The stars shone bright and multitudinous in the northern sky on a cool summer night above Kaysar Khel, a dark noiseless village on the eastern edge of the Zirwa valley, where rugged peaks rose endlessly and inhospitably into Pakistan. Two men walked surely but silently through the dusty streets, hoping to avoid the attention of dogs and children who would spread news of their arrival. The first, a tall man of not more than twenty with wisps of sparse beard, carried a rifle over his shoulder and wore a light brown pakol hat over his short black hair. The second man, older, taller, and unarmed, had a long thick black beard and an abundant white turban that folded around his neck and over his right shoulder. His thinness did nothing to diminish his imposing physical bearing and proud demeanor. The younger man spied a house with a red gate and glanced back with a slight nod. The older man knocked lightly on the corrugated iron gate, which opened with a considerable creak revealing an old man with a white beard and gray checkered turban who smiled and greeted the visitors holding his hand to his heart: “A-salaam-alekum, my son. Please come in.”
“Wali-kum-salaam, uncle. Let us enter quickly without notice.”
The old man, whose name was Gul Mohammed, led the men into his central room, where they shook hands and greeted the old man’s six sons, then sat down upon wide flat cushions. The older guest looked around the room at each man deliberately before speaking: “Uncle, cousins, thank you for taking such care and risk to receive us in secret. You all know by now what has happened and the consequences for all of us. This is Mateen, my most trusted bodyguard, and you should treat him as family. I owe him a debt on my life.” Mateen stared at the floor in front of him, but inside he was beaming with pride to be shown such respect by Hadji Khan in front of his kin. Mateen had no living relations: his older brother was killed in a missile strike the previous spring, his parents had died while he was a young boy, and his sister had died in childbirth. Hadji Khan had been a second father to him as well as his mentor for the last three years. Hadji Khan continued: “Tomorrow, we will call a meeting of the tribal elders so they can hear what I have to say and decide whether to join our cause. It is important that my name not be used so that news of my presence is not heard by the wrong ears.”
At this point, Hadji Khan stopped short as the door opened and two young girls entered the room carrying trays. The first girl was older, perhaps sixteen, and wore a blue dress covered with silver and red circles and crescents. Her head was covered with a light hijab made up of fabric from the dress and her tray contained bowls of goat and potato soup and flat bread. The second girl, barely a teenager, wore an orange and red striped dress fringed with sequined patterns and no head covering. She carried a tray with a large teapot, glasses, and some sugared pastry, and she caught a momentary glimpse of the visitors as she set her tray on the floor mat. None of the men spoke or moved until the girls had exited the room again.
The old man spoke: “Let us feast together and tell stories, and later we might discuss more serious matters.”
After the two girls had closed the door behind them, they lingered and listened to the men in the other room through a crack in the door. The older girl, whose name was Farishta, said to her sister: “Niazmina, though we are not allowed to be involved in affairs outside the house, we should try to understand what the men are doing.”
This is something her mother had once told her before she died of a sudden bacterial infection four years ago, leaving Farishta to manage the household. As they listened, they heard their brothers passing on local news about theirs and other villages, followed by Hadji Khan’s report about Pakistan and the state of the current fighting season. Afterward, he recounted stories concerning ambushes, Americans, rockets, bombs, and other warlike things. Neither girl had ever heard anything of the type; Farishta thought about how men waste time on such silly things, while Niazmina thought about how brave her uncle must be and how handsome that young boy with him was. When one of the men got up they scurried silently to their room and went to bed, though they remained awake most of the night, stimulated by what they had overheard.
The next day four of the cousins were tasked with making the rounds and spreading the word of an important jirga to be held in three days’ time. Meanwhile, Hadji Khan and Mateen rested and did not leave the compound. Hadji Khan walked circles around the courtyard sorting through his many thoughts. He reviewed his plans as he had many times already. He thought about this war, wondering if it was possible for him or anyone to live without war; it was all he had known for as long as he remembered and gave his life a genuine sense of purpose. His thoughts drifted to Mateen and his upcoming marriage to Farishta. He knew Mateen wanted to prove his bravery in battle, but was it perhaps better for this young couple and future family to grow old in peace? His thoughts turned reluctantly to his own family. His first wife, Hala, was strong and beautiful, and had given him two sons and a daughter; she became jealous when he took a second wife, Gulalai, but they soon became close companions. He tried as well to recall the face of his youngest daughter, Laila, his only child with Gulalai. Hadji Khan abruptly stopped and looked up at the sky, knowing that he must continue his mission without them, and that he would again see them one day.
