The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  “But that would be boring. You just said the more variables there are, the better the story is. Why not introduce a new variable? You’re always putting everyone else’s life at risk—what about your own?”

  Schrøder stares thoughtfully at me. “What do you have in mind? Shall we have a duel?”

  “You said that I could take the Danes home with me, but not you. What if I don’t want you to come home with us? What if we find a court here in Afghanistan you can be brought before? What do you say to that?”

  “So, first you save your dim-witted countrymen. And if you manage that, I allow you to bring me before a court here in Afghanistan. What if I’m acquitted?”

  “Then I’ll accept it.”

  “I’m curious to see how you’re ever going to get me brought before a court out here. The courts in Afghanistan are the most corrupt in the world. I can pay or threaten my way to an acquittal. But if you mean it, I’m in. You’re right. There has to be some risk for me, too.”

  Schrøder extends his hand. I take it. “We have a deal.”

  Now I have him.

  He’s unarmed, but he turns to one of his escorts and asks him for his Kalashnikov. He hands me the rifle across the table. “You’re going to need this.”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  He looks at me in disbelief. “Is there some regulation that forbids you from carrying a weapon?”

  “No, it’s my own decision.” I could add that it’s a promise I made to myself, but that’s none of his business.

  “You’re not making it easy on yourself. On the other hand, you’re making it easier for me. Does not carrying a weapon make you feel holy? You’re part of a large international war machine—so what’s the difference? A secret service agent who’s a pacifist!” He laughs. “Fuck, that’s so typically Danish.”

  “Before we go our separate ways,” I add, “one last thing—the drones?”

  “Took you long enough. I’m a weapons dealer in cyberspace. I sell mathematical equations, characters, symbols. A messy new war you people in the secret service can’t comprehend—not even when you talk about cyber war. I’m like those pizza-eating nerds, sitting in their parents’ basement, hacking their way into the Pentagon just because they can. I’m a vagabond in an undecided war, one of the many world conquerors looking for nothing more than their own personal, chemical happiness. Know what I think is most ridiculous? People obsessed with their own identity. I’m a Dane! I’m a Muslim! Are you one of them?”

  He scrutinizes me for a moment but doesn’t give me time to respond. I’d rather not anyway. What business is it of his?

  “Don’t you understand that the future’s wars will be identity wars? Look-at-me wars! Wars for idiots. I have no identity. I’m conducting another kind of war. I’m a slacker, an unholy warrior. Imagine an overweight man with osteoporosis. Watch him as he falls apart. No, you don’t have the imagination for that in the secret service.”

  “You’re definitely right. We don’t have the imagination for that. Can I go now?”

  “Say hello to Hannah.”

  “Why Hannah?” I know who Hannah is from my intelligence about Third Platoon.

  “A girlfriend. You’ll know her from her broken nose. I told her everything. All my ideas. I spared her, because I always figured she’d realize what I was up to.”

  “Then why didn’t she?”

  “Because she fell in love with me. And that’s the dumbest thing to do if you want to understand anything.”

  29

  DarkSky’s base doesn’t resemble any they’ve ever seen. Instead of HESCO bales, there are massive walls of flat slatelike stones piled on top of each other and covered in crumbling mortar and clay. Guard towers in the bastion’s four corners are constructed the same way, with newer wooden structures on top and roofs that won’t provide any protection against incoming grenades but at least block the sun.

  The base, a former fort, sits on top of a promontory. On one side, there’s a view of the desert they’ve just ridden through; on the other, they look down onto a valley where a narrow river snakes between darker fields. There’s a village in the valley floor. A few walled-in brown-gray clay houses with flat roofs scatter up the hillside, but most of the qalats rest in the lush valley; they’re dispersed around a flowing, silvery river whose source is somewhere above.

  Since only one road zigzags up the mountainside, the base is easy to defend. The truck they’ve been stuffed into gave up the ghost at the foot of the ridge, so they had to walk the rest of the way. Vehicles with more powerful engines must be able to get through or else they’d never get any supplies up here, although some probably have to be flown in by helicopter. A sailcloth in the colors of the American flag flutters faintly in the weak wind.

