The Mullah's Storm (11 page)

Authors: Tom Young

BOOK: The Mullah's Storm

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“Tell him to take this to Kabul when he gets a chance,” Parson said. “Explain to the American embassy or any U.S. officer that he took us in. Tell him we can’t promise anything, but our government might pay him for helping us.”

“He might not go to Kabul all his life,” Gold said, “but I’ll tell him.”

While she spoke, Parson unzipped his survival vest and worked himself out of it, one arm at a time. He grimaced as the movements pulled at his injuries, especially the cracked ribs. He unbuckled the fasteners on his flak vest and repeated the effort. That hurt even worse, because the stiff flak jacket was harder to take off. The wife watched him. He noticed her staring at the blood spot on his flight suit from the bullet fragment. She began puttering at a collection of jars and bottles.

“Hey, Gold,” Parson said. “Make sure these people understand the chances they’re taking.”

“I already did.”

Parson looked at Gold for a moment. In that case, he thought, you’re making decisions above your pay grade. He decided not to make an issue of it. When he’d lost his temper and almost torched the prisoner, he figured, he’d stopped functioning as an officer. For today, at least, he’d lost any right to upbraid Sergeant Gold.

The wife placed a leg of lamb in a boiling pot, shook in salt and pepper. She added something else Parson didn’t recognize, but it smelled good. Saffron, maybe. Parson’s mouth watered. Finally, some decent luck and some decent food.

The woman ground a mixture with a mortar and pestle. She brought it over to Gold and Parson, and she began speaking. Gold shook her head, then nodded, responded in Pashto.

“She has something for your pain,” Gold said.

“What is it?”

“Tobacco mixed with opium.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Parson said.

“It’s up to you, sir. She’s the nearest thing to a doctor you’re going to get.”

“You won’t rat me out?”

“I have bigger things on my mind, sir. And if you were back at base, the flight surgeon might give you codeine. Guess what that’s made of.”

“All right, I’ll try it. Don’t let me do anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

No, you won’t, thought Parson. I got the bruise to prove it.

The woman set down a cup of the mixture on the blankets beside Parson. He took a pinch and placed it inside his lower lip, noticed only the earthy taste of tobacco. But eventually a warmth infused his whole body, along with a sense of well-being entirely unjustified by his situation. He still felt his pain, but it seemed somehow distant.

He closed his eyes, let the drug do its work. Parson dozed off, and he woke as the woman unzipped his flight suit enough to examine his chest injury. He guessed he’d slept for less than an hour. He smelled the lamb now, and the opium still kept the pain somewhere off to the side. The wife handed him an empty cup, and he spit tobacco juice into it.

She cut away part of his bloody T-shirt and peeled off the Betadine patch. The blood had mixed into the gauze with the antiseptic. The woman sponged the wound and began patting some kind of poultice onto it. To Parson, the poultice’s aroma seemed more like food than medicine. He figured that was just his hunger and the opium talking.

Parson raised his right arm, and he saw that someone had rebandaged and splinted his wrist while he slept. The wife had Parson’s first-aid kit out of his pack. She tore off some bandage material and taped it over the poultice.

Behind her, Parson saw the boy and the husband setting a low table. The family chatted in their own language. The man nodded to Gold and Parson, and he motioned toward the table.

Parson spat out the tobacco wad into his cup, and with his fingertip he dabbed at the flecks remaining on his tongue. He blinked his eyes and stumbled his way to sit cross-legged at a table set for five. The mullah sat tied to a chair.

“They won’t let him eat at their table,” Gold said. “I’ll feed him after we’re done.”

Parson leaned to one side, then pushed himself upright with his right hand. He became aware of a burning in his wrist. Dumb, he thought. If I weren’t stoned, that would hurt like hell.

The wife ladled rice and mutton onto Parson’s plate. He forced himself to wait until everyone sat, and then he began spooning the food, slurping. Parson thought he’d never tasted anything better than that lightly seasoned lamb. He had no utensil other than the spoon, but he didn’t need a knife. The meat fell apart at a touch. If I live through this, he thought, I’ll never take hot food for granted again. He ate so quickly that juice ran down his chin onto his whiskers.

“Sorry,” he said, wiping his face with his flight suit sleeve. “Tell them I don’t know how to thank them.”

Gold spoke in Pashto, and the husband smiled and answered. More chatter back and forth.

“They want to know what we were doing before we got shot down,” Gold said.

“The less they know, the safer they are,” Parson said.

“That’s what I told them.”

“So what’s their story? You say these people had it rough?”

“I’m not sure how much I should ask them, but I’ll see.”

Long conversation, Gold nodding gravely.

“He says his wife came from a village the Taliban wiped out,” Gold said. “He also says he fought against them after the Russians left.”

“What did he do in the war?”

“He says the less we know, the safer they are.”

“Fair enough,” Parson said.

“He did say the Taliban killed his uncle and three cousins.”

“How?”

“Stoning.”

“No wonder he hates those fuckers.”

Parson rose to his feet carefully, this time steadying himself with his good hand. When he found his pack, he rummaged through it, examined night-vision goggles, pistol, first-aid kit. He wanted to find something he could spare that would do the family some good. The pack had belonged to the flight engineer, and Parson unzipped the outside pockets to see what Sergeant Luke might have put there.

“Ask them if their boy goes to school,” Parson said.

“He does sometimes,” Gold said. “They already told me he can read.”

Parson found what he wanted in a side pouch. Luke’s calculator. A grease pencil and a Cross pen. He put them on the table.

