The Way Home (24 page)

While they were not expected, they were welcomed with great generosity, as was the Pashtun custom.

Because her father was eager for the American
askar
to leave, he had consented to participate in the plan she and Jeffery had carefully worked out. Once inside the Emarat
malik
’s house, they would dine and socialize with the family, who would be eager to share news of the region. As soon as Rabia found out when the American patrol was due back through, she would attempt to make contact.

She didn’t have to wait long. The patrol was due the next day.

D
RESSED AS A
boy, her hair pulled up on top of her head and tucked under a cap, Rabia sneaked out of the house, careful not to wake the other women sleeping in the room with her. Heart pounding, she double-checked her pocket for the letter Jeffery had written and the blood and hair samples he had insisted she take.

“Since I can’t go myself,” he had said, handing her a knife,
“they will need physical evidence as proof that I’m alive. The letter won’t be enough.”

The village was small, no more than three thousand people. It did not take her long to reach the outskirts of town, where the Americans were said to be camping. The land was flat here. Tonight a thick layer of clouds covered a sky that was usually lit with stars. She was glad for the absence of light, which made it easier for her to slip through the village undetected.

For long moments, she stood at the town’s edge and searched the terrain beyond. It took only moments for her eyes to acclimate and spot the shadows of several tents about a quarter of a mile away.

On a deep breath, she stepped out of the concealment of a row of dwellings and started walking through the dark toward the encampment. With each step, she prayed that there would not be Taliban fighters hiding in the dark. And as she grew closer and could make out the silhouette of an American soldier carrying a rifle, she prayed to Allah that he would not shoot her before she had an opportunity to tell them about Jeffery.

P
rivate First Class Danny Gleason
hated freaking night watch. Fact was, he hated everything about everything that had to do with the U.S. freaking Army. He was nineteen years old. He’d joined up because it was either that or get sent to juvie for a little run-in with the Georgia State Police. Hell, he’d just been having some fun. He hadn’t known that asshole Dale Feckers was going to boost some beer from an all-night liquor store on the other side of the state line and expect him to be his wheel man.

Some friend he’d been. And now, because of Feckers, Danny was in Af-freakin’-ghanistan, eating sand and watching his back for fear some Tali-freakin’-ban jihadists decided they wanted to kill themselves an American infidel.

They could have this country. And Uncle Sam could have his Army. He had twenty-three months left on his hitch, then he was out of here. Back home to some sweet Georgia peach who would think he was some kind of a hero because he’d worn a uniform and toted a gun.

He didn’t say a thing about that to any of these other yahoos in his unit. Hell, they were all gung-ho, God-and-country soldiers. The kind of men people back home looked up to. The kind who made him feel like maybe he had something missing inside him because he couldn’t swallow that line of patriotic BS. There was one in every crowd, right? In this crowd, he was the one.

He stubbed his cigarette out in the dirt and resumed his walk of the camp perimeter. He had another hour, then Winters would relieve him. Talk about gung-ho. Winters was Captain freakin’ America wearing sergeant’s stripes.

He yawned heavily, then stopped short when he saw a shadow move in the darkness about twenty yards away.

Heart slamming, he shouldered his weapon so fast he hit himself in the jaw with the rifle butt. “Who’s out there?”

“I am not armed.”

What the hell? That sounded like a woman. Yeah, and everyone knew Afghan women liked to hide bombs in their big tent dresses—or in this case, those baggy pajama pants.

“Show yourself. Hands in the air,” Danny barked, exactly as he’d been instructed.

A figure materialized out of the dark. With his free hand, he found his Maglite and switched it on, shining it directly in her face.

Now he wasn’t so sure. Was it a woman or a boy?

“May I please speak to the soldier in charge?”

Definitely a woman. Who spoke English. “No, you may not. Get down on the ground. Face in the dirt. Now! Keep them hands above your head when you’re down there.”

Satisfied that she couldn’t do him any damage and with his rifle still trained on her, he clumsily pressed the button on his
shoulder mike. “Lieutenant Court, PFC Gleason. I’ve got a situation on the perimeter, sir. Need assistance quadrant seven ASAP. Sir,” he added for good measure.

He’d never had occasion to speak directly to the lieutenant, let alone wake him up in the middle of the night. He hoped to hell he hadn’t committed some major freaking infraction, but damn, this was big.

