'There's two more magazines for you.'
'Thank you. You've given us food, you've given me a weapon. I've nothing to give you.'
'You've plenty.' Schumack laughed. 'You'll give me the happiest moment of my life. You'll hear me cry laughing when you blast a helicopter mother.'
His laughter bubbled in the quiet of the cave and Barney managed a smile and, sitting apart from the two men, Gul Bahdur could not understand their enjoyment of the moment.
In the morning they came down to a village.
The two men and the mules stayed back from the mud brick buildings marooned in the cultivated fields. There was no chance of a secret approach to the village, the dogs howled a warning of their coming. The boy went forward.
Barney and Schumack said little to each other as they waited. They had not spoken when Barney had loaded the mules at the cave's mouth, and Schumack had not pressed forward to see the markings on the tubes. Between such men understanding came fast.
When they had started out Schumack had led, not because he tried to assume control, but because it was better that a man not leading a mule be on point a hundred metres ahead.
The boy returned with a bucket of brackish water for the mules, and with bread for the men.
After they had left the village they were all the time descending, following the shepherds' paths that headed for the ribbon of villages beside the river. The boy had pointed out to Barney the grey and white scar of Jalalabad cut into the green beside the river. The line they took would bring them to the river some eight or nine miles short of the town.
As they walked, there was no scent of war. Finches darting in the scrub bushes, butterflies hovering on their path, the far away chime of a goat's bell. Mid morning, a high sun, small shadows under their feet, and Gul Bahdur had come level with Barney's shoulder.
The boy looked into Barney's face. 'Why do you give yourself to this man?'
Barney blinked back at the boy. 'What do you mean?'
'He is of no use to you.'
'Who is of use to me?'
'The mujahidin, my people, they are of use to you. This man is unimportant to you. Without the mujahidin, the fighters of the Resistance, you can do nothing.'
'That is true.'
'When we climb into the mountains of Laghman you will meet the real fighting people of the mujahidin, not the people in Peshawar who play at the fighting, you will meet the real warriors of the Revolution.'
'What are you telling me?'
'I am warning you that the fighters in Laghman will be careful of you. Do not expect them to fall on their knees just because you bring them eight Redeyes.'
'I know that.'
'You are a foreigner and an unbeliever. To some of the fighters you will seem like an adventurer, to others you will be an exploiter. You must win the respect of the fighters.'
'And Schumack?'
'It is good that he has fed us, and it is good that he has armed you, but he cannot help you to win the respect of the fighters. Do you know why you must have the respect of the fighters, Barney?'
'You're going to tell me, Gul Bahdur.'
Gul Bahdur ploughed on, ignoring the interruption. 'When you fire the Redeye and you kill a helicopter, then the Soviets will bomb the nearest village. When you kill another helicopter then they will bomb another village. For each helicopter, another village. The men whose respect you must win are the men from those villages. Because of your Redeye the bombs will fall on their families, their homes, their animals.'
'I know that.'
'That man cannot help you to win the respect you must have. You are not angry with me for saying this?'
The boy looked keenly up at Barney. Barney slapped his hand onto Gul Bahdur's shoulder. There was relief on the boy's face.
'Barney, you,are going to kill one helicopter, take the pieces from it, then go?'
'Yes.'
'Barney, why did you bring eight Redeyes, for one helicopter?'
Barney walked on without replying. They were dropping down over the hill slopes towards the Kabul river.
Abruptly the mule that Gul Bahdur led came to a stop.
The boy pulled at the rope attached to the bridle, the mule eased its weight back and braced its rear legs against the pressure. The boy tugged hard, viciously, and the mule was immovable. Its eyes were fierce, obstinate in their refusal. Barney had halted, turned to watch. He saw the way the mule had taken the strain from its front right leg as if to shelter the hoof. The boy picked up a handful of stones and started to throw them at the rear legs of the mule. The teeth were bared at the boy, but the mule moved neither forward nor back. Barney whistled twice, sharp and clear, and ahead of them Schumack stopped on the track. Barney felt their vulnerability. The boy slapped the haunches of the mule with his fist, but the animal would not move. Barney cursed. He gave the rope of his own mule to the boy and bent to examine the right foreleg of the animal. The hoof flashed in a kick close to his head.
'It'll be a stone,' Schumack said from behind him. 'It'll be tender. Let it rest a bit, then we'll get it out.'
Barney looked up into the clear blue of the skies. He saw a hawk circling, up in the wind swirls. The hawk gave him the thought of the helicopter. A dozen yards from the path there was a shallow cliff and a slight rock overhang and a tree grew against the cliff. He led the way to this shelter.
Schumack said, 'If we rest him half an hour he'll be calm, we can handle him after that.'
Together they urged the mule off the path. Barney sank down, closed his eyes, pulled his cap down over his forehead. He heard the whirr of the flies close to his skin, felt the brush of the legs around his mouth. It was a drowsy warm heat without the breezes of the upper hillsides. Barney's head was nodding. Schumack lay full length on his back, perhaps asleep, perhaps awake, unmoving.
It was the boy who heard the footfall. His hand caught at Barney's arm. Schumack had seen the boy's movement, sat upright with his rifle held across his thighs.
The footsteps came fast, the figure came into Barney's view. Barney remembered the idiot with the shambling limbs and the spittle smile and the wide eyes. Now the same clothes and the same features, but a fast and wary stride and the head bent low to follow the mule trail and a heavy pack on his back. The man stopped where the mules' hoofmarks had left the path. His head spun to seek the answer. He saw the tethered mules beside the cliff face, he saw Barney and Schumack and the boy. A cracked sound broke from his throat, anger and astonishment and fear. For a second he was rooted, then he turned and started to run back up the path the way that he had come.
Schumack was cat fast. Off the ground, onto the path, the left arm raised as a bridge for the rifle barrel, the snap of the Safety, the aim, the single shot.
The man who had played an idiot fell, sledge-hammered in full stride — smashed down onto the dirt path.
The shot blitzed the quiet from the trees.
In the pack they found a Soviet army radio transmitter. Schumack put his heel into it. Sewn into an inner pocket and close to the bloodied exit wound, they found a Parcham Faction Youth cadre card. Schumack ripped it to small pieces. The pack was earth dirty as if it had been buried. A chill recognition for Barney that the idiot had seen him, a European, had followed him, would have reported that he would reach a certain village, would have broadcast his knowledge. He remembered the vantage point from which he had watched the attack on the village, and the tears of the boy. His estimated time of arrival in that village had dictated the hour of the strike. Schumack spoke of the idiot. Barney sucked the air into his lungs. And, Christ…Schumack had been fast — faster than him.