Chapter 45
Later...
Yusuf returned to the control room. "I searched everywhere.... The big room is empty," he told Ginge, as he glanced around with anxiety evident on his young face. "Why have Da'reek Raheen and Masruq not returned!"
"Don't know," Nick replied to the translation. "Dammit, Ginge!" he said, looking over at the redhead, who was rummaging through a supply cupboard, looking for a new light bulb. "With all that shooting... if they were OK... they'd be hot footin' it down here...."
"Maybe...," Ginge agreed. His voice echoed hollowly from the metal shelves. "Well, I'll be damned! I found one!" he announced in victory. With a groan, the soldier pushed himself to his knees, then tried to stand. Yusuf rushed to help him to a chair before he fell, then took the light bulb, and reached for the dangling wire.
"Goddammit!" the Brit swore at his handicap. "We don't know what trouble they've found," he told Nick. "They're probably dealing with a situation."
"If that one-eyed bastard's got Derek...," Nick fretted. "You know what he's capable of.... He gets high off hurting people... and Derek's been hurt way too much already.... I just don't know...." Nick looked away, unable to finish the sentence or face his own fears. How much would it take to put Derek back into that padded, straight-jacketed hell... permanently... or transform him into that mindless lump he had left lying in Wells Ward? He struggled to stand. "Me and Yusuf can search.... You work on the computers.... You can read that stuff."
"Did you think of that plan all by yourself!" Ginge scoffed, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his voice. "You can't stand up alone.... You want the boy to push you around in your fuckin' chair.... You think this is fuckin' Ironside
! And if Derek shows up here... and you're missing.... What's he gonna do?... He'll have to take off again... to find you. Where's your bloody brain, Squid... up your fuckin' arse!Ginge paused, while Nick remained where he was. He saw the SEAL's knuckles whiten as he gripped the arms of his chair. "Come on, Indy," he cajoled. "Right now, Derek's in command.... Seems like he's used to it.... He gave us a job to do.... You don't disobey orders." The Brit allowed a smile to play across his face. "...at least not without a bloody good reason."
Nick sighed in frustration.... He knew everything the SAS man had said made sense... but the thought that they might be sitting here, while that bastard was hurting his friend, gnawed at his brain. He couldn't sweep the images from his mind... visions of the present... memories of the past.
"Someone's coming!" Yusuf called out in Pastun.
"The light!" Ginge shouted in a hushed voice, pointing to the dangling chain.
Yusuf grabbed and pulled to once more darken the room. They all heard the sound of running footsteps and reached for their guns.
The door burst open; Masruq rushed into the room. Dim light flooded in behind him. He stopped short when he saw the three of them. Derek and Ali followed seconds later.
"You're OK?" Derek gasped. Pinching his left hip, he leaned against the doorway, breathless. "We heard the shooting... but we were outside.... One got out by the loading ramp.... It's on the east side.... Hasmit's dead."
"We know" said Nick. "Saw his body on a security camera," he explained when he saw Derek's confusion.
Yusuf flicked the light back on; Nick paled at the sight of his precept. Thick gore matted his hair and ran down the side of his face into his grizzled beard. His upper chest was covered in black blood. "Jesus!..." Nick muttered in horror. "How bad you hurt?"
"Sit!... Da'reek Raheen.... Sit!" Yusuf hurried forward to support the older man.
Puzzlement crinkled Derek's brow. He knew the powder burn and graze on his hip would be invisible. He glanced at the bloody slash in his coat sleeve. Masruq had wrapped a not very clean bandage around the gash. It was a nasty cut, but not that bad... not bad enough to warrant the look on Nick's face, nor the boy's anxiety.
The young Afghan shouldered the precept into Nick's vacated chair. As his backside met the hard wood, Derek winced at the pain that shot through his hip and climbed his spine. He allowed his gaze to move to his own body.... He saw "Nelson's" blood on his chest, then raised tentative fingertips to the side of his face, his hair... and felt the thick, setting blood. Masruq laughed aloud, and received dire looks from the others.
"This isn't mine...," Derek quickly explained. "Apart from this scratch... I'm fine." Still on an adrenalin high, he laughed and made light of his wounded arm, his appearance... and left his hip unmentioned. "Masruq saved my life.... The guy was close... a shot to the throat.... I guess I got covered in his blood... and other stuff." He grimaced in distaste.
