Yes, Sir.
Can you hit that?
Sure thing.
Then do it. Now.
With a fluid motion, he shifts the Remington’s stock on his shoulder and lines up the reticle on his target. The gun’s already chambered. The muzzle rises and falls with each breath he takes. At the bottom of his third exhalation, he squeezes the trigger. I don’t need to look through my binoculars to see the stone explode.
Hot damn! Gaines says softly. You don’t need me here, bro.
There’s no wind about, Simonis says. Piece of cake.
It hasn’t stopped her, I point out.
We watch the cart wobble forward over a stretch of uneven ground.
If she keeps movin’, she’s gonna reach the Claymores, Gaines mutters.
Save us some trouble, I reply.
Just look at her crawl, Gaines says. Danica Patrick she ain’t.
Neither Simonis nor I reply. I’m too busy trying to sight another target for Simonis, but the ground looks devoid of defining features.
What about that white stone to her left? Gaines suggests. At two o’clock.
Simonis scans the field. ’Bout five meters from the marker? he asks.
No, closer.
Oblong pebble, speckled with black?
That’s the one.
I locate the stone through my binoculars: it’s barely the size of a pea.
Go for it, I tell Simonis.
He recycles the bolt and settles into his breathing, looking through the scope’s aperture and centering his sights on the target. Making a minute adjustment, he shifts slightly to his left and pauses before squeezing the trigger. I watch through my binoculars as the white pebble disintegrates in a puff of dust.
Bull’s-eye, I tell him. Nice work.
We watch the cart waver for a moment before it determinedly begins to advance again, the burqa-clad figure pushing against the ground with her hands to make it move forward.
I turn to Simonis. What was your distance shooting score?
288 out of 300, Sir.
All right, Specialist. Here’s your chance to top that. I want you
to aim just above her head, but close enough so she can feel the draft from the bullet through her burqa.
Don’t hose her, Gaines warns.
Simonis grins. He says: Do you have any money you’d like to lose?
Why? Gaines asks.
Watch, Simonis says.
He recycles the bolt again and relaxes into position. I raise my binoculars. The cart appears to hit a snag in the ground because the wheels lock momentarily before moving again. Simonis waits for a moment and then pulls the trigger.
The shot’s in the black. The cart lurches to a stop inches from the seventy-five-meter line. We wait for her to move again, but she remains stationary.
Score, Simonis says below his breath.
C’mon lady, Gaines whispers, one more meter and you’re dead meat on a hook …
Simonis is still looking through his scope.
She’s fingering something around her neck, he says. It looks like a pendant.
Could be a good luck charm, I observe. She’s going to need it.
Gaines says: She’s waving a white flag, Sir.
Good. She appears to have gotten the message.
She’s certainly come equipped with flag and all, Gaines says.
He glances behind his shoulder.
Cap’n’s here, Sir.
I jump down from the Hesco and walk up to Connolly. The new interpreter’s with him; he’s discarded his regulation U.S. Army fatigues for the local outfit of baggy trousers, cotton tunic, cap, and sandals. I wonder why.
The sun floods into the field at that moment. The interpreter raises his megaphone to his mouth and then lowers it again. Connolly takes a step back and shades his eyes.
I look at the field but can’t see a thing: the sun’s pouring down from the mountaintops. It’s like staring into a golden haze.
Perched on the Hesco above us, Simonis says: In the court of the crimson king.
Connolly swivels his neck to look at him. What was that?
The sun, Sir … Simonis explains.
Connolly turns to me. Morning, Lieutenant, he says. Perimeter secured?
Yes, Sir.
He nods at the cart in the field. What d’you think? Suicide bomber?
Nope. Too slow, Sir. Too prominent. Too unwieldy. With that getup, in broad daylight, she’s practically screaming for attention.
All right. What else could she be?
I’d vote for diversionary tactic.
A distraction?
Why not?
You may be right, he says. Something doesn’t smell right about this. How far is she from the wire?
We stopped her at the seventy-five-meter line, Sir.
He makes eye contact with me. Too close, he says. I would’ve liked more distance between that cart and us. Don’t take your eyes off the game, Lieutenant Ellison. You should know the drill by now.
