Читать книгу Killing Ground - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Bagram Air Base, North of Kabul, Afghanistan

As he stepped off the bus that had brought him to the outskirts of Bagram Air Base, Nawid Pradhan couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of hope. It was almost intoxicating. It reminded him of how he’d felt years ago, when he’d have friends over to his apartment for dinner and there would be wine, laughter, the squeals of playing children and spirited conversations that lasted long into the night. Perhaps, if all went well and Allah was willing, he would one day have that kind of life again. This day, he was certain, would be a step in that direction, a direction away from the despair and anguish that had dogged him since the Taliban had turned his world into ruin.

So high were the Afghan’s spirits that, for once, he barely noticed how severely the threat of rain had increased the ever-present, gnawing ache in his arthritic hip. Yes, the pronounced limp was still there and Pradhan instinctively winced with each step, but he continued at a brisk pace along the dusty shoulder leading to the bazaar, oblivious to the dark clouds rolling in from the north.

The bazaar was a weekly affair. Just off the road a hundred yards from the entrance to the U.S.-NATO command center, more than a hundred local merchants and fledgling entrepreneurs were busily setting up shop at their usual locations.

Thunderstorms might have been forecast for later in the day, but no one seemed daunted as they went about their preparations. Some had erected sturdy booths inside well-secured tents, while others displayed goods set out on tables shaded by blankets propped on tall, rickety poles. Those with less means made do with arranging their wares on large rugs laid across the ground. There was a wide range of products: everything from small statues, holiday ornaments and bootleg DVDs, to freshly harvested produce, clothing and cigarettes. Most weeks Pradhan was among those looking to do business with soldiers from the base. His specialty was computer servicing, and there would always be at least a few officers looking to retrieve lost data or have their laptops tweaked so they would run faster.

This day, however, Pradhan had come to the bazaar not to sell, but to buy. Before boarding the bus back in Kabul, he’d received his meager weekly stipend from an Internet café where he worked a couple hours each day tending to computers. While a portion of the wages would go toward provisions to bring back to his family, he’d earmarked the lion’s share for a new wardrobe. It wouldn’t do to go to the interview wearing his normal tatters. It was important, he felt, to dress in a way that would make the best possible impression.

Pradhan took his time perusing several booths that featured slightly used Western clothing, finally settling on a pair of tan chinos, a white shirt and rattan sandals with expensive-looking tassels. The ensemble was more costly than he’d anticipated, but he felt it was money well spent. After all, what was a few hundred more afghanis? Once he got the job, it would only take him a day or two to make a return on his investment. And after a few months he would have made enough to afford a change of clothes for every day of the week. If he and his family continued to live frugally, by spring there would even be enough money to move into an apartment. Perhaps it would not be as nice as the one they’d lived in before their forced exile to Pakistan, but it would be a start and a welcome step up from living out of a cave.

Someone was using the makeshift changing tent behind the booth where Pradhan had bought his clothes. While he waited his turn, he bought a bottle of spring water, a bar of scented soap and a sponge so that he could clean away whatever grime he’d missed earlier while bathing in the icy waters of the Kabul River. He would be glad to put that ritual behind him. He’d been told at the job site that there was a shower in the employees’ locker room—a shower with hot water, no less!

Once the changing tent was available, Pradhan went in and shed his old clothes, then hurriedly scrubbed himself from head to toe, anxious to rid himself of the telltale odor he knew would mark him as a transient. It was a laborious task, but he kept at it until his skin felt raw. Afterward, the Afghan hummed to himself as he tried on the new outfit. Everything fit perfectly, and when he eyed himself in a dusty mirror set in the corner, the one-time refugee beamed at his reflection, convinced he’d chosen well. Instead of a hapless vagrant, he looked like a working man, a man with a job and prospects for a better life. He flashed another smile, imagining the look on his wife’s face once he presented himself to her later and gave her the good news. He hadn’t yet told her about the job—he wanted it to be a surprise. After so many years of hardship and suffering, he looked forward to seeing, once again, a flicker of joy in her eyes. He longed, even more, to finally be able to tell her that her steadfast faith in him throughout all their sorrowful tribulations had not been in vain.

Once he’d adjusted the collar of his new shirt, Pradhan retrieved a neatly folded employment application form from the pocket of his old pants, then gathered up the rest of the clothes he’d changed out of and stared at them with disdain before tossing them into a waste container. Goodbye to the years of travail, he thought. As of this day, all that was behind him.

