The Crisis (35 page)

The gun slams again, deafening. This time the shell bursts so close the lead truck plunges instantly into the dust-cloud, as if sucked in.

When it emerges its wheels are locked. Gravel spits like bullets to rattle down far away. Ghedi slaps Juulheed's head and the driver pants, hauling the wheel around so they almost topple. He brakes to a steelscreeching halt beside the cab.

Ghedi points his rifle into an open window, into an astonished face. “Weapons out of the truck! In the name of God and the Waleeli!” Behind him come more shouts as each pair of vehicles closes on its target. Bursts stutter as some of his boys give vent to their excitement. “Who's the convoy leader?”

An astonishingly fat man squirms from the back of the cab. Ghedi grins. It's easy to deal with those who wrap their souls in lard. The man blusters, “What do you want? We're on World Food Organization business. Don't molest us.”

“ ‘Don't molest us.' I would not be here if you'd paid your taxes.”

“Taxes? What taxes?” But Ghedi sees he knows. Before the trucks ever loaded, an agent of the Waleeli approached him. Money, arms, food, he could have paid in any coin, save the worn worthless notes with the hawknosed profile of the former president. They're for lighting cookfires now, or cleaning oneself after sex with a prostitute. Using money for this, it's well known, prevents the wasting disease.

“What taxes? The ones you didn't pay! Now you've lost your trucks and cargos. Out of the cab! On the ground, salaam to God for your worthless necks!”

As they're scrambling down firing bursts out at the rear of the column. Ghedi whirls. Sometimes one man resists, then his clanmates begin shooting. These don't look aggressive, though. He calls to the ones atop the truck, “Throw down your rifles, O my brothers.”

“We'll keep these rifles, brother.”

“It's because you're my brother I don't kill you.” He points to the gun truck and a clamor of heavy bullets stitches the air. “Throw them down. Now!”

The largest rider holds out his Kalashnikov and releases it. One after the other, the rest hit the ground in puffs of dust.

“Now descend.”

He eyes the lookouts. Their only duty during a raid is scanning the sky. If American helicopters approach he'll take hostages. Scattering's not a viable tactic. One band tried that and was nearly wiped out. But so far, the sky's clear.

His men are climbing into the trucks. Each is a treasure trove. Not only do they carry radios, money, guns, fuel, and food, but the crews' own duffels are full. Much of this Juulheed makes a great show of burning, but somehow the magazines with pictures of women always survive. “All weapons into the Tiger,” Ghedi shouts to his men. To the fat one, whose face is running with sweat, he says, “You are in the hands of the Waleeli. Those who believe have nothing to fear, but they must give up that which is unclean. Where is this convoy bound?”

“The camp at Malakat, on orders of the UN and the Alliance.”

“There is no camp at Malakat. There is no Alliance.”

“A camp is there. As to the Alliance”–the fat one shrugs—“if you say there is none, it does not exist.”

Ghedi shoots him, there in the cab. His blood sprays on the faces of the others, who recoil but don't try to shield him. “Push him out onto the ground,” he orders, and the wounded man tumbles like a sack of offal to the sand, where he lies moaning and weeping. “Thus to those who speak with contempt,” he shouts. “God is great. God is great. God is great.” They repeat his words feebly, echoing the fierce shouts and upthrust weapons of his men. “Now tell me what your clan is, and where you are to meet them.”

He isn't surprised when they hurry to tell him all he wants to know.

 

THE tent's stifling but Ghedi makes no show of noticing. Flies buzz above the dates and candies the women set out before they left. Across from him
and Juulheed the graybearded elders wait. No one's armed. The experience of centuries: all weapons, even knives, are left outside, jealously watched by guards from both sides. The youngest offers instant coffee, a mark of great respect. Ghedi sips, head bowed before the older men. But his attention's on those standing behind them, against the tent walls. Those crowded outside, listening. Some, those whose weapons he took when he stopped the convoy.

This is a subfamily of the Gilhirs, rife with pride and ferociously suspicious of outsiders. Above all, he must treat them with respect. One can honor a Gilhir, or kill him. There's no third way.