I flush and say: Yes, Sir.
A scorpion edges out from a chink between two sandbags and scuttles with its tail raised right before us. Connolly lifts his boot and slams it down.
I hate these things, he says. He lifts his boot, and the scorpion slips into a crevice in the ground, apparently unscathed.
I’ll be darned! Connolly says.
They’re tough, Sir, Wonk Gaines pipes up.
Like the whole fucking country, Connolly says.
Sergeant Whalen comes up. Morning, Cap’n. Lieutenant Ellison.
I shake his hand. Morning, First Sarn’t.
Whalen’s eyes are bloodshot. He’s taken Nick Frobenius’s death hard.
He squints at the field. So that’s our WMD? he says. What in God’s name is that thing?
I say: On the face of it, a woman in a cart doing her morning rounds.
Connolly says: What d’you think, First Sarn’t? Man or woman underneath the burqa?
Whalen hesitates. You got me there, Sir.
He glances to me. What’s your take, Lieutenant?
I don’t think it matters, Sir. What does matter is that it’s introduced an element of danger and uncertainty into our situation. If there are insurgents on the slopes, they could be using her as a ploy—or for reconnaissance. The Taliban have been known to exploit our restrictive ROE by using women and children as distractions—or as human shields.
Connolly says: Well, let’s find out either way, shall we?
He glances at the interpreter. What’s your name again, son?
The interpreter presses his right hand to his heart.
Comandan Saab, I am called Masood.
Masood what?
Sir?
What’s your full name?
Farid Humayun Masood Attar, Sir, he says, and smiles, before adding helpfully: Attar, as in the famous poet who wrote
The Conference of the Birds
.
I see, Connolly says and pauses, nonplussed. I’ll just call you Masood, if that’s all right.
As you please, Comandan Saab.
Okay, then, ask her what she fucking wants.
Masood steps forward smartly and raises the megaphone to his mouth. There’s an electric crackle as he switches it on.
Starey më she, tsë ghwâre? he calls out. Hello, what do you want?
The high-pitched voice carries back to us as clear as a bell.
Salâmat osëy … she says, but I can’t understand the rest of her reply.
Masood translates: She says she is here to bury her brother, who was killed in the battle yesterday. She is his sister. Her name is Nizam.
Crap, Connolly says, and spits close to his boots. So they send their women to pick up their dead? The rats.
He glances at me. What d’you make of the voice, Lieutenant? Woman or boy?
Sounds like a woman to me. Young.
First Sarn’t?
I’ll second that, Sir, Whalen says.
It’s a boy, Comandan Saab, Masood interjects, sounding sure of himself.
We look at him together. How d’you know that? Connolly asks.
The name Nizam is a man’s name, Comandan Saab.
Connolly purses his lips. He’s not very clever, then, is he? he says, but he looks dissatisfied.
He’s Pashtun, Masood says dismissively, and taps his head.
A deep voice speaks up from behind us: it’s Doc Taylor.
What’s your mother tongue, Masood? he asks.
It’s Dari, Sir.
That’s the Afghan version of Persian, isn’t it?
Yes, Sir.
And Nizam is a man’s name in Persian, am I not correct?
Yes, Sir.
Are there absolutely no exceptions?
Masood hesitates. That I wouldn’t know, Sir.
Connolly interrupts: What’s your point, Doc?
Simply this, Sir. Nizam isn’t always a man’s name. The word means harmony, and refers to the order of pearls and other precious things—which might explain why the twelfth-century Persian
sheikh’s daughter who inspired Ibn ’Arabi, the most famous Arab poet, was called Nizám. So there you have it. More or less.
I didn’t know, Masood says, crestfallen.
Whalen whistles softly. Ya’ll taking Intro to Arab Lit., Doc?
I’ve been doing some reading of my own these past few months, Taylor says with a disarming smile.
He steps forward and stands next to me.
I thought you’d gone to man the
medic tent, Sergeant, I remark pointedly.
I’ve my people there, he replies. Ready and waiting. I thought I’d better come back here in case she blows up.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Connolly says grimly, before turning to Masood. Ask her her brother’s name, will you?
