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Chapter eighteen
Silas
“Hedge!They’rereadyfor ya, brother.”
I raised my hand in acknowledgment and shoveled the last of my food into my face as fast as I could. I didn’t really taste it as it went down, but most days, that was for the best. The rubbery eggs and soggy bacon filled my belly, and that was all I ever asked of them, so flavor was not a necessity.
Woulda been nice, though.
Washing the whole meal down with a mouthful of strong, room temperature tea—because only an idiot would risk drinking the sludge they called coffee here—then I stood, taking my mess tray to the dirty section and heading out into the hot morning sunshine.
Waiting outside the mess tent was Liz Beecher, my charge for the day. She smiled when she saw me, her Press flack vest looking bulky against her small frame.
“Nice to see you again, Sergeant Harrison.”
“And you, ma’am,” I answered, setting my helmet on my head and buckling the chin strap. “You ready to ride with me again today?” We were headed to a village just outside Helmand province to meet with another of Liz’s contacts; she had a whole little black book of people willing to talk to her. It was honestly amazing the way she cultivated relationships in places like this.
“Always,” she answered with a smile. “But don’t call me ma’am.” She whacked my arm with the back of her hand. “It makes me feel old.”
I shook my head; she was old enough to be my mother, but there was nothing old about her. Liz was spry and witty, her dry British humor one of my favorite things about her. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her exasperated sigh turned into a laugh, and Liz shook her head as she climbed into the back of the Humvee, her cameraman, Ted, taking the seat beside her.
I made my way around to the passenger side of the truck, getting in beside my regular driver, Corporal Adams, already at the wheel.
“Morning, Sergeant,” he said stiffly, his throat bobbing with a heavy swallow as he prepared to drive us away from the base and out onto the dusty road.
“Adams,” I answered, trying to be cool. I could see that the kid was shook but trying not to show it.
Truth was, we were all a little on edge these days. We’d received word that Taliban insurgents had moved yesterday to try and take Lashkar Gah, the largest city between us and Kandahar, and it had everyone acting squirrelly.
“We got no pressure today, Adams,” I began, watching as he nodded jerkily and started the truck. “All we have to do is drive. It’s Liz here who has the hard job.” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder in her direction. She was already on the phone, talking to some contact or another, as she chased down the details for her story. I cradled my rifle in my lap and watched the landscape go by as we got farther from Shindand Air Base. The two other Humvees that traveled in our convoy with us, one in front and one behind, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and making it almost impossible to see anything.
Not that there was much to see; everything in this country appeared to be the same color: beige. It was something you heard complaints about at the Air Base often because the incoming pilots had a hard time seeing the runway in the daylight, blending as it did with the rest of the landscape.
Made for some interesting landings, that was for sure.
It was a five-hour drive to Lashkar Gah, but we weren’t going the whole way. When Liz hung up the phone she she gave some quiet instructions to Ted, the two of them planning how their interview would be handled. We were headed to a meeting point in the small town of Delaram, at a local bazaar just off the highway.
“Good thing she’s so tough,” Adams tried to joke.
“Just relax and enjoy the quiet, Adams,” I replied, then radioed the other vehicles, checking to make sure everything was still copacetic.
As we drove, Liz and I chatted, trading stories of our lives back home. Not that I had shit all for stories—every interesting thing that had ever happened to me had happened after I’d left Texas—but she had plenty to say about her wife and their life together in London, so I tried to reciprocate as best I could.
Most of my good times had involved hanging out with Stone, us mucking around on back roads, barn parties, and bonfires, where we drank too many beers and tried to get laid...most times unsuccessfully.
Listening to Liz talk about traveling to Paris for a weekend getaway with her wife or exploring an old Scottish castle in the highlands only served to remind me just how limited my life had been. I was nearly thirty years old, and I had only seen the world from a variety of different military bases.
It was honestly pretty damn depressing.
As we neared Delaram, more and more structures began to crop up on the sides of the road, different styles and designs depending on when they were built. One of the most interesting things about Afghanistan, in my opinion, was the mix of history; most of the bases that our troops had been assigned to had actually started life as a Soviet military base, built way back in the ’60s.
Delaram was no different, with its round stone tower standing in what used to be a Marine Corps Forward Operating Base before it was transferred back to the Afghan National Army last year.
We weren’t headed in that direction, however. As we approached the town, Adams took a right, our carefully planned route winding through the dusty streets of a small residential neighborhood. The convoy slowed to a crawl, needing to avoid hitting any people or livestock in the narrow streets.
The lead vehicle came to a sudden stop, Adams hitting the breaks hard to keep from slamming into the back of him, and I was instantly on alert.
“No one move,” I said, my eyes scanning the buildings around us. “Liz, where did you get this guy’s info?”
“He reached out to me,” she answered, her voice tight. “I received a text message with the time and location for the meet. He said he had information on a planned kidnapping of a high-level target.” I noticed Ted had his camera up already, trying to capture everything. “I got all the proper clearances, Harrison.”
“I know.” She would have had to; it was the only way we’d have been given leave to come out today.
Still, something about this didn’t feel right.
Where just a few blocks ago the street had been full of people and animals, shoppers haggling in the market and kids chasing each other around, now there was only silence.
Suddenly, the radio squawked to life. “We got a roadblock up here,” came the driver of the forward Humvee. “Looks like an overturned cart of some kind. Let’s back it up.”
“Roger that,” the rear vehicle responded.
Adams shifted the truck into reverse, swinging around to look behind us as the last truck in the convoy started moving backward.
Suddenly, an explosion rocked the street, dust and debris falling around our vehicle, pelting us with chunks of stone and dirt.
“Contact rear!” the radio shouted, but I no longer knew who was speaking.
All around us the street was suddenly flooded with men, their faces covered, but their hands full of weapons, most of which looked to be AK-47s, more remnants of the Soviet occupation from over fifty years ago. They swarmed the trucks, shouting and banging on the windows, screaming their anger at us with words I didn’t understand.
“What do we do, Sarge?” Adams asked, the panic evident in his voice.
“We get the hell outta here!” I replied, reaching for the radio. “Back the fuck up!” I shouted into the mouthpiece. Looking behind me, I saw the driver nod, then turn around himself to try and find a way out of the mess we’d landed in. The buildings surrounding us were low, but still made of solid stone. If the way forward was blocked, then we had no choice but to go back.
I could hear more instructions coming from the radio, the forward Humvee relaying our situation and coordinates back to base, but looking at the crowd surrounding us, I wasn’t at all sure they were gonna make it in time.
Adams started creeping us backward, the mob preventing him from moving very far at all, but it was better than standing still.
Suddenly, out of the constant wave of shouted words, I understood one, my minimal comprehension of Pashto finally coming to my aid. It was a word that was being shouted over and over and it chilled me to the bone: woman.
“Liz,” I said tersely, turning to her and seeing the look of abject fear on her face. “Get down. Get on the floorboards and get out of sight.” She nodded quickly and ducked down next to Tom’s feet. The camera man was still recording, although his face was noticeably pale as well. Turning to Adams, I said, “Corporal, I don’t care how you do it, but get us the fuck outta here. Now.”
