Whisper Read online

  Derek continued to call out elevation markers. Sixteen thousand feet. Sixteen-five.

  He couldn’t stop shivering. Haddad’s hand on his thigh was the one warm point of contact in his whole body. He wasn’t going to make it to Afghanistan. He was just going to freeze on this flight.

  Haddad felt his shivers, he was certain. At 17,200 feet, Haddad pulled out his own poncho liner and a second jacket from his ruck and laid them both on top of Kris. Kris hid his face in his fleece and burrowed into Haddad. Fuck his pride. He needed the warmth.

  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, the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh seeming 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.

  “I’ll walk, I’m fine.”

  “We’re at six thousand feet above sea level. Going up that hill? We’re all going to be puking in ten minutes. But we need you to be solid.” Haddad took in the brakes and the suspension and the way the engine ground as the Afghan driver tried to move forward with the weight of their gear in the back. “This truck is the best.”

  “What about the river? How are you guys going to cross that?”

  “We’ll wade. I’ll stay beside this truck. C’mon, get up in there.”

  “I can handle myself, Sergeant.”

&
nbsp; “I know you can. But you also have to handle all of us, too. We need you to be at your peak, especially now.”

  He could only hold Haddad’s stare for so long. Even through his sunglasses, there was something there, some intensity that made Kris turn away. Haddad’s gaze seemed to go right through him, like an X-ray that turned him inside out. He felt naked, down to his bones, under that gaze. “Fine.”

  The trucks lurched toward the river, kicking up dust that made them all cough. Palmer’s men pulled their undershirts up, covering their noses and mouths and making them look like bandits from the Old West.

  From the air, the river had seemed calm, almost tranquil. As they bounced and jerked closer, Kris spotted the whitecaps breaking around submerged boulders and the rush of the current swirling in eddies. He stared at Haddad, running beside him and the pickup.

  Haddad frowned at the river. He looked up at Kris. “Hold on tight.”

  “What about you?”

  The truck accelerated, its engine wailing as the driver floored it, heading for the riverbank. Jerking left and right, they bounced over the rocky embankment and plunged into the river. Water splashed over the cab, hitting Kris. He clung to his ruck, the truck, the crates jammed in beside him.

  The engines screamed underwater as the trucks rumbled through the river, water rising to the doors. They had been modified for water crossing, but still. The river current pushed at his truck, and Kris felt the tires sliding off the rocky river bottom, felt them jerk and lurch more sideways than forward.

  He watched Haddad, his heart in his throat, fingers scraping on the rusted frame of the truck. Haddad struggled in the water, his rifle up to his chest. He stared at Kris, striding as fast as he could against the current.

  Kris wanted to reach for him. Pull him to safety.

  Haddad was a two-hundred-pound super soldier. What could Kris really do to help him?

  Still, he watched, holding his breath, until Haddad stumbled from the river and up the muddy bank after Kris’s truck roared free. Wide arcs of frigid mud splattered over the truck bed. Kris felt it hit his cheek, saw it splatter his jacket.

  True to Haddad’s word, ten minutes into the drive up the hillside, Haddad, Palmer, and the rest of the soldiers started puking. They didn’t stop jogging, just leaned over and hurled into the dust. As the road rose and they climbed up the first ridge, they aimed their vomit for the gorge while trying not to slip and fall to their deaths.

  The road could barely be called a road. On one side the mountain rose, sheer rock, and, far above, ice. On the other, a sickening drop, a ravine that went straight down, tangled with dead brush and a thousand lines of snowmelt meandering down the foreboding mountains. It was wide enough for one horse, barely wide enough for the trucks. Tracks etched into the earth over centuries showed lines and lines of single-file horses had marched up and down the ridge. Deep ruts where hooves had struck caught the tires, making them spin out, lurch heart-stoppingly close to the road’s edge, nearly plummeting over. One driver spun out, and the rear passenger tires hovered over empty air and nothingness before he careened back onto the trail.

  Kris would rather puke his guts out than fall to his death on the back of a bullet-riddled death trap, but when he tried to hop out, Haddad shook his head. He was right there, always right beside Kris and the busted gap where there should have been a tailgate.

  Eventually, the convoy turned onto a smaller trail, winding into a narrow mountain pass that was ball-shrivelingly terrifying. The team walked single file behind the trucks as each picked its way through frozen mud and fallen rocks. Finally, they arrived at the village.

  Stone huts squatted on either side of the dirt track. Mud covered the walls, insulating the homes through the bitterly cold winters. Gray dust swirled through the air, kicked up by the trucks’ tires. Thin men leaned on hand-hewn wooden tools, watching the convoy as dirty kids played with deflated soccer balls with faded Chinese characters.

  Beyond the village, tucked into the hillside, two buildings formed a larger compound overlooking the valley. A rutted, dead field, more dirt and broken concrete than anything else, spread in front of the compound. Decrepit tanks, remnants of the Soviet invasion, were parked at angles, pointing down the road and overlooking the village. If they tried to fire any ordnance, the tanks would blow apart.

  Another team of Afghans awaited them, including an older man who was clearly in charge. He wore traditional kameez pants and a camouflage jacket. His beard was short and scraggly. After the convoy parked in the dirt field, Fazl and the Afghan warmly embraced.