  Black machine-gun barrels protrude from the guard towers. Through binoculars, men in helmets and uniforms follow the soldiers’ approach on foot.

  As they enter the massive armored gate, they receive handshakes and shoulder pats like they’re long-lost friends. The mercenaries from DarkSky are broad-shouldered men with stubble and shaved heads, whose open-collared shirts reveal tattooed chests. They stare at Hannah with a ferocity they barely hide.

  All of them have short American names with only one syllable: Joe, Bob, Bill, Boyd, Rob, Jack, John, Ralph, Tim, Gray, Sly, Stand, Will, and Dan. “We’re all Americans,” says Stan—although his accent isn’t. With his pale, wide face and broad nose, he looks more Russian or Ukrainian. Others have shiny deep-black skin or Asian features. But Americans can look quite different, can’t they?

  “Welcome, gentlemen. You’re just in time!”

  A tall, bearded man steps forward, and Steffensen immediately recognizes Mr. Timothy. “I want you to feel at home here. Your weapons will be back in your hands! I bet you missed them. So, what do you say, guys?”

  Their own weapons. Man, that will feel good. Home just got a little closer.

  Mr. Timothy introduces himself as a major and then continues his welcome. “There are field rations—not the world’s best food, I know—but always better than that Afghan dog food. And there’s much less chance of having to spend the rest of your time here with your ass over a hole in the ground. There are showers. Weights for working out. You’ll be going on patrol with us. We’re not the American army, but we’re just as good. We work closely with them—they’re a little stressed out at the moment, especially in this area, which has never been a high priority. That’s where we come in. There are certain advantages here you’ll also benefit from. We’re not the army—we just have a contract with them—so their rules don’t apply. None of these ‘rules of engagement’ that so many of you have suffered under. Here, we don’t wait for an invitation from the Taliban. We shoot first. At the slightest provocation. Our job is to chase the rats back into the sewer. If we went by the book, we’d all be lying out there rotting in the sun. There’s one little ‘but’ I’m sure all of you can live with. While you’re here, there’s no internet access, no cell phones. We control the flow of information. We’re in enemy territory, so we can never underestimate the Taliban. The enemy is listening. It’s for your own good. Now you know the terms.”

  “And when do we get to go? I don’t give a shit about all this!”

  Hannah is as skeptical as ever. Dennis, on the other hand, gets lost in Mr. Timothy’s speech. He glances at Steffensen, who knows just what the soldier is thinking. It’s the kind of speech many of them would love to hear from him. There’s no better cure for stressful thoughts than a gun in your hand. Pedal to the metal. Do what you’ve been trained to do, instead of standing there with your trigger finger amputated.

  He can see that Sørensen and Sylvester don’t think so. The trigger has long since lost any attraction for them. Thoughts of their families plague them incessantly.

  This could end well or it could end really badly, in ways they can’t even imagine. What does Mr. Timothy want? What does Schrøder want? Steffensen knows that the next few days
will bring the answer. He can’t be too trusting. It reminds him of the closed-door negotiations he knows so well from back home. You have no friends, only temporary allies.

  He learned that lesson from Naib Atmar—except this time, many people’s lives are at stake. Compared to Schrøder, he’s moved one rung up the ladder of normalcy with Mr. Timothy. At least you can talk to him. And the soldiers have gotten their weapons back, so they’re no longer defenseless.

  There are only three showers, so they wait in line for their turn. Shampoo, soap, and soft towels. They have their own tents and cots with pillows that don’t smell as if others have been sleeping on them. The early-spring sun has broken through the clouds, and the temperature must be around fifteen degrees Celsius. Viktor and his boys find a corner of the camp and enjoy a moment in the sun. It feels good just to sit there. Then it’s off to the fitness tent for a sweaty workout, their muscles sore after weeks of forced idleness. Dennis, Camper, and Karlsen join them. In the last few weeks, all they’ve known is humiliation. Now, they’re people again—soldiers. They still need to get their weapons, which will feel like getting their hands back.

