On Fire

by Thomas Anderson

From the car, Jessica Hughes watches a mud caked, antediluvian tractor approach. It is hauling a long, steel cart with at least two dozen people crammed into it. Everything about the tractor and the cart has long ago returned to the color of the earth. In contrast, the Pakistani refugees are all dressed in white shalwar and kameez, traditional dress of loose, pajama-like trousers, wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, and long tunics or shirts with the tails out. Many of the men, especially the older ones, wear white pillbox caps. The women all have dopatta, silk or muslin shawls. A few, very few, have chains holding a piece of gold on their foreheads. Pardah, separation of the sexes, is observed as much as possible. The men and boys crowd the sides of the big cart, preferring a place to sit on the edge to dangle a leg over the side. Jessica thinks the women and girls must be on some other vehicle somewhere else in this maelstrom of desperate humanity.

  A young man stands behind the driver of the tractor, his hands on the back of the metal seat to steady himself. Another kid stands on the tongue holding the tractor and the cart together, bouncing on every rut but always landing on his feet.

  Other refugees come in pickup trucks with steel cages in the back, draped in sheets of plastic, rugs or blankets to shield female occupants. On top of these constructions are added plywood boards to provide high up perches for young boys. Trucks and vans are decorated in typical Pakistani style, full of colorful patterns, paintings, calligraphy and even poetry. Some of the vehicles have been substantially modified, for instance by adding a vaulting prominence to the front of a dump truck’s box so it that projects well over the top of the cab, like the wooden prow of an ancient ship. Every manner of individual taste is accommodated in the sorrowful lines of decorated vehicles heading their way, squeezing other traffic off the road and into the dry, dusty ditches. Lots of refugees are on foot, trudging in the dirt and mud, their feet barely protected in leather studded sandals. They bow their heads as they move stoically forward in slow, mournful march.

  Despite the sight of the forlorn refugees, Jessica’s mood could not be more upbeat. Not fifteen minutes ago she had been seated in the Hotel Mardan’s bar, along with the rest of the Western contingent of press, a very unimpressive collection of journalistic misfits from widely differing parts of the globe, when suddenly she received a most unexpected text message. Obtuse to the point of nearly complete obfuscation, all it said was Takht Bhai, a place, and Tariq Usmani, a name, but an important one. She remembered about Takht Bhai, a tourist place to the North, the stone ruins of an ancient Buddhist civilization, something she had read about on the plane on the way in to Peshawar.

  Of course, Takht Bhai was just taken by the Kalpar Trust, a Northern Pakistani group originating from the Federally Administered Tribal Area above the Khyber Pass, in the Hindu Kush. And of course, the Trust was famously led, if the press on him was to be believed, by a mercurial and shadowy figure, the never where they thought he would be, Tariq Usmani, and his force of equally hard to find armed men from the Northwest Frontier.

  Now the City of Mardan, of over several hundred thousand souls, soon to have several tens of thousands more souls in terms of refugees, is about to be set upon by the very same militant force that has apparently stopped to regroup at Takht Bhai. This is the reason why Jessica and the other members of the world press, such as it is, are here, stuffed into about the only hotel in town, one that has no more than two dozen rooms to its name, but at least has a bar where everybody can hang out and pretend that they are doing their jobs. As if.

  Loath to share information, however suspect that information might be, with anyone else at the bar, Jessica slipped out as unnoticed as possible and headed down the street from the Hotel to the corner of Bypass and Qazi Bashir Roads. She finds a small group of idle men deep in conversation, leaning against a bunch of old parked cars. At places along the street, steel railings separated the sidewalk from the street and against one was a young man who spoke polite English by the name of Sameer. Sameer assured her that she could call him Sam and that his taxi rates were very reasonable. However he was put off, and the others around him, who were overhearing the conversation, stepped back, when she told him where she wanted to go.

  Jessica considered Sameer’s English to be more than passable. The local language in Mardan is Pukhto, one of numerous Pakistani dialects. In her experience, most Pakistani’s seemed to have some English. Jessica offered Sameer ten times the usual rate. Those who had stepped away at the mention of Tahkt Bhai now suddenly drew closer, but they were too late. A deal between Jessica and Sameer was done.

