Enduring Freedom, page 19
“It wasn’t your fault, Baba Jan,” Baheer said. “You could not have stopped the helicopter.” Not like Baheer might have helped stop the United Nations compound bombing.
Baba Jan patted Baheer’s back. Baheer was surprised. He was not normally a very affectionate man. He did not give hugs or make other such gestures very often. “No. There was nothing I could have done, and I believe that made it worse. I am still troubled by this memory from almost two decades in the past. I am an old man, my grandson. My generation failed Afghanistan.”
“But your generation, your brother, helped stopped the Russians!” Baheer said. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“Only after ten exhausting, bloody years that devastated our country. And after we won, we failed to build a good, strong, hopeful Afghanistan. It is up to your generation now, Baheer, to make our home better. There must be something better than war or life under the Taliban. Insha Allah.”
Baheer sighed a little, relieved his grandfather had said that last part. No man who had made a terrible deal to allow the Taliban to rob his trucks would then hope for life free of the Taliban.
It was the time of year when the dark of night came early, so Baheer couldn’t be sure, given how so much of his grandfather’s face was cast in deep shadow, but he thought he’d seen Baba Jan wipe a tear from his eye. He rose to his feet and coughed a little. “Don’t stay out here too late. We have a truck parked next door waiting to be delivered to the American base as soon as they open in the morning.”
“Bale, Baba Jan,” Baheer said.
Baheer rode in the truck with his father early the next morning, after prayers and breakfast. He hoped the Americans would not take too long unloading the truck or else Baheer would be late for school. And yet being on time was his smallest concern. As the truck passed the second roundabout on the bazaar road, he began to wish the drive would take longer, giving him more time to consider his decision, but their truck soon rolled to a halt inside the PRT’s outer wire perimeter, just as the soldiers were coming on gate guard duty.
Killian was not among them. Baheer had learned the soldiers rotated through different kinds of work every four days. Four days on guard duty, four days driving around doing things in town, four days driving to do things far away. Outsiders couldn’t easily keep track of the system, and he was pretty sure the Americans liked it that way.
Well, OK then. Killian isn’t out here. That’s a sign that I’m not supposed to tell him or the other Americans what I know. Rahim must have been right. This is not my war.
But even as he thought about that, he knew they were the thoughts of a coward. The Taliban weren’t Muslims. They were evil. When they came for Uncle Kabir, Baba Jan had dared them to fight him. He had dared to tell the Taliban they were wrong when they shaved Uncle Feraidoon’s head on the road to Farah. How was this war not about him if those harami Taliban had killed so many Afghans Saturday night? They would have killed Baheer, too, if he had arrived just a little earlier.
Finally one soldier and an Afghan interpreter showed up beside the truck. The soldier carried a rifle slung on his shoulder and a mirror attached to a pole. “Good morning,” he said. The interpreter translated this, unnecessarily. “We need to search you and your truck before we can bring you in to be unloaded,” the soldier said.
Before the interpreter could translate further, Baheer and his father were already out of the truck with their legs and arms spread, waiting to be patted down. By the time the search was complete and the truck cleared to drive into the PRT, Baheer had made his decision. The soldier was surprised to hear him say, in English, “I need to speak to PFC Killian, please. It’s important.”
“Dude, are you serious?” Killian asked after Baheer had told him what he’d heard Haji Dilawar saying. He’d learned the word “dude” mostly meant “guy” and could be an expression of either friendship or amazement. The two of them were talking by themselves between two shipping containers while the rest of Killian’s squad unloaded the truck.
“Of course I am serious,” Baheer said. “Do you think I would joke about something like this?”
“No.” Despite the chill in the air, Killian wiped his brow. “This is a big deal, Baheer. The UN compound bombing, do you think—”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Baheer said. “I only know what I heard Haji Dilawar say. And nobody can know I’ve told you this.”
“What do you mean?” Killian asked. “My commanders will want to know how I know about this. I can’t not tell them.”
Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe he should have listened to his brother and stayed out of this. “Listen to me. My family drives trucks to transport American supplies sometimes. That is all. I do not work with the Army like one of your interpreters or something.”
“All right,” Killian pulled a small notebook and pen out of his pocket. “I get you. Just tell me everything again so I have all the details right. Otherwise my commanders will want to ask you more questions.”
“OK,” said Baheer. “This is what I know.”
Two days later, Baheer experienced the now-familiar stomach flip and damp hands as he dismounted and walked his bike near the twisted tree by the dry canal. For months now, he and Mystery Girl had passed each other in this place, exchanging only glances and smiles, more than what was allowed by custom. Today, he would take an additional step—a jump—forward.
If he were caught, people would question his upbringing, his family’s manners, and his personal integrity and character. If she were caught, everyone would question the girl’s virtue and bar her from going to school. From what Baheer had learned from Killian, relationships between American boys and girls were completely different. In Afghanistan, girls were sometimes killed for even the suspicion of having been talking to a boy.
Maybe this is a bad idea, Baheer thought. It’s not too late to give up on this plan. Just keep on walking. Destroy the letter.
