Gravedigger (8 page)

Derek slowly moved back toward
the village. He spotted three
muj
on horseback, firing into every doorway they came to. Crouching at the corner of a house, he flipped the AK to single fire. Taking aim, he shot the first rider in the chest. Moved immediately to the second, fired. Then the third.

Just like that.

The
muj’s
horses reared, then raced off. Derek considered trying to catch one, then decided it was a bad idea.

He sprinted to another house. Outside this one was the pump the village used for its water supplies. Crouching behind it, he scanned around. Twenty yards away he saw a line of
muj
stalking toward the makeshift hospital.

Derek pulled the pin on one of the grenades and flung it at the group. The distance and timing was right on. They didn’t stand a chance. The grenade landed right in the middle and went off almost instantly, tearing the infiltrators to shreds.

Sprinting to the house, he crept in, checking on his patient and the other sick people who had been there. His heart sank.

Everyone was dead. Gunshot wounds in them all, including the woman who had been in labor. The stench of blood and shit and body gases filled the air.

He stepped out face to face with a
muj
.

They both were startled. The
muj
, who looked about thirty with a dark beard, was just raising his AK47 to fire when Derek shot him.

Time to get out of Zin. He should have gone with Noa and Johnston in the first place.

Turning away, he started toward the back of the village, staying to the shadows, but moving quickly.

At one point he stopped at three corpses. He flipped up his NVGs and looked closer. One of them was Anwari, their host.

Hearing a shout behind him, Derek dropped the NVGs back down over his eyes and broke into a sprint, zig-zagging as he went. Gunfire popped behind him.

And then he was to the village wall and he was up and over and running for the hills.

An hour later,
Derek figured he was either lost – a real possibility – or he had missed his deadline and Noa and Johnston had gone on ahead.

The third possibility was that they had been captured and killed trying to leave the village. He tried not to think about that.

He found a road heading north. It wasn’t much of a road, really more of a two-track through the hills. Staying just off to the right, he walked in the darkness, rain still coming down steadily.

A couple times he heard people or a horse passing by and he shrank into the shadows and waited for them to pass.

About three hours later he encountered what he thought were the first of Shing Dun’s outer perimeter guards. A couple of
muj
smoking cigarettes, AK47s slung over their shoulders, talking in low voices.

Derek had been on the lookout for just such a group, and kept a good distance as he silently crept around them.

Staying off the road, he took his time, moving through the darkness, NVGs on, looking for more guards. He wondered where Noa and Johnston were, if they had already made it to the Russian and his helicopter, if they had gotten captured or killed, or lost.

The NVGs were a godsend, but there wasn’t a great deal of depth perception with them. Suddenly Derek stepped into what almost seemed to be a smaller crater. Nearly twisting an ankle, he slammed to the hard ground. Struggling to his hands and knees, he froze.

He was nose to nose with a face.

Derek reeled back in surprise. He flipped up the NVGs, but that wasn’t much better. Fighting to control his rapidly beating heart, he edged closer to the face.

He realized he was looking at a corpse. It had been out here for some time and appeared almost mummified, which he supposed wasn’t completely unexpected in the dry and cold climate, although there was nothing currently dry about the rainfall in this part of Afghanistan. The skin was blackened, tight over the bones, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes gone, empty sockets staring into the rain-darkened sky.

Scanning over the body, he noted that both legs appeared to be gone just above the knees.

Things clicked.

Derek’s heart hammered harder. He had tripped in a crater. The body’s lower legs were gone.

Afghanistan was littered with landmines. The Russians had left millions of them lying around.

In an act that Derek felt could only be described as evil, the Russian Army had disguised landmines as toys, so children would pick them up. There was a generation of maimed Afghan children.

This poor bastard had tripped a landmine, gotten his legs blown off, and died here, body left for the carrion and the weather to desiccate his flesh.

And where there was one landmine there were usually more. Many more.

Derek shivered, thinking of all the time he had been hiking off-road. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

For a moment Derek grayed out. He began to hyperventilate, his heart racing. For a moment he wondered if he was having a heart attack.
Calm down, dammit!
His fists tightened, clinging to the muddy ground and the blood seemed to roar in his ears.