Mateen often sat with his own contemplations under the shade of a fig tree as he watched Hadji Khan’s inscrutable pacing. The young man was thinking about the girl who had brought them food last night and how he wished he had stolen a glance at her face; he had learned that they were to be married in autumn after the Eid festival and was immediately overcome with an anxious anticipation. He tried to imagine if his marriage would change anything regarding his responsibilities to Hadji Khan and the war.
Inside the house, a rift had developed between the two sisters. Niazmina was jealous of her sister’s engagement and angry that her sister did not appreciate such a lucky union, while Farishta was incensed that her father was selling her like an animal. She had run the household for three years and had once been promised the chance to go to school. She was getting older and would soon be shackled to a housebound life she did not want with a stranger she did not know.
Like this, three days passed and the day of the jirga arrived at last.
A procession of old and middle-aged men from all over the Zirwa valley filled the space in front of the Kaysar Khel mosque. No women were present. Some men were fat, but many were lean and rugged from decades of hard work and hard seasons; some wore orange henna in their beards and hair, which stained their hands and fingernails. Some wore pakol hats, some sindhi caps, some turbans. One man in a black turban, Mullah Abdullah, sat front and center; he served as the religious leader of the Shin Khel clan of the Ahmadzai tribe, themselves part of the larger Wazir tribe. Though such things were not spoken of, it was known to all that he alone would truly decide the course of action to be taken at the meeting.
After a large crowd had assembled and most had taken their seats either cross-legged on mats or crouched in a squat, Hadji Khan appeared in the back and slowly made his way to the front, walking neither slow nor fast, looking neither right nor left, until he stopped and faced the assembly in front of Mullah Abdullah. Mateen took his place behind his leader, while Gul Mohammed and his sons sat on the far side of the crowd as mere spectators. Hadji Khan looked out over the crowd and began to speak: “Mullah Abdullah, village elders, Waziri brothers, I am Hadji Khan of the Nasradin clan. I moved here as a boy to live with my uncle, Gul Mohammed, after my parents died in the war. I fought with our clan against the Russians, where I was wounded three times. We protected our land and our women and defeated the infidels. When the Americans came we could not fight for long on our own and I took twenty-five men and joined Jalaluddin Haqqani. For ten years I led attacks on the new infidels and their supplies. I am the lone survivor from among those twenty-six men, but in these years, however, our numbers have multiplied. I rose to become Haqqani’s most successful commander, and we counted over fifty thousand experienced fighters. The Americans did not recognize friend from foe and did not trust their own Pashtun allies. On one mission, I used a false identity to enter an American base and speak directly with their CIA officers, giving them false intelligence and promises. I used my knowledge to carry out an operation which allowed two martyrs to enter the base and kill seven Americans and ten of their Afghan soldiers.
“I called this jirga today because the time is overdue for restarting operations to push the infidels out of our tribal land. Many of you have supported the Americans and taken their money for building contracts, supplies, and information, but you can gain penance for these actions. Inshallah, many of your sons will join us and share in the glory and honor of jihad.”
Hadji Khan finished his speech and looked over the silent crowd, waiting to see who would be the first to speak. The lull was brief as a large old man stood to address Hadji Khan and other elders. He was sitting in the first row wearing a gray turban and a white shalwar under a brown vest, and he held his hand over his heart as he began: “Honorable Hadji Khan, peace be upon you. We all know of your famed deeds and it is known that you are a great mujahid who has brought esteem to his people. I and many of our brothers are uncertain, however, why you have returned here after living so long in Pakistan and having so much success with Haqqani. Are you here merely on a temporary mission or will you be staying long-term and bringing your family to join you?”