  “Anyone have an electric razor?” yells Viktor. Because they want to get rid of their beards, they borrow scissors, mirrors, and razors from their hosts. Their hair is the next thing that goes as they shave their heads. It’s the start of a new life.

  “What about you, Hannah?” asks Simon. “You want a haircut, too?”

  Hannah nods. Sitting down, she loosens her shoulder-length hair, which she had tied up with a rubber band. Simon walks over with the scissors. “You sure?” he asks.

  “Do it!” she says without smiling. Her face is hard and determined as she watches locks of her hair spill onto the ground. Simon uses the electric razor to remove the last bit of stubble. Having brought fresh dressings for her broken nose, he removes the old ones and stares critically at the injury. The blue blood vessels around her eyes have been replaced by yellowed swelling.

  “I think it will heal okay,” he says. “You won’t end up with a boxer’s nose.”

  Hannah couldn’t care less. “Fantastic,” she says flatly. She doesn’t look as if she’s preparing for any homecoming. In fact, her clenched jaw indicates that she’s preparing for something else.

  Møller won’t let anyone with either scissors or a razor get near him.

  Although Steffensen keeps his hair and mustache, he’s shaved his cheeks and neck. The long stubble was making him look older anyway. His temples and mustache have a touch of gray, while the stubble on his face had the yellowy tint of spoiled milk. Instead of more masculine, it made him look like an unkempt old man. Standing there clean-shaven in his uniform, he almost looks like himself.

  He’d like to share in his platoon’s joy, but he simply can’t. He mustn’t surrender. With no idea what tomorrow might bring, they’re merely seizing the moment. There’s a nonchalance about it that’s typically youthful. But if they’re going to survive, someone has to think ahead—and that’s his job.

  “Is the village friendly or hostile?” asks Steffensen. He and Mr. Timothy are sitting across from each other, steam rising from their field rations. Mr. Timothy has apologized for the food. “I eat just like my men,” he says. He compliments Steffensen on the change he’s undergone since showering and shaving. “You look like an officer again now.” He takes another spoonful of his curry chicken. “As for the village, sometimes it’s friendly and sometimes it’s hostile. It depends on a number of factors. You have to keep one thing in mind. Nothing lasts here. You can negotiate till you’re blue in the face with the Afghans, but you always have to back it up with weapons. We have a good relationship with the locals, but now and then we have to play hardball with them. It creates respect. Our version of Winning Hearts and Minds is called WHAM!”

  “Doesn’t it have the opposite effect? Doesn’t it send them right into the arms of the Taliban?”

  “We talk to the Taliban at times, too. We do them favors—they do us favors. Sometimes we even shoot a few of them. As I said before, that kind of thing can create respect. And so far we haven’t lost a single man.”

  “You do the Taliban favors?” Steffensen is baffled.

  “Yes. Don’t be naïve. The Taliban is part of the game.”

  Steffensen points up at the flag hanging limply from the flagpole.

  “You’re fighting under the American flag.”

  “Of course we are—and we’re proud of it. But do you really believe anyone is thinking about rules when they see the American flag? No, the Stars and Stripes makes them think about freedom. And that’s what we represent out here. The freedom to do whatever the fuck we want to. At the end of the day, it’s results that matter. It’s about who’s still standing when the smoke clears!”

  Mr. Timothy leans forward. He smiles and raises an index finger as if he wants to teach Steffensen an important lesson. “It’s not about these schools for girls. It’s all very touching that little Khadija gets to learn her ABC’s, but what’s she going to do with it in a country that would even make Darwin—with all his theories of survival of the fittest—shit his pants from fear? Who has the biggest dick—that’s what it’s all about. And we do.”

  “It sounds as if you’re running your own foreign policy out here.”

  “No. I’m running the foreign policy Washington would run—if it only had the balls.”

  30

  Clean-shaven and in uniform, they step out of their tents. A meal awaits them, complete with plates, knives, and forks. Even though it’s field rations, which they’re used to shoveling in with a spoon, this is civilization. Welcome home!

