Robyn treaded water and laughed.
Zarek stared at her and broke into a grin.
For fifteen minutes, they swam. Blue with cold, they crawled out and dried themselves. Robyn was especially discolored because of her fair skin. They put their clothes back on.
Robyn wanted Zarek, but he didn’t touch her.
He was entitled. She was a captive of his right hand.
That night, Robyn collapsed from exhaustion. Before sleep overcame her, the last thought to cross her mind was that she felt happy.
Embarrassed, I ask, “Why are you telling me this?”
Robyn’s eyes search mine. “You’re worried something I’ve done will compromise the mission, or the safety of the team. Understand—this is why Grissom and Zarek trusted me.”
My squad radio crackles. “Five-Five Sierra, this is Five-Five Kilo.”
Ballard. Shit. “Go ahead, Five-Five Kilo.”
“Our actual is here. He got chased off LZ Three, just arrived at the village.”
“Where are you, Kilo?”
“Outside the house. Actual is on the horn to Two-One Alpha right now.”
Damn. Koenig’s back, and he’s on the radio to General Anthony.
“I told him we were occupied with the Mooj,” Ballard continues. “We haven’t had time to report.”
“Thanks, Kilo. We’ll be back soon.”
“No sweat. Five-Five Kilo out.”
25
Zarek’s Tales
Kagur Valley
Wednesday, 2200
The Mujahedeen camp is surreal.
Zarek posted sentries along the riverbank, in the forest, and on the mountainsides. Then he had cooking fires lit. A flagrant invitation to Shahzad to launch an attack.
Rifles slung across our chests, Takigawa and I walk among Zarek’s men. Koenig posted Lopez and Ballard for security. One by the river, the other on the bank.
We walk through Zarek’s Casualty Collection Point. It is a makeshift aid station where medics tend wounded fighters. Men injured during the fighting at the village. We are surprised the senior medic is a trauma surgeon trained in Islamabad.
There are not many wounded. Shahzad ordered his men to break contact as soon as Zarek’s cavalry made an appearance. I doubt we’ve seen the last of the Taliban and their embedded Al Qaeda advisors.
“Look at this.” Takigawa stoops to pick up a discarded glass ampoule. Hands it to me. Black Chinese characters have been stenciled across its side.
I hand the vial back to the sniper. “Pakistan-trained doctors, Chinese morphine and antibiotics. Everything short of a field hospital. This is a professional outfit.”
Takigawa plows calloused fingers through his long hair. Adjusts his baseball cap. His helmet hangs from the back of his ruck. “You have to respect the enemy,” he says. “They have the training, the supplies, the commitment. We can’t kill our way to victory.”
“Depends what you mean by victory,” I tell him. “I don’t think we can ever conquer these people. But we can keep Al Qaeda from using this place to attack America.”
“You think this peace deal buys that for us?”
“I think it’s a chance to declare victory.”
“By shaking hands with Najibullah.”
“Dude, that decision has been made way above our pay grade.”
Zarek sits at one of the fires, surrounded by his lieutenants. Robyn and Koenig sit in the circle.
I like the sound of crackling flames, and the smell of sharp wood smoke in the cold mountain air. I can’t help but worry about our exposure. Zarek knows lighting fires is like waving a red cape in front of a bull. “How many mortar rounds did Shahzad lay on you?” I ask Takigawa.
“A lot, brother. He plastered us for half an hour.”
The thought of Shahzad shelling Zarek’s beach party makes me cringe. “Let’s hope he’s run out.”
“He couldn’t have carried that many rounds without pack animals,” Takigawa says. “I think he only had what his infantry could carry.”
Zarek sees us approaching, raises his hand in greeting. “Breed,” he calls. “Takigawa. Join us.”
I address the warlord. “You know Shahzad has eighty-two-millimeter mortars?”
“Of course.” Zarek spreads his arms magnanimously. “So have I.”
“Isn’t this beach party a little risky?”
“Yesterday, we heard your battle from the valley,” Zarek laughs. “Abdul-Ali spent more mortar ammunition than he had men to carry them. Did he use mortars at the village? No. Inshallah, none remain. Now sit with us. Rest.”
I don’t care that Najibullah and his men saved our hash this morning. Nine hours ago, these Mujahedeen were the enemy. The distinctions between Mooj and Tali do not move me. They all hate us. With Grissom gone, the deal is at risk. As far as I’m concerned, these people could turn and cut our throats.
We join the group gathered around the warlord. The circle is three deep, and Zarek orders his men to make way. I’m impressed he remembers our names. I’m sure he did not hear Takigawa’s more than once. He is one switched-on leader.
Zarek is telling a story. He speaks in English, for the benefit of the Americans. I know what he’s doing. He’s charming us. A good leader is always on the job.
Takigawa and I sit cross-legged, clutching our rifles like lovers. It’s not unusual. Zarek’s men have their AK47s close to hand. Najibullah has set his Dragunov on the ground beside him.
Koenig looks out of his element.
Robyn is the only comfortable person in our party. She leans forward, gazing with rapt attention, hanging on Najibullah’s every word. She murmurs in Pashto, translating the warlord’s story. Her voice is barely above a whisper, and the Mujahedeen strain to listen.
“These stones have been washed in blood for three thousand years,” Zarek says. “Foreigners have always wanted this land. At times they managed to capture it, never have they managed to hold it. We have been put on Earth by Allah to defend this place. The prophet has shown the way to jihad, and I have been chosen to lead the faithful.”
Zarek doesn’t say who chose him. The implication is that Allah himself laid his hand on Najibullah’s shoulder.
“A man’s wisdom grows with his years,” Zarek says. “When I was but a boy, I fought the Soviets. With a rifle in one hand and a rocket on my back. One day
