“Bullshit,” Cray said. “They’re bandits or militia. Tell him we have seen Taliban operating in the neighborhood. Are they Najibullah’s men or Shahzad’s?”
The elder jabbered, gesticulated some more. Beatty and the ANA lieutenant listened intently. Cray tried to hide his disgust.
“He says Najibullah is Mujahedeen, not Taliban. Neither have been seen for several weeks. One of Najibullah’s caravans passed through more than a month ago, carrying opium. Abdul-Ali Shahzad visited several weeks ago, but did not stay.”
Cray was not convinced. “Did Shahzad have strangers with him, ones who spoke Arabic?”
Trainor translated, and the elder shook his head furiously.
Another lie. Cadres of foreign fighters forged passionate young Afghans into Taliban.
“I don’t think we’ll get much more out of him, First Sergeant,” Beatty said.
“No, Sir. I don’t think we will.”
“We should leave if we want to return to the base by nightfall,” the ANA lieutenant said.
The group said their goodbyes. Stepped outside into the shadow of Arwal village. A colossal layer cake of houses stacked against the side of the mountain. The ANA troops, thirty men in all, formed a column and moved out. The Americans joined them, and the elder saw them off with a cheery wave.
The air was cold, but Trainor grew hot and sweaty. It was a long hike south from Arwal village. She lowered her headscarf and tied it about her throat. Walked bare-headed. The ANA platoon stretched out in a long file. The three Americans were positioned a third of the distance from the rear guard, and a third of the distance from the point. Second Lieutenant Beatty was with the forward elements of the platoon. Trainor and First Sergeant Cray trudged with the rear.
They walked past a mile of irrigated terraces. Crops of beans. From the side of the riverbank, the terraces rose like a giant staircase on the side of the mountain.
“We’re not doing any good,” Cray said. “That old buzzard is lying through his teeth.”
“I sympathize with him.” Trainor looked over her shoulder and squinted. The sun was lowering in the sky. In Kunar, the sun had to climb the mountains every morning. In the evening, it did not have far to fall before the valleys darkened. “They’re caught between us and the Taliban. He knows we can’t protect him, so he’s nice to our face. Makes what money he can, then tries to keep the Taliban happy.”
“Do you think he shares the money with his people?”
“He’s not driving a Rolls-Royce, First Sergeant.”
“Shahzad’s in town,” Cray muttered. “That means Al Qaeda.”
“He said Najibullah passed through as well.”
“Oh, great.” Cray sneered. “A regular drug-runner. Najibullah and Shahzad. I get a little glow of joy every time those bastards rub each other’s boys out.”
The column had passed the terraces of Arwal village. The dirt road became little more than a trail that sloped onto a set of foothills. They were on the southern edge of the mountain. When they crested the hills, the trail disappeared entirely. The column descended toward the next valley.
“Something’s not right, First Sergeant.” Trainor was confused. The terrain, the angle of the sun as it sank in the west, was wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
From its origins in the Hindu Kush, the Arwal River flowed south through Afghanistan. There, it split into two branches on either side of Arwal-Ghar. The West Arwal continued to flow south-by-west. South of the mountain, it took a dog-leg east to meet the East Arwal. The East Arwal meandered south-by-east. It entered Pakistan before bending sharply, and crossing back into Afghanistan to rejoin its mate. The ANA forward operating base was located at the confluence of the two branches.
Cray was too old a hand to dismiss a subordinate’s concerns. “What’s the matter, Trainor?”
“We’re heading for base, which should be due south. The sun should be setting to our west.”
The first sergeant looked about himself. “We’re heading for the river,” he said. “You can make it out, right over there.”
“Yes, but why is the sun shining over our shoulders?”
Trainor felt her stomach hollow. She drew her compass from a cargo pocket and checked their bearing. The blond hairs on her forearm were reddish-gold in the light of the setting sun. “Shit. First Sergeant, the ANA have been leading us to the East Arwal.”
“What the fuck, can’t they read a compass?”
“Their lieutenant’s been using the river as a landmark. He forgot it bends.”
“If he ever knew. Are we in Pakistan?”
Trainor checked her bearings. “No, First Sergeant. But—they are.”
She pointed to the forward elements of the platoon.
Cray swore under his breath. Keyed his squad radio. “Six-Two Actual, this is Six-Two Bravo.”
“Go ahead, Six-Two Bravo.”
Beatty was fresh out of ROTC. He’d had one course in land nav and was following an ANA second lieutenant into another country. Nominally allies of the United States, the Pakistani army was friendly with the Taliban.
“Actual, your column is in Pakistan. Stop and get them turned around. Right now.”
“What do you mean, Pakistan? The river’s right over there... Oh, my God.”
Trainor watched the second lieutenant look to his right, then straight ahead. Saw horror on his face. He raised his right fist to signal the column to halt. The first sergeant did the same.
Gunfire rattled. AK47s blazed away. Cray went down, blood spurting from his shoulder and groin. Half a dozen ANA, including their officer, died in the same volley.
“Contact left!” Beatty raised his M4 and engaged.
The Mujahedeen had been stalking the ANA platoon. When they saw the platoon drift off course, they rushed to get ahead of their prey. The patrol had come off the mountain and were on an escarpment, sloping gently to the riverbank. There was vestigial forest to their left... the southernmost tip of Arwal-Ghar. The Mujahedeen used that forest, no more than seventy-five meters from their targets, to set the ambush.
A second group of Mujahedeen attacked the ANA column from behind. Their fire was slaughtering