Ginge quickly translated for Yusuf and smiled at the surprise in the young man's face. "B'e!... He's not hurt?... Blessed Zarathustra!"
"'Uto!... Shiiiiissss!..." hissed Masruq, as he pushed the youngster away.
"Only hurt when you plonked him in the chair," Ginge said with sarcasm.
Derek stood, stiffly, wearily. "The building's clear... I hope... but we need to be careful. It's a rabbit warren upstairs.... Someone could have hidden.... We can only pray no one got away." He paused as he limped to the small bathroom for a drink of water from the spigot. He then looked around for something to wipe away the blood, but found only a small rag. "We need time to recoup here.... The weather's turning... which could work for us this time." He scanned the room... the bullet holes in the walls... the dead men outside. "Is the hardware still working?"
"Don't know...," Nick admitted. "We were a little busy down here. We'll check.... Why are you limping?" he asked abruptly.
"Not as young as I used to be," the precept replied. "Just stiff."
"He shot himself," Masruq announced.
Ginge turned around and immediately translated.
"And when were you going to tell us?... You shot yourself?" Nick asked pointedly, even as Yusuf swooped in again.
"I'm fine," Derek insisted, glowering at Masruq and fending off the boy's ministrations. "I didn't shoot myself. I had to shoot your one-eyed friend through my coat pocket. It's nothing... a little graze and a flash burn on my hip.... That's all." Derek ended the discussion by turning to the SAS man. "Ginge.... Tell Yusuf we found food... medical supplies... clothes... bedding... on the upper floor.... I'll give him a list of extra items to watch for.... We need get survival packs together for you two... and replenish mine and everyone else's. He and Ali should collect what they can... but be careful.... Then we've got to do something about the bodies... and the horses."
Nick studied his precept's appearance, his movement, his voice.... This was Derek in precept-mode. He didn't particularly like what he saw, but knew the man well enough to realize that argument was a waste of breath. He turned back to the computers.... Derek would either keep going... or keep going until he dropped.
"Maybe we should move up there," Ginge suggested.
"Maybe...," Derek pondered, then discarded the idea. "This floor's easier to defend... if it comes to it.... Plus we've got the monitors here.... We can see outside.... We need to keep at these computers and files... and we need to get the communications working... intercept any chatter... so it would mean splitting up. We can�t risk it.... But there are beds and showers... up there." It was a temptation... but no... this would have to be their cramped base camp.
"Showers!... Jeez... Derek...." Nick looked over his shoulder and managed a lopsided smile. "I know I stink... but you!"
That Night...
Derek stood under the hot water. The others had allowed him his privacy, which he relished almost as much as the shower. Why was the water hot, he wondered.... They'd found no boilers... no hot water heaters... not in the plans... nor in their searches. He set the thought aside, braced his hands against the wall, and allowed the warmth to flow over neck and down his shoulders and back. He was tired.... God!... He was so tired. He sank into the absolute heaven of it. Finally, with a sigh, he reached for the soap.... "Imperial Leather," he chuckled.... What the hell was Imperial Leather soap doing here! Here... in the midst of war... in the middle of the Hindu Kush... in an Al-Quaida complex... was a functioning shower with hot water and Imperial Leather soap.... But was its presence any stranger than his own?
He and the Afghans had searched the whole building yet again, but he knew that it was possible they had missed someone... someone waiting his chance... to pick them off... one at a time.... He had ordered everyone to remain in pairs... and armed.
Between them they had carried the dead hostiles outside, stacked them unceremoniously in one of the outbuildings, and collapsed what remained of one of the walls on top of them. The snows would soon cover all. Then, they had moved supplies... everything that they might need... downstairs. Afterwards, he and Yusuf had helped Nick and Ginge get cleaned up. They had tended their injuries and gotten them properly dressed, then they had left the two soldiers working at the computers.
Ali and Masruq were bringing the horses in... down the ramp. They'd found a building that had obviously been used as a stable, but it was too far away... too vulnerable.... If the horses had been placed there, it would be too obviously occupied, when it had been empty a few hours before. No... it was better to have the animals close by... easier to tend... easier to get to in case they needed to escape. Fortunately, there was plenty of fodder... a cart in which to haul it... and Masruq's muscles.
