Gravedigger (7 page)

It was two hours before
they crested the mountain. By that time Johnston’s hearing had partially returned. They still had not caught up with Noa. When they came over the top of the ridge, they could see the village far below them. It was maybe large enough for several hundred people, had dozens of stone and mud houses, with a wall surrounding it. They were still an hour or more away, but the village of Zin had signs of life, even what looked possibly like electric lights.

Twenty minutes later they hiked around a bend in the trail to be met by three
muj
carrying rifles. Derek and Johnston raised their hands over their heads. The RPGs were slung over their shoulders, the AK47s in their hands.

One of the
muj
said in English, “Are you Derek Stillwater and Jim Johnston?” It was heavily accented, but clear enough.

They admitted they were.

“Very good. Your friend told us you were coming. What happened to the people chasing them?”

“Most of them are dead,” Derek said. “Two of them got away.”

“Good. Follow us.”

They turned and walked away, seemingly trusting Derek and Johnston at their backs. Derek shot Johnston a look and he shrugged. As they walked, Derek slid the NVGs over his face and glanced around. Then he realized that the three
muj
were just the welcoming committee. On the ridges around them were another half-a-dozen men.

“We’re pretty well covered,” he said to Johnston in a low voice, gesturing with his hand.

“I think we’re where we need to be,” Johnston said.

Derek glanced at him but let it go. They were led down into the village. Noa met them. Cocking her head, she said, “How did it go?”

“We’re alive,” Derek said. “How’s the kid?”

Her face clouded. “It’s pretty serious. They’ve got a couple people who know some medicine, but this may be too much for them.”

“I’ll go take a look at him. Will I need an interpreter?”

“One of them is a midwife. Her English is decent.”

Noa and Johnston left to speak with Mohammad Anwari. Two
muj
led Derek through the village to a small building made of mud brick. He could hear the rumble of several generators, which undoubtedly accounted for the electric lights in some of the buildings.

Inside, similar to the first village they had visited, he found a rudimentary clinic. A woman in one corner, face stretched in pain, was clearly in labor. Two elderly people were asleep on cots. The boy lay on a cot. A man and a woman knelt over him. His guide spoke to them in Pashto.

The woman turned to him. “You are a doctor?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve had medical training. Maybe I can help. I’ve also got a fairly extensive first aid kit.”

The woman’s name was Boosah. Not entirely surprisingly, the man’s name was Abdul.

Squatting next to the cot, Derek took a look at the kid’s wounds. He’d been shot three times. One in the left thigh. One in the left shoulder, which he didn’t like much at all. And one in the lower right abdomen. He said, “Do you have any blood or even saline?”

They shook their heads. They had compressed the wounds, but they were still bleeding. The thigh wound appeared to go through. The same seemed to apply to the abdominal wound. The shoulder wound, however, looked like the bullet was still in there.

He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves from the first aid kit, tore open an alcohol swab and swabbed down the gloves. From the kit he took a bag of QuikClot, sprinkling it into all three wounds. He spread antibiotic cream over the leg wound and placed a trauma dressing over it.

The stomach wound was next. It was way beyond his expertise. Despite the QuikClot, it was still oozing blood. “What’s your opinion about this?” he asked. “Is there a lot of internal damage?”

“If we can get him stabilized, we might be able to move him to Kabul, to a hospital,” Boosah said. “But the shoulder wound—”

“Yeah. We’ll get to that. Okay. I’m thinking we clean the abdominal wound as best we can, pack it, tape it, and then worry about the shoulder wound.”

They agreed, although Derek wasn’t convinced they would have disagreed with him if he’d suggested making a voodoo doll out of a candle and singing Beatles songs over the kid. He pulled a small plastic bottle of saline from the first aid kit. Way too small for their needs. “Boiled water?”

“We’ve got that,” Abdul said.

“We’re going to need it.” He irrigated the abdominal wound as best he could. They brought him water, and he continued cleaning the wound with it. It started bleeding again. He sprinkled more QuikClot, more antibiotic cream, and said a little private prayer that he wasn’t fucking things up.

He tore open a tampon that he had stashed in the first aid kit. One of his military trainers had referred to this as ghetto first aid, although the politically correct name was “field-expedient field medicine.” The tampon promptly soaked up the blood and expanded. He didn’t have an endless supply of good field dressings, so he grabbed a roll of duct tape, used his combat knife to cut off several pieces, and taped the tampon in place.

Sitting back on his heels, he looked at Boosah and Abdul. “You understand that I’m not a doctor, right? I’m trying to save his life. I’m hoping to do as little damage and stabilize him so you can transport him to a real doctor. You understand this, right?”

They both nodded. “If either of you think you can do this better than I can, say so.”

Boosah said, “I think you’re doing fine.”

“Has he had any kind of pain medication?”

They shook their heads. Derek was really uneasy about the idea of giving him morphine. He pressed his fingers to the boy’s neck. The heartbeat was slow but steady. He sighed. Should he go in after the bullet or just seal up the shoulder wound and hope they could get the kid to real medical help?