  Sameer drove them north on the Malakand Mardan Road and beyond the City’s outer Ring Road, having passed the Punjab Regiment Center initially on their way out of central Mardan. There the grounds had already been prepared with endless fields of so far empty tents, all not far from the military hospital. Jessica had to give the Pakistani’s credit for at least having some idea about what was soon to come.

  Across fields of wheat Jessica could see the winding Kalpani River from the passenger seat of the car and the mountains ahead. A dozen miles from Mardan they entered the barren foothills near the ruins of Tahkt Bhai, the sun beating down, the car leaving a wake of dust, and the air conditioner blasting away.

  At first they see nothing. But as they round a bend in the road, they see the battlement of the ruins above them on the side of the mountain, several armed men clearly visible astride the stones. Jessica places her hand on Sameer’s arm.

  “I think this is where I get out,” she says.

  Sameer slows and stops the car. Jessica jumps out almost before the car comes to a halt, grabbing her bag and a thin tripod. She has already programmed Sameer’s number into her phone, just in case things go long, or wrong. She climbs the rest of the way up the hill to the side of the ruin, a Zoroastrian complex from before Christ which later became a Buddhist Monastery. All the time Jessica is being watched by the three rifle toting men peering down from high above her.

  Jessica picks her way carefully among the rocks, reaches a flat court and then a passageway between deteriorated walls of stone. She finally takes a second to look up and sees Tariq has appeared and is now standing there. He wears light blue traditional dress and stands between the two soldiers at the top of an ancient stair. He looks down at her. Walls and parapets twenty feet high surround him. The cloudless sky above him appears to somehow match the faded blue of his clothes.

  “Hello!” he shouts loudly.

  Jessica returns his greeting, her voice only wavering slightly, barely betraying her. She continues to approach, reaches the base of the stair and begins to climb it. The soldiers withdraw out of sight.

  “Tariq Usmani?”

  He lets out a laugh, obviously thinking it funny that there should be any doubt.

  “Of course,” he replies, the sound echoing in the still, hot air.

  She finally nears, extending her hand in a western style greeting. He takes it and she notices that his hands are hard and rough. Not surprising she thinks, for a man who has probably become used to sleeping in the open. She catches his glance and notices that his face is just as equally weathered.

  “Why me?” Jessica asks, setting the heavy bag and tripod down.

  Tariq nods at her and pulls an e-pad from a well-disguised pocket. He taps it a number of times, making it noisy, and then he holds it up to her. She sees the bar at the Hotel Mardan. She sees herself, sitting alone, the very picture of the bored, independent journalist.

  Now its Jessica’s turn. She nods back at Tariq.

  “No such thing as privacy anymore, is there?”

  He wears a brown ski cap pulled down to his ears, long brown hair protruding from all sides. A rifle is slung over his shoulder, he wears an obvious side arm, and his military boots are weathered and beaten.

  Jessica bends down to tackle her bag, looking for her camera. She extends the tripod she brought and mounts the camera, which she takes care to adjust.
Finally satisfied, she grabs her voice recorder from her bag, turns it on and points it at Tariq.

  “So you picked me out of a hat? What for?”

  “Public relations. We are about to take the City of Mardan and I would like to avoid any unnecessary casualties.”

  “Let everybody know you are an unstoppable force? That they should just lay down their arms and get out of the way?”

  “That would be very helpful. Yes.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” she says defiantly. “You’re terrorists.”

  Tariq grimaces.

  “We were. We have split from several groups. We are anti-occupation.”

  “Anti-American occupation.”

  “Anti any occupation. The Americans have allied themselves with corrupt officials in this region of the country. The officials use American drones to smite their enemies.”

  “You are their enemies?”

  “We most certainly are.”

  Tariq pauses.

  “Do you know how many countries the American special forces operate in?” he asks.

  She actually does know this, but assumes the question is intended more for the potential audience of the interview, particularly the YouTube audience, so she says no.

  “One hundred thirty-five. Two-thirds of the world’s countries. I think that would qualify as some kind of imperial overreach.”

  “Making the homeland secure in a dangerous world,” Jessica responds facilely.

  “Interfering in the sovereignty of virtually every nation and people on the planet. Increasing resentment and terrorist threats against the West. Promoting politician and media induced hysteria. Not a kinder, gentler America.”

  “Plenty of Americans have lost their lives in the FATA trying to bring liberty to your people,” she offers.

  “And look at what they have accomplished. They have only stirred a hornet’s nest.”

  Chapter 40