Green on Blue (25 page)

My words knotted in my mouth as I spoke them: The feud was between us, not you . . . he and I were friends before.

All I said dribbled from my lips in a trail of embarrassing innocence.

He would have killed you as a friend, but I am commander of all this, he said, waving his arms around the room. You are more valuable to me than he is. You have access to Atal and you, I think, already know his plans. And don’t forget this last fact, Aziz, as long as you take money from me, for your brother, you are still a soldier.

I don’t need to be reminded of that, I said, and swallowed from my cup.

Good, he replied. Then, as a soldier, give your report.

I drank again.

Atal isn’t supporting Gazan’s fight against you, I said.

Then what is the nature of their business? he asked.

Atal is brokering a peace between Gazan and the Americans.

As I told him this, I paused, searching for any sign of what he thought of such news. He offered none. I continued: Gazan is tired of fighting. When he met with Atal at the madrassa it was to discuss this peace. That’s why we’ve come today. Atal is speaking with Mr. Jack about a deal for Gazan.

I looked away from Commander Sabir and down into my Jim Beam. The alcohol had sunken into its seams, reacting with the glue, staining the paper wet, but there was no wetness to speak of, just the stain. I wondered if the whiskey stained my insides the same. I took another sip and it burned down my throat.

You must have met Gazan and his fighters, he said. What do you make of them?

They’re feral men, I answered. You’ve kept them hungry and you give them just enough to be controlled. Food, weapons, an enemy, I know you give all that to them.

And what of it, Aziz! he snapped, his head cocked to the side. War is a contest of wills. If I supply my opponent, I control his will, and the war with it.

A thing such as this never ends.

Are you fighting this war to end it? he spoke through a smirk.

I shook my head, ashamed that I no longer knew how to answer.

You fight for badal, to avenge Ali, and to support him in the hospital, said Commander Sabir. What happens if our war ends?

He drank from his cup and sat on the edge of his bed.

I’m just a soldier caught up in this, I replied.

All are caught up in this, he said. The question is whether you’ll be a victim or prosper in it. What justice is there for you if Gazan, who crippled your brother, prospers in peace with the Americans? What justice is there if we lose control of him and never build our outpost? Yes, there will be peace for Gomal and Gazan, but us, what of us? The Americans will no longer need us. How do we survive then?

Commander Sabir reached under his bed, knocking his empty cup on the floor. He fumbled beneath for a moment and brought out a slim black pistol, a Makarov. He placed it in front of me.

We have a plan, he said. Our plan is to prosper. Take badal against
Gazan, for your brother, and for me, who first offered you hospitality
in this war.

I picked up the Makarov. Its heft sunk into my palm, and I felt the permanence of its metal. A pistol’s purpose was the same as a rifle’s, but achieved so casually. A rifle requires the whole body to fire it. Laying the buttstock into the shoulder, leaning against the recoil, concentrating on the sights, all of this draws from every part of the shooter. But with a pistol, just a flick of the wrist and a light twitch with an index finger delivers a hard bullet.

And what of Atal? I asked.

You know the answer to that.

His words chilled the air, reminding me of the night I’d first met Gazan and the fear I’d felt in the high forest just below the ridgetops covered with snow.

My badal is only against Gazan, I said.

And you’ll have it, he answered. I’ve given it to you and you should be grateful, but remember there is a cost.

Badal is a just vengeance, I said. This cost isn’t just.

Commander Sabir spoke, thrusting his finger in my face: Atal will lie down with any dog to keep his village from choosing a side. If you want Gazan the cost is Atal. Gazan for your badal, Atal so the Special Lashkar may prosper. That is just. Don’t think for a moment Atal won’t kill you for interfering with his plans. Remember, he is Hafez’s cousin and part of that kinship which killed my brother and crippled yours.

And Haji Jan? I asked. He was not part of that kinship.

Very good, he said. Now you see the way of it. Commander Sabir almost grinned: No, Haji Jan was a stubborn old fool. A different choice by him at the shura, and he would be alive, and I would have my outpost, and Gomal would be prospering beneath my protection.

Killing him left you with Atal, I said. He is more against the outpost than any.

Yes, and if Gazan had done his errand properly that day, Atal would’ve joined Haji Jan. But now you will finish what Gazan started for me.