They were waiting expectantly. He said, “How will you get him to a hospital?”

Abdul said, “We have a couple trucks. We can drive him to Kabul or to the WHO refugee center.”

“How long will that take?”

Abdul shrugged. “We can’t take the path you came in on, over the mountains. The road goes around over the next pass. So, in rain … we are hearing about flooding … ten hours, maybe.”

Derek bit his lip. He listened to his heart beat in his chest and breathed in and out, trying to get past the tiny bit of panic he felt. “What about that Russian helicopter we saw?”

Abdul and Boosah passed a concerned look between each other. Abdul, carefully, said, “He works for whoever can pay him. He is not a friend of Zin.”

“Where does he work out of?”

Again they looked at each other. There was some sort of internal debate going on between them. Finally Abdul said, “Shing Dun. Sort of. He has a house about two kilometers this side of Shing Dun. That’s where he parks the helicopter. He is a mad man.”

“How far from here to Shing Dun?”

Again they looked at each other. Abdul said, “Shing Dun is our enemy.”

“I understand. If I needed to go to Shing Dun to bring the helicopter here, how long would it take us to get there?”

“By horse, probably two hours. By truck, maybe an hour. But you won’t get there without being stopped by the Mullah’s people. They would stop you and probably kill you, because you are a Westerner.”

Picking up the bandages, he closed off the shoulder wound and said, “Keep an eye on him. I need to talk to your boss and my people.”

He found Noa
and Johnston in a house with Mohammad Anwari. Anwari was a big man, not just for an Afghani, but for anyone. Probably six-foot-five and three hundred pounds. His eyes were dark, his beard thick and long and shot with gray. The three of them sat on pillows on the floor drinking tea and eating dates, nuts, and dried fruit. When Derek walked in, Anwari jumped to his feet and hugged him fiercely and shook his hand. In English with an accent somewhere between Pakistan, London, and unintelligible, he said, “So how is Ibrahim? You fix him up?”

“He’s in rough shape,” Derek said cautiously. “He really needs to get to a hospital. But I’m not sure if he’d survive a ten-hour drive in your truck.”

Anwari frowned, tugging at his beard. “There is nothing you can do?”

“His wounds are beyond my skills and medical supplies. I have … a suggestion.”

Anwari waved him toward a pillow around a low table. “Come. Have some tea. Some food. What is your suggestion?”

Derek washed his hands in a bowl supplied for the purpose and sipped the tea. It was hot and sweet and he desperately needed it. “I understand there is a Russian with a helicopter in Shing Dun.”

Anwari’s reaction wasn’t completely unexpected. He sat bolt upright and glared at Derek. “He is a Russian! And a mercenary. He helps the Sheik and the Mullah anyone else who can pay him.”

“He could fly Ibrahim to Kabul in under an hour,” Derek said. “Get him to a hospital or the WHO refugee center. Get him to a surgeon. Save his life.”

“You can help you! You are a doctor!”

Shaking his head, Derek said, “I’m not that kind of a doctor. I’m a professor. Like a teacher? A scientist, not a medical doctor.”

“This Russian, he is no friend.”

“We need him,” Derek said, “if we’re going to save Ibrahim’s life.”

“We don’t have the money to hire him. If we did, I would use him to fight my enemies.”

“I think I can convince him to help me. If you can get me close to his house without being seen by the Sheik’s people, I can get to him without being seen and convince him to help us.”

“How will you convince him?” Anwari demanded.

Derek smiled and held up his hand like a gun. “I can be very convincing.”

Noa was going with him
because she spoke some Russian. He studied her gaze. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Eight fluently.”

“Okay. We’re not going to get distracted on this particular trip, are we?”

She shrugged. That was what he was afraid of. He and Johnston and Noa had stepped aside to discuss the plan. Johnston was going to stay behind and discuss other matters with Anwari. They were uneasy about splitting up, but this was where Noa and Johnston’s goals diverged.

Anwari was sending two of his
muj
with them in an ancient truck. The two
muj
would get them to within about six miles of Shing Dun before they expected to run into the Sheik’s patrols. From there it was a fairly straight shot to the Russian’s house.

Noa went inside to change into camos she would wear beneath her regular clothing. Derek was certain she was going to be armed to the teeth. He looked at Johnston. “I’m the one that suggested this and I think it’s a bad idea.”

“Do you think the kid will survive?”

“If they get him to a doctor, maybe. If they don’t get him to a doctor, I’d give him twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours. He lost a lot of blood and the abdominal wound is ugly. The shoulder wound is worse. The bullet’s still in there and you and I know that there’s a lot of nerves in that area. It would be a miracle if he didn’t lose the arm, even if we do get him to a doctor tonight.”

Johnston eyed him. “So your suggestion of the helicopter pilot is what? A wild-assed attempt to keep him alive?”

