She had nursed in tragic, miserable public wards in Paris, and she had learned to hide her feelings well. Harder here, bitterly hard.
An hour later Mia left the village, a tall and long-striding figure in the middle of the column of weapon-laden men of the Hizbi-i-Islami mujahidin, and was swallowed in the pale dusk light.
The sun cascaded in gold over far mountains to the west as the helicopter wound along the thread of the Kabul river.
They flew high, more than a thousand metres, safe from ground level small arms fire.
Medev had waited nearly two hours at the officers' transportation shed at the military side of Kabul's airport before the helicopter was ready to fly. He was in lacklustre humour, always the same when he was leaving Ilya, going back to Jalalabad.
He could smell the scent of her body on his skin, he thought he could feel the taste again of her tongue in his mouth. A Colonel sat beside him in the hold of the Mi-4 troop carrier, beneath the pilot's cockpit. Behind the Colonel and Medev sat six conscripts of Mechanised Infantry. The Colonel offered Medev a slug of vodka from a hip flask. The conversation was desultory above the engine noise. Soon after take off, the sun slipped from sight.
It was a journey of an hour, going fast enough as Medev brooded on the agronomist's wife and five more weeks to be served in Afghanistan. One more visit to Kabul. One more afternoon with Ilya. Then the long flight on the Aeroflot back to Moscow, and Medev's back turned once and for all on this shitty place. Everyone believed in their own war, didn't they? It wasn't said out loud, but he supposed the Americans must have believed in their Vietnam. And the British in the South Atlantic, they would have believed in their war, although that was the reimposition of the colonialist regime. And the Israelis in the Lebanon. Medev believed in the war of Afghanistan, just wished most of the time that another bugger was there to fight it for him.
And he thought they were winning. Bloody slow, but they were winning. He had studied Vietnam. Sometimes he thought of the awfulness of fighting a war, Vietnam or Afghanistan, when you knew you were not winning. At least they were winning in Afghanistan. The helicopters were decisive, his helicopters, his Mi-24s.
'You're in helicopters?'
'I have a squadron of gunships, two flights,' Medev replied.
'Do they use them for Intelligence?' The Colonel grinned.
'We fly free fire reconnaissance.'
'No…no…Intelligence had a trick in Herat where I was before, using the helicopters.'
'We can be given assignments by Intelligence, if there is something particular.'
The Colonel looked at Medev as if unsure whether the Major beside him was play-acting dumb or merely stupid. 'Herat is difficult, close to the Iran border, they have the Khomeini disease there. It takes a rare power of persuasion to make the bandits talk under interrogation. Anything normal and they spit in your face. There was a helicopter squadron in Herat that cooperated in a most successful scheme for Intelligence.'
'What did they manage in Herat?' Medev felt the slow descent towards the Jalalabad navigation lights.
'They'd get hold of three of the bastards and put them in the back of a gunship and fly them up to a thousand metres. They'd throw the first one out, no questions, throw him out and let the others hear his squeal as he went out through the hatch. Sometimes the second isn't too sure if it's for real, if he has a doubt, he goes. The third always talks, that's what we found in Herat.'
Medev coughed. The vomit had risen in his throat. He swallowed hard, and wiped saliva from his lips with the sleeve of his tunic.
'I don't think we've tried that in Jalalabad.'
The helicopter landed, bounced on its four wheels, settled.
He heard the whine dissolve as the engines were cut. He undipped his seat harness, waited for the door to be opened.
He saw the perimeter lights of the Jalalabad airbase, and under the lights were the hoops of close coiled barbed wire.
The squadron's Adjutant, Captain Rostov, met him on the tarmac.
The Colonel had an entourage waiting, salutes and clicking boot heels. Medev had Rostov. A fat little creep. Not a flier, wouldn't know how to turn the engine, but good with the paperwork.
Medev shouldered his overnight grip and walked briskly past the Colonel's party. Away to his right, inside sand bag revetments was the line of Mi-24 helicopters that he commanded. Ahead of him were the lights of the Administration building of his squadron and the living quarters of his crews. Rostov followed, scurrying to keep up.
'What's happened?'
'Since you've been away?' Rostov sniggered. 'Hasn't been quiet.'
Medev punched the Captain's arm, punched it hard.
'You want the scandal first? Two Mig-25s came in this morning, testing the runway length or something, ground crew got at them. They have alcohol in the coolant and braking system of the 25. Ground crew were caught draining off the alcohol …'
'I don't believe it.' A gasp of astonishment from Medev.
'Truly, draining off the alcohol, one was already pissed, three in the MilPol cells. That's the scandal…The flight's back from Gardez…Alexei took it down you remember for a week, they're back and boasting their bloody tongues off. They hit a group four days ago, and they broke up an ambush this morning but the other lorries made it through, they reckon they really crapped on the ambush. Funny thing I heard about the hit four days ago, they reckon a rocket was fired at them…'
Medev had been listening quietly, happy to let Rostov chatter as they made their way to Administration. Now he turned his head sharply. 'What did he see?'
'If he'd seen anything he might have known what it was. Middle of the day, saw some movement, he was last in the flight, flash on the ground and didn't see what was fired, only the flash. Nothing hit him. He reckoned it was an RPG-7, that was the best he could do. Desperate, aren't they, if they're firing anti-tank rockets at helicopters?'
Medev knew the RPG-7. Effective range against a tank was 300 metres maximum. No guidance system, wasted against a helicopter. 'Couldn't be anything else.'
'Whatever it was, Alexei got them, blasted the arses off them.'
'He didn't go down?'
'Zapped them and got the hell out.'
'Couldn't be anything else because they don't have missiles.' They parted at Medev's door.
The image of his wife filled his mind, hurting him and blaming him. He never slept well when he came back from Kabul…in five weeks time he could forget the whole bastard place. He looked from the window of his small room. He saw the blazing line of the perimeter's lights and a speeding patrol jeep and a sentry with a dog. He drew the curtains and started to undress. He saw the photograph of his wife and his son.
Five more weeks.
Chapter 6
Rossiter leaned across the table at lunchtime, a meal of tinned spaghetti hoops and toast, held his chin in his hands and took the deep gulp of breath to prepare himself for a rehearsed speech.
'It's bloody stupid, Barney. It's imbecile, it's not even professional.'
'I know that, Mr Rossiter.'
'It's the way we go on at home. I don't want to bring my bloody home to Peshawar.'
'I'm sorry, Mr Rossiter.'
Barney had seen the weight drift off Rossiter's face, seen his back straighten in relief. Barney wondered when he had last apologized to a grown man, he didn't think he could remember. There might have been times when he had used a tactical apology to extricate himself from a difficulty. He doubted if since he had become an adult he had ever apologised with a wide and open face to another man. It was not his way.