he loaded the RPG into the launcher, and stepped out to find a location that would leave room for the jet blast from the back of the launcher.
Why does he want to use it now? Sikander wondered, as it was clear the helicopter crew had failed to notice them. But this was not the time to interrupt his mentor.
By the time Abdul Latif found a natural cavity in the rocks behind him, the helicopter was some seven hundred meters away. Aiming carefully, he squeezed the launcher’s trigger. An orange tongue leapt out of the launcher’s rear, licking and scorching the rock behind it. In the opposite direction, the grenade hurtled skyward. The calm air, Abdul Latif’s aim, and no small amount of luck delivered it to its destination.
It exploded within five meters of the helicopter. The engine sputtered. One of the blades shed a third of its length, and fell away. In a split second a bright orange flash erupted from the engines, followed by two or three much larger flashes, from within the helicopter. A couple of seconds later, the spectacle was followed by the sounds it had authored. What used to be a helicopter was now a cloud of fragments, each rushing from the explosion’s epicenter then arcing back to the ground below. The crew had no time to radio any message. It was a clean kill. The last piece of burning debris fell, trailing a streamer of black smoke. It was the torso of the pilot, fused by the heat to the back of his seat, a detail not visible to the mujahideen almost a kilometer away. What had a moment earlier been engaged in idle chitchat on a routine patrol mission was now a ghastly lump of smoldering aluminum, fabric, plastic, flesh, and bone.
“Allahu Akbar!” came the cry from Abdul Latif, followed by his companions. Stunned, Sikander joined the tail end of their proclamation just in time to seem to be in unison. After the victory cry, Abdul Latif turned to focus on Ejaz’s injury. He tore off a clean piece of Ejaz’s qamees to use as a bandage, washed the injury from his water flask and began wrapping it up.
Sikander pondered the events he had just witnessed. There had been a primitive, almost simian quality in Abdul Latif’s takbeer—an animal’s victory cry, oddly intoned within the human acknowledgment of God’s supremacy, it was a sound that Sikander would never forget. Abdul Latif had revealed something of himself and Sikander felt a new tinge of fear of his mentor. Still unable to grasp the human dimensions of the moment, his mind slid toward the more palatable subject of its technicalities. Based on what he had understood of the grenade, he continued puzzling over the effectiveness of the tactic. He plucked up the courage to ask Abdul Latif how he had successfully used an antitank weapon against a helicopter. With the poise of a mentor, Abdul Latif explained.
“If you set the grenade to self-destruct, as a safety feature it’ll do so about nine hundred meters from launch. It’s to prevent unexploded RPGs from lying around dangerously. But when it destroys itself, its airburst can behave like an antiaircraft weapon. It can work, especially if the explosion hits something near the back of the engine or near the rotor hub. That Hind was armed with ground attack weapons but didn’t use them.
“They clearly hadn’t seen us. If I’d missed, it might have gone unnoticed by the crew. If it had been noticed, they would have seen only an explosion but no indication of where it came from.”
Sikander’s awestruck expression pleased Abdul Latif as he finished tending to Ejaz’s ankle. There was no remorse on the man’s face—only the pleasure of knowing that the Soviet devil incarnate had taken another blow. But the satisfaction was superficial. It was impossible for someone of Abdul Latif’s sensibilities to be completely unaffected by the act of killing, even after seeing it in abundance.
Whatever comfort Abdul Latif might have drawn from downing the helicopter, he knew that in less than hour it would soon be missed. After maybe another hour, a search mission would no doubt be assembled and the DRA or Russians would be crisscrossing the region with as many helicopters as could be spared. Abdul Latif had to hurry to put distance between this event and his group. They needed the protection of higher ground, and passing through Baro was out of the question now.
With distance their prior
ity, in less than two hours they would have to move at least five kilometers from their present location. Abdul Latif decided they would first descend to lower elevations to make the going easier, and then climb up the craggy mountain slopes at the last moment to evade whatever forces might be coming. Mountain shadows were only available in the deepest crevices, as the higher sun had now made the slopes shadowless. Abdul Latif needed every inch of cover he could find and he scoured the mountainside seeking out its most promising natural features.
Ejaz could move with only a little difficulty so he gave up Kala to Abdul Latif and limped alongside Abdul Rahman. A wave of guilt came over Sikander. It was, after all, his faltering attempt to catch up with the others, that had prompted Ejaz’s assistance. Had he been a little quicker, things might have been different. Now he owed Ejaz and he felt the obligation gnaw at him as he saw his friend limping.
“JazaakAllah for coming out to help me, brother,” he said. “Will you be all right? I’m sorry I put you through that. Really sorry.”
“You’re my brother in jihad,” explained Ejaz, with the slightest hint of a frown joining his signature smile. “Please don’t discuss it anymore.” Ejaz’s perspective wasn’t one of etiquette. He had genuinely needed the subject to be dropped. In his own sense of badal, he didn’t want his creditor status diluted by apologies.
The plan to descend to lower ground proved effective. In only an hour they progressed the desired five kilometers without any kind of enemy response. Abdul Latif periodically gazed into the distance, sometimes toward Jalalabad and sometimes toward Torkhum. No gunships appeared to be flying. They’re probably still guessing what happened when they lost contact with the crew, thought Sikander.
Satisfied that they were far enough from the wreckage to evade detection, Abdul Latif directed the men to climb back up the slopes. About twenty minutes later, they could see a Mi-8 “Hip” and another Hind nearing the debris left by the downed helicopter. The lingering remnant of a pillar of black smoke that had formed where the wreckage had fallen was not hard to locate. The Hip landed to disgorge its troops while the Hind hovered, maintaining watch over the scene. Abdul Latif couldn’t make out how many troops emerged from the helicopter, but he guessed it might have been eight or ten. Whatever their number, after briefly examining the wreckage, they spread out into three groups to secure a perimeter, remove significant debris, and check the local terrain for signs of a cause of the catastrophe.
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