Short Stories (2 page)

Allahu akbar! The long, drawn-out chant of the muezzin pulled Satar awake. He  yawned and stretched on the ground in the courtyard of a mud house a Russian  bomb had shattered. Ten or twelve other mujahideen lay there with him. One by  one, they got to their feet and am-bled over to a basin of water, where they  washed their hands and faces, their feet and their privates. Satar gasped as he splashed his cheeks with the water. It was bitterly cold. A  pink glow in the east said sunrise was coming soon. God is great! the muezzin repeated. He stood on the roof of another ruined  house and called out to the faithful: I bear witness, there is no God but God! I bear witness, Muhammad is the prophet of God! Come quick to prayer! Come quick to success! Prayer is better than sleep! God is great! There is no God but the one true God! The fighters spread blankets on the dirt of the courtyard. This was no mosque  with a proper qibla, but they knew in which direction Mecca lay- They bent,  shoulder to shoulder, and went through morning prayers together. After praying, Satar ate unleavened bread and drank tea thick with sugar and  fragrant with mint. He had never been a fat man; he'd grown thinner since  joining the mujahideen. The godless infidels and their puppets held the richest  parts of the countryside. But villagers were generous in sharing what they  had and some of what was grown and made in occupied parts of the country reached  the fighters in the holy war through one irregular channel or another. A couple of boys of about six strutted by, both of them carrying crude wooden  toy Kalashnikovs. One dived behind some rubble. The other stalked him as  carefully as if their assault rifles were real. When the time came for them to  take up such weapons, they would be ready. Another boy, perhaps thirteen, had a  real Kalashnikov on his back. He'd been playing with toy firearms when the  Russians invaded Afghanistan. Now he was old enough to fight for God on his own.  Boys like that were useful, especially as scouts the Shuravi weren't always so  wary of them as they were with grown men. Something glinted in the early-morning sun: a boy of perhaps eight carried what  looked like a plastic pen even more proudly than the other children bore their  Kalashnikovs, pretend and real. Assault rifles were commonplace, pens something  out of the ordinary, something special. Hey, sonny, Satar called through lips all at once numb with fear. The boy  looked at him. He nodded encouragingly. Yes, you that's right. Put your pen on  the ground and walk away from it. What? Plainly, the youngster thought he was crazy. Why should I? If he'd had  a rifle, Satar would have had to look to his life. I'll tell you why: because I think it's a Russian mine. If you fiddle with it,  it will blow off your hand. The boy very visibly thought that over. Satar could read his mind. Is this  mujahid trying to steal my wonderful toy? Maybe the worry on Satar's face got  through to him, because he did set the pen in the dirt. But when he walked away,  he kept looking back over his shoulder at it. With a sigh of relief, Satar murmured, Truly there is no God but God. Truly, someone behind him agreed. He turned. There stood Sayid Jaglan. The  commander went on, That is a mine I am sure of it. Pens are bad. I was afraid  he would take off the cap and detonate it. Pens are bad, but the ones that look  like butterflies are worse. Any child, no matter how small, will play with  those. And then be blown to pieces, Satar said bitterly. Oh, no, not to pieces. Sayid Jaglan shook his head. He was about forty, not  very tall, his pointed beard just beginning to show frost. He had a scar on his  forehead that stopped a centimeter or so above his right eye. They're made to  maim, not to kill. The Russians calculate we have to work harder to care for the  wounded than to bury the dead. Satar pondered that. A calculation straight from the heart of Shai-tan, he  said at last. Yes, but sound doctrine even so. Sometimes the officer Sayid Jaglan had been  showed through under the chieftain of mujahideen he was. You did well to  persuade the boy to get rid of that one. Taking off the cap activates it?   Satar asked. Sayid Jaglan nodded. Satar went over and picked up the pen and set  it on top of a battered wall, out of reach of children. If he was afraid of  doing it, he didn't show his fear, or even acknowledge it to himself. All he  said was, We should be able to salvage the explosive from it. Yes. Sayid Jaglan nodded again. You were a little soft when you joined us,  Satar who would have expected anything different from a druggist's son? You  never followed the herds or tried to scratch a living from the fields. But  you've done well. You have more wit than God gave most men, and your heart was  always strong. Now your body matches your spirit's strength. Satar didn't show how much the compliment pleased him, either. That was not the  Afghan way. Gruffly, he replied, If it is God's will, it will be accomplished. Yes. Sayid Jaglan looked down the valley, in the direction of Bulola. And I  think it is God's will that we soon reclaim your home village from the atheist  Shuravi. May it be so, Satar said. I have not sat beside my father for far too long.