  The DarkSky men make room for them. Names are repeated, and there’s cold Budweiser on the tables. Beer!

  Only one of the men stands out. He has disheveled bangs and is wearing a short-sleeve shirt in a blue-and-white-checked pattern that resembles a tablecloth. The shirt seems intended to hide a body far less athletic than the others. Even behind the loose-fitting fabric, though, they can see a layer of fat hanging over his belt. He sits across from Andreas and smiles. “I’m Gray,” he says.

  Andreas introduces himself.

  “I was a drone pilot,” Gray says, unsolicited.

  “A drone pilot! Wow—that’s my dream job. Why did you stop? And why are you here?”

  “Long story.” Gray looks down.

  “But isn’t it the coolest job in the world? You get to sit around playing games all day—and when you fire, it’s an actual Hellfire missile!”

  Andreas gets carried away.

  “It’s actually not as intense as playing on the internet. Not that much happens. Most of the time you just sit there staring at a screen. I don’t think anyone has ever seen as many Afghans take a shit as I have. They do it outside, you know.”

  “But what about when you actually fire?”

  “Yeah, that’s intense. Really intense. You see a dead man, you see a burned-out car, you see a blasted building—and you’re the one who’s done it. You get results, but I wouldn’t call it exciting. I sit all day staring at Afghans from the sky, and I can see how poor they are. I get . . . how should I say this . . . thoughts?”

  He makes a helpless gesture with his hands, as if appealing to Andreas, who doesn’t react.

  “I think it has something to do with my life. I live alone.”

  Gray looks inquisitively at Andreas.

  He’s gay, thinks Andreas. That’s why he sat down right across from me—he thinks I’m gay, too.

  Andreas wants to get up and leave, but he doesn’t know the rules here. He’d better adjust. He can always draw a line in the sand if this guy gets too close. He nods, trying not to seem encouraging.

  “Every night the other drone pilots went home to their wives and kids. They had somebody to talk to. A job as a drone pilot is best suited to family types. Maybe you kill people at work, but someone should be waiting for you when you get home.” Gray smiles apologetically. “So one day I just got
up and left. Right in the middle of the workday. I can’t explain it. And then I wound up here. I wanted to help rebuild the country I had helped blow to pieces. But that’s not actually what I’m doing. Out of the frying pan and into the fire is more like it.”

  He shovels more food onto his plate. Andreas can see why his stomach is bulging beneath his shirt.

  “You should have seen the ones who were here before us. They had totally given up. The showers were covered in mold, and there were plastic bottles full of brown piss all over the place. Argh! And that was the army—the US Army!”

  “What went wrong?”

  “They were shot at every day. Roadside bombs. They lost three officers, one right after the other. They gave up. They lost all self-discipline. So they brought us in. Of course we have one big advantage—our losses don’t show up in any statistics.”

  “That’s your only advantage?”

  “No, we have another. The number of people we take out isn’t included in statistics, either. We can shoot whomever we want.”

  “What do you do?”

  Gray’s answer drowns in the noise from a nearby table.

  Unable to resist the access to Budweiser, Dennis and Sylvester have started to sing, and that draws in Mathias, Sebastian, and Gustav. Their arms are around each other and they’re swaying in time. Sly, Stan, and Will from DarkSky join in. “We’re all brothers!” yells Will, a redhead with freckles.

  “My father, that bastard, taught me this one!” wails Dennis.

  “If I was in Sweden and had me a Swede,

  I’d have him shot, just to see if he’d bleed.

  If I was in Finland and had me a Finn,

  She’d show me her ass, and then I’d stick it in.

  If I was in Afghanistan and had me an Afghan,

  I’d shoot him in the head if he was Taliban . . .”

  He has to grab the table to stand up.

  “Teach us! Teach us!” yell Sly and Stan in unison.

  “Wasn’t my father a bastard!” yells Dennis, but before he can get another word out, he doubles over and throws up all over the table.