Hadji Khan maintained a stoic gaze and responded with no hesitation: “This is my home, where I will remain until the day Allah takes me. My wives and four children and five other relatives were murdered six months ago when one of the American buzzing flies they call drones fired a missile into my house in Wana trying to kill me. I no longer work for the Haqqani network as I believe it was Jalaluddin Haqqani’s son, Sirajuddin, who used the Pakistan Intelligence Service as intermediaries to pass my location to the Americans for the assassination attempt. I had become very close to old Haqqani over the years and he was like a father to me. I was his most successful and most trusted commander, and I had the loyalty of many of the soldiers. Sirajuddin, his only surviving son and successor, most likely saw me as a threat to his future power base and conspired to have me killed. My and my family’s murder by the Americans would also make me into a martyr he could use to further his cause. Afterward, I went into hiding and was eventually able to cross the mountains to reach my uncle’s house. It is here where the Americans are, and it is here where I will stay until we have forced them out of our land.”
Undercurrents of debate spread throughout the crowd after Hadji Khan finished his speech. Hadji Khan, mimicked by Mateen behind him, stared out over the crowd waiting with potent resolve. At last, another man from the second row stood. The eldest of all the participants, his long white beard and weather-beaten countenance gave him the dignified appearance of a centenarian even if his true age was lost to time: “Hadji Khan, we are pleased and honored by your presence and sorry for the sad circumstances which brought about your return to your people. You have made a strong case for action, which almost makes me wish I was a younger man. Nevertheless, in my years I have seen many things, including many wars and many leaders. The wisdom that my age has given me tells me that in the end everything is the part of the same cycle, merely repeated in different variations as Allah wills them. I have lost countless relatives to wars with foreigners or other tribes, and seen enough suffering to know that this world is only a grotesque shadow of what is to come in the next. The words of the Prophet, peace be upon him, preach peace as well as war, and the real struggle is maintaining peace rather than prolonging the vicious cycle of violence and retribution. I have shared tea with many Americans who have come through my village. There are men among them who actually want to do good, though, like in our own tribe, some of them are misguided. Many of you have seen the new clinic they built which has helped many women and children, and the two new boys’ schools in our valley have also been a blessing and helped our children learn the words of the Prophet for themselves. Regrettably, we all know the story of the girls’ school burnt down in Kaysar Khel last year the day before it was to open. This is a disgrace to us as much as to the Americans, and I fear many of you here think more about the past than the future. The Americans do not want to stay here forever, and attacking them will only cause more destruction to our land and our people. If we leave them in peace, they will give us money to help us build the things we need, and then they will go.”
After the elder had finished and sat down again, Hadji Khan held his hand over his heart and nodded respectfully, but made no immediate reply. The murmuring and whispers from before now grew into a louder and spirited discussion among friends and neighbors. Gul Mohammed found his thoughts wandering in the last speech to his two daughters, but most of all the elder, Farishta. She had always been curious about the world and asked her brothers about their lessons whenever they returned from the madrasa. Gul Mohammed remembered how he had promised her that he would allow her to go to school and how happy she had been; after it was burnt down, she seethed inconsolably for days. He would have been willing to work with the Americans to build another girls’ school if that was what was necessary to make his daughter happy again, but then he thought about Hadji Khan and how he would never allow that to happen. He had made an honorable match for Farishta with Mateen, who would become a powerful man by Hadji Khan’s side. She was only a woman after all, yet these thoughts still troubled Gul Mohammed as his attention drifted back to the meeting. The crowd had become obstreperous and some men were ready to clobber each other over diverging viewpoints. Finally, after whispers with the men beside him, Mullah Abdullah prepared to speak. The crowd, anxious to hear their tribal leader’s guidance, instantly became hushed when he stood: “Hadji Khan, no one doubts your skill as a commander nor your bravery and cunning. Some here profit from the Americans but most of us would have them leave immediately, as their continued presence is an insult to our land and our women and hence to us all. We have all endured senseless meetings and tea with the Americans when they appear in our villages; they are young and their faces are always different, but they always display the same attitude reflecting their strength. You would have us send our young men to make war against the infidels, but our young men are inexperienced in these things and we cannot contend against the Americans. We will take their money and oppose them in more subtle ways until they flee, and thus will our land and our families be protected.”