Pradhan was making his way out of the tent when he heard a commotion near the road. Several men were shouting angrily, and by the time Pradhan had circled around the clothing booth, the clamor had increased. A few dozen merchants had left their stations at the bazaar and were congregating around a convoy of three Army Humvees that had stopped alongside the road. A U.S. officer from the base had stepped out of the lead vehicle and was addressing the throng. Behind them, the soldiers in the other Humvees watched on warily, clutching M-16s.

“What’s going on?” Pradhan asked a produce merchant who’d yet to leave his booth. The man’s features were grim, tinged with anger.

“They’ve canceled the bazaar,” he said.

Pradhan noticed the darkening horizon for the first time. “Because we might have a little rain?” he asked.

The merchant shook his head. Gesturing at the soldiers, he explained, “They say the base is in lockdown. No one’s being allowed out or in.”

Pradhan felt a sudden knotting in his stomach.

“Why?” he asked.

“Something about security,” the other man replied skeptically. “As if we’re about to attack them with bananas and CDs!”

“That’s not a bad idea,” a vendor in the next booth called out. “They say we’ll be compensated for being ‘inconvenienced.’ Ha!”

Pradhan was disheartened by the news and as the shouting grew louder, he fought back his sudden anxiety. He hobbled away from the booths, making his way around the periphery of the angry mob.

“It doesn’t mean the worst,” he whispered to himself. Already, the words sounded hollow, though.

When he reached the road, Pradhan continued along the shoulder, heading toward the base. He hadn’t gone far when one of the soldiers called out to him from the rear of a Humvee.

“Where are you going?”

The Afghan pretended not to hear and kept walking. His long, purposeful strides aggravated his hip, and with each step his limp became a little more pronounced. He tried his best to ignore the pain as well as the sound of the vehicle, which had shifted into gear and was backing up toward him.

“Sorry, sir, but the base is off-limits,” the soldier called out to him as the vehicle drew closer.

Pradhan refused to acknowledge the soldier and trudged on, eyes straight ahead. The main gate was less than fifty yards away. He only made it a few steps farther, however, before the vehicle caught up with him and veered sharply onto the shoulder, blocking his way.

“You need to go back with the others,” the soldier said. He was a young recruit, half Pradhan’s age, pink-faced beneath his helmet. He was trying to be polite, but it was clear that he was issuing a command rather than a request, and though his carbine was aimed at the ground away from Pradhan, his finger was on the M-16’s trigger.

“I have an interview!” Pradhan snapped, unable to rein in his frustration. “For a job at the base! Working on computers!”

“All job interviews have been canceled,” the soldier told him. “There’s been a temporary freeze put on hiring while we—”

“I have the job!” Pradhan insisted, waving his employment application. “Ask Mehrab Shah! He recommended me! The interview is just a formality!”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir,” the soldier replied. “All I can tell you is the situation has changed. No one is allowed to come onto the base without proper clearance.”

“Ask Mehrab Shah!” Pradhan repeated. “He’ll tell you! I have the job! I have clearance!”

“Have you gone through processing?” When Pradhan stared back, uncomprehending, the soldier rephrased the question. “Have they given you a background check?”

“I have nothing to hide!” he said.

“That’s not what I asked, sir.”

“I’m a loyal Afghan citizen who lost everything to the Taliban!” Pradhan shouted, his voice trembling with rage as much as desperation. “Four years I spent in the Pakistan refugee camps! Four years! I came back because there were promises we would have a chance to get something back! Empty promises! Now, finally, I have an opportunity!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the soldier said. “It’s out of my hands.”

“I’m begging you!” Pradhan pleaded. “This means everything to me!”

The soldier turned from the Afghan and glanced at the Humvee’s driver, who offered only a faint shrug. A second recruit riding in the back of the vehicle shook his head with a look of resignation. The soldier looked back at Pradhan and was about to say something when he checked himself and instead reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

“This Mehrab Shah,” he said. “Whereabouts on the base does he work?”

“Mail and shipping,” Pradhan said, tears welling in his eyes. “He does maintenance and deliveries. Please! You have to help me!”

The soldier keyed the walkie-talkie. As he raised it to his ear and waited for a response, he told the distraught Afghan, “Let me see what I can do.”

AS HE RETURNED to his workstation following his nap break, Akira Tokaido shook his long wet hair, inadvertently flecking Aaron Kurtzman with a few wayward droplets.

“My dog used to do that,” the cybercrew leader quipped.