Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

Soviet gun-birds chased me and my comrades, into a draw. There was no escape.

“I stood alone on the rock. Pulled cloth over my nose and mouth, for the dust was choking me. I raised the rocket to my shoulder and faced the gun-bird. As close as I am to you. I fired, and the rocket pierced its head like a lance. Exploded within its skull. The gun-bird shuddered, but did not fall from the sky. Smoke poured from the beast as it turned and fled.”

Zarek has a way with words. Enthralled, Robyn continues her translation.

“The other gun-bird breathed fire. The rocks around me splintered, and my comrades were cut to pieces. I was the only one of our little band on his feet, yet I survived. I fell, unconscious. The Soviet soldiers took me to their jail in Asadabad. For months, they did many things to humiliate me, and cause me pain. Who can humiliate one who knows that one day, he will stand naked before Allah?”

Koenig looks bored. Takigawa, a pure warrior, sits captivated. Robyn’s eyes glisten, wet with tears.

“They broke me in body, but not in spirit.” Zarek is careful to meet the eyes of each person in his audience. “Not once did Allah leave my side. For public execution, they had me transported to Kabul. My brothers awaited their chance, and fell upon the Soviet caravan. Mashallah. The earth was watered with the blood of the infidels.”

“You were meant to escape,” Robyn says.

“It was the work of Allah,” Najibullah pronounces. “I have always been, and remain, naught but a servant of his will.”

The hours tick by. We eat and drink. Ghazan and Baryal take turns telling stories. Ghazan of the days when he and Zarek fought the Soviets in the high mountain passes. Among soldiers, the talk comes to Soviet tactics. Their use of motorized units to drive Mujahedeen into traps laid by paratroopers.

“They were always late,” Ghazan says. “I became convinced Soviets could not make good timepieces, because they could never synchronize their attacks.”

Zarek laughs. “The paratroopers were good fighters. They were tough. They did not know the land well, but they could climb. Once, a company of Soviets climbed a mountain and attacked us from the rear. We never expected them to climb the mountain. We waited for helicopters that never came. When the paratroopers attacked, we were taken by surprise.”

“The helicopters were devils,” Ghazan says. “The gun-birds would hunt and kill us. They often used two or three gun-birds to kill a single man.”

“Until our American friends brought us the missiles,” Zarek smiles.

“Stingers,” Koenig says.

“Yes,” Zarek nods. “Stingers. You gave us many of these missiles, and we lanced the gun-birds. The missiles were more effective than the rocket I used, the day the gun-bird cornered me in the draw. The Stingers won the war for us.”

“Then the Americans tried to buy them back,” Baryal sneers.

“Oh, yes.” Zarek warms to the topic. “America is so rich it gave us many missiles. Then, after the war, they feared we would use missiles against commercial aircraft. So they bought them back.”

“The threat was genuine,” I tell him.

Zarek shakes his head. “No. There were crazy Mujahedeen. Among us, there were fanatics, trained by the Wahabis—Saudis—in the madras. They would use the missiles. They did not sell their missiles back. They have caused much trouble for you and for our country.”

The warlord’s tone grows pedantic. “Understand,” he says to Koenig, “my people were pleased the war ended. There were no Americans on our land. No Soviets. There was no need for jihad. The Saudi Mujahedeen began a civil war. They found reasons for the jihad to continue.”

“You let them stay,” Koenig says.

“Taliban let them stay,” Zarek corrects him. “America continues to interfere in matters it does not understand. Look at the opium. America concerns itself little with opium. Why is that? Poppies are grown in vast fields outside American air bases, yet you do nothing. You bomb my caravans three times more frequently than Shahzad’s. Yet—it is Shahzad’s opium that finances the war against you.”

Zarek stares at Koenig. “Why do you bomb me more than Shahzad?”

“I don’t know that we do.”

“I run a business. I count the loads.” Zarek takes a bite of mutton, chews carefully. “Counting is not difficult.”

“If that is true,” Koenig says, “and I am not certain it is, you and Shahzad are doing something differently.”

A crafty gleam in his eye, Zarek says, “Someone is doing something different.”

I think back to my missions into Tajikistan and China. I studied the routes, the players. I studied Najibullah and Shahzad, wrote the book for General Anthony. I saw no difference in their operations.

“To America,” Koenig shrugs, “one load of opium is like any other. You all make war on us.”

“Methinks not for much longer.” Zarek smiles. “There will be peace. America will take its guns, its money, and its young men. It will leave this land, and jihad will be no more. Many problems will be solved when you leave. The rest we will solve ourselves.”

“What about the opium?” Koenig sneers.

“What of it?” Zarek spreads his arms and opens his hands. “Afghan opium is not found on the streets of New York. What do you care? Let the English, French and Germans take an interest. They do not want to spend the money. Perhaps they do not have the money to spend. Americans love to spend money to fight other people’s wars. They think it makes them loved. No. It makes them fools.”

Zarek laughs. Brings his hands together and makes a washing motion. “No, my friends, your country has no interest in Afghan opium. Are you on a crusade? The only people who have an interest in Afghan opium are those who seek profit. Then—all that matters is where the profits are used.”

Robyn told me the same thing. Zarek has a point.

“We pay the ANA to raze the poppies,” I offer. “It is their responsibility.”

Zarek laughs. A full-bellied laugh echoed by Ghazan, Baryal, and the other men around