“School supplies,” Parson said. “Show them how that calculator works. Tell them when the battery dies, just use it in sunlight.”

When Gold finished talking, the husband took Parson’s good hand in both of his own, shaking, smiling, speaking what was gibberish to Parson. The boy also spoke, and he saluted Parson in the old British style, palm out. Parson smiled weakly, returned the salute. Then he pulled his radio and GPS receiver out of the survival vest and kneeled by the open window. He plugged in the earpiece, placed it in his ear.

“Bookshelf,” he called, “Flash Two-Four Charlie.”

Nothing but hiss.

“Any station, Flash Two-Four Charlie on guard.”

“Flash Two-Four Charlie,” came the reply, “Fever Six-Two has you weak but readable.”

Fever call sign, thought Parson. Who are they? The pilot’s voice, unmistakably New York. Oh yeah, he recalled, rescue Herks, an HC-130 out of that Air National Guard unit on Long Island.

“Fever Six-Two,” he said, “stand by to copy my position.” More offset coordinates.

“Fever Six-Two copies all. We’re briefed on your status. Expect an aircraft on station overhead your vicinity until they can get you a helicopter ride.”

“That’s good to hear,” Parson said. “What kind of weather data can you give me?”

“Not good. I’ll give you details as soon as my copilot gives me back my weather sheet. We also got some information on friendlies—”

Loud squeal and crackles. Behind it:
“Allah-hu akbar, Allah-hu akbar!”

Parson cursed and took out the earpiece. He clicked off the radio. He watched Gold remove the mullah’s gag so the prisoner could eat.

“Rice and bread,” Parson said. “Don’t give him any of their lamb.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

P
arson heard the galloping before he saw the horsemen. They came at a dead run through the early-morning mist, their coats flowing in the swirling snow.

The opium had worn off, and he’d slept well when not keeping watch at the window. For the first time in days, hunger and cold did not slow his mind and reflexes. He felt like an officer again. Or not even that. Long practice kicked in, and his eyes, muscles, and nerves melded into a targeting system.

He brought the Kalashnikov to his shoulder, aimed at the first rider. The AK lacked a scope, but iron sights were good enough now. He focused on the front sight post. The man’s torso went blurry behind it. Parson fired. The guerrilla fell backward as if he’d hit a wall.

The second rider came at an angle, a crossing shot. His ammunition belts and rocket launcher bounced around him as he gripped the reins. Parson led him ever so slightly. The bullet caught the man in the chest. He collapsed from his mount and lay in a motionless heap while his horse wheeled, turned, and slowed to a trot as if it knew its master had already entered the next world.

The remaining two neared the house. One raised his AK and brought it to bear. Parson had no time for precision now, so he fired a burst, cut down both insurgents.

Parson did not become aware of any other guerrillas until an explosion opened the wall behind him. The rocket-propelled grenade stunned him and he fell to his side. He sensed dull pain at the back of his head, a rush of cold air. He thought he heard screams, far off. Gunshots like dull thumps. Every sound strangely muffled. Dust from the exploded wall stung his eyes.

A boot caught him in the chest. The blow knocked the breath from him, and pain from his already cracked ribs coursed through him like an electric shock. He could not make himself inhale; thought he would suffocate. Reached for his rifle. Through the dust he saw a boot kick it away.

Another foot pinned his arm to the floor. Hands grabbed him by his clothing, pulled him to his feet. Eyes glared through balaclavas. A punch to the stomach stopped his breathing again. He fought for air as another blow hit him in the cheek. Yammering in Pashto and Arabic. Gunshots and shouts. Someone slammed him against a wall. The black-clad face in front of him went out of focus as he lost consciousness.

WHEN PARSON CAME TO , he found himself tied to a chair, hands behind him. His right wrist burned, and someone had removed the splint. He saw no sign of the Hazara family.

Gold sat tied to a chair a few feet from him. A black hijab covered her hair. Her eyes were closed, and she looked almost serene but for the track of one tear. Realization crushed Parson like dungeon walls closing in. Nunez. A beheading on video. He began breathing heavily, hyperventilating. He remembered news coverage of a contractor’s murder by militants in Iraq. The television networks cut away when the knife came out, but radio news-casts let the sound play on. Three distinct screams, an eternity of twenty seconds. An audio feed from hell.

He panted hard and still could not catch his breath. A panic attack, he knew. So this is what happened to Nunez. That contractor. That reporter in Pakistan. Now us.

Parson struggled against his ropes and let out a long animal sound, more growl than scream. Gold opened her eyes and looked at him. Control, thought Parson. Try to be an officer. Don’t let her down again. You got nothing left but dignity.

A man wearing foreign military fatigues came in from the next room. He leaned his Dragunov rifle against the wall. So it’s you, thought Parson.

“There is no call for shouting,” the guerrilla said. Perfect English, British accent. Olive complexion. Black hair, shorter than that of the other insurgents. Also in contrast with the others, the man’s teeth were clean and straight. Dark eyes that regarded Parson as if drinking information from his clothing and injuries.

“I’m just doing my job,” Parson said. “You should know that.”

“I do. And I am doing mine.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Marwan,” the guerrilla said. “And who are you?”

Name, rank, service number, thought Parson. “Major Michael Parson, United States Air Force.”

“And how did an Air Force officer come to be walking through the wilderness of Afghanistan?”

“I think you know that.”

“I do,” Marwan said. “But you will tell me more.”

Parson closed his eyes. Felt out of breath again.

“What was your initial destination?”

Parson struggled for air. Rapid breaths. He cursed himself for letting his fear show.

“What was your initial destination?”