The door squeaked open. "Da'reek Raheen," Yusuf called. The Afghan did not enter the room.... Instead, the precept saw a hand deposit a pile of clothes on the floor... clean... well... cleaner... clothes... plus the First Aid box. He sighed again... and remembered the luxurious steam of the poolside sauna at home.... He remembered his own bathroom with all its little, hedonistic conveniences... the heated towel rack... his robe... his razor.... Gott... what he wouldn't give for a shave!... But not here, he thought, scratching his lengthening beard... not in the land of the Taliban where a bare face would mark you as an infidel... and an enemy.
Would he ever see home again, he wondered. He'd spent the last year and more running away from home... away from Angel Island, from his friends, his duties... from himself... all the while professing that he was seeking himself. All delusions.... Now he wanted nothing more. He wanted his old life back.
He reached for the towel, dried himself, then tended the wounds on his arm and hip. Shivering, he pulled on the clothes... waffled, long underwear... a pair of heavy, camouflaged pants with a multitude of flapped pockets; a wool, turtleneck sweater; a sheepskin vest, embellished with Afghan embroidery; and a new coat...a hooded, gray parka with a polar fleece lining. As he looked at the label, his eyebrow rose... L.L. Bean. Someone had recently been in the States, he thought, as he tucked his knife into his belt... either that or FedEx had done a hellava job delivering an online order.
As he stepped through the door, he saw Yusuf waiting, rifle at the ready. The boy smiled and handed him his handgun, which he slipped into a pocket. "Hasmit?" he asked quietly. Yusuf nodded and led him downstairs to an alcove, hidden behind the turbines, where Hasmit's body lay on the cold concrete, shrouded in blankets. Ginge had already told him of Yusuf and Masruq's decision concerning their comrade. "Seems they're torn," he had explained. "Their valley was God's gift.... It's holy ground.... So... by their custom... the valley's where all members of the tribe should be buried... if at all possible, but...," he added in translation, "he died as a martyr... in battle against those who would pervert Islam into a way of hate... so he'll be buried as a martyr."
This meant that, as Mohammed had done after the Battle of Uhud, there would be no washing of the body, no lengthy funeral prayers. Hasmit would be buried in the clothing in which he had died. The precept knelt down beside the dead man, placed his hand on the still chest, and whispered a farewell. All those years of theological studies had to be worth something. Searching his memory for the right words, usually said when death was confirmed, the precept softly recited, "Inna lillahi wa inna ilyahi raji'un...." Verily we belong to Allah, and truly to him shall we return.
He heard a tentative, irregular shuffle across the concrete. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Nick hobble in with Yusuf's help. The SEAL placed a hand on his friend's shoulder to steady himself. He gave the tense muscles a gentle squeeze before he spoke loudly to be heard over the noise of the machinery. "Ginge says they want to bury Hasmit after morning prayers."
Derek briefly hung his head, then nodded. "He deserves a martyr's burial," he sighed. "Perhaps, when this is over, we can see that he gets home."
Nick read the sorrow in the slump of the precept's shoulders. He felt it through his fingertips as one might feel the vibration in the body of a bass fiddle. "It's not your fault, Derek.... Cut yourself some slack.... You did what you had to do."
Derek remained on his knees, as Nick once more squeezed his shoulder. "You know... a long time ago... I blamed you for Julia... for splitting the team.... I thought I knew it all.... I thought being a SEAL had taught me all there was to know about war.... I was a stupid brat. You did what you had to do.... That's all anyone can ever do.... God takes over from there.... Come on," he said, tugging on the precept's arm. "Come get something to eat.... Lie down before you fall down.... You go down... then where will we be?"
A folded blueprint dropped from Derek's limp hand. He lifted his head from the desk, looked around the room, and bent over to pick up the paper. He had been studying the building's schematics, which Nick had found in the filing cabinet, and must have dozed off. Shrugging off the pushtin that someone had draped over his shoulders, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then massaged his aching neck. As he slowly pushed himself to his feet, a wave of fatigue and pain swept through him. He clutched the edge of the table to steady himself until it passed.
Looking around, he saw Masruq's dark eyes appraising him. The Afghan stood stirring a mysterious concoction in a pot on the ancient hotplate. With a finger to his lips and a tilt of his head, Derek indicated that he was fine... just tired. No one else need know. He was pleased to see understanding replace appraisal in the big man's gaze. He limped over to look in the pot. With one whiff, he decided that Masruq's cooking was actually worse than his own, which was no mean feat.
