by Diana R. Chambers
By dawn they were descending the final range of foothills, each deep in his own thoughts. Then in the distance, they could make out the ancient minarets of Kandahar, named for Alexander, or Iskandar, as he was known in the region. The hills sloped into a desert plain that surrounded the town. As they entered the desert, the heat rose to envelop them. The walled compounds, the unpaved roads, the soil, the dust--everything was the color of sand, except the neat green fields and scattered flashes of brightness from women who abruptly covered their faces at the sight of strangers. The mules tried to stop to graze, but were prodded onward.
Led by Taj and one of the locals, they climbed a stony rise overlooking the fields outside a low-roofed mud village. To the north, south and west, they could see more village oases scattered through the arid plain. "Jamal's territory," Taj told Nick.
Nick looked down on a nearby wheat field. A young boy was driving a pair of yoked-together bullocks round and round in circles, their hoofs throwing up a haze of chaff. Beyond were rows of grapevines, melon fields and leafy groves of apricot, peach, fig and walnut trees. The world seemed timeless, life continuing as it had for thousands of years, despite invasion, despite hardship--despite even despair. The Afghan people had no choice but to endure.
Next to the field, a small bomb crater had been turned into a fishpond bordered with pink-flowered shrubs. "Idyllic," Nick muttered.
"We are using everything." Taj smiled quietly, then pointed toward the gully below.
Nick stared. The rocks on which they stood curved around the gully to form natural northern and eastern boundaries; smaller rocks and some trees and shrubs protected its southern exposure. An irrigation channel running through its center carried water from the foothills to the village fields. The stream, lined with young saplings and tall blue daisies, was fast flowing and fresh. Nick and Taj looked at each other, then nodded. Camp.
"Taj, you organize the men and start setting things up. I'll go scout out a hiding place for the Stingers and other weapons."
Taj appeared disturbed. "We must make separate sleeping area for Robin. The men will be not be relaxed with her near."
"I don't care where she sleeps."
Taj stared at his face. He had never seen it so cold and dark. The woman had caused Nick trouble and pain; maybe he loved her, maybe he hated her. Taj was not sure. He knew from the cinema how different were the ways of Western men and women.
Later that day after they were settled and rested, Nick and Taj prepared to make an initial foray to the village.
Robin approached, wrapped in a long black shawl. "I'm coming, too."
Nick was still furious at her manipulations, but would not give her the satisfaction of a battle. She was there; he didn't care what she did now. He regarded her coolly. "Where's the burqa?"
"Still wet. Those damn things never dry! You try marching all night in a wet shroud."
"Next time maybe you'll make different vacation plans. Until then, keep the veil on and your mouth shut."
Robin shrugged her assent. Besides, Nick was equally camouflaged. Yet he didn't seem in costume. He appeared so at ease in this environment, his suntan and dusty face only adding to the effect. The man was a chameleon. What is he really up to?
The sun was low in the sky as they drew closer to the village and entered its shadowy maze of blank earthen walls and crooked little alleys. From inside gates and around corners, suspicious eyes followed them. Even in normal times, each village was a world unto itself; trust was a scarce commodity. Now during wartime, fear was at a heightened level. Informers were everywhere. No one arrived unknown and unannounced. And no mujahideen traveled with women. So these two strangers must not be mujahideen--and therefore, not friends.
Nick, Taj and Robin found the local chai khana, always the social hub and center of gossip--and so a good place to inquire about Jamal. The hut was dark and smoky with an ancient copper kettle bubbling on a fire, the dried poppy stalks used for fuel stacked beside it. A chicken scratched the dirt floor. A cage held a trained fighting partridge. Three elderly male patrons stared.
The proprietor, a toothless old man in an embroidered skullcap, approached the newcomers. He wore a flowing, striped robe over his shoulders, its sleeves dangling to his knees. "Chai?"
"We thank you kindly, but next time…" Taj replied. "We are looking to find Commander Jamal."
The man's face shut down. "I know no Jamal."
The three patrons turned their backs and continued sipping their tea.
Nick looked at Taj, who shook his head imperceptibly. You can't force these people. They walked back outside. Taj decided to search out the bazaar and try there. He set off down a dusty lane, followed by Nick, with Robin trailing a few paces behind.