Derek felt frozen. His nerves felt like they were sizzling, muscles jumping under his skin. What the hell was happening to him?

Closing his eyes, he imagined himself somewhere else … anywhere else. On his boat. He lived on a boat, a sixty-foot Criss-Craft Constellation he had bought off a wealthy widow. It was teak and mahogany and fiberglass and parked in a marina in Baltimore. The water was blue, the waves gentle; the sky the color of faded denim, a mild breeze on his face.

Slowly his heart rate slowed, his breathing regulated.

Derek was able to sit up.
Good God,
he thought.
What the fuck was that? Was that a panic attack?

Rocking back on his heels, Derek surveyed the area. Ideally, he should backtrack the way he came. The rain had wiped out his footsteps, but he was fairly certain he knew the way he had gotten here.

Climbing to his feet, he carefully followed the route he had taken back toward the road, gaze focused on the ground. His heart beat a little harder, but otherwise he seemed in control, moving his feet carefully, walking slowly.

Finally stepping onto the harder surface of the road, he realized the two
muj
were standing, waiting for him. Their AK47s were aimed right at him. He held his hands out. “Hello.”

It was a long hike
and his captors weren’t chatty types. They took his weapons, searched his rucksack, then pushed him on ahead. After about forty minutes they passed a large, sprawling house made of mud brick with a tin roof. A helicopter was parked next to it. He guessed he knew the location of the Russian pilot now.

An hour later they came to what Derek assumed was the village of Shing Dun. It was probably a hundred buildings within a stone and mortar wall. They spoke with two guards. His rucksack was torn from his back, then he was led to a small building and shoved inside. The wooden door slammed shut after him. He heard a latch clang home.

“Dandy,” he said.

It was completely dark. No light whatsoever, no windows.

Carefully he pressed his hands to the wall. He made a slow circuit of the room, which was about fifteen feet square. Bare dirt floor – dry, thankfully – with a bucket in one corner.

With a sigh, Derek sprawled next to one wall and did his best to get comfortable. It had been a long day. He dozed off.

An unknown time period later, the door opened. Gray light filtered in. It was daylight and the rain had turned to a fine mist. Two
muj
stood there, both armed. They spoke to him in Pashto and waved him forward.

Climbing stiffly to his feet, Derek followed them out. He thought he might be able to take them and get the hell out of there, but he didn’t know how many armed men were in the village. Hoping that learning as much about what was going on before attempting an escape was the best plan, he decided to cooperate.

He was hungry and thirsty, but otherwise in decent shape.

They walked through the village, which was waking up. East of the village were fields of maize and other vegetables. Smoke drifted out of chimneys. Goats and horses and chickens made barnyard sounds amid the sound of morning chores being started.

They led Derek to the largest house, knocked on the door and were let in by a
muj
. Derek studied this
muj
, and decided he didn’t look Afghani or Pakistani. He thought he looked Arab.

The Arab looked at him. He was bearded and wore a patterned kaffiyeh on his head. His nose was a pronounced beak and his features were sharp beneath bronzed skin. “Please,” he said in accented English. “Take off your shoes. The Sheik would like to speak with you.”

When in Rome…

Sliding off his shoes, Derek said, “Your English is very good.”

“Thank you. You are American?”

“Yes. Derek Stillwater.”

“Come this way, please.”

They passed from the entry area through a doorway into a larger room. A tall, thin man in white robes and turban lounged on pillows before a small table. He had a long, bushy black beard and a thin, ascetic face. A fire crackled in a fireplace. Sitting around the table were two other men. One of them Derek recognized as Khan, the man whose camp he had decimated. If Khan recognized him, he didn’t show it. The other was younger, severe looking, with a black beard shot through with gray. His right eye was black, apparently blind.

The ascetic-looking man with the beard gestured to the pillow along the table. “Please, sit.” His English was also good, with a noticeable accent.

Derek did. The heat from the fireplace felt wonderful.

The man smiled pleasantly enough, although his expression was serious. “I am Sheik Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden. Welcome to Shing Dun.”

Derek nodded. “Am I a guest here?”

“We have not decided. You were found wandering by yourself on the road into our town. You are American?”

