'What in Christ's name is the mother doing here?'
'There are many problems associated with flying in Laghman province.'
'I would remind you, Major, there are problems for all of us when we operate in Laghman.'
'The problems of helicopters are acute in the high ranges.'
'Acute but not insurmountable. I am sure your fliers are quite capable of meeting our requirements.'
The Colonel General flicked his pen irritably back and forth on his table. Major Medev sat opposite him.
'My fliers are the best.'
'Be realistic, Medev. We are all concerned with equipment losses, we are all concerned with casualties. You have no greater right to concern than a major of infantry, of artillery, of armour. It is dangerous for the Mi-24 to fly in the valleys north of here. It is dangerous for the infantry in their personnel carriers, for the artillery in their bivouacs, for the tanks on the river bed roads. I cannot send the infantry and the artillery and the armour into the mountains of Laghman, if first I have to tell their officers that their colleagues from Frontal Aviation believe it is too dangerous to fly above those valleys. You understand me, Medev?'
The flush burned on Medev's skin. He had allowed himself to be out-manoeuvred, then scolded. Perhaps he was too close to his men, perhaps he cared too much for the magic of the clean casualty sheet.
'I was merely making the point that at altitude…'
'The point is made. Now, the resupply of the bandits reaches a peak before the first snows close the upper mountain passes in Laghman. They have two, three weeks to bring their materials from Pakistan. I have a direct order from the Taj Beg to frustrate the transshipment of those supplies.'
'They are taken through the high passes, at the maximum altitude of the helicopter.'
'I know where they are taken, Major.'
'In the high passes we have grave difficulties with turbulence in the airstream, and the thermal effects can be dramatic, a helicopter can be sucked up…'
'Each time I make a statement, Major, you interrupt me. This is not a conversation, it is a briefing. If you feel that your pilots, under your leadership, do not have the necessary confidence…'
'Forgive me, Colonel General. There will be no failings from my squadron.'
'How long does your tour have to run?'
Medev hesitated. 'I think a month, something like four weeks.'
'I imagine you know to the day how long you have to serve here. I think each man in Afghanistan, each man of a hundred thousand knows exactly how many days he has to serve. You are not alone. But I give you some advice. You have had an excellent tour. Do not spoil that in the remaining four weeks you are with us. You understand my advice?'
'And I thank you for it, Colonel General.'
'You won't fail me, Major Medev?'
'There is no possibility of failure, Colonel General.'
'I am gratified. Your own commander would have given you these instructions if he had not been in Kabul. They are cleared with him, of course. Your helicopters should be grounded for the next forty-eight hours for extensive maintenance, after that there may not be the chance. You'll be flying the arses off them. There will be an airborne battalion on stand by, three hours …that's all.'
Medev saluted, and turned for the door.
He walked out into the brightness of the afternoon. The light bounced at him from the runway. A fighter bomber roared away, smoke and flame belching from the engine exhausts, then waddled into the sky weighed down by the bombs and rockets clinging to the belly and wing pods. The taste of burned fuel settled on his tongue. He spat onto the concrete. In a neat line on the far side of the runway from Division's headquarters were his helicopters, safe behind their sand bag revetments and wire. The Colonel General knew nothing of flying in the high mountain valleys of Laghman, knew nothing of a helicopter straining for altitude at 4000 metres, surrounded by mountain cliffs. Impossible to exercise the control needed for contour flying at that altitude. What did the Colonel General know? The Colonel General knew nothing.
Each day Mia asked the same question. 'When do I go forward?'
Each day she hunted down the leaders of the column. 'I am supposed to be in Panjshir, not in southern Laghman. If there is fighting in Panjshir then that is where I should be. If there is fighting then there will be people who are hurt, if they are hurt then they need my help.'
Each day she pleaded. Each day she achieved nothing, beyond the promise that news would come soon giving permission for her to go forward.
'You don't care about the casualties, not about the children, not about the women, you don't care what happens to the children and the women. All you care about is your own fucking martyrdom.'
Each day they smiled at her, because when she was angry and her French was fast gabbled then none of them could understand her.
In the afternoon, each day, she climbed the hillside above the village and sat under an old rooted tree and picked herself flowers and sometimes made a chain of them and watched the children who shouted at the goats and the sheep flocks, and wondered why there was a war, and where there was a war. Sometimes she would unbutton her blouse and feel the sun against her skin and cry aloud in her frustration that the war was outside her reach.
It was more than an hour since he had last seen them. The first shadows were falling and heaving the great cataracts of grey onto the rock surface. He was sweating, and when he had walked all day it was usual for the stump of his left arm to be rich agony and the straps of the claw to work weals into his skin. And his feet hurt, boots filled with grit because the soles were adrift from the toe cap. Bloody Soviet boots. Each time he had himself a Soviet and a chance to get to the body he always looked first to see if the bastard was size 10. Each eight weeks he needed a Soviet stiff, size 10.
One more corner, one more outcrop around which the tracks of the men and the mules disappeared. He was noisier now. The lightness of his tread had gone hours earlier.
He turned the corner, he could see the tracks' line stretching ahead of him, falling towards the lights of Jalalabad. He didn't want to go down to the river plain. He wanted to stay high, but the tracks led down, so Schumack followed.
'Where are you going?'
The voice boomed out. A big voice, a voice of command. The words in English.
Startled, Schumack spun, and ducked.
'I said, where are you going?'
The man was sitting easily on a rock a dozen feet above the path.
'Who are you?' Schumack said.
'Let's start with who you are.'
Schumack gazed up into the fair stubbled face, saw the camouflage smears on the cheeks. He saw that the man was not armed.
'Schumack, Maxie Schumack.'
'You're far from home, Mr Schumack. I'm Barney Crispin.'
'You're not adjacent yourself, Mr Crispin.'
'What's your business?'
'Same as yours, I fancy.'
'Why are you following me?'
Schumack watched as the man slid down from the rock, landed on the track, slapped the dirt from his blanket.
'I was lonely.'
'That's a piss poor answer.'
'And a piss poor question. What's on the mules?'
'Go whistle, Schumack.'
Barney turned away, set off briskly down the track. From a distance Schumack started again to trail him.
Chapter 10