Sergei strode up the main street, such as it was, of Bulola. Dirt and dust flew  up from under his boots at every stride. In Kabul, even in Bamian, he probably  would have felt safe enough to wear his Kalashnikov slung on his back. Here, he  carried it, his right forefinger ready to leap to the trigger in an instant. The  change lever was on single shots. He could still empty the magazine in seconds,  and he could aim better that way. Beside him, Vladimir carried his weapon ready to use, too. Staying alive in  Afghan meant staying alert every second of every minute of every day. Vladimir  glanced over at a handful of gray-bearded men sitting around drinking tea and  passing the mouthpiece of a water pipe back and forth. Laughing, he said, Ah,  they love us. Don't they just! Sergei laughed, too, nervously. The Afghans' eyes followed  Vladimir and him. They were hard and black and glittering as obsidian. If the  looks they gave us came out of Kalashnikovs, we'd be Weeding in the dust. 'Fuck em, Vladimir said cheerfully. No, fuck their wives these assholes  aren't worth it. He could make it sound funny. He could make it sound obscene. But he couldn't  take away one brute fact. They all hate us, Sergei said. They don't even  bother hiding it. Every single one of them hates us. There's a hot headline! Vladimir exclaimed. What did you expect? That they'd  welcome us with open arms the women with open legs? That they'd all give us  fraternal socialist greetings? Not fucking likely! He spat. I did think that when I first got here. Didn't you? Sergei said. Before they  put me on the plane for Kabul, they told me I was coming here to save the  popular revolution. They told me we were internationalists, and the peace-loving  Afghan government had asked us for help. They haven't changed their song a bit. They told my gang the same thing,   Vladimir said. I already knew it was a crock, though.   How? How? I'll tell you how. Because my older brother's best friend came back from  here in a black tulip, inside one of those zinc coffins they make in Kabul. It  didn't have a window in it, and this officer stuck to it like a leech to make  sure Sasha's mother and dad wouldn't open it up and see what happened to him  before they planted him in the ground. That's how. Oh. Sergei didn't know how to answer that. After a few more steps, he said,  They told me the Americans started the war. Vladimir pointed out to the mountains, to the gray and brown and red rock. You  see Rambo out there? I sure don't. We've got our own Ramboviki here, Sergei said slyly. Bastards. Fucking  bastards. Vladimir started to spit once more, but seemed too disgusted to go  through with it this time. I hate our fucking gung-ho paratroopers, you know  that? They want to go out and kick ass, and they get everybody else in trouble  when they do. Yeah. Sergei couldn't argue with that. Half the time, if you leave the ghosts  alone, they'll leave you alone, too. I know. Vladimir nodded. Of course, the other half of the time, they won't. Oh, yes. Ohhh, yes. I haven't been here real long, but I've seen that. Now  Sergei pointed out to the mountainside. A few men  Afghans, hard to see at a  distance in their robes of brown and cream  were moving around, not far from  where the bumblebee had flayed the ghosts a few days before. What are they up  to out there? No good, Vladimir said at once. Maybe they're scavenging weapons the dukhi  left behind. I hope one of the stinking ragheads steps on a mine, that's what I  hope. Serve him right. Never had Sergei seen a curse more quickly fulfilled. No sooner had the words  left Vladimir's mouth than a harsh, flat craack! came echoing back from the  mountains. He brought his Kalashnikov up to his shoulder. Vladimir did the same.  They both relaxed, a little, when they realized the explosion wasn't close by. Lowering his assault rifle, Vladimir started laughing like a loon. Miserable  son of a bitch walked into one we left out for the ghosts. Too bad. Oh, too  bad! He laughed again, louder than ever. On the mountainside, the Afghans who  weren't hurt bent over their wounded friend and did what they could for him.  Sergei said, This won't make the villagers like us any better. Too bad. Oh, too bad! Vladimir not only repeated himself, he pressed his free  hand over his heart like a hammy opera singer pulling out all the stops to emote  on stage. And they love us so much already. Sergei couldn't very well argue with that, not when he'd been the one who'd  pointed out that the villagers didn't love the Red Army men in their midst. He  did say, Here come the Afghans. The wounded man's pals brought him back with one of his arms slung over each of  their shoulders. He groaned every now and then, but tried to bear his pain in  silence. His robes were torn and splashed  soaked with red. Sergei had seen what  mines did. The Afghan's foot maybe his whole leg up to the knee would look as if  it belonged in a butcher's shop, not attached to a human being. One of the Afghans knew a little Russian. Your mine hurt, he said. Your man  help? He pointed to the Soviet medic's tent. Yes, go on, Sergei said. Take  him there. Softly, Vladimir told him.

A fleabite might not bother a sleeping man. If he'd been bitten before, though,  he might notice a second bite, or a third, more readily than he would have  otherwise. The dragon stirred restlessly.