Hadji Khan peered with perspicacity into the eyes of Mullah Abdullah. He had anticipated this outcome, and with a quick nod toward the back of the crowd, he signaled a young boy who then disappeared around the corner. Distant vehicle engines reverberated through the gathered assembly, causing nervous discombobulation. Hilux trucks rumbled through the streets, stirring up a thick dust cloud that drifted heavily over the crowd. Eight trucks came into view, each one topped with a large caliber machine gun and loaded with half a dozen or more men outfitted in white robes and checkered headscarves, brown chest rigs holding magazine clips, and AK-47s and RPGs. When the trucks had come to a stop, the men dismounted and stood silently and seriously.
Hadji Khan once again addressed Mullah Abdullah and the others: “Honorable Mullah, your patience and hope that the Americans will leave us in peace and go back to their country is more than we can hope for. We have this opportunity to show our strength in waging jihad, defending our homes and our women, and, God willing, establishing an independent state of Waziristan, where strong and experienced leaders will be needed to protect our people. Seventy-five of my most loyal and well-trained men who fought under Haqqani have followed me for months in the mountains, preparing for battle. The young men of the tribe who join us will earn honor and glory and become mujahideen. Some will become martyrs, but we do not fear death like the Americans. Their weakness is their arrogance, which makes them think that they are invincible with their armor and their planes, and that they know the best way to win wars and build nations. When we begin to inflict losses on the infidels they will become afraid to leave their bases, word will spread to more of my former soldiers, and our numbers will grow. The Americans have just arrived here and do not know our land or our ways, and can be led easily to defeat.”
Mateen once more beamed with pride listening to his leader, and became so eager for the upcoming campaign that he forgot about his excitement for his marriage, which had occupied his thoughts for most of the jirga. Despite feeling indignant at such an unexpected display of force and insolence, Mullah Abdullah’s considerable ambition had been aroused at the mention of an independent Waziristan and its need for leaders. Though he did not trust this upstart commander, he stood up again, looked Hadji Khan in the eyes, and gave a slow nod of consent.
It had been a busy day on Forward Operating Base Murphy, which sat on the western edge of the Zirwa valley, enclosed by four dirt walls topped with concertina wire, and made up entirely of a central concrete building, some plywood barracks, and guard towers. Charlie Company of the 1-305th Airborne Infantry Battalion had taken control of this FOB two months ago from a company of the 12th Jungle Infantry Division. There had been very little significant enemy activity since the handover: just a few rocket attacks, all landing well outside the walls, and no roadside bombs or direct enemy contact. On this day, two of Charlie Company’s platoons patrolled local villages to the north and south, and the commander had gone on foot with the artillery officer and a rifle squad to the weekly shura meeting with village elders in the town center just half a kilometer outside the fort’s gate. Both platoon leaders reported the same pattern they had noticed in every village since they arrived: strong tea and unproductive conversation with a few old men, unkempt children waiting for American largesse from the soldiers, and a conspicuous lack of women. This particular patrol was also marked by an unusual absence of fighting-aged men in the villages. Captain McMullan, Charlie Company’s commander, had had a more interesting dialogue with an unexpected visitor—an influential tribal leader named Abdullah.
Later that evening, Captain McMullan discussed the next day’s plans with the company officers and non-commissioned officers assembled in the Tactical Operations Center, which was little more than a low rectangular room with rough concrete walls, maps, and several computers: “Okay, guys, tomorrow’s patrol has been approved. Third Platoon, you’re escorting me to Kaysar Khel, a village about twenty clicks east across the wadi. We’ve never been that way, but the previous commander told me they suspected it was Taliban-friendly, though besides a minor firefight at the start of their deployment they never found evidence of weapon caches. Today, I had a good discussion with the local mullah who said they fully support the Afghan government and want to keep the Taliban out of the villages. He said that the people want a girls’ school and that Kaysar Khel was the place to do it. The last unit contracted one out that was burnt down, but the mullah assured me it won’t happen again as the people have all rejected the Taliban. Anyway, it’s a good chance for us to start using our project development funds. Everybody knows the deal with the counter-insurgency doctrine from those classes we did, and our lives will be easier over the next ten months if we get off to a good start winning some local hearts and minds. Any questions?”
