Read The Mullah's Storm Online
Authors: Tom Young
The Mullah's Storm (9 page)
“You see that?” Parson asked.
“Yes, sir,” Gold said. “I think it’s an old caravansary.”
“A what?”
“Caravansary. A place along a trade route where caravans could stop safely for rest. This used to be part of the old Silk Road.”
Parson appreciated her professionalism, but he felt off balance that someone beneath him in rank had such commanding expertise of the language and culture while he knew nothing. His briefings on Afghanistan had been all about flying: approach corridors, tower frequencies, runway lengths, instrument procedures. We’re in her element now, he thought. If we were flying, I’d have the knowledge and she’d be the dumb passenger.
From a distance, at least, the caravansary seemed abandoned. No movement, no goats, no smoke from a cooking fire. Parson wondered why any kind of sturdy structure would fall into disuse in such a poor country. But there it stood in silence, as if some dread disease had wiped out the population of a busy place. He considered whether to hole up there for a while. In survival school they’d taught him not to hide in an obvious spot. But his choices seemed so limited now.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“If the locals aren’t using it, there’s a reason,” Gold said. “Maybe it’s been a Taliban base. But it looks like nobody’s home now.”
“Let’s check it out. That will at least get us out of the weather.”
It took longer than he expected to reach the ruin’s gate. The mullah walked slowly, staring at his feet. Parson fought the urge to grab the chain and jerk him along faster. The old man probably couldn’t go much quicker.
The snow looked broken near the wall’s opening. As they neared the structure, Parson pointed the AK forward, and his suspicion turned to fear when he saw that horses had churned up the snow. Several sets of hoofprints led into the courtyard, and hoofprints led out. Scattered piles of horse dung. Bootprints around the hoofprints. No other sign of life. Utter silence.
“What’s up with this?” he asked.
“No idea,” Gold said. “I can’t see any reason for a bunch of riders to go in and out of here like that, especially in this storm.”
“The fucking Twilight Zone.”
“Do you want to take shelter here?”
“Maybe. What do you think?” Parson asked.
“I don’t get a good feeling, but I’m not sure why.”
“Let’s just watch the place for a while. Make sure his gag is secure.”
Parson kneeled behind a jumble of stones, the remains of a wall that had crumbled to the ground. He watched Gold pull the prisoner into a room off a central courtyard. When she settled in, Parson saw only the barrel of her rifle. He checked his watch. Eighteen past the hour. We’ll watch until at least the top of the hour, he told himself. In that time, any bad guys around here should make some noise or show themselves.
He watched mist from his breath rise above the rocks. Their snowshoe prints mingled with the tracks left earlier, so nothing but his exhalations gave away their position. His fingers hurt now, and he pulled off his gloves and breathed into his cupped hands. He wished he’d brought different gloves. Nomex was designed for fire protection, not cold, and the chill air soaked right through. Parson shivered a little, but at least he wasn’t wet like that first night when they’d splashed through the creek after the shootdown. Back home, he had wanted a bigger house and a nicer car, but now wealth was simply to be dry and not hungry.
Peering from behind the pile of stones, holding a rifle, reminded him of countless hours in deer stands, waiting for his prey. Centering the crosshairs just behind the animal’s shoulder where the bullet would strike heart and lungs. Telling himself not to pull the trigger unless he had a good shot; you owe that to the animal. Exhale, hold breath, squeeze. The shove of recoil. The deer down where it stood.
But now he felt more the prey than the predator. Something he had not experienced before, except a taste of it during the escape-and-evasion exercise at survival school. And Parson had approached the training with the same attitude as everyone: This will not happen to me.
While he watched and waited, he inventoried the tools in his survival vest, things he’d never expected to need. He felt the pouch containing his first-aid kit; he’d already broken the seal. The kit included fishing hooks and line, which struck Parson as wildly optimistic. GPS and radio. He had all his electronics turned off now to conserve batteries. Knife, compass, signal mirror, flares. God, to pop smoke and summon a helicopter. But this storm made it nearly impossible to walk, let alone fly. Planes had crashed by flying into Afghanistan’s cumulogranite clouds.
Parson found a compact of camo face paint in light green, dark green, and black. Useless in this winter expanse. Magnesium fire starter. Water-purification tablets. Multitool with pliers and screwdrivers. His Beretta, of course, and extra magazines. He’d added the magazines on his own. He knew Army troops who’d survived extended firefights; they said their lesson learned was you could never have too much water or ammunition.
Taken together, these things in his vest hinted of desperation. To need them, Parson thought, meant you were in about as much trouble as you’d ever encounter. It couldn’t get much worse. Down to nothing to lose. And now the world itself gone but mountains and snow and the enemy.
He looked across the courtyard and examined the ruin. A series of rooms, some open to the sky, gave off from the courtyard on three sides. The larger ones, with wide doorways, he guessed to have been stables for horses or camels. So you could bring your load of silk or silver or whatever in here, Parson thought, and rest your animals while hiding from the bandits outside. This country had always been dangerous for every soul in it.
When the minute hand on his watch reached the top of the hour, he stood painfully, placed his hands on his knees. Still no sign of anyone else. At Gold’s hiding spot, he saw little beyond the doorway. He clicked on his flashlight as Gold and the mullah stood. The room contained nothing but scattered straw.
“Let’s see if we can find anything useful,” Parson said.
Gold nodded and pulled the prisoner down the walkway and into the next room. She unlocked the cuff from around her wrist and held the chain in her hand, rubbed her wrist.
This time Parson’s flashlight revealed a wooden table, with no other furniture in sight. A wicker basket sat atop the table. Parson shined his flashlight into the basket. It was filled with dried fruit. He picked up one, held it to his nose. It smelled faintly sweet.
“What are these?” he asked.