With shaking hands, he pulled the paper from his pocket and unfolded it so he could review it one more time. The message needed to be perfect.
Dear Mystery Girl,
I don’t know if your gaze toward me means anything. But, I hope it does. You have very beautiful eyes. I wanted to talk to you for a long time, but you know our society. They would say terrible things about us. That’s why I am writing a letter.
By the look of your books, it seems you are a student. I think this is very good. I am wondering how you convinced your family to let you go to school. My sister is older than me and would like to go to school. I would like to help her. But how can I help her? Maybe you know.
I will understand if you choose to ignore this letter, but I hope you will write back. I have many things to tell you.
Sincerely yours,
Baheer wanted to write his name, but got scared of the consequences, even though, in English, the letter was basically in code. But if an English reader found the letter, then it would be very bad if he’d left proof of his name. And maybe he’d read all her signals wrong. She could complain to someone, showing his name. So Baheer did not write his name on the note. He wanted to know her, but even if she didn’t mean anything by her signals, she might at least write back, helping him find ways to send Maryam to school. If she wrote back, kindly, then maybe he could tell her his name in the future. Now that the letter was ready, getting it to the Mystery Girl was the biggest challenge.
Baheer’s hands were so sweaty, he worried he’d ruin the letter. He carefully refolded it. Everything he had been raised to believe told him what he was about to do was wrong. But this girl was amazing.
Then he saw her.
Mystery Girl almost smiled as she walked in Baheer’s general direction.
He held the folded letter in front of his body carefully so that she’d be able to see the flash of white, but anyone else around might not notice. He didn’t dare try to hand it to her. Their fingers might touch, and if anyone saw that, they’d be in terrible trouble.
Only two meters remained between them. Now! Do it now! Drop the letter so she will see it fall and will be able to pick it up. He felt almost as if his hand was wired into an unbreakable grip on the letter. Don’t be a coward!
Mystery Girl lowered her gaze as she came to within a meter of Baheer. Baheer dropped the letter on the ground in front of her as he passed.
He looked back a moment later. Save for Mystery Girl, the entire street was empty. She casually stepped over the folded piece of paper.
Baheer felt like he might be sick. She doesn’t want anything to do with me! Or maybe she somehow hadn’t noticed the letter?
Baheer turned back one more time. Mystery Girl stood with her foot covering the folded paper, looking around to see if anyone else was watching. She was risking her entire life if she picked up that letter. Baheer knew it.
I’m a fool! What right do I have to put her in this position? If only he could get the letter back somehow, reverse time only a few minutes and stop the mistake.
Mystery Girl picked up the letter and quickly slid it into her English book. She smiled. Baheer smiled. And suddenly his doubts melted away. They both continued on their separate ways, but with the help of the letter, they were perhaps not as separate as before.
Farah, Afghanistan
November 2, 2003
Congratulations, Specialist Killian!” Sergeant Paulsen pinned two specialist rank insignias to Joe’s collar. When they were in place, he pulled back his fist like he was going to punch the sharp posts on the back of the rank pins through his shirt and into his flesh. This was something of a tradition for promotions in the Army, but at the last second Paulsen checked his punch and instead secured the backings that would keep the rank pins on his collar.
The other tradition from which they were breaking was the promotion ceremony formation. With so much work to do on deployment, and some ridiculous concern about snipers firing over the walls at officers being saluted at the front of all those soldiers at attention, there were almost no formations on the PRT. They’d had one when the PRT base was dedicated as officially open for business and another when command of the Provincial Reconstruction Team had transferred from the Navy engineer in charge of designing and building the base to Army lieutenant colonel Santiago. Now, gathered with him in the Civil Affairs main meeting room, it was only sergeants Cavanaugh and Paulsen along with all of the THT guys except for Ahmad, their interpreter.
Staff Sergeant Cavanaugh shook his hand. “Congratulations, Specialist.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Joe said. “But I don’t understand what we’re doing in here.”
It was the nicest room on the PRT. It had been furnished with padded wooden couches and a smooth coffee table. Wood, especially if it was nicely finished, was rare in Afghanistan. All the rest of the limited furniture on the base was plastic or metal. The CA room also sported large colorful Afghan rugs, as well as Afghan and American flags on the walls next to photographs of interim president Hamid Karzai and that Lion of the Panjshir guy who had been killed by Al-Qaeda right before 9/11. This room was used for soldier-conducted worship services and for meeting with important Afghans.
Jase, the THT leader, rubbed his patchy red beard and nodded. “That’s because this meeting requires a little secrecy.”
Sergeant Paulsen held out a small, flat blue box. He opened it to reveal a medal with a green-and-white ribbon.
Sergeant Cavanaugh opened a big green folder and read, “This is to certify that the Secretary of the Army has awarded the Army Commendation Medal to Specialist Joseph Killian for exceptionally meritorious achievement while assigned to the Farah PRT in skillfully developing useful relationships with valuable sources of critical intelligence. Specialist Killian’s acquisition of important information directly contributed to the success of counterinsurgency operations in Nimruz Province, Afghanistan, and the recovery of important weapons, explosives, and ammunition that had been seized by the enemy. Specialist Killian’s outstanding performance of duty reflects great credit upon himself, his unit, United States Central Command, and the United States of America.”