Commander Sabir’s sweet, boozy breath hung on my face. A soapy film of drunkenness coated his eyes, but then, when I stood and tucked the Makarov under my shalwar kameez and into my waistband, his stare moved with sharp flashes, like water crossed by wind.

With respect, I must excuse myself, I said. Atal will grow suspicious if he finishes with Mr. Jack and I’m still here with you.

Of course, answered Commander Sabir. You have work to do. I’ve arranged a truck to help tow your vehicle from the crater. It will meet you at the gate.

I thanked him and walked toward the door. The Makarov rubbed against my back, falling in rhythm with my steps.

Aziz, he called after me. By the time you complete your task, I should have some news of your brother.

I paused at the door and glanced back.

Commander Sabir had climbed down on his hands and knees. He peered at the empty bottles beneath his bed, searching for some forgotten splash of Jim Beam. I left him to his search and stepped into the night, toward the dimly lit hut that held Atal and Mr. Jack.

I
rushed across the courtyard. Atal was still inside with Mr. Jack. I stood by the door, but I couldn’t make out the details of their conversation, for they spoke in quick whispers. Still, the tension in their words seeped through the cracks in the hut’s plywood frame.

I leaned against Mr. Jack’s truck, settling in for a long negotiation. It was the same model HiLux as Atal’s but larger. The bed was higher, the wheels taller and wider, and from where our mechanic had washed it, the black paint reflected what little light there was. I glanced into the back where empty shell casings, their primers dented and mouths dusted by soot, spread across the bed like a loosely knit shawl. I wondered if Mr. Jack had been in a fight on his way here or if these were left over from some other engagement. American rifle rounds are sharp, thin, and elegant compared to our Soviet Bloc ammunition. I picked up an unfired round among the empty ones, twirling it in my fingers.

The door to the hut flew open, and Mr. Jack stepped outside, blindly. His sun-bleached eyes looked into the night, and it took him a moment to find his HiLux. Once he did, he saw me leaning against its tailgate.

Hey, sport, finger-fuck somebody else’s shit!

He shooed me away as though I were a beggar. Then he cranked on the ignition and sped out of the firebase’s gate.

Atal stepped from the door behind Mr. Jack.

Come, Aziz, time to find a way home.

Commander Sabir has arranged for some of his soldiers to help us recover our vehicle, I said. We’re to meet them at the gate.

Very generous of him, replied Atal with a frown. Is that what he wanted to speak to you about?

That, and he told me even with Qiam dead, I still shouldn’t come here. He thinks it would be better if I left Gomal and returned to Orgun.

I lied.

This firebase isn’t a good place for either of us, said Atal.

He walked toward the front gate and I followed close behind. At the gate we sat, huddling into ourselves to ward off a chill made worse by exhaustion. Down by the motor pool, energetic voices called out over an engine that rolled warmly against the morning air. Soon a gray HiLux bounced down the gravel road and toward us. It stopped, followed by a trail of dust, which settled on Atal and me as if it were baking flour. The driver rolled down his window and threw a thumb toward the back. Any hope we’d had of a comfortable ride in the cab vanished. We climbed into the steel bed next to a heavily bundled machine gunner. His face was covered with a thick black balaclava, but beneath it, I knew there was only that unfeeling expression which is all hardship. Atal and I sat in the icy bed and drew our legs to our chests.

We bumped and jarred down the north road and our heads hung toward our bodies, limp with cold. Progress was measured not in the distance covered but by the sun as we climbed the surrounding ridges. Its rays greeted our chilled bodies as we arrived at each peak and our heads lifted from our chests, our skin inhaling the warmth that would stay with us along the first part of our descent. Then we’d weave down into the cool shadow. Here, our heads fell back to our chests, the green-needled pines darkened, and the night air in the valley lingered
despite the day. But the day’s progress worked to our advantage, and by late morning the sun sat atop a hard blue sky of its own invention.

Soon the warmth of the day overtook me. I drifted. I drifted toward my brother. I thought of him in his hospital bed. The nothingness of his amputated flesh dissolving his spirit, until all that remained were ashes heaped on the imprint of his body. Before, when Ali and I had no home and it rained, we’d huddle in doorways. If I ever complained, he’d grab my arm and ask: Are you made of sugar? Will you melt? His words would be firm, but he’d always end with a smile that added some warmth to the damp. Now I thought of him, melting. I imagined walking into his hospital room, whispering in his ear about how I’d killed Gazan, and in that moment, when he knew what I’d done, I’d watch his spirit set and return to him as though a thickener were added to that same ash heap.

