“Did you hear me, Opa?”
“I heard you. I know little of such matters, so you must do what you deem is best.” His grandfather shook his head, his heavy gray beard slowly swinging back and forth. “They think the group is stronger than the individual, but it is not so. Because the group is only as strong as the weakest individual. A good person can beat any group.”
“Then you believe I will succeed?” Feteror asked.
“Even in the war,” the old man went on as if he had not heard a word. “The generals used us as if none of us mattered. They threw us against the Germans like so many pieces of garbage to be tossed onto the scrap heap. They’d keep our artillery fire so close that we lost as many of our own as the Germans did to our shells. But what did the generals care about us? We weren’t them. More importantly, from their perspective, they weren’t us. They had a goal and we were the means to achieve that goal.”
Feteror stared at the construct of his grandfather. Zivon had developed this persona out of the memories that Feteror had poured into the computer, but in the past year or so, Feteror had slowly become aware that the persona had grown beyond the memories. It used words his grandfather had never known, but underneath, Feteror still felt that the essence of the construct was his grandfather.
“And we did win,” Opa continued. “But what did we win?”
“You defeated the Nazis,” Feteror said.
“Yes, we won that” the old man acknowledged. “But what was the total result? The entirety? We thought we were fighting for good.” His withered hand swept around, taking in what Feteror knew was supposed to be the farm. “We produce less now than we did when we worked the land, our land, with just a sickle and horses to pull the carts. Sometimes you can think you win but actually lose if the price you pay for winning is too high. You can lose your soul.”
“What— ” Feteror began, but the old man cut him off.
“I want to know what happened to you, grandson. Tell me of your last battle.” He waved the hand about. “I do not understand all this. I must know where you have come from.”
That memory was in Zivon also, a recollection that Feteror was loath to go into. Feteror felt a spasm pass through a nonexistent stomach, his mind reacting.
The glade faded and he and Opa were over a village set in the mountains. Feteror knew the when and where: Afghanistan, August 29, 1986. Feteror realized he didn’t have control over this playback, that his grandfather would see the true extent of what had happened:
A dry wind blew down off the mountain peaks that surrounded the valley, kicking up small dust storms. Feteror pulled the cloth tighter over his face and narrowed his eyes as his men drew closer, stepping onto the dirt road that served as the village’s main thoroughfare.
Feteror knew that because of the war, the people of the village had seen much pain and suffering but to them that was simply the way life was. The Soviets had invaded Afghanistan seven years ago and still the war dragged on, but he had learned that it was not of much concern, since if it was not the Russians, then the people would be fighting another village or some other foreign power. War was an integral part of life for the mujahideen who controlled the countryside, and it mattered little to them who claimed rulership of the country in Kabul.
The mujahideen did, however, enjoy the new weapons that the Americans were sending in through Pakistan, especially the Stinger missiles. Just a week ago, a passing band of mujahideen had downed a Russian helicopter flying by low in the valley. When the villagers had come upon the crash site, they’d found eight dead Russians. Feteror had a good idea of what had happened next from other villages he’d raided. The Afghanis had cut the heads off and brought them back to the village to be used later when playing the Afghani version of polo, the heads replacing the ball in the Western game. The game, of course, would have to wait until the men of the village returned. Most of the men were gone, either dead or off fighting. Feteror knew there was little concern in the village about the Russians or their Afghani Army lackeys because the village didn’t sit astride any route of communication nor did it have any resource of great value. The war had been going on for long enough now that the Soviets no longer sought out conflict, but stayed inside their fortified positions, fighting only when forced to. Feteror was counting on the villagers’ complacent attitude to get his disguised band of men into their midst.
Thus, when the small group of eight men was spotted walking up the valley floor toward the village in the early morning light by a young boy tending his flock, there was not much concern. The elder, summoned out of his house, could see that the men coming up the valley were dressed in the traditional robes and turban of the mujahideen fighter and that they were moving openly. As they approached, he ordered the eleven remaining families to contribute some food so that the fighters might be nourished as they passed through.
It was too late when the elder turned to yell for his youngest son to get his weapon, as Feteror’s men whipped aside their robes. AK-74 assault rifles began firing, killing the few villagers who had weapons. Resistance was destroyed in less than thirty seconds.
The elder had not moved throughout the entire time. Feteror knew he knew that to do so would invite death and his duty was to the village and the people as a whole. Feteror’s men spread out, mopping up.
Feteror walked directly toward the elder, his rifle held loosely in strong hands, while yelling commands to his men in Russian. With one hand, he ripped off the turban he had been wearing. He pulled a pale blue beret out of his robe and set it on his head. The other men did the same.
The elder raised his hands wide apart. Feteror brought the weapon up and fired, the round ripping through the elder’s right leg, knocking him to the ground.
“Any other men?” Feteror asked in Pashto, the language of the mujahideen, which surprised the elder.
“No.”
“Order everyone into the street. You have ten seconds. I will kill anyone who hides or runs.”
Ignoring his pain, the elder yelled at the top of his lungs, ordering all into the street.
There was a burst of automatic fire as the middle son of the elder’s brother ran out, firing an old rifle, and was cut down in a hail of bullets from the Russians, his body tumbling down the street like a rag doll. The old man’s black eyes watched this, but he said nothing, nor did he show any sign of the pain radiating up from his leg.
Slowly the rest of the villagers came out until there were seventeen women, twenty-two children, and four other old men standing under the watchful guns of the invaders.
“Is that everyone?” Feteror asked.
“Yes.”
“The men are all away fighting.” Feteror made it a statement, not a question. “You thought yourself safe here, high in the mountains, didn’t you?”
The elder remained quiet, feeling the deep throb of pain from the wound on his leg.
“My name is Major Feteror.” He was a slight man, his body lean like a blade under the robes he wore. But it was his face that the elder focused on. There were scars running down the left side, and he had ice-blue eyes under straight blond hair. Those eyes worried the elder. Feteror reached up and touched the beret. “We are Spetsnatz. Special Forces. Your fighters call us the ‘black soldiers.’ You would do well to— ”