Satar squatted on his heels, staring down at the ground in front of him. He'd  been staring at it long enough to know every pebble, every [dot] of dirt, every  little ridge of dust. A spider scuttled past. Satar watched it without caring. Sayid Jaglan crouched beside him. I am sorry, Abdul Satar Ahmedi. It is the will of God, Satar answered, not moving, not looking up. Truly, it is the will of God, agreed the commander of the mujahideen. They do  say your father is likely to live. If God wills it, he will live, Satar said. But is it a life to live as a  cripple, to live without a foot? Like you, he has wisdom, Sayid Jaglan said. He has a place in Bulola he may  be able to keep. Because he has wisdom, he will not have to beg his bread in the  streets, as a herder or peasant without a foot would. He will be a cripple! Satar burst out. He is my father! Tears stung his  eyes. He did not let them fall. He had not shed a tear since the news came to  the mujahideen from his home village. I wonder if the earthquake made him misstep, Sayid Jaglan said. Ibrahim said the earthquake was later, Satar answered. Yes, he said that, but he might have been wrong, Sayid Jaglan said. God is  perfect. Men? Men make mistakes. Now at last Satar looked up at him. The Russians made a mistake when they came  into our country, he said. I will show them what sort of mistake they made. We all aim to do that, Sayid Jaglan told him. And we will take back your  village, and we will do it soon. Our strength gathers, here and elsewhere. When  Bulola falls, the whole valley falls, and the valley is like a sword pointed  straight at Bamian. As sure as God is one, your father will be avenged. Then he  will no longer lie under the hands of the god-less ones . . . though Ibrahim did  also say they treated his wound with some skill. Jinni of the waste take Ibrahim by the hair! Satar said. If the Shuravi had  not laid the mines, my father would not have been wounded in the first place. True. Every word of it true, the chieftain of the mujahideen agreed. Satar was  arguing with him, not sitting there lost in his own private wasteland of pain.  Sayid Jaglan set a hand on Satar's shoulder. When the time comes, you will  fight as those who knew the Prophet fought to bring his truth to Arabia and to  the world.   I don't know about that. I don't know anything about that at all, Satar said.  All I know is, I will fight my best. Sayid Jaglan nodded in satisfaction. Good. We have both said the same thing.   He went off to rouse the spirit of some other mujahid.

Shuravi! Shuravi! Marg, marg, marg! The mocking cry rose from behind a  mud-brick wall in Bulola. Giggles followed it. The boy or maybe it was a  girl who'd called out for death to the Soviets couldn't have been more than  seven years old. Little bastard, Vladimir said, hands tightening on his Kalashnikov. His  mother was a whore and his father was a camel. They all feel that way, though, Sergei said. As always, he felt the weight of  the villagers' eyes on him. They reminded him of wolves Tracking an elk. No, the beast is too strong and dangerous for us to try to pull  it down right now, that gaze seemed to say. All right, then. We won't rush in.  We'll just keep trotting along, keep watching it, and wait for it to weaken. Sergeant Krikor said, How can we hope to win a war where the people in whose  name we're fighting wish they could kill us a millimeter at a time? I don't know. I don't care, either, Vladimir said. All I want to do is get  back home in one piece. Then I can go on with my life and spend the rest of it  forgetting what I've been through here in Afghan. I want to get home in one piece, too, Sergei said. But what about the poor  bastards they ship in here after we get out? They'll have it as bad as we do,  maybe worse. That isn't fair. Let them worry about it. Long as I'm gone, I don't give a shit. Vladimir pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Like anyone  who'd been in Afghanistan for a while, he opened it from the bottom. That way,  his hands, full of the local filth, never touched the filter that would go in  his mouth. He scraped a match alight and cupped his free hand to shield the  flame from the breeze till he got the smoke going. Give me one of those, Sergei said. He knew cigarettes weren't good for you. He  couldn't count how many times his father and mother had tried to quit. Back in  Tambov, he never would have started. But coming to Afghanistan wasn't good for  you, either. He leaned close to Vladimir to get a light off the other cigarette,  then sucked harsh smoke deep into his lungs and blew it out. That made him cough  like a coal miner with black-lung disease, but he took another drag anyhow. Vladimir offered Krikor a smoke without being asked. Of course, Krikor was a  sergeant, not just a lowly trooper. Vladimir was no dummy. He knew whom to keep  buttered up, and how. Krikor didn't cough as he smoked. In a few savage puffs,  he got the cigarette down to the filter. Hardly a shred of tobacco was left when  he crushed the butt under his heel. To hell with me if I'll give the Afghans  anything at all to scrounge, he declared. Yeah. Vladimir treated his cigarette the same way. Sergei took a little longer  to work his way down to the filter, but he made sure he did. It wasn't so much  that he begrudged the Afghans a tiny bit of his tobacco. But he didn't want his  buddies jeering at him. The ground shook under his feet, harder than it had the first couple of times  he'd felt an earthquake. Krikor's black, furry eyebrows flew up. Some of the  villagers exclaimed. Sergei didn't know what they were saying, but he caught the  alarm in their voices. He spoke himself: That was a pretty good one, wasn't it?  