I’m getting a medal for telling them what Baheer told me? That’s crazy. Medals were supposed to be for combat, weren’t they? Maybe if he’d stormed a machine gun nest or shot up a bunch of Taliban, he’d deserve a medal. But, what had Sergeant Cavanaugh said? Something like “developing useful relationships with intel sources”? They made him sound like he was some kind of spy.
There was a round of handshakes and congratulations before Jase motioned for everyone to take a seat. Jase looked at his fellow THT spy-wannabes in a conspiratorial way, like they were all expecting him to dive into the most important national security secrets. “The people I report to . . .” He held up a hand. “And I can’t reveal to you who those people are—were very impressed with the information you provided us.”
“Well, Baheer provided the information,” Joe said. “Is that why I was promoted? Because of this? This was nothing.”
Jase’s best buddy and fellow THT guy Andy curled the brim of the camouflage Miami Dolphins hat he was always messing with, the fluorescent lights overhead shining off his glass-smooth shaved head. “Those of us such as ourselves”—he motioned to his fellow THT guys—“who work in intelligence, especially in human intelligence—HumInt”—he pronounced the word Hew-mint—“know that it’s rare to score such dramatic results. Based on your security clearance all we can tell you is your information convinced Command to redirect aerial reconnaissance assets to the location you described. What they saw corroborated your HumInt source. The ground assets that conducted the raid neutralized over a dozen Taliban insurgents and recovered almost all of the ammunition and explosives stolen from our truck a few months ago.”
Eric was the largest of the THT men, someone who took their relaxed grooming standards to the limit with a mane of shaggy black hair and a thick beard. “We believe the Taliban may have been planning to use those explosives to attack Israelis in Tel Aviv or to destroy nuclear power plants somewhere in the United States.”
Joe and Paulsen exchanged a look of disbelief.
“That sounds pretty ambitious,” Sergeant Paulsen said. “How did the Taliban plan to get the explosives across multiple international borders and through sec—”
“That’s classified,” Eric snapped.
“You don’t have the necessary security clearance that we have.” Jase leaned toward Joe. “What you need to know at your level is that in addition to your actions earning you a medal and a promotion, you have saved many lives.”
“Perhaps millions of people,” Eric confirmed.
Sergeant Paulsen spoke up. “Well, the Taliban weren’t going to use all those explosives for anything good. It’s great that we took that back.”
“That’s why we need to continue to cultivate your HumInt,” Jase said. “Now our sources tell us that your HumInt asset is here on the PRT right now.”
Andy spun his Dolphins hat on his finger. “We actually knew he was going to be here today before he showed up.”
Sergeant Paulsen held his fist to his mouth and coughed to cover his laugh.
Are these guys serious? Do they really think they sound like super spies? Joe couldn’t stop himself. “Do you mean you checked the schedule of arriving shipments and saw one of his family’s trucks was due to arrive today?”
“We can’t reveal our sources,” Jase said, failing to meet Joe’s eyes. “But we’d like you to bring the HumInt asset you’ve cultivated into this room. We need to see what else he may know.”
Eric tugged his bushy black beard. “Even things he may not know that he knows.”
Joe and Sergeant Paulsen exchanged another baffled look. This time even Sergeant Cavanaugh shook his head. Baheer didn’t want to be involved in any of this. He’d only told Joe what he’d heard because he didn’t want another explosion going off like that bomb at the UN compound. There must be a way to get out of this. “I’m just an infantry guy,” Joe said. “I don’t know much about intel work.”
Jase smiled. “Before I was reclassed into Tactical Human inTelligence, I was an Army truck driver.”
“Office clerk,” Andy said.
“Medic,” said Eric.
“But our country needed us for this job, and now it needs you to help us,” Jase said. “We have our orders. And now so do you.”
Baheer had made Joe promise to keep him out of stuff like this. “If you order me to bring Baheer in, you’ll be revealing the fact that you outrank a specialist.” It was a pathetic attempt, but he had to do all he could for Baheer’s sake.
“Specialist Killian,” Jase said. “Almost everybody outranks you.”
The metal door to the building opened, flashing the dimly lit room in bright sunlight. Then the door closed with a hard, metallic clang. In marched the tall muscular form of Lieutenant Colonel Santiago. Everyone sprang to their feet. “As you were,” Santiago said sharply. He surveyed the room in an instant. “Where’s the Afghan kid?”
“We were just sending—”
Santiago cursed. “Go get him! You’re wasting time.”
A long string of fierce obscenities sent Joe out of the room into the bright morning and running across the PRT to where they were unloading Baheer’s family’s jingle truck.
“Rafiq!” Joe shouted the word for “friend” and waved to Baheer.
“Salaam!” Baheer called back with a smile. He frowned for just a moment but then pointed at Joe, fingering his own imaginary collar with his other hand. “You have new pins there, I think.”
