injured and requests that we go back.”
Donk nodded at Red Beard thoughtfully, his hands tucked away in his hooded sweatshirt’s front pockets to hide the fact that they were trembling. “Tell him, Hassan, that when we have the grass we can go back.”
“He says he is injured very badly.”
“Tell him this is his own stupid fucking fault.”
“You tell him this!” Hassan cried.
Black Beard, his Kalashnikov now slung over his shoulder, was pulling the pouches and Marlboro bags off the donkey. Donk was about to speak when he noticed Black Beard stand quickly and look off warily to the east, instinctively reaching around for his rifle but not unshouldering it. Before Donk had even turned his head he heard the hollow patter of an approaching horse, then a low snorty sound. Upon the horse was a soldier. He rode in slowly, stopping at the midpoint between Donk and Black Beard, whose hand was still frozen in midreach for his rifle. The soldier looked to Donk, then to the dead donkey. Finally he rode over and circled the donkey’s corpse, looking over at Black Beard only after he had made a complete orbit.
“Salaam,” the soldier said, his horse’s ears smoothed back, clear evidence of its distress at the sight of its murdered cousin.
“Salaam,” Black Beard returned, his hand lowering.
The soldier was an American. His fatigues were lightly camouflaged, a few blobby splashes of faint green and wavy brown upon a dirty tan background. His backpack’s two olive-green straps ran vertically down his chest. Another, thicker strap corseted his waist, and two more cinched around his thigh, where a 9mm pistol was sheathed in a camouflaged holster. Affixed upon his shoulder was the bulky black control pad for his air-to-ground radio, its CB hooked to his waist. Somewhat ostentatiously, Donk felt, he was wearing a floppy Afghan
pakul,
and around his neck was the same make of white scarf Donk had bought in Kunduz. He galloped over to Donk, young and triumphantly blue-eyed, his nose snout-like and his chin weak. A southerner, Donk guessed. Obviously he was one of the commandos Donk had only heard about, Special Forces boys leading on horseback whole garrisons of guerrillas, shining lasers into the nasties’ mountain hidey-holes for the F/A-18s’ laser-guided bombs, and vacuuming up customs and language as they went. Some of these guys, it was rumored, had been here as early as September 14.
It was against SF doctrine to travel alone, and Donk imagined that right about now he was zooming up in the digital viewfinder of the binoculars that belonged to this commando’s partner, who was no doubt watching from a hill or was perhaps even hidden in some impossibly nearby rocks.
“Sir,” the commando said to Donk. “You’re an American?”
Donk pulled his hands from his sweatshirt’s pockets and stood. “I am.”
The commando, squinting, gazed down at Donk from his mount. He threw off the hard, unapproachable aura of sunlight on sheet metal. “Are you wounded?”
“What?”
The soldier tapped himself above the eye.
“No,” Donk said, touching himself there and, with a flinch, regretting it. “It’s nothing. A car accident.”
“Sir, I’ve been following you. And I have to ask what you’re doing out here, for one, and, for two, why are your men discharging their weapons in a hostile area?”
“They executed our donkey,” Donk said. “I’m not sure why. And they’re not my men. They’re General Ismail Mohammed’s.”
The horse footed back a few steps, its huge stone-smooth muscles sliding around one another beneath a dark-brown coat as shiny as chocolate pudding. The commando, with the steadiness of a centaur, had not taken his eyes off Donk. “That leaves what you’re doing out here.”
“I’m a journalist. My friend is back in General Mohammed’s village, like I said. He’s very sick. I’m out here looking for grass.”
The commando stared at him. “Pardon me, sir, but the stuff
Donk nodded at Red Beard thoughtfully, his hands tucked away in his hooded sweatshirt’s front pockets to hide the fact that they were trembling. “Tell him, Hassan, that when we have the grass we can go back.”
“He says he is injured very badly.”
“Tell him this is his own stupid fucking fault.”
“You tell him this!” Hassan cried.
Black Beard, his Kalashnikov now slung over his shoulder, was pulling the pouches and Marlboro bags off the donkey. Donk was about to speak when he noticed Black Beard stand quickly and look off warily to the east, instinctively reaching around for his rifle but not unshouldering it. Before Donk had even turned his head he heard the hollow patter of an approaching horse, then a low snorty sound. Upon the horse was a soldier. He rode in slowly, stopping at the midpoint between Donk and Black Beard, whose hand was still frozen in midreach for his rifle. The soldier looked to Donk, then to the dead donkey. Finally he rode over and circled the donkey’s corpse, looking over at Black Beard only after he had made a complete orbit.
“Salaam,” the soldier said, his horse’s ears smoothed back, clear evidence of its distress at the sight of its murdered cousin.
“Salaam,” Black Beard returned, his hand lowering.
The soldier was an American. His fatigues were lightly camouflaged, a few blobby splashes of faint green and wavy brown upon a dirty tan background. His backpack’s two olive-green straps ran vertically down his chest. Another, thicker strap corseted his waist, and two more cinched around his thigh, where a 9mm pistol was sheathed in a camouflaged holster. Affixed upon his shoulder was the bulky black control pad for his air-to-ground radio, its CB hooked to his waist. Somewhat ostentatiously, Donk felt, he was wearing a floppy Afghan
pakul,
and around his neck was the same make of white scarf Donk had bought in Kunduz. He galloped over to Donk, young and triumphantly blue-eyed, his nose snout-like and his chin weak. A southerner, Donk guessed. Obviously he was one of the commandos Donk had only heard about, Special Forces boys leading on horseback whole garrisons of guerrillas, shining lasers into the nasties’ mountain hidey-holes for the F/A-18s’ laser-guided bombs, and vacuuming up customs and language as they went. Some of these guys, it was rumored, had been here as early as September 14.
It was against SF doctrine to travel alone, and Donk imagined that right about now he was zooming up in the digital viewfinder of the binoculars that belonged to this commando’s partner, who was no doubt watching from a hill or was perhaps even hidden in some impossibly nearby rocks.
“Sir,” the commando said to Donk. “You’re an American?”
Donk pulled his hands from his sweatshirt’s pockets and stood. “I am.”
The commando, squinting, gazed down at Donk from his mount. He threw off the hard, unapproachable aura of sunlight on sheet metal. “Are you wounded?”
“What?”
The soldier tapped himself above the eye.
“No,” Donk said, touching himself there and, with a flinch, regretting it. “It’s nothing. A car accident.”
“Sir, I’ve been following you. And I have to ask what you’re doing out here, for one, and, for two, why are your men discharging their weapons in a hostile area?”
“They executed our donkey,” Donk said. “I’m not sure why. And they’re not my men. They’re General Ismail Mohammed’s.”
The horse footed back a few steps, its huge stone-smooth muscles sliding around one another beneath a dark-brown coat as shiny as chocolate pudding. The commando, with the steadiness of a centaur, had not taken his eyes off Donk. “That leaves what you’re doing out here.”
“I’m a journalist. My friend is back in General Mohammed’s village, like I said. He’s very sick. I’m out here looking for grass.”
The commando stared at him. “Pardon me, sir, but the stuff
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