If the locals and the sergeant noticed it, he could, too. Not all that big, Krikor said, but I think it must've been right under our  feet. How do you tell? Vladimir asked. When they're close, you get that sharp jolt, like the one we felt now. The ones  further off don't hit the same way. They roll more, if you know what I mean.   The Armenian sergeant illustrated with a loose, floppy up-and-down motion of his  hand and wrist. You sound like you know what you're talking about, Sergei said. Don't I wish  I didn't, Sergeant Krikor told him. Sergeant! Hey, Sergeant! Fyodor came  clumping up the dirt street. He pointed back in the direction from which he'd  come. Lieutenant Uspenski wants to see you right away. Krikor grunted. By his expression, he didn't much want to go see the lieutenant.  Miserable whistle-ass shavetail, he muttered. Sergei didn't think he was  supposed to hear. He worked hard to keep his face straight. Krikor asked Fyodor,  He tell you what it was about? No, Sergeant. Sorry. I'm just an ordinary soldier, after all. If I didn't  already know my name, he wouldn't tell me that. All right. I'll go. Krikor made it sound as if he were doing Lieutenant  Uspenski a favor. But when he came back, he looked grim in a different way. The  ghosts are gathering, he reported. Sergei looked up to the mountains on either side of Bulola, as if he would be  able to see the dukhi as they gathered. If I could see them, we could kill them,  he thought. When are they going to hit us? he asked. Before Sergeant Krikor could answer, Vladimir asked, Are they going to hit us  at all? Or is some informant just playing games to make us jump? Good question, Sergei agreed. I know it's a good question, Krikor said. Afghans lie all the time,  especially to us. The ones who look like they're on our side, half the time  they're working for the ghosts. One man in three, maybe one in two, in the  Afghan army would sooner be with the bandits in the hills. Everybody knows it. Shit, one man in three in the Afghan army is with the dukhi Vladimir said.  Everybody knows that, too. So what makes this news such hot stuff? Like as not,  the ghosts are yanking our dicks to see how we move, so they'll have a better  shot when they do decide to hit us. Krikor's broad shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. I don't know anything  about that. All I know is, Lieutenant Uspenski thinks the information's good.  And we'll have a couple of surprises waiting for the Bastards. He looked  around to make sure no Afghans were in earshot. You could never could tell who  understood more Russian than he let on. Sergei and Vladimir both leaned toward him. Well? Vladimir demanded. For one thing, we've got some bumblebees ready to buzz by, the sergeant said.  Sergei nodded. So did Vladimir. Helicopter gunships were always nice to have  around.  You said a couple of things, Vladimir said. What else? Krikor spoke in an excited whisper: Trucks on the way up from Bamian. They  ought to get here right around sunset plenty of time to set up, but not enough  for the ragheads here to sneak off and warn the ragheads there. Reinforcements? Sergei knew he sounded excited, too. If they actually had  enough men to do the fighting for a change . . . But Krikor shook his head. Better than reinforcements.   What could be better than reinforcements? Sergei asked. The Armenian's black  eyes glowed. He gave back one word: Katyushas. Ahhh. Sergei and Vladimir said it together. Krikor was right, and they both  knew it. Ever since the Nazis found out about them during the Great Patriotic  War, no foe had ever wanted to stand up under a rain of Katyushas. The rockets  weren't much as far as sophistication went, but they could lay a broad area  waste faster than anything this side of nukes. And they screamed as they came  in, so they scared you to death before they set about ripping you to pieces. But then Vladimir said, That'll be great, if they show up on time. Some of the  bastards who think they're so important don't give a shit whether things get  here at six o'clock tonight or Tuesday a week. We have to hope, that's all, Krikor answered. Lieutenant Uspenski did say the  trucks were already on the way from Bamian, so they can't be that late. He  checked himself. I don't think they can, anyhow. After what Sergei had seen of the Red Army's promises and how it kept them, he  wouldn't have bet anything much above a kopek that the Katyushas would get to  Bulola on time. But, for a wonder, they did. Better still, the big, snorting  six-wheeled Ural trucks machines that could stand up to Afghan roads, which was  saying a great deal arrived in the village with canvas covers over the rocket  launchers, so they looked like ordinary trucks carrying soldiers. Outstanding, Sergei said as the crews emplaced the vehicles. The ghosts won't  have spotted them from the road. They won't know what they're walking into. Outfuckingstanding is right. Vladimir's smile was altogether predatory.  They'll fucking find out.