Lying on mattresses on the floor, swathed in blankets and skins, Nick and Ginge were still sleeping soundly. A second shot of painkiller had granted them rest. Derek and Masruq shared a smile at the gentle snores, emerging from the young soldiers' bruised, swollen faces.
The Afghan extended a steaming cup of tea, which the precept gratefully accepted. "Thanks," he murmured.
"OK." Masruq grinned, getting the most from his one word.
"Ali... Yusuf?"
The big man mimed someone digging in the earth.
"Hasmit?" Derek asked, and received a nod of confirmation.
Ginge stirred in his warm nest and slowly peeked out, squinting against the glare of the bare bulb. "You didn't wake us," he mumbled. Clear speech was still difficult for him. His mouth remained swollen; his tongue had not yet accustomed itself to the empty spaces.
"You needed the rest," Derek replied, watching as Masruq poured tea for the Brit.
Ginge nodded in resignation and confessed what was all too obvious, "We're not gonna be up to much for a while.... How long do you think we can hold out here?"
He found it odd that he was asking what was essentially a military question of a civilian, yet his instincts made him forget that Derek Rayne was anything less than an experienced comrade-in-arms.... Here was the only man in the entire world who had entered Afghanistan with their rescue as his objective... and against overwhelming odds in an alien land, he had succeeded thus far.
Derek slowly exhaled... thinking a moment. "Best case... perhaps another day or two.... It depends on whether our friends were expected to report in... and how bad the weather gets...."
Masruq politely interrupted, spoke quickly to Ginge, then left. Derek glanced questioningly at the corporal.
"He's gone to help the other two prepare Hasmit's grave."
The precept turned to ladle some broth and soft rice from Masruq's "stew" into a bowl. "Eat," he instructed, carefully handing it and a spoon to the redhead. "There's enough for Nick when he wakes." He glanced at his watch. "It's been twelve hours... you both need take another pill.... I'm going to help the others.... When you're up to it... see what you can do about the equipment.... We need to at least hear what might be happening out there... and keep your rifle handy," he added, as he tossed the Brit a packet of pink tablets... the erythromycin he'd bought in Chitral.
Ginge yawned and nodded. He watched the older man pull on his parka, boots, and gloves. He withheld a smile at Derek's puzzled expression when he picked up his battered cap and saw the bullet holes. He was beginning to understand Nick's fondness for this strange enigma of a man.
As Derek stepped from the building, the steel door was nearly jerked from his hand. A vicious, bitter wind howled round the compound. Lifting his arm, he shielded his eyes against the blowing grit that stung his face. He looked around, unable to see the Afghans through the blowing sand, but at the top of the steps, he found Masruq's tracks and followed them.
The trail led up to the crest of the hill. He found the three men placing the body in a shallow grave, which had been scraped from the cold, hard ground. As Ali, Yusuf, and Masruq carefully laid Hasmit on his right side, facing Mecca, each said, "Bismilllah wa ala millati rasulilllah...." In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah.
Derek stood off to the side... watching, regretting.... praying to God, by whatever name he wished to be known in these wild mountains. The body was covered with a tarp, then a layer of protective stones. Afterwards, the three tribesmen cast three handfuls of dirt into the grave. With each handful, Derek, still maintaining a respectful distance, joined them in saying, "Minhaa khalaqnaa kum...." From the earth did We create you.... "Wa feehaaa Nu'eedu kum...." And into it shall We return you.... "Wa minhaa nukhrijukum taaratan 'ukhraa...." And from it shall We bring you out once again.
Bit by bit, the remaining soil was shoveled back into the grave from whence it had come. It was patted down and a single, large rock placed at the head. The precept wished there was some way to return Hasmit to his village... his family... if the R'om interpretation of halal permitted. Perhaps later... when sanity returned to the world... they could take him home.
When the Afghans had finished, they each said a final, silent farewell and turned to walk dejectedly down the slope. Shivering, the precept hung back. He gazed at the savage beauty of Hasmit's resting place. If he died... and they could not return his body to Angel Island... to the tomb that waited for him... this would be a good place to lie... to wait out eternity. He smiled, remembering the last verse of a poem:
I long for scenes where man has never trod:
A place where women never wept:
There to abide with my Creator, God,Untroubling and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below - above the vaulted sky.
He stooped to lay his hand on the cold earth. "Goodbye, Hasmit, my friend," he said. "Assalamu alaikum.... May
Allah be with you and welcome you to paradise."
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