After a brief silence, Court responded, sounding pissed. “Say again.”

“An Afghan woman approached the perimeter, sir. Says she wants to talk to the man in charge. Request instructions on how to proceed, sir.”

Court replied that he would dispatch two men to assist and after completing a full body search to bring her to his tent.

“Roger that.”

Danny heaved a deep breath, glad there was help on the way. The woman hadn’t moved. And damn, he was glad for that. He didn’t want to shoot her. But he would, he told himself, if she even looked as if she was going to blow herself up and take him with him. He’d shoot her dead. He wasn’t dying on account of some Afghan, no, sir.

And as he stood there waiting for reinforcements, it occurred to him that he’d just acted like a real soldier. That, in fact, he might be a real freaking soldier. For the first time since he’d enlisted, it struck him that maybe he understood what all this gung-ho crap was about.

L
IEUTENANT
A
LEX
C
OURT
was accustomed to interaction with the local Afghan population, specifically the Pashtun. He was not accustomed to being approached in the middle of the night by
a woman dressed as a boy and telling a story like this woman had told him.

“Why didn’t he come himself  ?” he asked, after she’d told him a wild story about a Special Forces soldier who had been held captive by the ISI for over three years but had escaped during a prisoner exchange with the Taliban.

It made no sense at all. ISI? Seriously? Still, he listened because she was here for a reason, and he could possibly find out what it was.

“He is unwell,” the woman said. “I believe his leg was once broken and never set. Walking is difficult. He has also had head injuries. This has caused him problems with memory, headaches, and vertigo. He is unable to travel alone, and it is unsafe to attempt to transport him with the many Taliban checkpoints on the roads. The Taliban are actively searching for him. They have already searched our house once.”

“Why didn’t they find him?”

“He was hidden under the floor.”

If this was a story, it was a well-crafted and imaginative one.

He could not get a good read on her. She was soft-spoken and intelligent. And her English was perfect, which was a point of interest to him.

“You’re educated.”

“At my father’s insistence. My father has also aided in harboring this man. We wish to help him connect with the U.S. military so that he can return home.”

This was absolutely bizarre. Court wasn’t aware of any MIA troops in Afghanistan. And the U.S. presence in the Kandahar Province specifically had been minimal.

“You’ll understand if I’m not convinced. This is a pretty wild story.”

Almost as an afterthought, she reached into the pocket of her loose trousers.

“Stop right there,” he commanded, drawing his pistol.

She held her hands up. “I wish only to give you a letter he has written. May I?”

Because his men had searched her, he nodded.

“The letter provides Jeffery’s full name, rank, and serial number, his unit, battalion—more. He also explains how he was captured and when. Also, there is a recent blood sample and live hair follicles. His fingerprint is also on the letter.” She handed it to him.

“Put it on the table.” He didn't want to touch it and compromise the evidence, if there was, in fact, evidence.

“What’s in this for you?” he asked, because he was not only cautious but also curious.

“We wish only for Jeffery to return home.”

He stared at her, trying again to get a read. She seemed sincere enough, but there were a million sincere faces in Afghanistan. Some of them had led U.S. troops into ambushes.

“We also wish to make the exchange in such a way that there is no possibility of my father and myself being linked to him. As I said, the Taliban are searching for him. If they find out we harbored him for these several months, we will be killed.”

He stared at her long and hard, compelled to believe her yet wary. “OK. Once more. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

T
HE
A
MERICAN LIEUTENANT
was a tall, lean man with blue eyes and an air of wariness that made Rabia realize he could, if he chose, decide to hold her as a possible enemy combatant.

She told herself to remain calm, that she spoke the truth, and because it was the truth, he would believe her.

“We’re pulling out in the morning,” the lieutenant told her after offering her a seat on a camp chair. “When we get back to our forward operating base tomorrow, I’ll pass your story and the material you brought with you to the camp commander. He’ll have everything run through our computers. If it checks out, it’ll go immediately up the chain of command. Once they give the word, we’ll be back to get him.”

Rabia struggled with both relief and regret. “Then you believe me.”

He hesitated a moment. “I believe that if we have a soldier out there in danger, we need to get him home.”

“You will promise to do what you said? To check thoroughly?”

“We’ll investigate. I can promise that.”