The elders he faces are southerners, like most of the ADA. But they're far from the city, from the Americans and their tame dogs. He bows to a shriveled shifty-looking man with a sparse beard. At last the compliments ebb.

The old man begins in the slow measured speech of the “pure” clans, descended from the ancient
geelhers
, the camel camps of the high desert. His tone's that of an old man to a young one. Ghedi grows angry. He will not bear insult either. These men must be pruned out, to build a new Ashaara. They cling to the past: old stories, old names, old legends, old lands.

For a moment he remembers orchards, a burning village. Orphaned children, stumbling through the corn. Then pushes the memory aside. His sisters and brother are dead. Those who ride with him are his family now.

“Your young men are brave warriors. But they behave like bandits,” the old man mumbles.

He fights to sound respectful. “We serve God, honored one.”

“The foreigners also serve God in sending food. This does not disgrace, to accept help in famine and drought.”

“My master is the blind and holy Sheekh Nassir of Ashaara. He speaks wisdom from the Book.”

The old man makes a complex gesture with his right hand. “We have heard of the holy and wise Sheekh Nassir, peace be with him. I am not his equal. Just an ignorant toothless one. But surely stealing food from the hungry is not the way of the Prophet.”

Ghedi explains the food is unclean. It can be restored to acceptability only by being used for God's purpose. “Only in this way can God's people be fed in a way pleasing to Him. This my men do to strengthen us against those who would destroy us and take our land.”

A reddish-bearded man beside the elder stirs. “Why should the infidels want our land? There's much rain where they live. ‘Accept gifts when they are in the offerer's hand.' ”

“What is the price of these gifts?” Ghedi asks him. But he's silent. “What is it, this price?” he asks them all. “Come, I do not hear an answer. We have the true faith, but Shaitan gives the foreigners cunning. What wise man buys a camel the price of which he does not know? Or purchases a wife from one who says, I will tell you the bride-price next year?”

The clearing of throats, the ruminative slurp of coffee. Again Ghedi glances not at the seated graybeards, but at those behind them.

“Your people hunger? Let us make a bargain. I have no wish for anything but peace with the fierce and renowned Gilhirs. Without the help of God, could I have captured the convoy, guarded by the best of your fighters? I think not.”

The eldest strokes his beard. “What is your price for this food? Gold we have none, and the old money's worthless.”

“Then say what you have.”

The reddish-bearded one says, “Camels and a few sheep. But we will not let those go, or we cannot rebuild the flocks when the rain returns.”

“What else?”

Grudgingly he says, “Cannon and explosives. From the regiment at Malakat.” He nods at a younger man. “Those who guarded it were of our clan when the army dissolved.”

“What sort of cannon?”

For answer the elder waves. The younger man comes forward with a book. Ghedi can't read foreign writing. Only a little Arabic, enough to puzzle out the Qu'uran. Still, the picture's clear enough. “How many like this do you have?”

“Five, hidden in the hills. Shells, too.”

Ghedi considers. From the picture, they're very large. Artillery would make his force powerful, but could his men move it, over the mountains? And what a wonderful target it would make for the American airplanes.

Perhaps not. “You mentioned explosives.”

“We have that too, a great deal.”

He glances at Juulheed, gets a nod. He tells the old man, “We will take your explosives, in exchange for half the food.”

A buzz. “This is partially our grain already,” the red-bearded elder points out. “The Americans distribute it to all who come.”

“It
was
theirs, honored one. Now it is the Waleeli's, glory to God.” He raises his voice. “Truly God is generous to those who fight in His name. This is a new day, brothers. There's no more evil government. Only Ashaarans, and invaders.

“It is said: ‘He who is truly weak finds a foreigner as a protector.' Do you know what's happening in the city? Foreigners search from house
to house for weapons. They give those they find to their puppets. Soon they will come to ask for yours. What will you do? Turn your naked rumps to them, whimper and lick their hands? In our brotherhood there's no longer any reckoning of ancestors, to set man against man. Only those who believe and fight. Do you have brave fighters? We need them with us.”

The air hangs still. No one moves. Neither the elders, nor the young men who stand like so many concrete pillars behind them.