“Dried mulberries, I’d guess,” Gold said.
Parson raked his fingers through them, looking for signs of mold. Seeing none, he picked up another mulberry, sniffed it and bit off part of it, rolled the fruit around on his tongue.
“Not bad,” he said. “Wonder why somebody left these?”
“Maybe because they left in a hurry.”
Parson didn’t like the sound of that, but he was too tired and cold to ponder the mystery of hoofprints and food left behind. He dug into the basket, gathered a fistful of berries, and handed them to Gold.
“Might as well take off his gag and let him eat some of these,” Parson said. “I don’t have any more MREs.”
“If they’re bad, at least we’ll all get food poisoning together,” Gold said, chewing. She untied the gag and gave the mullah some fruit. He ate in silence.
“Keep an eye on him,” Parson said. “I’m going to look around.”
Back out on the walkway, he found it snowing harder. He noticed a lump in the snow on the stone path. He nudged the mass with his foot. The white powder fell away to reveal empty plastic packaging with English lettering: “Sony InfoLithium Camcorder Battery.”
Now he didn’t know what to think. Had GIs just been here? He knew Special Forces teams sometimes used horses in Afghanistan. What damned awful luck to miss them. He put his hand on his radio, thinking to ask AWACS about nearby friendlies, but he decided to explore first.
When he stepped into the next room, it smelled different, not the same mildew odor as the first two. A little foul, not strong. He played his light across the room. What he saw brought him to his knees.
Black blood covered most of the stone floor. Amid the pool of drying blood, a body. In an American flight suit. Headless.
Parson leaned forward and retched. He vomited what little he had in his stomach, bile and masticated fruit. He blinked his watering eyes and looked again. So much blood. He dropped his flashlight, and it clattered on the stones. Spittle drooled from his chin.
“Gold, get in here,” he called. The phlegm in his throat gave a rattle to his words. He spat and closed his eyes. Gold led the mullah down the walkway.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You better sit down,” he said. She kneeled beside him. He picked up his flashlight. “Look.”
Parson heard her inhale deeply and stifle a sob. He felt her hand on his back.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
The mullah began speaking.
“What’s he saying?” Parson asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What is that motherfucker saying?”
Gold sighed. “He says the soldiers of God have struck a blow for justice.”
“I’m going to strike a fucking blow,” Parson said. He jerked the chain from Gold’s hand and grabbed the mullah, dragged him outside, slammed him against the wall. The prisoner jabbered, grinning.
“He says if you shoot him, your CIA cannot question him,” Gold said.
Parson swung the back of his fist against the mullah’s face. Blood ran from the man’s nose, streamed into his beard.
“Tell him don’t worry. I won’t shoot him.”
Parson punched him in the stomach. The prisoner doubled over.
“Stop,” Gold said.
“Like I said, I won’t shoot him. That’s too good for this piece of shit.”
Parson opened a pocket on his survival vest, dug out a signal flare. He pulled off the plastic cap. He felt the raised rings on one end, a MK-124 night flare.
“What are you doing?” Gold asked.
Parson slid out the trigger tab at the end of the flare, arming it. He held the flare with his thumb on the slide lever. Pressed hard. The trigger made a loud crack, followed by the whoosh of igniting chemicals. A dagger of flame more than a foot long leaped from the flare, sparks arcing to the ground. Phosphorous drip-pings burned holes in the cobblestone. The flame so hot and white it hurt Parson’s eyes.
He took the mullah by the throat.
“I’m going to send you to hell in style,” he said.
Parson felt Gold’s rifle stock slam the side of his face. The blow knocked him to the ground. The flare skittered away, spinning in circles like a wayward comet. It burned for several more seconds, blackened stones, melted a swath in the snow. The flare finally sputtered out, smoke curling from its burned tip.
Parson felt his cheek and glared at Gold. He fought the urge to hit her back. The mullah stared wide-eyed, breathing hard, trembling. Gold locked the chain around her wrist again.
“You shouldn’t have stopped me,” Parson said.
“You know our mission, sir.”
Parson knew he’d let emotion overcome his reason, but he was too angry to admit it out loud. It felt as if a primal fury hidden dormant within him, something ancient, had been awakened by these murdering camel jockeys and their religion of blood. If they got to him so much that he lost his professionalism, then he’d lost everything. He looked into the distance and watched the snow shower, rubbed his bruised face. He felt as if he’d failed some test. Or that Gold had kept him from failing it. But he hadn’t asked for any of this.
He rose up on his knees. His flak jacket and survival vest felt heavier than ever. Parson leaned forward, placed a hand on the wall to steady himself, then raised himself to his feet and reentered the room.
The sight brought bile to his throat again. He saw no identifying patches or name tag on the flight suit, only Velcro where patches would normally go. That was standard procedure; crews usually sanitized their uniforms before combat missions.
Parson stepped inside slowly, and he felt congealed blood sticking to his snowshoes. Despite the lack of insignia, he thought he knew who this was. He tried to pick up the body’s right wrist, but rigor mortis had frozen it in place.
He pushed back the sleeve and aimed his light onto the forearm. The tattoo read: “La Vida Loca.” Parson closed his eyes and squeezed the lifeless wrist.
“I should have stayed with you guys,” he whispered.
He let go of the wrist and smoothed down the sleeve, then backed out of the room. He sat on the cobblestones, cradled the AK-47.
The mullah kneeled on the walkway. Wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve. Looked away when Parson met his eyes. So I wiped that smirk off your face, thought Parson. You feel fear just like the rest of us.
Parson opened a pouch on his survival vest and took out his GPS receiver. He pressed the ON button with a trembling, gloved thumb, then waited for the receiver to initialize. The device found its artificial stars and displayed the caravansary’s latitude and longitude.
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