“They lit us up pretty good,” Parson said. “But I don’t think we were who they wanted.” He explained about the missing boys.
“The Taliban has used child soldiers before,” a CENTCOM colonel said. “But they were recruited out of madrassas in Pakistan. Taking them by force is something new.”
As Parson listened, he found foam cups and poured coffee from a pot placed atop a stack of MRE cartons. He handed one to Rashid and drank from the other. The coffee had gone bitter from too much time on the hot plate.
“This stuff sucks,” Parson said.
“Indeed it does,” a major at Bagram said. Parson had meant the coffee, but he agreed with the major’s statement.
“Some Taliban rank and file have taken us up on the amnesty program,” the colonel said. “And even a few of their commanders have put down arms. But this seems like two steps back. It’s hard to see how this fits in.”
Parson didn’t care how it fit in. Divining the intentions of terrorists seemed a waste of time. Analysts fretted over how to interpret a statement, how to view an action. To Parson, the only way to view the Taliban was through crosshairs—which he’d done more than once.
Rashid sipped his coffee and frowned. Parson knew how the Afghan pilot felt this morning. He’d lost a crew member and an aircraft. That was a special pain Parson well understood. But the man still had a job to do, and Parson figured the best thing was to get him back in the air as soon as possible. At the moment, Rashid twirled his lighter between his fingers like his mind was somewhere else and he wanted a cigarette.
The major in Bagram excused himself from the teleconference, then returned. “Intel shop says Al Jazeera has a new video from the bad guys,” he said. “We’ll try to put it up if you like.”
“Please do,” the colonel from MacDill said.
“Yes, sir.”
Parson looked at Rashid and the intel officer, shrugged. The screen went to snow, and when the picture returned, it showed a bearded man in white robes and a black turban. No salt in his beard; he looked to be in his thirties. On the wall behind him hung a green flag. Two AK-47s leaned against the wall, beside another weapon Parson had not seen in terrorist videos before: a curved Arabian sword, called a saif, resting in its scabbard. Silk tassels dangled from the hilt. The scabbard’s chape and locket gleamed of old silver. The man in front of the weapons spoke in accented but fluent English.
“With great regret we note that some of our former Taliban brothers have capitulated to the crusaders,” he said. “They have entered talks with the puppet government in Kabul, which is religiously forbidden. Some have announced they will cease offensive operations due to the natural disaster.
“We view these measures as apostasy and declare these former brothers kafirs. The earthquake was an act of God, a holy punishment for cooperation with infidels. Therefore, we forbid any acceptance of relief from infidel nations. Likewise, we forbid the pigs and monkeys of Jewish and Christian aid organizations from entering the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. God alone shall provide according to His will.”
The man reached for the sword, drew it from the scabbard. Engraving ran the length of the blade—words in Arabic that Parson could not read. He’d seen such weapons on display in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. Some of them were hundreds of years old and fetched high prices from collectors.
“In addition,” the man said, running his thumb along the flat of the blade, “we shall strengthen our numbers with the youth of Afghanistan. We shall redouble our jihad under the symbol of the Black Crescent and the sword of Islam. This holy weapon has been blessed by God and shall never know defeat.”
The video then cut to a graphic: a black sliver of moon against a green background, two swords crossed in front. Well, Parson thought, at least now we know our enemy. One crazy enough to bring a sword to a gunfight.
“Bastard,” Rashid mumbled. A word Parson had taught him.
“Who is that dipshit?” Parson asked.
“We don’t know,” the major said. “And we’ve never heard of a group called Black Crescent. A splinter organization, apparently.”
“I guess the Taliban was too moderate for them,” the colonel said.
“Well, I saw last night what he means about strengthening numbers,” Parson said.
“No doubt,” the colonel said. “Problem is, we can’t guard every village. We were stretched thin even before the earthquake.”
“How about ISR assets?” Parson asked. He’d take all the intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance he could get. Keep an eye on things, at least.
“The Predators have a pretty high ops tempo already,” the colonel said. “I’ll check, but I can’t promise anything.”
“What about taskings for the Afghan Air Force?” Parson asked.
“I wouldn’t expect that to change,” the colonel said. “Get the supplies where they need to go.”
Parson had mixed feelings about that. He wanted somehow to chase after these Black Crescent lowlifes. But the pallets of relief supplies stacking up at Mazar and the other airfields couldn’t do anybody any good sitting on the tarmac. Maybe the best thing for Rashid would be to take a new Mi-17, fill it up with rice, potatoes, and cooking oil, and go fly a mercy mission. Rashid came from a culture and a religion Parson would never understand. But Rashid was a guy. A crew dog. Parson could relate to that part of him. Nothing better for a crew dog than a good day’s work with his buds. Especially if at the end of that day he could think about how people would eat that night because he had flown them some food.
That video, however, sucked away any satisfaction Parson might have felt about a relief flight. What kind of sword-wielding asshole would tell those people they couldn’t have the food?
Parson knew such people existed. Very early in his career, he’d flown loads of Unimix into Somalia. The stuff didn’t look appetizing. Unimix consisted mainly of corn flour and soybeans, with the smell and appearance of cattle feed. But dangerously malnourished people could eat a porridge made of it and not throw it up. Then, as they got stronger, their stomachs could tolerate real food again.
Those missions purified him, Parson had believed. Nullified a few of his sins and justified the space he took up on the planet. The Somalis would help push the pallets of Unimix off the airplane and then dance a little jig, perhaps a dance of gratitude, of happiness. But later, Parson learned most of that food had just lined the pockets of warlords. The end result was a failed military intervention in a failed state. A Black Hawk down, then another, and eighteen dead Americans.
That’s when Parson quit trying to save the world. He could save only the person right in front of him, the buddy next to him. At best. A harsh lesson in a harsh world.
In a way, it had liberated him, taught him to leave infinite problems to an infinite power. But it had also broken his heart.
5
Gold wanted to get Fatima to eat something. The UNHCR staff at the airfield passed out boxes of Humanitarian Daily Rations—like military MREs except in yellow packaging. Gold took one marked VEGETABLE BARLEY STEW and carried it to Fatima’s cot. The child lay curled under a woolen Army blanket, eyes open.
“Sahaar mo peh khair,” Gold said. Good morning. She lowered herself onto the edge of the cot.
Fatima did not respond.
“Are you hungry?” Gold asked. She opened the pouch of stew. Lettering on the side read FOOD GIFT FROM THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.