Third Platoon’s leader, Lieutenant Howard, the company’s youngest officer fresh out of training, raised his hand to open the question-and-answer session: “Yeah, sir. What is your assessment of the IED threat?”
“Good question, Mike. The last unit reported a sharp drop in roadside bombs since last year and there hasn’t been one in this area for over six months. Obviously, tell your gunners and drivers to keep their eyes peeled, but this is what we’ve trained for, and we’re going to push on.”
Lieutenant Tomsky, the company’s artillery officer, spoke up next: “Will we be supported by any fixed-wing or rotary-wing aircraft?”
“There will be Apache helicopters on station for our movement to and from the village, so we should be covered, Dan. Anything else?”
Sergeant First Class Hawke, Third Platoon’s senior enlisted man, chimed up somewhat curtly with a tone implying that he had better things to do at the moment: “What time did you say we’re rolling out tomorrow, sir?”
“We’re leaving the gate no later than 0700, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The meeting thus concluded, the participants scattered their separate ways. Some lingered to discuss the plan while others chatted and joked. Lieutenant Howard addressed Sergeant First Class Hawke as they walked out of the building together: “Let’s make sure all of our heavy gunners do a full cleaning and inspection of their weapons tonight, Sergeant. Actually, that goes for the whole platoon. Nobody goes to bed before checking their weapons and their gear. Things could get interesting tomorrow on this new route.”
“I got it, sir. Squad leaders have already taken care of it.”
Lieutenant Howard felt unpleasantly redundant, but he was just doing what he was taught to do as a leader. He had only been in charge of the platoon for three months before deploying—just enough time to do the last full training rotation with the men. He was a muscular ex-rugby player from West Point who was excited to enter the fray so soon after finishing Ranger School and being assigned to the 1-305th; he mentally calculated having enough time to do a second deployment with this unit in a couple years, probably as an executive officer, the company’s second-in-command. As they approached the barracks, Lieutenant Howard attempted lighthearted conversation to ease the tension: “Look at all those stars, Sergeant. You ever seen so many that bright? Too many city lights where I’m from, I guess.”
“We don’t have many city lights in Wyoming, and this ain’t my first rodeo, sir.”
They entered the building and made preparations; after Lieutenant Howard made the rounds, he disappeared into his room, cranked up the air-conditioning, and turned on his Xbox for a stress-relieving game of Madden Football before racking out for the night.
Lieutenant Tomsky, still hanging around listening to the discussion, accompanied Captain McMullan everywhere and considered it his job to know as much as, or even more, than the commander about intelligence, troop movements and locations, air support capabilities, and the general situation in their area of operations. Eventually, he lost interest in the conversation when it broke down into sophomoric jokes between various platoon leaders and senior NCOs, and he snuck off to his quarters in an adjacent hallway; it was small enough to be a closet, but big enough for a bed and a shelf full of books. He privately considered himself an outsider within the Army ranks, especially after seeing firsthand during his first deployment the innumerable hypocrisies and inanities of Army leadership and bureaucracy, and the absurdities and abuses of war. Nevertheless, life on this deployment was not intolerable for Lieutenant Tomsky, and he planned to use as much of his limited private time as possible to work his way through the formidable bookshelf above him.
Captain McMullan fired off a long series of emails and presentation slides, and then left the TOC after all the others. Before doing anything else, he knocked on the door to the first sergeant’s room. The first sergeant had deployed to Afghanistan twice, though one would be forgiven for thinking that he, too, had fought the Russians after listening to his stories and his braggadocio. In fact, for all his bluster, the first sergeant was a first-rate leader, but he had long harbored secret thoughts about retirement. He played a subtle combination of domineering his subordinates while licking the boots of his superiors, but he knew there was no way he could stand being promoted and serving as what he considered a glorified lapdog to some ambitious colonel. His aim was to take a job as a civilian contractor with a private company like DynCorp or KBR, where he could get paid six figures for pulling a security job much easier than his current one. This would likely keep him deployed even more in the future, but being in a war zone gave him more sense of purpose and vitality than anything he had ever done at home.
“Hey, First Sergeant, you want to play Call of Duty?”
