something big.'
EPILOGUE
NORTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN
THE PRANISTAY STEPPES
30 SEPTEMBER 1400 HOURS
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD Reshteen stood on the rooftop with his wool serapelike pukhoor hanging loosely over his shoulders. It was still a couple of months before the onset of winter, yet a rare preliminary coolness was in the air. After the heat of summer, it was a refreshing change. The steppes were much warmer and fifteen hundred meters lower than the Kangal Mountains, to the east across the Tajikistan border. Up in that frigid high country, hundreds of glaciers had been carving through the depthless rockbeds for aeons. These deep slabs of ice, some more than five kilometers wide, eased across the mountaintops in a steady progression that was so slow the human eye could not perceive the movement.
Reshteen, like all boys his age, took his turn on lookout duty, and that's what he was doing on top of old Mohambar's house, which was the tallest in the village. This was a vital necessity in the living routine of those particular Pashtuns. Fierce bandits roved unchecked through the area, and raids happened once or twice a year. Mostly, however, the attacks by the murdering robbers occurred when people, alone or in small groups, were traveling across the steppes to other settlements.
The boy guards such as Reshteen kept part of their attention focused on the distant horizons to the south and west. When they turned to the north and east, they took extra time to study the view. That was where the rugged, boulder-strewn foothills of the Kangals joined the flat country, and it was much more difficult to discern anyone approaching from that direction.
Reshteen took off his rolltop cap and scratched his head as he gazed out across the steppes in boredom. There was nothing there but the dancing blur on the horizon that distorted distant view. Sometimes, when he tried very hard, his mind could conjure phantom donkeys or goats in the haze. This time his eyes could make up nothing to amuse him, and he swung his attention toward the mountains.
'Awrede!' he hollered, loudly enough for the whole village to hear. 'Two horsemen to the east!'
VALENTIN Surov and Yakob Putnovski reined in as the village came into view. Both horsemen were in the same attire in that it was a mixture of native costume and Russian Army uniforms. Their boots were definitely military-issue, and the open-collar camouflage jackets were the type used by the KGB border guards. The rest of their clothing was the traditional type found in Afghanistan and Tajikistan. The cartridge pouches across their shoulders were the leather type available in the bazaars of the larger towns. These were handmade, and exhibited the craftsmanship of the saddlers who designed, cut, and stitched them together.
Putnovski took his binoculars and studied the small community. 'Is this the place we're looking for?'
'Just a minute,' Surov said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a map, unfolding it carefully.
Putnovski glared at him. 'Fucking officer!'
Surov sneered. Both of them were veterans of the Russian Army, and the practice of not instructing enlisted men in map reading was a Soviet tradition. The reason behind the practice was to keep any discontented soldier with itchy feet from finding someplace to flee from the Peasants' and Workers' Paradise. Surov studied the terrain around them, then traced his finger along an elevation line. 'Da! This is it. Come on!'
THE fact that Rasheen had sighted only two riders did not alarm the villagers, but they fetched their weapons just the same. The pair could be scouting for a larger bandit gang lurking somewhere else nearby. Most of the men stayed inside their huts, ready for trouble. The women and children went about their normal activities, whether it was indoors or out, while half a dozen men with their AK-47s concealed under their pukhoors lounged on benches in the village square.
The two Russians rode slowly and warily into the village, their AKS-74 assault rifles slung across their backs to make it obvious they were no threat. Each was aware the locals were armed to the teeth and that disturbed Pashtuns had a disagreeable habit of shooting first and asking questions later-provided there was a survivor or two to converse with. The Russians brought their horses to a halt at the well, nodding to one of the men standing there.
'Staray me she!' Surov said in his working knowledge of Pashto. 'Are any of your spinzhire around?' He used the Pashtun word for 'graybeards,' which was the way they referred to their elders.
The Pashtun man called out, and an old fellow named Mohambar appeared in the doorway of the nearest hut. He said nothing, but looked up at the Russian on the horse.
'I have been sent by Luka Yarkov to give you a message,' Surov said. 'He has been informed that this village made much money selling opium poppies to a fellow called Awalmir Yousafzai.'
Old Mohambar nodded.
'Awalmir did not give Yarkov's share to him,' Surov said. 'It is a malya--a tax. It must be paid. Since you were paid money by Awalmir, you must pay a share to Luka Yarkov because he has enough fighting men to control everything that happens on the Steppes. Do you understand?'
Mohambar stared at him without expression or emotion.
'If you do not pay Luka Yarkov what is due him, he will be angry.'
There was still no reaction from the elderly Pashtun.
With anyone but Pashtuns, this would have been the beginning of some sort of negotiations, protests, or a discussion. But Surov did not expect any verbal response to his announcement. It was enough that he had made it, and that these villagers would pass the word on to their brethren across the steppes.
The Russian turned his eyes from the old man and glanced around at the other villagers, who also did no more than gaze at him. He nodded, saying, 'Khuday peaman--good-bye.'
The two foreigners rode slowly from the village, their weapons still slung across their backs. The Pashtuns looked at each other, knowing this was the start of big troubles on the Pranistay Steppes.
.
APPENDIX
The letter composed by PO3C Chadwick Murchison to explain the loss of the desert patrol vehicle on Operation Rolling Thunder:
SEAL Detachment
USS Dan Daley
Persian Gulf
10 September
SUBJECT: Missing Desert Patrol Vehicle TO: Commanding Officer ATTN: S-4
Station Bravo, Bahrain The vehicle in question was lost in combat during Operation Rolling Thunder last May. This compunctious misadventure occurred as a result of an exigent oblation that occurred during a traumatic period of active campaigning against a miscreantful enemy force.
By the profligation of the DPV, I was able to gain salient amelioration both on the field of battle and in the logistical relucts of conducting a combat operation. The DPV may be gone, but its loss was outweighed by the outcome of the operation. I am sure I need not remind you that Operation Rolling Thunder was a mission accomplished. I therefore resepectfully request that the vehicle be classified as lost in the line of duty as a result of enemy action.
WILLIAM BRANNIGAN
Lieutenant, U. S. Navy
Commanding
.
.
GLOSSARY
2IC: Second-in-Command
Shop:Intelligence Section of the staff
Shop:Operations and Training Section of the staff
Shop:Logistics Section of the staff AA: Anti-aircraft
AAR: After-Action Report
ACV: Air Cushion Vehicle (hovercraft)
