Battlecraft (2006)

holster flap and pulled the pistol out, sticking it in the belt. The thought flashed in his mind of saving one last bullet to put into his own brain like the British soldiers of old used to do if capture were imminent in that part of the world. A movement to his right caught his eye as another pair of riders came into view. Then a few more rode into sight. Mike knew that resistance with a pistol would be futile. The horsemen were all armed with rifles. They could leisurely pick him off without getting within range of the revolver.

Now they began to close in, and Mike put his hand on the weapon, deciding to sell his life dearly. Within ten minutes they had drawn up close to him, grinning with a menacing sort of amusement. One of them came forward. 'Chertha zey?'

'Asalam aleikum ' Mike said uttering the universal Islamic greeting. 'Arabi? English?'

'How do you do? I am speaking English the man said.

'Yes, you are,' Mike said agreeably. 'And very well too.'

'Thank you for such kind words,' the man said. 'I attended a special school in Peshawar to be prepared for the diplomatic service. It is there that I learned to speak English and Urdu. I am called Sarleh Khey.'

'I am called Mikael Assad.'

'I have asked you chertha zey in my language,' Khey asked. 'It means where do you go.'

'I am returning to friends near the coast,' Mike replied. 'I must confess that I am not sure of my exact location at this moment. All I know is that I am in the Northwest Frontier Province.'

'It is so named by Englishmen,' Khey said. 'In actuality, you travel across the territory ruled by my people. We call ourselves Pashtuns, but in the West we are called Pathans.'

Now Mike knew he was having an encounter with a tribe that boasted a long warrior tradition. 'Since I have so impolitely intruded onto your land, I shall also refer to you as Pashtuns, if it so pleases you.'

Khey laughed loudly, explaining to his friends what Mike had just said. Their former insolent grins immediately turned friendly. Khey said, 'May I ask how it is that you speak English?'

'I am an American,' Mike explained. 'It is a long story.'

Khey spoke again to his comrades, who did not mask their surprise. 'We Pashtuns love long stories. Would you be so kind as to tell us yours?'

'My pleasure.'

'Excellent! We invite you to come to our village as our guest. Hop up behind my saddle, Mikael.'

Mike opened up his chador to reveal the pistol belt and accouterments. He smiled widely to appear as amicable as possible as he slowly and carefully pulled the weapon from the belt. He reset it into the holster and snapped the flap shut.

This made the Pashtuns laugh again and make remarks among themselves.

'My friends say you were prepared to defend yourself,' Khey said. 'That is most admirable. You showed no fear.'

I was scared shitless, Mike's mind spoke silently, and that would have been bad news for you fuckers!

The Pashtun took his foot out of his left stirrup, and Mike stepped into it, swinging himself up on the horse. He settled behind his new friend as the group rode off, turning southwest.

.

1530 HOURS LOCAL

THE Pashtun village was unnamed, but well organized, with the mud buildings laid out in a zigzag pattern to create narrow streets that would suddenly turn ninety degrees, go a short distance, then turn back in the original direction. Mike Assad had seen this arrangement before during a mission to Afghanistan. Such streets would be easy to defend while attackers, unable to see ahead any great distance, would have to slow down at each intersection where ambushes would be waiting to be sprung on them.

Mike and his escorts went to a central building that was the largest structure in the small community. It appeared primitive on the outside in spite of having glass windows. The interior, however, was much more elaborate. Thick carpeting covered the floor from wall to wall, and several tables, standing no more than eighteen inches high, were arranged in a circular pattern. A raised platform, also carpeted, was at the head of the room. The table on it was twice as long as the others. Mike figured that was where the local board of directors sat during community meetings.

He and his new friends settled down around a table. Within moments three women appeared carrying an urn of khawa green tea, small cups, and a platter of deep-fried vegetables called pakoras. Mike knew enough not to look at the women, and he kept his eyes on Khey.

'I appreciate your hospitality,' he said.

'This is a strong Pashtun custom called melmastia,' Khey explained. 'We are a people who believe in being especially courteous to our guests.' He poured a cup of tea, passing it over to Mike. 'Many outsiders think of us as murderous barbarians. In truth, we have a civilization unique unto ourselves.'

The platter of pakoras was passed to Mike. Only after the guest had been served did the other men look after their own refreshments. Khey took a sip of the sweetened hot drink. 'So, friend Mikael, we are most anxious to hear your story. It must be interesting because you are an Arab, yet an American too.'

'I was born in America,' Mike said. 'My grandfather came there from Jordan. As an Arab and a follower of Islam, I felt an obligation to fight in the jihad against the West. I am a member of al-Mimkhalif. Have you heard of it?'

'Indeed,' Khey said. He translated the words for his friends around the table, who nodded with approval, uttering words directed toward the American. 'My countrymen wish martyrdom for you.'

'Thank you,' Mike said, thinking that only in Islam would someone wish death for you in such a way that you would thank him. 'At any rate, I was captured by the Pakistani police during a battle.' He went on to explain how he was sent to the American Embassy and escaped, then visited the mosque in Rawalpindi, where he was given help, then had to endure yet another arrest by the police during the bus trip. He told of the escape and how he stole the belt with pistol, pouches, and canteens.

Khey translated it all, and at the conclusion the Pashtuns all applauded and cheered Mike's resourcefulness. Khey clapped him on the shoulder. 'Tonight we will take you to the elders. I am sure they will help you back to al- Mimkhalif.

Now let us finish the khawa and pakoras, then you may come to my house and rest.'

With the guest's story now told, the group turned their full attention to the refreshments.

.

2030 HOURS LOCAL

AFTER a long restful nap and another meal, Mike Assad was taken back to the same building where he had been entertained that afternoon. But this time all the important men in the village were seated around the tables, and the exalted position at the front of the room was occupied by a quartet of very old males. The SEAL rightly assumed they were the village elders. He and Sarleh Khey were escorted to the table in front of the elderly men.

The windows were all opened and the faces of lower-ranking males and boys peered in to view the unusual sight of an American having an audience with the council of wise men. The opening ceremonies consisted of a man walking to the front of the elders and delivering a speech that Mike assumed was an announcement of the evening's agenda.

With this done, Khey stood up and addressed not only the council, but the entire room. He took three quarters of an hour explaining and describing Mike's adventures since the raid on the Pakistani police camp. This made Mike grin inwardly since he had been able to tell the whole tale in under fifteen minutes that afternoon. Khey gestured grandly, referring to Mike with sweeping arms. The words al-Mimkhalif and jihad were repeated within the jumble of Pashto. Mike was pleased to note the nods and smiles toward him. After his encounters in the slums of Rawalpindi, he found the friendliness quite comforting.

When Khey finished, he sat down. Now the elders spoke among themselves, gesturing as they all talked at once. It was hard for Mike to understand how they were to reach any conclusions in that disruptive manner, but