Page 23 of Whisper
Haddad wrapped one arm around him and pulled him closer.
The jagged peaks eventually gave way, turning to endless stretches of rumbling brown hills, snow snaking in waves across the higher elevations until that too petered off. Beneath them, as far as the eye could see, was the earth made wild, unimpeded wilderness, void of any human touch. Hills and valley, rugged and brown and filled with dried ravines and scrub brush. No humans. No life at all.
Finally, almost two hours after the flight began, the helo turned southwest and headed into the mouth of the Panjshir Valley.
The Soviets, during their occupation, had called the Panjshir the Valley of Death. They’d lost more soldiers in that valley than anywhere else and had come to a standstill in their occupation that had tried to press deeper into the Afghanistan mountains. They’d failed, and then they’d turned tail and run. The valley had been a graveyard of invaders for centuries, the Soviets only the most recent to meet their end at the hands of the Afghans. Before them, it had been the British. Before the British, Alexander the Great had been stopped on the land roaring beneath them.
Would America be the next great empire to find its end in Afghanistan? Would they themselves meet their ends in this Valley of Death?
From the sky, Kris spotted the remains of the Soviet occupation and endless civil war everywhere: rusted-out tanks and troop transports, bomb craters that had obliterated the roads, tattered remnants of minefield warning signs. Square-shaped mud houses riddled with bullet holes huddled together around the winding banks of the Panjshir River, its waters a deep, unfiltered sapphire. Green grass murmured around the tiny villages before slipping out to brown wastelands and dusty wadis. Beauty and desolation, life and death. Afghanistan.
Derek called over the headset, “Three minutes to LZ!”
Palmer and George popped up. The rest of the team turned on, going from sleepy laziness to full speed in a half second. Jackets and poncho liners were stowed, shoved into packs. Books and music players disappeared. They strapped on their gear, tightened their helmets, and readied their weapons.
Kris tried to keep up. His breath fogged in front of his face. He couldn’t feel his cheeks. His lungs felt like they were frozen from the inside.
“One minute!”
Ahead, a bend in the river cut a wide, barren portion of the valley off from the rest of the villages. The helo banked hard and spun. Tilted, wobbled left and right.
Finally, they set down with a lurch on the dusty ground.
Kris felt like he was in a movie, stuck between too slow and fast-forward. He saw the rotors spin outside the open cargo door, thewhoosh-whoosh-whooshseeming to come from underwater, distorted and fractured. Men moved, scrambling, grabbing rifles. Running toward the cargo door.
They were in Afghanistan, with only the Shura Nazar, whom they had yet to make contact with, as their protectors. They had nothing other than what they carried on the helicopter. A scratchy satellite phone and the helo their only link to the world. After traveling over the pass, they may as well have landed on another planet, in another galaxy.
They were on their own.
Palmer started barking orders and the world snapped into fast-forward. Palmer’s men burst out of the chopper, taking up protective positions. A group of three Afghans started for the chopper, AK-47s in their hands. Behind them, a ring of rusted and bullet-riddled pickup trucks waited, Afghans leaning out of the cabs and the backs of the beds, watching.
Each man held a weapon. Each man stared at the helo, at the team, his eyes dark, his gaze pinched.
George and Palmer strode across the grass-and-dirt field under the watchful eyes of the entire team. Kris saw fingers half-squeezed over triggers on nearly everyone. They were at the coordinates the Shura Nazar had given them. Was this their welcoming party? Or a trap? Kris searched the faces, looking for one he recognized, a photo from the files he’d read backward and forward at Langley.
He should be out there. He’d negotiated the bones of the alliance, had done the legwork to make this happen. He needed be there with George and Palmer.
Haddad held him back. “Wait for the signal.”
In the field, outside the bubble of wind kicked up by the spinning rotors, Palmer shook hands with one of the Afghans. George greeted him next. Their bodies were stiff, and the Afghan in the center glared at them both. He’d shouldered his rifle, but the others hadn’t. Palmer waved to the helo. The signal.
“All right, now it’s showtime.” Haddad looked down at Kris, his deep eyes searing into him. “You’re going to kick ass, Caldera.” He guided Kris out of the chopper, jogging them both out to where Palmer and George waited. Haddad kept close, inside Kris’s shadow, his weapon at the low and ready.
The rotors still spun, kicking dust into the air and blowing icy wind in cyclones around the raggedy group. Towering over them, steel-gray mountains soared, like the valley was the dungeon of the earth.
Kris spoke in Dari, holding out both hands for the Afghan man to take, to grasp. “Thank you for your hospitality. We’re the Americans. We’re here to help you destroy the Taliban.”
“Welcome to Afghanistan. I am Fazl,” the man said. He took Kris’s hands and drew him into an embrace. He smiled, his teeth square and yellowed, gaps where some had fallen out. “The Shura Nazar welcomes you to our fight.”
The rest of the team unloaded the helicopter as fast as they’d loaded it, hauling all the gear they’d packed for their invasion into the back of the Afghans’ trucks. Haddad reappeared with his ruck and Kris’s. He kept Kris’s at his feet, even though Kris beckoned for it.
Fazl told Kris they had been sent by General Khan to pick up the Americans. “We did not believe you would truly come,” he said. “But you’re here now. I will take you to your new home, in the village.” Fazl pointed up the hillside across the river, past a switchback. Mud huts squatted close together, overlooking the valley and scattered fields with limp crops shivering in the cold. Higher up the hill, a compound had been built into the stone. Once it had been painted white, but shrapnel and wind had chipped the paint down to the concrete blocks. “The general will see you tomorrow.”
One of the trucks didn’t actually work. It was tethered to another by a length of frayed rope, which snapped under the combined load. Two of Palmer’s men had to unpack a length of webbing and re-strap them together. The rest of the pickups strained to haul the gear, broken struts scraping as shocks compressed to the limit.
Palmer ordered his men to jog alongside up to the village. George and Ryan slid into the front cab of one of the trucks. Phillip and Jim nervously strapped the communications gear to the back of one and eyeballed the river. Derek volunteered to stay at the helo and shut it down. Someone would come get him later.
“Get on the back.” Haddad nudged Kris toward the truck with the fewest bullet holes and the least scraping brakes.