There was something about the way Osama bin Laden said the word “American” that made Derek nervous, but he said, “Yes. I am from the United States.”

“Your name?”

“Sorry. My name is Derek Stillwater.”

Osama bin Laden reached down beneath the table. Derek tensed. The Saudi brought out Derek’s rucksack. He pulled out the first aid kit and the chemical test kit. “You are with the U.S. Army?”

Shaking his head, Derek said, “No. I’m with the International Health Alliance. I’m a scientist. I’m preparing reports for the IHA and World Health Organization on contaminants in the food and water here. I’m trying to help.”

“You are U.S. Army.” It was a statement this time, not a question.

“No,” Derek said. “I am not. The IHA is an NGO. You understand NGO? A non-governmental agency?”

“If you are not Army, you are CIA. This first aid kit and this--” He pointed at the chemical test kit. “—are clearly labeled U.S. Army.”

More emphatic now, but not panicking. “I am a scientist with the IHA. I try to help. The U.S. Army makes very reliable and compact first aid kits and chemical analysis kits, which is why I prefer them.”

“Why do you carry a rifle?”

Derek cocked an eyebrow. “This is a dangerous country. Men in Afghanistan carry AK47s the way men in the United States wear neckties.”

“I don’t believe you,” bin Laden said. “I believe you are with the U.S. Army or the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“I’m not. I’m—”

“Why were you walking alone?”

“I was separated from my team. There was some sort of battle going on at Zin.”

The one-eyed man said something in what Derek suspected was Arabic. Osama bin Laden seemed to listen closely. Finally he said, “Mullah Omar says you are an infidel.”

Derek reflected that he had very little training during his military SERE classes on what to do in a situation like this. SERE stood for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. He had been taught survival skills in the desert, in the jungle, in the mountains, in the cold and snow, in the water. He had been taught how to escape. He had been taught how to behave during interrogations. He had even undergone training in responses to sexual assault during captivity.

He had not been taught how to respond to being called an infidel by a Muslim religious leader.

Carefully, he said, “An infidel is traditionally defined as someone without faith. I am not an infidel.”

“What is your faith?” Osama bin Laden asked. Khan looked impatient.

“A Christian,” Derek said, understanding, unfortunately, that this might be the wrong answer.

Osama bin Laden spoke with Mullah Omar for a moment, who responded. After the exchange, Osama bin Laden looked at Khan. “What was the name of the organization your two intruders claimed they were with?”

Khan spat out, “The International Health Alliance.”

Bin Laden turned to study Derek. “A man and a woman. Do you know them?”

Derek shrugged. “Maybe. What were their names?”

“Johnston and Shoshan.”

With a shake of his head, Derek said, “No. I was with two other men. John Clark and Gunter Schwartz. John’s Canadian. Gunter is German. They’re both physicians. We were at the WHO refugee camp. We were called to check out some patients at Zin. We just got there and somebody attacked and started shooting. We got separated. I started walking, but I got turned around.”

“You are a doctor?” Bin Laden asked.

“A professor. A scientist. I run laboratory tests. My job is to see if there are pollutants in the food and water supplies. Sometimes there are.” He told them about how the pesticides and fertilizers were poisoning the well at Garha. They seemed to believe what he was saying. Conveniently, it was the truth.

He didn’t know if the Mullah spoke English. When the conversation went on in English for any length of time, the man seemed to lose interest.

Osama bin Laden turned and spoke to Mullah Omar. The conversation went on for a while. The Mullah seemed angry, but then again, everything the Mullah said seemed angry. Osama bin Laden always seemed calm and pleasant. So much so that Derek didn’t trust it. He suspected Osama bin Laden was the scary one of the three, the chess player planning a dozen moves ahead in whatever game he thought he was participating in.

Finally the Sheik turned back to Derek. “You will test our water supply.”

“I would be glad to.”

Osama bin Laden nodded and gestured at Khan. “He will take you to the well.”

“Of course.”

Khan got to his feet. Derek followed. Osama bin Laden handed Derek his rucksack. Derek considered asking for his weapon back, but decided not to push his luck. The Mullah stared at him with his one eye with unhidden malevolence.

Making a half-bow, Derek thanked them for their hospitality, and followed Khan out of the house. The Arab who manned the door bowed them silently out of the house.