Leaning against the house, keeping out of the rain beneath a tin overhang, Derek said, “Noa needs an excuse to get in there, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. And you supplied it.”

“And I can give her backup and if this Russian is at all amenable, we’ll have an escape route. And maybe we’ll get back here and save this kid’s life and get ourselves out of this country.”

“Or you’re walking into a lion’s den.”

“Yeah. Well…”

Johnston gripped his shoulder. “Good luck.”

They were interrupted by the bark of a gun and a scream. It came from outside the village. The gunshot was immediately followed by shouts and more gunfire. Anwari burst from his house, AK47 in his fist, eyes wild. He shouted something in Pashto and raced out of sight.

Derek and Johnston rushed toward where they had left their gear just as Noa appeared. The village was in an uproar.

“Any idea what’s going on?” Derek hissed, jamming a magazine into his own AK47. Noa, hefting an RPG, said, “Abdul Karim Azimi’s people, I think. Full-out attack on the village.”

“Shit.” Derek pulled on the NVGs. “Do we have a plan?” A half-dozen
muj
from Zin raced by, heading toward where the trail emptied into the village.

“I would like a good position,” Noa said, “with decent cover and a wide field of fire.”

Derek pointed with his thumb. “The roof?”

She nodded. He made a cradle of his hand and hoisted her up onto the roof of the house. “You’re next,” he said to Johnston.

Johnston shook his head. “I’m going to give Anwari backup” and started to run in the direction of the crowd. Derek sprinted after him and caught his sleeve in his fist, spinning him around.

“You are going to get up on that roof with an AK47 and an RPG and as much ammo as you can just like I am and try to keep our asses from getting shot.”

“I’ve got a job to do here, Derek.”

“Yeah. And being on the front line with a warlord isn’t it. Get your ass up there or I’ll shoot you myself.”

Johnston glared at him, then chuckled. “I need a lift.”

“You need a kick in the ass.” He raised his hands and lifted Johnston onto the tin roof of the house.

Derek went through their things and tossed up as much of their sparse gear as he could. Then he jumped up, caught the tin roof with his hands, and levered himself onto the roof.

The rain was coming down still and the tin roof was cold and wet. But Noa and Johnston had spread out blankets to separate them from the chill of the tin. Johnston was on the left side, Noa on the right, AK47s at the ready. Johnston said, “Since you’ve got the night vision, you’re in the middle.”

Noa echoed, “I can’t see shit.”

Derek crawled to a spot between the two of them, his AK47 on his right, his RPG on his left. He scanned the village with his NVGs. People were running everywhere.

Searching to the south, toward the hills, he saw movement. Dozens of men on foot and on horseback were rushing toward the village.

“About three dozen coming in on the trail. I’m having a hard time seeing our own people.” If the Zin folks could be called their own people.

Suddenly gunfire lit up off to their left and their right. Derek saw a couple of the invaders go down, but they kept on coming.

He took his RPG up and aimed. Fired. It sailed over the heads of the invaders and exploded. “Shit. Too high.”

Johnston and Noa fired almost simultaneously, targeting in on Derek’s misfire.

Explosions erupted around them. They sounded like grenades. Twisting to look around, Derek said, “Crap. They’ve got a lot of people. We’re flanked.”

Noa and Johnston were reloading their RPGs. And then something clattered on the roof. Instinctively Derek kicked it. The grenade slid off the tin roof and detonated below them.

Derek didn’t have a chance to reload the RPG. He grabbed the AK47, searched the horizon and started firing.

The air filled with gunshots and explosions and screams. Another grenade landed on the roof. This time Noa kicked it off.

“This isn’t such a great idea,” Johnston said.

“They know we’re up here,” Noa said, and fired off her RPG at a cluster of
muj
who were firing on their location.

From a hundred yards out they heard a distinctive whooshing sound. A second later they saw the contrail of an RPG headed their way. All three of them flung themselves over the edge, tumbling to the ground. The resulting explosion tore up the building, which caught on fire. Debris rained down on them.

Derek crouched, scanning through the NVGs. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t know who the good guys are. Stay close.”

He rushed from the cover of the house toward a wooden paddock where a half-dozen horses whinnied and kicked in fear. Noa and Johnston were right behind him.

They hit the ground. Derek scanned. He waved with a hand. “There, there, and there,” he whispered, pointing out insurgents.

Johnston muttered, “What supplies do we have?”

“First aid kit, AK, NVGs, knife. Clothes on my fucking back,” Derek said. “You?”

“AK, map, handgun, poncho.”

They glanced at Noa. She whispered, “AK, map, handgun, two knives, poncho, jerky, water, extra ammo, two grenades and money.”

“I love you,” Derek said. “If I create a diversion, can you two get three horses?”

“Yes.” Johnston pointed. “One klick in that direction. Thirty minutes. Can you do it?”

Derek nodded. “And if I’m late, head for Shing Dun.”

Noa handed Derek the two grenades. “Make them count.”

“Will do.” He slithered away.