Warriors (9781101621189) by Tom Young Page A

said,
“Ho.”
Parson had picked up that much of the language. The word meant yes.
    â€œTell him to describe what he saw,” Parson said. Didn’t really matter what the man had seen. Parson knew why the C-27 had pranged into the ground. But this question would get the sergeant talking—and, Parson hoped, thinking this was still just a safety investigation.
    The man began a stream of words Parson could not understand. Parson tried to listen for pauses, to determine when one sentence ended and another began, but he could not even tell that much. Like every accident witness, this guy had a story to tell, and he told it in excited tones. He raised his hand with thumb and little finger outstretched to represent wings. The hand traced a slanting descent path, then crashed onto his knee. The sergeant said,
“Bhoom.”
No interpreting needed there.
    Gold told Parson what the man had described. The English translation included nothing Parson hadn’t seen for himself during the event.
    â€œAsk him what the plane was carrying,” Parson said. Now I’m acting like a lawyer, he thought, asking only questions to which I already know the answer.
    Gold spoke, and the man responded. Shorter answers this time.
    â€œEquipment in boxes,” Gold said. “That’s all he seems to know.”
    â€œAll right,” Parson said, “ask him where the plane would have gone if it hadn’t crashed here.” Another question to which he knew the answer.
    After Gold asked the question in Pashto—which sounded like all vowels, to Parson’s ears—the man answered quickly, rubbing the palms of his hands along his thighs.
    â€œHe says the plane would have gone back to Afghanistan,” Gold said. “Civilian airplanes carry the cargo to Europe.”
    Careful now, Parson told himself. Don’t get too close to the wrong topic.
    â€œTell him we’re wondering how well the pilot knew the approaches to Manas,” Parson said. “Does he know if that crew had flown here before?”
    More chatter in Pashto. Parson envied Gold’s language ability. He wished he could know what she knew, but achieving that would take more than a few hours of Rosetta Stone. Gold had studied hard for years. Making a good interpreter took as long as making a pilot. And she’d done all that work and training for enlisted pay.
    â€œHe says C-27s come here at least twice a week,” Gold said.
    â€œInteresting,” Parson said. “Let me think for a minute.” So they could have shipped a hell of a lot of opium through here, he considered. Maybe this guy knows about it; maybe he doesn’t. Parson decided to quit while he was ahead and just ask some fluff questions to cover his tracks.
    â€œAsk him if this aircraft commander had a good reputation, if his men respected him,” Parson said.
    Parson hardly listened as Gold translated and then came back with “‘Oh, yes.’”
    Whatever. Jackass didn’t deserve respect now; that was for damned sure. Parson remembered an old saw he’d heard from one of his instructors years ago:
A superior aviator uses his superior judgment to avoid situations that would require his superior skill.
Well, that bonehead who’d bought the farm out there hadn’t possessed skill
or
judgment.
    Gold and Parson spoke with the three other Afghans who made up the ground detachment. They all gave similar answers. Parson thanked them for their time, apologized for making them recount a traumatic event.
    At the end of the day, Parson and Gold walked down the flight line and out of the ramp area. As they walked across the apron, sunset bled across distant mountains. The dying light lent a shade of rose to the snow on the peaks, and Parson thought of all the things he and Gold had endured among mountains like that. Their working relationship had begun when a terrorist’s shoulder-fired missile had blown his C-130 Hercules