Some of the houses were still standing, their flat roofs covered with corn and fruit drying in the sun. Some had suffered partial damage--black scorchmarks, window frames blown in, stone walls fractured. But others were destroyed--charred timbers reaching to the sky, bombed-out rubble returning to the earth.
Two small girls in bright yellow with only two legs between them looked up from the mudcakes they were baking and smiled in shy curiosity. Women peeked through clutched veils as they carried water or fruit from the fields. Old men gossiping in the late day sun stared without losing a beat. A baker piled stacks of warmly-scented naan; a butcher laid out a neat array of meat. Flies swarmed everywhere, droning insistently.
Then another insistent low drone gradually separated and became louder.
The Antonov emerged from cloudless blue. Nick and Taj looked at each other, only too aware what the appearance of the reconnaissance plane meant. Taj took off toward the edge of town. Nick grabbed Robin's hand and followed.
Hearts pounding, they raced away from the crumbling, mud-brick walls, searching for cover. The ground was shaking beneath their feet, wave after wave of explosion. Then a barefoot young boy rushed up to them. He stared at Robin, grabbed her chadar and pulled her along with him. Nick and Taj ran after them until the boy stopped at a four-foot deep trench planted with grapevines.
They pushed aside the branches and climbed inside, huddling together as the reverberations became more powerful. The thunder overhead was growing louder, the blasts nearer. The boy curled against Robin in terror, eyes fixed upward. She gazed into his little face and then back at the darkening sky.
There was nowhere else to look. Nick waited for the inevitable. The jets howled closer, releasing more bombs from beneath their wings. Clouds of white and gray smoke rose. Only then, slightly out of sync, came the crack of the explosion. He felt Robin grip his hand… her nails digging deeper as, suddenly, a goat crashed through the branches into the trench. It was moving in circles, bleating in fear. The boy whispered to the goat, calming words they did not understand, but soon it settled at their feet. Robin released her grip, smiling ruefully at Nick. He did not smile back.
Their double rotors a faint blur, two gunships appeared, hovering overhead--one higher, one lower--secure in their invulnerability, firing rockets and cannon with deadly efficiency. Nick had been up there. Now he knew what it was to be down here.
Another, larger helicopter appeared. Dropping orange flares throughout its approach, a MI-8 troop carrier landed in a corn field, unloading two dozen blue and white T-shirted Spetsnaz commandos and Afghan conscripts. Carrying portable radio units, they fanned out through the area, machine gunning, bayoneting, burning.
Nick pulled his automatic, not knowing if they were the focus of the raid or merely "innocent bystanders."
Then a cry rang out. "Allahu Akbar!" God is great!
Hidden mujahideen assaulted the invaders with grenades and rifles. The invading troops dove for cover, strafing the landscape with their AK-47s and 74s. The smoky air was filled with the flat pop of shells, the hissing, the crack.
A stocky, suntanned commando hit the rocky ground with a curse. Spotting a glint of metal in a nearby trench, he nudged his comrade. They crawled toward it, aiming their assault rifles inside. But as they fired, they themselves jerked into spasms, spattering bullets everywhere.
One of their bullets hit the boy. Hearing his cry, Nick looked at him and then at Robin's stricken face. Nick leaped up to fire on the attackers… but they were already lying dead alongside the trench. He turned to see a tall mujahid lowering his rifle over their bodies. Their eyes met. Before moving for cover, the man stepped closer and stared at Robin, now unveiled. A burst of gunfire forced Nick to duck back down. When he arose, the phantom Afghan was gone. Again.
Robin gazed after him. "Jamal," she murmured.
She turned to the boy, cradling him in her arms. He touched her cheek and smiled sweetly, then cried out once. She watched him die. Where did the light go? The life? Robin had never looked at death before, and didn't know how to feel.Better not to feel. Until it's over.
Taj whispered, "Shaheed. He is now martyr."
Robin glanced up at Taj… Nick. She shook her head.
"This is what you wanted. Right?" he demanded.
She saw the criticism in his eyes. He was telling her this was real, not an idea. Real blood. Real danger. She understood now: How could you prepare yourself except by being here? In the middle of war.
She nodded. "Be careful what you wish for."
Mouth tight, Nick handed her his automatic. The goat ran back and forth in panic, then climbed out, apparently deciding to take its chances elsewhere. Nick and Taj grabbed the two dead men's AK-47s and their extra banana-shaped clips. They set the rifles on AV--automatic--then hunkered down in the trench, waiting for the onslaught.