“Let’s do this, sir. But I only got half an hour. Gotta Skype with Carol later. The internet is finally working faster than ever after I convinced Sergeant Hernandez it was in his best interest to raise the bandwidth in the command hallway.”
“Nice work. Let’s get started then!”
Captain McMullan feigned excitement about the bandwidth, but he would not be calling anyone on Skype. He had gone through a divorce after returning from his first deployment three years ago to discover his wife had been cheating on him. They had dated since high school and got married immediately after he graduated West Point, but the stress and loneliness of the deployment was too much for her. Captain McMullan suppressed his anger and pain, believing it made him weak, and instead threw himself headlong into his job. Leading a company of soldiers was more difficult and thankless than he could have imagined, however, and he gradually began to feel overwhelmed by things out of his control: soldiers’ disciplinary problems, senseless demands from his boss, responsibility to mentor the company’s junior officers, loneliness, and a sense of constantly failing in one of his many duties.
For the next hour, anyway, all of these issues were blissfully far from his mind as he and the first sergeant battled for head-to-head supremacy in a violent virtual video game world, one not dissimilar from the real world but with neither the perturbation nor preoccupation that had muddied the waters of an otherwise orderly life.
The next morning at 0600 Staff Sergeant Cooper, the company’s artillery sergeant, walked to the TOC to start his daily twelve-hour shift of monitoring company operations. It was a job no one wanted, which went to him only because the first sergeant hated him and did not let him go on patrols. Staff Sergeant Cooper, affable, gregarious, and clever, spent his days chatting up all comers, disparaging junior soldiers who happened to walk in for some reason, and teasing senior officers and NCOs for any shortcoming, real or perceived. Like his counterpart, Lieutenant Tomsky, his position left him with little accountability, and it was only bad luck that he had somehow earned the first sergeant’s disfavor after arriving to the company for reasons unknown and probably arbitrary.
At 0735, the convoy left the gate for the patrol to Kaysar Khel. The first sergeant berated every NCO before leaving because of the tardiness of the departure, until it was finally discovered that the company armorer, who was also the gunner on the first sergeant’s vehicle, was fixing one of the heavy machine guns of Third Platoon that had not been properly checked the night before. After the convoy left and the ample dust that had been stirred up was quickly borne away by a stiff wind, quiet calm returned to the FOB.
At 0830, Lieutenant Howard radioed back with the convoy’s current location and status: they had traveled only ten kilometers.
At 0857, Captain McMullan called in another more urgent report: “Charlie TOC, this is Charlie Six, we have one vehicle incapacitated by an IED, and are currently taking enemy fire from two sides. Have Second Platoon get ready to roll out to our location, break . . . And send those Apaches down here, over.”
“Roger that, Charlie Six, wilco, over.”
The TOC bustled with activity. After passing the information up to the battalion headquarters, an update came immediately, which Staff Sergeant Cooper dutifully relayed to the convoy: “Charlie Six, this is Charlie TOC, over.”
“Go ahead.”
“The Apaches were just diverted to Khost province to support troops in enemy contact; they say at least thirty minutes before they can reach your location.”
“Roger that, Charlie TOC . . . stand by for further updates.”
Staff Sergeant Cooper waited on the other end, his heart pounding violently as he imagined what it must be like during a desert ambush. His last deployment was Iraq, where he was involved in plenty of firefights, but always in cities and urban environment. Out here it was different, and he could not imagine how enemy insurgents could openly attack on flat ground with no cover. The wait for the company commander’s response dragged on at least fifteen minutes. Outside, he heard the engines of Second Platoon’s vehicles rumbling as they raced east out of the FOB. Finally, the radio crackled again: “Charlie TOC, Charlie Six, we’ve suppressed the enemy and stopped taking fire. Estimated twenty enemy killed. We’re going to need a medevac helicopter, ASAP. Prepare to receive report, over.”
“Send it.”
“Our first vehicle, 2-6, hit the IED. We have five friendly KIA. In addition, we have four WIA that need immediate evacuation. Line 1: Grid WB 3261 0965. Line 2 . . .”