Masood translates her answer, though with a bit less confidence than he’d displayed before Doc showed him up. Both Doc and Connolly react to her answer with surprise.
Holy smoke, Doc says, she’s his sister.
Whose sister? I ask.
The guy rotting in my tent.
The leader of the gang that whacked us? Whalen asks.
Connolly nods. When he speaks, his voice has a new excitement to it.
If we play this right, it could be an amazing opportunity to gather intelligence, he says. We can fucking grill her for information on her brother, on their tribe, on the mountains—on everything!
He instructs Masood to ask her who told her she could find him here.
Masood relays her answer: Those who survived the battle.
So some of the fuckers got away! Wonk Gaines exclaims.
I swivel my head and tell him to shut the fuck up.
Connolly suddenly looks troubled. He raises his binoculars to his eyes and fixes them on the cart. After a considerable interval, he says: Something still stinks in this setup, and I’m not sure what it is.
Both Whalen and I ask him what he’s thinking.
I don’t know, he says slowly, but does it make sense that, in this country, a single, unaccompanied woman—and one who claims to be the sister of a tribal leader, what’s more—would show up in a fucking go-kart to demand the return of his body? It seems culturally way off the mark. Too much freedom of movement and direct involvement for a woman. Somehow it’s asking for an inordinate suspension of belief.
Still gazing through the binoculars, he says: Masood, ask her to describe her brother … in detail.
She does as instructed, without hesitation, and at length.
She knows him, Doc says after Masood has translated. That’s the man in the body bag she’s describing. I’ve examined him. She’s accounted for all his VDMs.
He studies her through his binoculars and asks Connolly if she could be the woman in the surveillance photograph taken by the drone.
Both Whalen and I look at each other. There’s obviously information here that we haven’t been briefed on. For some reason, Doc’s query annoys Connolly. Ignoring him, he lowers his binoculars and tells Masood to convey the message that the body is being held for purposes of identification.
Tell her that he’ll be buried after he’s been identified.
Masood translates; the woman replies.
I can identify him, she says.
To our surprise, Connolly turns on his heels and prepares to leave.
I’m not wasting any more time on this, he says. I’m not going to negotiate with this person, woman or not. She’s not coming anywhere near my base. Masood: tell her we’re waiting for experts to identify him, and that’s that.
Comandan Saab …
Now
what?
She wants to know when they’re coming.
Tell her—I don’t know—tell her it’ll be soon enough.
She wants to know how soon.
Oh, for Christ’s sake! I’ve barely slept in two days and …
Masood says quickly: I could tell her the experts will be here in two days.
Fine.
Whalen and I exchange glances: Connolly’s acting strangely. Could the lack of sleep be affecting his judgment?
Meanwhile, Masood resumes speaking to the woman. We listen to their exchange; then Masood says nervously: Comandan Saab, she says that her brother must be properly buried. She insists that it is her right to bury him.
Connolly grimaces. He steps away from the interpreter and lowers his voice until only those of us in his immediate vicinity can hear him. With his eyes fixed on the cart, he addresses Whalen and me icily: I’m going to instruct the terp to tell her to fuck off. He’s our business now. He was a fucking leader of the Taliban and an insurgent who caused the deaths of good, decent, honorable men.
My
men: under
my
command. And I’m going to have to meet their folks and tell them that their sons and their husbands and their brothers—
their
brothers, mind you—aren’t coming home after all, that they died on my watch, and I couldn’t do anything to save them. Not one goddamn thing. So she can take her rights and shove them up her righteous ass. And I’m gonna tell the terp to convey that to her.
Before I can speak, Whalen intervenes calmly.
Does she need to hear all of that, Sir? he says.
Connolly opens and then closes his mouth. He goes red in the face. Then his shoulders sag and he says tiredly: No. Of course not. She doesn’t.
He suddenly looks decades older than his twenty-seven years.
He walks over to Masood and says: Please convey to her that our business with him is not finished.
She replies: He is dead. What business can you possibly have with him?
Tell her that her brother was a terrorist, a Talib, and a bad man.
That isn’t true! My brother was a Pashtun, a Mujahid, and a freedom fighter. He fought the Taliban. And he died fighting the Amrikâyi invaders. He was a man of courage.