  Kris stumbled from the back of the pickup, every bone in his body jarred loose from the rough ride up the mountain. Haddad was right there, steadying him. Kris squeezed Haddad’s arm and headed for Fazl and his friend. “Salaam,” he said, one hand on his chest.

  Both eyebrows on the Afghan’s face rose. He stared at Kris, not speaking.

  What was it? What about him screamed gay? He didn’t think he was aggressively homosexual, not now with his double jackets and Haddad’s beanie shoved on his head. He wasn’t strutting a catwalk, wasn’t catcalling like he was the wildest of drag queens from the Village. He didn’t have eyeliner or lip gloss on. Frustration simmered within him.

  There was a twinkle in the Afghan’s eyes, though. He chuckled, and then embraced Kris, returning the greeting, speaking in Dari. “Did America send children to fight their wars?”

  Goddamn it. Kris forced a smile. He rubbed a hand over his chin. Despite not shaving since he’d left DC, he had only a scattered few hairs poking through. “I am jealous of you,” he said, pointing to the Afghan’s beard. “Mine does not grow.” And, of course, he was now in a country that judged men by the thickness of their beards.

  The Afghan laughed again. “My name is Ghasi. I am the manager of this compound. It was General Massoud’s Panjshir headquarters.” Pride sang through Ghasi’s words. His eyes glittered.

  “We thank you for your hospitality. To stay at the headquarters of the great Massoud.” Kris bowed his head. He held out both hands to Ghasi. Ghasi clasped his hands, squeezing his fingers.

  Ghasi introduced his staff, mostly kids from the village who would be managing the compound for their stay. “They will clean, cook, do your laundry. Anything you need.”

  Fazl had summoned a group of Shura Nazar soldiers from seemingly nowhere, and they helped Palmer and his men unload the trucks. George and Ryan hung back, eyeing Kris as he chatted in Dari and held hands with Ghasi.

  “May I introduce my fellow officers?” Kris beckoned George and Ryan over and introduced both men to Ghasi. George and Ryan shook Ghasi’s hand stiffly.

  Ghasi stepped back. “This main compound is yours.” He pointed to a smaller hut set off from the main cluster. “That is where General Khan’s men will stay. They will protect you. The rest is for you. Your headquarters in Afghanistan.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Ghasi led George, Ryan, Palmer, and Kris around the compound. The first building was an old stable, a C-shaped line of bare concrete rooms with a dirt yard in the center. Palmer and George called out rooms for their equipment, storing the food and essentials on one side, gear and medical equipment on the other.

  The second building, set beyond the first, was a rectangle of concrete with Soviet-style skinny double glass doors lining the front façade. The main floor was split, a long foyer overlooking the desiccated courtyard between the two buildings. Beyond the entrance, and down a handful of steps, a sunken central space loomed large, one wall lined with bookshelves and stuffed with old books, their spines etched in Arabic scripts.

  Six rooms branched off the center space, with curtains nailed over their openings. A narrow hallway, with steps going farther down, led to two smaller rooms set off the main building by a breezeway. One was the tiny kitchen. The other had a square toilet—a hole in the ground—a spigot sticking out of the wall, and a bucket.

  The center space was the perfect place to set up their ner
ve center. Radio and communications center, intel collection point, and planning station, their nerve center would have someone from the team present around the clock. They’d be able to get radio and satellite reception if they put their dishes and antennae on the roof.

  The six rooms off the nerve center would be sleeping quarters for everyone. Two men to a room, plus their gear. It was going to be a tight fit all around.

  Even though Palmer’s guys had just puked their guts out, they were already hauling gear into the compound. Their crates of MREs and enough bottled water for an army went to the stables. All comms equipment went to the second building, their headquarters, and Jim and Phillip started working with Warrick, Palmer’s communications sergeant, to set up the array of computers, radios, satellites, generators, and surveillance equipment.

  Almost as an afterthought, everyone dropped their rucks in the room they claimed as their own.

  Kris searched for his ruck in the dwindling pile of gear in the dirt courtyard.

  It was conspicuously missing.

  He caught sight Haddad winding his way into their headquarters, hauling two rucks, one in each hand. Kris started after him, but stopped when he saw George pull Haddad aside, say some words, and gesture to Kris’s pack. Haddad nodded, once, twice, and then again. He jogged down the concrete steps as George headed back out.

  The Afghan soldiers loaned from General Khan, waiting with Ghasi, watched everything like they were seeing a feast spread out before them. Most Afghans lived on fifty dollars a year. Kris and the team had brought not just millions in cash, but millions of dollars’ worth of gear.

  Kris grabbed one of the money-stuffed duffels and slipped the first packet of mission cash out. “Agha Ghasi,” he said, using the honorific agha. “I know these men are proud fighters, great men of your forces.”

  “They are, Gul Bahar American.”

  Kris gritted his teeth. Gul Bahar meant “spring flower” in Dari. “I would like to offer to pay them one hundred dollars a week to keep us safe. Us, and our equipment.” He handed out cash to each soldier, pressing the crisp American bill into their palms. American foreign policy, hard at work.