Entering A Village

 

JUNE 11, 2008

NORTH WEST FRONTIER, PAKISTAN

  
 CAUTIOUSLY APPROACHING THE VILLAGE from the west, the team was on high alert for any possible Taliban ambush. It could be initiated from the rocks above them, or from a ridge on the opposite side. The village, like so many others was tucked into the edge of a small valley five to eight hundred feet below the mountaintops. Bryan peered up a nearly vertical rock wall.

The first signs of humans actually came in the form of livestock. The flatter trail they had been on for the last kilometer had turned into a narrow rocky path where a dozen domesticated goats and sheep were milling about, tails perpetually wagging.

After negotiating a rickety wooden plank bridge that crossed fast mountain creek, Bryan could see the village ahead. They came in walking uphill, hugging the path, which was very steep, at least a fifteen-degree grade. The village of less than fifty stone and wooden structures was expertly built on the sharp slope.

“Senior Chief, hang with this guy. Cowboy, jump on the rooftop and follow us in,” the Lieutenant ordered, pointing to a man squatting in front of the first shed that marked the entrance to the village. He was cleaning something that looked very similar to a musket. He’d hardly given the team a second glance.

Villages such as this one had many transients that simply passed straight through. Strangers were never a real concern unless they started trouble, but since many villages were armed to the teeth, the possibility of having about two hundred guns pointed at them was enough of a reason not to start any trouble. Cowboy clambered up to the first house. Once on top, he’d walk the adjoining roofs, covering both sides of the road as the team moved into the center of the village.

“Proton, take the SATCOM and go up to the top of town, “ Thomas ordered.  They didn’t want any surprises from either end of the village. “Looks pacified but err on the side of being prepared,” the team was taught. Be prepared!

As the troupe eased into the village, Bryan thought about the culture and the many influences that the people of the Hindu Kush had seen.  Most tribes in the North West Frontier were suspicious of foreigners, and with good cause. Invasion and conquest was generally the purpose of strangers to the region. The mixture of pagan and now Islamic people were mountain folk that lived in an irregular geographical area of narrow gorges, twisted valleys, highlighted by steep torrents of rivers pouring down ravines. In the distance of course, were the ever-present Tirich Mir and numerous glaciers. All drained into a major valley near the town of Chitral. If the rugged and hostile landscape were not enough, consider the altitude.

The region, which split parts of Afghanistan and Pakistan, was located in the northeast of modern day Afghanistan, bordering the North West Frontier to the east, and approximately five thousand square miles, the majority above ten thousand feet elevation. The high altitudes and jagged landscape of both regions limit trees, vegetation, and animals, to only the most hardy. In lower elevations, thickets of wild vines and shrubs line numerous streams that run down the mountainous slopes. Various fruit trees grew near most villages, apricot and apple, giving the villagers another supplement for an all round diet. As the slopes rose to higher elevations, pine and cedar forests give way to juniper and cedar, gradually thinning to only small birch here and there, or a willow patch. Life ceases above five thousand meters with the exception of moss, sparse flowers, grass, but always the ever-present rocks. During winter months, all was blanketed in deep snow. “White and more white, covered by white,” Bryan recalled.

Animals of the land were typical of what would be expected in high mountains. Wild goat, sheep, bear, and leopards, all make their home in the Hindu Kush. While trekking across a ridge earlier in the day, Bryan, skirting a high ridge next to Thomas, spotted a rare animal, shy and seldom seen. “Look over there, Tim,” Bryan said quietly.

“Isn’t that an Ibex?” Thomas replied, his voice low.

“That’s right – how amazing is that?” Bryan whispered, as they both knelt behind a boulder to avoid being spotted.

A regal species of wild goat, the Himalayan Ibex lives in high altitudes at elevations up to five thousand meters. An endangered animal, at first glance it appears to be completely unsuited for a life surrounded by steep rocky cliffs. A fairly large cousin of the Ram, weighing as much as two hundred and twenty five pounds, it stood more than one meter at the shoulder. With a thick and wooly, dark brown coat that shed completely in late spring, the dorsal was light, almost white.

It was a magnificent and spectacular mountain animal. What made it magnificent were its horns. Massive ridged horns that curved back one meter, three quarters of a complete arc, and then tapered to slender points. What made it spectacular was its ability to leap great distances from narrow rocky ledge to ledge, displaying uncanny agility. “People have a harder time walking on a marble floor,” Thomas said, astonished at the site of the Ibex’s leaps and bounds.

“Capra sibirica hemalayanus. That's the Latin classification. Third time I’ve seen the slammer,” Bryan had said as he leaned on his rifle, and searched for a bottle of water in his vest. He was referring to the male’s battle tactics when fighting challengers for a potential female mate. The males square off, charging into each other with such force that the clacking sound of the horns slamming together can be heard over a mile away.