I raised my head and gazed at Atal, his hands crossed over his knees, his head hanging between them. Tucked into himself, he looked like a bridge that had collapsed under some unseen weight. This tangle of a man endured the living insult to his nang that was Commander Sabir. And it was that insult, and the endurance to bear it, that made me uncertain whether I admired or pitied him. Atal could’ve taken Hafez’s place. He could’ve led the fighters in those mountains instead of Gazan. Atal defied all that and he defied Pashtunwali. There was arrogance to such defiance. Life would have been better for his village if he’d taken badal, and with it taken Hafez’s place, and truly fought against Commander Sabir, not as a lackey like Gazan, who took food, weapons, and ammunition, but in a true fight. No deceit.

The arrogance. I held on to the thought. I’d kill Gazan for badal
,
but I could kill Atal for his well-meaning arrogance.

We climbed yet another steep switchback and our truck jolted to a stop. I toppled against my side, so did Atal. The machine gunner fell
from his perch on two ammunition cans, his ass making a vertical drop of nearly a foot. There was a dull thud then a groan. I imagined the machine gunner’s face beneath his balaclava, in pain but still without expression.

Atal now stood in the bed. He banged on the roof of the cab and pointed ahead of us. There it is! he called out.

Our stranded truck sat atop the ridgeline, its front still balanced unsteadily over the crater’s edge. We pulled up to the crater and our work began. We used shovels, picks, and even a helmet to dig at its lip. The ground beneath us was brittle. The mine had blown to shards any large rocks that might have hindered us. Soon we’d dug out enough of the lip to flatten it so the front axle’s tires rested against the earth.

Our truck was now set to back out. This would be the most dangerous part, reversing down the steep and narrow switchback. All of the Special Lashkar’s trucks had a winch in front—two hundred or so feet of steel cable wrapped tightly around a motor that could pull a tree from its roots. The soldier wearing the balaclava hooked his winch under the front axle of Atal’s HiLux. On the far side of the crater, the driver took in all the slack. In theory the winch would lower us along the tight switchbacks and ensure that we didn’t topple down the mountainside, but the driver took no chances. He left his door open and both his legs dangled from the side of his seat. If he had to jump he’d be ready, even as his truck, as well as ours, toppled into the ravine below. Whoever drove our truck would have to sit behind the steering wheel. This made jumping a more difficult prospect.

With the winch set, the soldier wearing the balaclava raised his arm and gave a thumbs-up. He then looked at Atal and me. We had yet to decide who would drive. I started out toward the truck, but Atal grabbed my arm and stopped me. He sat behind the steering wheel instead. What a strange thing that he placed enough value on my life to
offer a chance against his own. I worked for him, and it would’ve been natural that he’d expect me to assume this risk, but serving Atal meant he also served you. This was how it was between us, and also how it was between him and the people of Gomal.

Atal shifted into reverse and the winch ground as the steel cables pulled taut. I shouted out directions: Come right, come right. Straight! STRAIGHT! Atal leaned his head out the driver’s window. Then he shot across the cab, planting his face in the passenger’s side mirror. He continued to weave back and forth in this way as we inched out our descent. The winch strained and the steel cable slid against our front axle. The air filled with a hot metal burn. We soon dipped out of sight from the soldiers above us, but we were still tethered to their winch. I continued to shout my directions and Atal, unable to see the space around our truck, followed each one blindly: Come left. Straight. Now, right, right! RIGHT!

We reached the intersection of the two switchbacks. Here the road thickened. Atal backed up and turned the truck down the mountain, facing forward and out of danger. I dropped beneath the fender and untied the steel cable from our front axle. All clear! I called above us. The winch’s motor quickly engaged and with a high whine the steel cable slithered up the hill, snaking on the dirt. Atal stepped from the cab and offered me his seat as though it were a valued prize. I shuffled along the narrow ledge between the driver’s-side door and the ridgeline’s sheer face. I stared at my feet. A hundred yards beneath my toes were the remains of the truck that had struck the mine. Rust already spread over the chassis, beginning the earth’s slow gestation of the metal. Somewhere down there was Qiam. The earth would consume his flesh more quickly than it would the wreckage, but eventually everything would be consumed.