They were now within range of the giant arc lights that swept the area round the gate, the light bouncing off the sweat on their faces. Any other day, the guards in the towers would have seen them. Loudspeakers would have ordered them to halt and identify themselves. But this wasn’t any day.
A brother will prepare our welcome, the Leader had told them. The gates will open: no guards will fire. They must wait for a signal to approach. Three flashes five seconds apart, and the same a minute later. They were all commanded to watch so no one would miss it. On the third they were to move forward, like a detachment of real ANA soldiers returning from a perimeter patrol. Never mind that they were on foot and it was night. The ANA were famous among the other nationalities for doing strange things.
Beyond the wire, the lights of the airfield shone with a ghostly glow. Even at night they appeared to shimmer, the heat of the day still rising. Below they could make out the sharp outlines of the Ospreys, the Huey gunships, Cobras and Harrier jump jets, loaded with rockets and bombs. These machines — unassailable, so the enemy believed — were their targets.
Ayna saw it first. Three flashes a few metres to the left of the gate. He tugged Isa’s tunic and Isa squeezed the forearm of the Leader.
Who is he, the man on the other side? Ayna had asked. How is he our brother if he is with the enemy?
We have many brothers everywhere, came the Leader’s reply. They are biding their time, waiting to act. As well as courage, they have great patience, which is why we will win and the glory will be ours.
Now they advanced again, in twos, as they had been instructed, like tired soldiers after a long day. But none of them was tired. Their hearts were beating fiercely. What they all knew was that this was their last march, and that the end would be soon — and spectacular.
5
Tom set a course for the gym near the perimeter of the flight line. He jogged down a street lined with rows of Portakabins occasionally interrupted by the odd ISO container. The pervasive whiff of aviation fuel hung in the air along with a thin clouding of dust. He’d known bases of all kinds around the world, but none on this scale. This was a vast fortress capable of handling an entire invasion force. Its sheer size alone should have been enough to get the message across to the enemy about who was boss round here. And despite all the talk about a phased withdrawal, construction was still going on, the runways being extended, rumour had it, so B-52s could be based there in the event of war with Iran.
Yet Tom felt its very enormity, along with its arsenal of weaponry, created a false sense of security. Last week they had deployed to a forward patrol base, under canvas; no air-conditioned gym, just a desert rose to piss in and furniture improvised from wooden pallets and the wire frames of the Hescos. At least you knew what was at stake out in the field. He preferred it to this prefabricated metal city in the desert, a giant, very costly white elephant that the bean-counters in Whitehall and Washington longed to be rid of. But despite the politicians’ proclamations of ‘mission accomplished’ and the start of a phased handover to the Afghan National Army, to Tom it didn’t look like this long war was anywhere near done.
A moonless sky hung over the camp, the moisture in the air reflecting the dull orange glow that came from the floodlights. At the end of the street of Portakabins a wide open space bordered on the USAF maintenance compound. To the left, about fifty metres away, was the South Gate, and straight ahead the gym, about another three minutes if he upped his pace. A small detachment of troops crossed the end of the street and turned towards the airfield. Just from their size Tom could tell they were ANA. Generations of deprivation and the habitual lack of decent nutrition had kept their average height several inches below that of the other nationalities. Once they had cleared he saw another figure in front of the gym, bareheaded, carrying a torch but no obvious weapon. The figure lit a cigarette, then lifted his head to blow a long plume of smoke up into the night.
Qazi.
That morning Tom had witnessed him being fêted by the US camp commander, Major General Carthage, in front of a gathering that included a number of press — quite a large number.
‘You are looking at the future, gentlemen.’ Carthage, towering over Qazi, patted him on the shoulder in a way that made Tom squirm, as if he was his pet. Qazi stood expressionless, with a faraway look in his eyes that revealed nothing.
‘Second Lieutenant Amhamid Qazi, like many in the ANA, enlisted out of patriotism and devotion to his country. As a member of the first Commando Battalion of the 3rd Brigade Quick Reaction Force he sure has shown us what he’s made of and just what the ANA is capable of doing.’
Tom had felt himself cringe even more as he watched Carthage pour treacly praise over the Afghan.
‘… and then his weapon became inoperable. What did he do? Did he stop? The hell he did. He charged right on, leading his men up the ridge, heedless of the enemy fire all around…’
After Carthage had come to the end of his sermon, Qazi had addressed the group in perfect English. ‘My companion soldiers were very brave and energetic, and they are very eager to bring peace and stability to the area, to Afghanistan and to the region as a whole.’
Carthage had started to clap. He was keen to get on with his day, but Qazi wasn’t done. Carthage lowered his hands and kept smiling.
‘In fact, sir, Afghanistan’s forces will soon be in a position to defend every province and not allow any foreign invaders to use our country ever again.’
Carthage’s lipless smile twitched at the edges, working hard to pretend he hadn’t caught the thinly veiled slight.
Now Qazi appeared to be alone, finishing his cigarette under the ghostly orange of the floodlights. He turned and levelled his gaze as Tom approached.
‘As-salamu’ alaykum.’
‘Peace be with you too,’ replied Qazi in English.
‘Saw you in front of the cameras today.’
‘I do what I can.’ He shrugged as if he didn’t want to be reminded and took another long pull on the roll-up pinched between his fingers as he wiped his other hand on his thigh. ‘The major general was very generous.’ He snorted. ‘I saw on CNN that the war’s getting closer to home for you now.’
‘Sad, but true. The only way this ends is if we stand together.’
Qazi looked blank.
‘Shona be shona.’
Qazi grinned, recognizing the ISAF motto in Dari. ‘“Shoulder to shoulder.” Of course.’ He turned back to the end of his cigarette.
Tom had learned a fair bit about the ANA on his tours. They were a mixed bunch, from various tribal backgrounds, and not by any means always loyal to the government. Some pragmatic families had hedged their bets by sending one son to the ANA and another to fight with the Taliban. But the biggest attraction was the $240 a month, not bad in a country where pay averaged $614 a year.
Like soldiers the world over, they complained about everything — it was part of the job description — but they had now actually begun to look more like soldiers. They didn’t always use body armour and helmets but they had them, along with boots. They told Tom they didn’t like the American-issued M16s and, when he asked why, explained they weren’t strong enough: the Russian AKs they were used to didn’t break when they used them to hit people.