Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

than other villages they had passed. There were stables for horses, barns to store feed. Caravans ran as long as grain could be stored in the north… When the grain was gone, the last caravan left. The animals wintered in the south.

The Mujahedeen moved aside deferentially as a rider approached. Staring at Robyn, he dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men.

The man scrutinized Robyn.

Robyn squinted at him.

The man was six feet tall, with a pointy beard, handlebar mustache, and sharp features. There was a bit of gray in his beard, he must have been in his mid-fifties. He wore a traditional tribal turban... black, with dark red trim. His trousers were tucked into high leather boots. His dress consisted of a black perahan tunban in the northern style, over which he wore a crimson leather waistcoat.

Over his shoulder was slung a Dragunov, a Russian sniper rifle with a polished wooden stock. A heavy weapon, but he was a big man. The rifle’s sling was decorated with red, black and white beads. His chest rig was of the Chinese Type 56 pattern. Pouches for three magazines in front, smaller pouches at the sides. The Chinese rig was canvas, this one was hand-stitched leather.

“What is your name?” the man in black demanded. Robyn was shocked he spoke English.

The Mujahedeen didn’t seem to know she could speak Pashto. Robyn decided it might be wise to conceal the skill. She would listen and learn all she could.

“Robyn Trainor. Sergeant, United States Army.”

“Sergeant Trainor.” The man enunciated each syllable. “I am Zarek Najibullah. These are my men, and you are my guest.”

Insurgent, drug trafficker, warlord.

Najibullah conveyed an aura of majesty.

Two of the Mujahedeen helped Robyn to her feet and cut the cords that bound her hands. They stood aside, and she stared. Refused to dust herself off.

An old man, with a white beard shaped like a shovel, pushed his way through the crowd. He stepped close to Robyn and slapped the side of her head. She raised her hands to protect herself. The man jabbered in Pashto and made to strike her a second time. He was screaming at her to cover herself. Robyn pretended not to understand.

Najibullah waved him off with a sharp command. More Pashto, and one of the men produced a length of white cloth. He draped it over Robyn’s head.

“The village imam.” Najibullah’s tone was apologetic. “You must keep your hair covered.”

Robyn adjusted the cloth protectively. “Let me go. The US military will find us, and you will regret the day you took me.”

Najibullah laughed. “They have been searching for a week, Sergeant Trainor. A hundred miles south.”

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

Najibullah smiled. “Today you must wash yourself and rest. This afternoon we will speak. Tonight we shall dine.”

Robyn fumed.

“Ghazan,” Najibullah commanded in Pashto. “Take her to Wajia.”

“That village must have been a base camp,” I say. “Far north in Badakhshan, close to Tajikistan.”

“Yes,” Robyn agrees. “Three days’ hike and seven days’ ride north of Arwal.”

“American units don’t go there. The Soviets never built outposts further north than this one.”

“Why not?”

“Look at it. Impossible to resupply, except by air. Patrols have to traverse rough mountain country. Our fittest troops aren’t cut out for this. The Soviets learned, abandoned it. We learned the same, much further south. In Kunar.”

“People live there,” Robyn muses. “They’re happy. They know nothing else.”

“I doubt life there has changed much in two thousand years.”

“Zarek and his lieutenants felt secure enough to bring their families there.”

“Yes,” I say. “It sounds like he was confident enough to turn you over to his women. Tell me about Wajia.”

“Wajia was lovely. In many ways, she was everything I wanted to be.”

I’m sure Robyn is smiling in the dark. A sad, wistful smile.

19

Robyn at Base Camp

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday,1800

Ghazan was a big man of fifty, with a bushy black beard, and granite features. He wore a white turban, dark blue waistcoat, and a canvas chest rig. Each pouch was big enough to pack two magazines, which meant he had six thirty-round banana mags strapped to his chest. The side pockets were crammed with F1 limonka hand grenades.

He led Robyn to a big house at the foot of the mountain. Standard construction for the region. Walls of flat stones, piled high in columns. Windows and doorways buttressed with logs and planks. A metal stovepipe chimney stuck out of the roof. It would be sealed with pitch. The front door was intricately carved, but without a lock. This house was big, like a duplex, with two front doors. Robyn wondered if two families lived there.

A curtain was drawn from one of the windows, and a pair of striking blue eyes peeped out. Slender brown fingers let the curtain fall back into place. Blue eyes were sometimes found among Afghans. It was a striking genetic trait.

Ghazan slung his AK47 over one shoulder. His worn brown boots crunched on the stone approach to the house. Robyn looked back. Najibullah and the men were unburdening the mules and stabling the horses. The imam was glaring at her.

A woman in a black burqa, with gold trim about the headpiece, appeared at the front door. Her eyes shone with the light of youth. There was no question she was the one who had peered from behind the curtain.

“You have a guest,” Ghazan said in Pashto.

“The lord told me to expect her,” the woman replied. Her voice was soft and melodious.

Robyn’s ears burned. Her abduction had been planned. Zarek had made arrangements for a woman captive.

The woman ushered Robyn into the house.

Daylight shone through large windows into the main room. There were shelves, a fireplace, mats and cushions. Compared to other houses Robyn had visited, this dwelling was well-appointed. It belonged to a man of status.

The layout was traditional. There was an open staircase that led to a basement. There were three doorways, one to the left of the front door, and two on either side of the back wall. All were covered