Finally the redbeard uncoils. “We need these explosives to protect our clan,” he says. Ghedi sees the man he thought was the elder is not. He is only the oldest. “I do not think we should make this bargain. Nor should our young men join you. Thus we will continue to receive food for our grandchildren.” He does not look at them, but the other elders murmur concurrence. “This is the way of wisdom, of peace and milk. We will not hinder you, but we will not join you. The Gilhirs will stand apart.”

There's a stir in the back. Ghedi raises his voice. “Stand apart, you say. Meaning, let the strangers rule?”

“If we wage war, they'll kill us with helicopters. And send no more food.”

Ghedi considers killing the redbeard. There's a pistol inside his pants. But the man stares back with disdain.

“You're old,” he tells them. “Old and afraid. But Ghedi disciple of Nassir does not fear their machines. The great blind sheekh declares to you jihad, for your country and for God. The Waleeli will unite all Ashaarans and eject the foreigners. Then we will form a government. But this time, not of this clan against that. Nor will it teach evil to our children and women. A righteous government, enforcing the holy law.”

The middle-aged men stir, but don't speak. The stubborn elder rises, gathers his robes. “This is what Sheekh Nassir says? Attack the foreigners?”

“Yes.”

“Obey mullahs, not the
ergada
? The clan elders?”

“Sharia law is greater than clan law. Islam unites; kinship law divides.”

“Then your sheekh is mad as well as blind. Clan law is the Ashaari way. You talk like an Arab. Wait till the rains return. Then, if the
khawayat
don't leave, we can make war when we have eaten and are strong. Our young men will not join you.”

Ghedi reaches for his weapon, but Juulheed's hand stops him. He smiles, as he sees what he's expected outside. It's Hasheer, giving him the signal.

He stands, dusts off his clothing, bows. “As you say, honored one. I
thank you for your hospitality.” He backs toward the entrance. “But for your safety, stay within the tent.”

The elders glance up. “What do you mean?”

“Only that I have no wish to kill you. Your young men are already mine. They'll come back heroes, to shame the cowards who tried to keep them from battle.” Ghedi laughs in their faces and turns on his heel.

Outside the young men of the Gilhir are gathered in the blazing sun and eddying dust. Already they're mixed in with his men. “Make sure they bring their weapons,” he snaps to Hasheer.

“Yes, Maahdi. Weapons and blankets.”

“Don't call me Maahdi, and punish with rods those who do. Where are the explosives?”

“Hidden above the town. I've sent a truck and loading crew with guides. And they have armored cars.”

None of the elders mentioned this, but it's welcome news. “Let those who cared for them drive the armored cars. Leave one truck of rice here. Drive the others as close to our camp as they can get, then unload and camouflage. We'll ransom them back to the Pakistanis for ammunition, like the last convoy.”

“Yes, Orcharder.”

He walks around a barefoot girl lazily switching a sheep and raises his hand to the recruits. “Greetings, warriors of Ashaara and God. Forget your mothers and fathers, and follow me. Ours is the God of Battles. God is great.”

“God is great,” they shout, waving their rifles. “God is great. God is great.”

Their eyes are like the sun at dawn. The cheers are strong wine in his veins. Holding up a hand, he swings into the Land Cruiser. As the young men scramble into the trucks he sees the elders standing by the tent. The eldest stretches out his hands, but they ignore him. They're the clan's no longer. They're Waleeli now. They're his. Glory to God, the whole southern mountains are his.

He nods to Juulheed to start the engine.

T
EDDY was cleaning his carbine in the hooch when the news came down. Parts and patches all over, the oil and burnt powder all over their hands after their range session that afternoon. “I don't use anything but CLP,” he was saying to the big Hawaiian. “What the fucking manual says, that's what I fucking use.”

“Man, got to run that bolt greasy. The recoil spring, too. Or you get that sproing, sounds like a fucking toy gun.”

“You don't need all that fucking grease.” Teddy pulled the bolt carrier out of the black weapon broken-backed on the table. He fingernailed out the retaining pin, shook out the firing pin, took out the cam pin. The bolt fell into his hand. “Just collects moon dust. Keep it clean, this fucker'll shoot.”