Nick glanced at Robin, who was staring dully at the boy's body. He wondered what was going through her head. And what the hell was she doing here? Independent or not--a woman had no place in the war zone. Russian soldiers were animals. If they find her… He shuddered inside. Should he kill her before letting them take and brutalize her? He contemplated the horror of this choice, and prepared himself to act.
The moments seemed endless... but at some point they noticed the sounds of battle fading--the rolling thunder, the thumps, the pounding. There were no more flashes or crashes. The earth stopping shaking and rolling. Now the only sound was one of mute terror, the absence of sound caused by shock and despair. It was an eerie stillness that had settled over the land, finally broken by the anguished braying of a donkey.
Nick stuck his head out and saw the smoky wake of departing Soviet air power, taking with it the blue of the sky, the green of the earth, leaving but charred remains.
Taj rose grimly. He had wrapped the boy's body in his patou and was holding him in his arms. "I must try to find family. He must have proper burial." This could have been his own son, he knew.
They stood and watched Taj go in silence. Silence was the only response to what they had experienced. Robin let her breath out slowly.
Nick turned to her. "Put the goddamned veil back on. Now."
Robin gripped the dark fabric, trying to stay in control. "I hate this thing!" she lashed out. "I can't run, can't see--can hardly breathe."
"Get used to it!" Nick barked. "If a spy reports a Western woman, it'll bring down another attack. I don't suppose you'd want that on your conscience, too."
Robin glared at him through the haze and dust and grudgingly draped the chadar back over her head and body. At least it let some air through--unlike the burqa. That was like a tomb. "I'll live with my own conscience, thank you. Besides, who are you to talk--Mr. Vietnam?"
Nick shrugged. He didn't want to get into it with her, didn't have the will or desire or energy. As he regarded her shrouded form, the anger and fear started seeping away, and a sly smile began. "Anyway, your face is dirty and your hair's a mess!" She didn't respond. He patted her ass. "I know it's under here somewhere."
She shook her head in disgust. How could he be so damn callous?"Very funny. Keep your rotten hands off me."
"In these parts, hon, you'd be considered my property," Nick gloated, finding relief in the banter.
"Over my dead body!"
"It would've been dead if it weren't for me."
"You? It was Jamal who saved us!"
"Jamal, huh? Too bad he didn't stop to say hi. I could've used the intro."
"Oh, that's why you're trying to butter me up. Typical." She paused. "I think he already knew we were here."
Nick stared at her. Could she be right? Had Jamal just happened to be in the right place at the right time? Or had he gone out of his way to save them? If so, why? In any case, they owed him now. And Nick didn't like the obligation.
The dusk began to close upon them. Robin lapsed into a preoccupied silence as they headed back to camp, picking their way amid the debris of war--stones, glass, metal bomb fragments, smashed fruit and shattered tree stumps. She felt him reach for her arm and shrugged him away.
Fine, let her stumble, he thought. Let her go through her changes alone. You never get used to it, though.
It was awesome and terrible and surreal. They passed a neat row of fresh craters. An uprooted, reeking outhouse. A padlocked door connected to nothing. A headless chicken covered with flies, frantically running--nowhere. A dying goat leaking intestines. Robin stared, wondering if it was their goat.
Overhead, vultures were cruising.
Nick scowled. "Maybe it's a good thing you can't breathe."
"Yeah." She nodded briefly.
He paused to survey the scene. The valley was ripped apart, as if by simultaneous hurricane, earthquake and fire. "War." He turned to her.
Robin read his dark eyes and realized he wasn't as insensitive as he seemed. Tough, maybe--callous, no. She looked down and whispered, "I was scared."
Nick shrugged. "Who wasn't?"
They studied each other. Time for a cease-fire?
"Thanks, Nick. I know I've made it rough on you."
He shrugged again. "Well, you're here now. I only hope you get what you want."
Her smile was quiet, her eyes thoughtful. "I hope we both do. If that's possible."
Author's Biography
Diana R. Chambers is the author of two espionage novels, Stinger and The Company She Keeps. She has written for television,
film, theater and new media, as well as many travel pieces. A member of
CWC, WGA and PEN, she lives in the S.F. Bay Area with her family. http://www.silkroad.org.