All in all, thought Derek, an unnerving experience that could have gone far worse.

The village’s pump
was not far from the main house. Like Zin, this one was an electric pump. Taking out the chemical test kit, Derek had Khan run the water for a minute, then performed a test on the water. Glancing around, he saw an area just outside of the village where boxes and crates on pallets were being stored. Derek very much wanted to get a look at those.

The water had some contamination, but not too bad. Derek showed the test tube to Khan and said, “There’s some chemical contamination. It might be from pesticides or fertilizers or perhaps you have diesel or other chemicals stored? The containers may be leaking.”

Khan glared at him. Derek had the distinct feeling Khan didn’t buy his story. The man’s English was also fairly rudimentary. The man just seemed to seethe. Derek wondered if Khan knew that all his men back at his camp were dead, or if he had just not heard from them.

“Yes? Let’s go.” Derek pointed toward the fields of maize. “Let’s start over there.” It wasn’t the direction he really wanted to go, but he wanted Khan to get over his obvious suspicion.

They traipsed through the village. Villagers looked at them, but didn’t say much. All the women Derek saw wore the strictest form of Muslim clothing, a burkha. Women in heavy blue robes, everything of their faces covered except their eyes, which peered through mesh. Like blue ghosts.

In the field of maize, which was choked with mud and standing puddles, Derek took a couple soil samples. These tests indicated stronger evidence of chemical contamination, although nothing like he’d seen in Garha. He pointed to a shed at one corner of the field and went over to it. Inside were barrels of pesticide. They were rusty and leaking.

Derek checked the labels. Illegal in the U.S., but used all over the world. He said to Khan, “These might be leaking into your ground water. They need better barrels. Or they should be moved to a site downhill from the well.”

Khan grunted that he understood. Striding off toward where he had seen the crates and pallets, Derek was stopped by Khan, who gripped his arm and shook his head. “No. We do not go there.”

Derek scanned around the village. The sun was actually starting to burn through the mist. “Why?”

Without warning Khan punched Derek, staggering him. Derek went with it, falling to the ground. Before Derek could respond, the man had a handgun aimed in Derek’s face. “You were with the man and the woman. I know this. Something happened to my people. I think you had something to do with this. If it were not for the Sheik and the Mullah, I would kill you now and be done with it.”

Hands out to his sides, Derek said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Khan leaned toward him. “You lie.”

Derek shook his head. “No, I’m not lying. And I’m standing up now.”

The
muj
took a step back, but didn’t level his gun. Derek rolled to his feet. Khan waved the gun in his face.

Derek snapped it from his hand and pointed it in Khan’s face. The
muj
scowled at him, eyes wide. “I’m not in the military now, Khan, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t use to be. I may be a scientist, but it doesn’t mean I won’t shoot you. Now let’s go take a walk over there. You’ve got contaminants in your water supply here. Over at Gorha it was going to kill everyone in the village eventually if they didn’t do something. Let’s make sure that’s not happening here.”

Khan spat at Derek’s feet. Derek kicked the man in the balls. He went down in a heap. Derek took off Khan’s AK47, kicked him in the ribs for good measure, and strode off toward the crates.
Life’s all about choices,
he thought, wondering if he was making the right one.

As he approached the pallets and crates, Khan had gotten to his feet and was shouting in Pashto and running toward him.

Should have hit him harder,
Derek thought.

Derek recognized the crates as having RPGs and AK47s in them. He wasn’t overly concerned about that. From what he’d seen of Afghanistan post-Russian occupation, there were enough AK47s and RPGs just lying around for every man, woman and child to be fully armed well into the next century. Four pallets, however, contained barrels that were labeled in Cyrillic, which didn’t mean anything to him. It was also labeled with: C11H26NO2PS.

“Shit.” Derek counted the barrels. Twelve barrels.

Khan showed up with three
muj
. Apparently he wasn’t going to let his humiliation get in the way of his duty. The three
muj
held AK47s, which they pointed at Derek.

The Arab door-holder who apparently acted as Osama bin Laden’s front desk, strode toward them, robes flowing around him. In a clear voice he shouted, “What is the problem? What is the meaning of this?”