Staff Sergeant Cooper took down the report while sending it simultaneously to battalion HQ, his hand shaking noticeably the whole time as he tried to speculate who was killed. Undoubtedly Lieutenant Howard was one because his vehicle hit the roadside bomb. If he remembered correctly, Specialist Jackson was the driver and radio operator, and Private First Class Rodriguez was the gunner. There must have been, Khaled, a local interpreter, but he could not guess the final ill-fated passenger. As for the wounded soldiers, he hypothesized that they must have been other gunners since the thick armor prevented small arms fire from penetrating inside the vehicles—this over-burdened the engines and axles, causing constant breakdowns, yet proved useful when caught unawares in an ambush kill zone.
Forty-five minutes passed without significant updates. Lieutenant Tomsky directed the attack helicopters by radio, but there were no apparent enemy targets near the wadi so they unloaded Hellfire missiles on a suspicious grove of trees and left to refuel. The medevac bird then arrived and picked up the nine casualties, and, soon thereafter, the convoy was ready to clean up the site and return to the base.
Eight hours later, an urgent signal intercept was forwarded directly from the CIA: they had monitored a phone call near Kaysar Khel in which the speaker mentioned an attack with many dead Americans; there was also a passing reference to five martyrs; finally, there was a request to send more brothers from Pakistan to help them continue jihad. The speaker was believed to be someone known as Hadji Khan, reportedly a senior leader in the Haqqani network. The information was passed down the chain of command until it eventually reached Captain McMullan, who was simultaneously informed by the higher-ups that a five-hundred-pound bomb would be dropped on the site of the phone call in the next ten minutes, and that Charlie Company would be responsible for conducting a damage assessment patrol at dawn.
Hadji Khan sent his coterie back to their mountain hideouts to regroup and prepare for the next attack, while he himself decided to stay one final night at Gul Mohammed’s abode; a longer stay would be too dangerous now that he had spectacularly inaugurated a new fighting season against the Americans. Four of the cousins had gone with Hadji Khan to witness the successful ambush, with three deciding to join their uncle as mujahideen. After a lavish feast of goat and potato stew with flat bread and sugary pastries prepared and delivered by Farishta and Niazmina, Hadji Khan withdrew out of doors to bask alone in his success. Even Mateen was instructed to stay inside with the others.
After twenty minutes, Hadji Khan perceived a drop in temperature and turned unhurriedly toward the house. Sand carried by the wind recalled his memory of the Arabian Desert, where he had made the hajj to Mecca eight years earlier. That long pilgrimage was sponsored by Jalaluddin Haqqani as an honor to Hadji Khan after his second successful campaign season. Though he rarely smiled these days, Hadji Khan felt himself fully content and in fulfillment of his destiny. His senses were reawakened by the faint but distinct buzz of an aircraft far overhead, by no means an unfamiliar sound, but one which sent ominous chills through Hadji Khan as he now started to run past the fig tree toward the door. Before reaching the house, however, he was thrown backward by an enormous earthshaking impact.
The bomb had missed Gul Mohammed’s compound by fifty meters and landed closer to the neighboring residence of a certain Iqbal, with whom Gul Mohammed maintained a lengthy feud over the disputed ownership of a well equidistant from both properties. This patriarchal hostility had not stopped their children from playing together by the river when they were young and remaining friends as adults. Iqbal’s compound was now completely demolished, and the powerful force of the impact collapsed the roof and most of the walls of Gul Mohammed’s house as well.
Hadji Khan felt and heard nothing but a profound ringing in his ears as he regained the bit of dwindling consciousness. His eyes cracked open and for a brief instant he saw nothing but sand and dust, until a gust of wind carried it away revealing a wealth of stars shining down from the cloudless empyrean. He had witnessed this night sky his entire life, thinking nothing more than how it reflected Allah’s ineffable greatness. The approach of certain death focuses a man’s thoughts: for Hadji Khan, the sky timelessly distilled the sum of his life’s accomplishments recollected and judged in his final fleeting moments. He decided that soon he would be a martyr and find his rightful eternal peace after a life dedicated to holy war. His head turned toward the rubble, his eyes drooped, and his final gaze settled upon a crooked doorframe blown wide open with colorful folds of fabric of blue and silver, red and orange fluttering in the wind.