“Like the falcon, it’s the altitude that gives this guy the advantage,” Bryan said.

“How so?”

“If they were down low in the valley, they’d be just another goat or a sheep, happily wagging their little fuckin tails and blissfully waiting to be sheared, milked, or slaughtered. But up here, they’re slammers. Masters of their realm, just like a falcon,” Bryan said taking a sip and passing the bottled water to the Lieutenant. “Speaking of falcons, did you ever hear the story about one that made its nest in the Tower of London?”

“That’s right, you live there. No, I haven’t.”

“Well, interestingly enough a falcon-hawk made its home there for a while.”

“No shit. It must have made life miserable for the fuckin pigeons,” Thomas said, thinking of the dirty birds with disdain.

“The tower ravens actually, which is why the nest was finally removed,” Bryan corrected.

“Right, the superstition of the tower ravens. Yeah, I’ve heard about that from some Brits back at Bagram. Falcons always seek a high place to nest, like the Ibex – altitude serves it best,” Thomas said with a wink.

“Nice rhyme Lieutenant.”

Other villages were warlike. Many had been slave owners. The slaves themselves came in two varieties, the domestic, or house slaves, and artisans. All women had been domestic slaves, the wives and mistresses; and by their own laws, men could own more than one of each. Adultery was permitted in the pagan clans as well. The women were required to work the fields and gardens, and if a pack animal was not available, women were responsible for hauling loads, regardless of the weight. Artisans had been the second classification of slaves, and included woodcrafters and musicians. 

Houses of the mountain villagers tended to be clustered together on the side of a hill and designed with a foundation that allowed for a small basement or additional room. Built with multiple levels, they tended to be grimy and dirty, littered with slaughtered animal bones and horns. The bottom level was primarily used as an open pit latrine, the smell of urine and stored manure emanated throughout the additional levels. Weapons and other family valuables were kept on the middle level, and the actual living spaces on the third and final level.

The village was active, Kalash Kafir women scurrying about, busily preparing the midday meal. Reputed for having an exotic appearance, and deservingly so, their light brown hair was parted or multiply braided in the middle and framed a face accentuated with high cheekbones, light brown eyes, narrow nose, and somber mouth. Sometimes they wore magnificent headdresses of colorful plumes or other features. Their ears were always adorned in silver, or for women of higher status, gold. Each was dressed in a traditional black goat hair robe embellished with layers of multi-colored necklaces, and tiger cowry shells of marine animals found in the East Indies. How the shells found their way to the Hindu Kush was still a mystery. Kalash Kafir villagers, Kafir meaning infidel, had never been out of the mountains, let alone seen a beach or an ocean. They just didn’t know. The women always had them.

The Kalash Kafir men were master woodcraftsmen, a skill passed down for more than two thousand years.  For centuries their carvings had been works of art, dedicated to the creation of intricate wooden idols to their deities, and carved out of the indigenous cherry or oak. They had always been a very kind people, peaceful, but now continually harassed by the fundamental Muslims of the Province, particularly Islamists, who were intolerant of their love of wine, open affection for the opposite sex, and particularly the woodcarvings to gods. But as hostilities spilled over into Pakistan from northern Afghanistan, some warlords saw other uses for their skills with wood: the making of rifle stocks. Artisans were being induced to apply their skills to weapons of war under threats of attack. Violence and fanaticism was spreading and impinging on the culture of the Kalash Kafir.

Kalash craftsmanship was in high demand in the lower North West Frontier of Pakistan. Carved from a hard wood, the finished product was carried by pack animals down the mountain and through passes to Peshawar where they were fitted with barrels and sold.  The artists carved intricate designs into the wood while sitting on the porch for better light, while young apprentices, with their keen eyesight could stay inside, sanding and polishing the wood to perfection.

Every square inch of a home was dedicated to their industry. Finished rifle stocks were lined up side-by-side, leaning against inlaid wood walls. Now and then a gun shot was heard when a new design was fit with a temporary barrel, tested and fired. Civilization had snuck up on these people in the form of conflict.

The team made their way into the center of the village. There they began to draw the attention Bryan expected, as the artisans noticed the unusual weapons the SEALs carried. They pointed and murmured their approval. Wide smiles formed on their wrinkled faces.

Several barefoot boys, perhaps four or five years old, sprinted towards the men for a closer look. They liked what they saw. Their light eyes widened, mouths forming smiles as they marveled in astonishment, touching the alien composite material with delight.

“Don’t touch my weapon,” Hotshot barked at the boys, shooing them away.

“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” Thomas said. He whistled and yelled, “Cowboy?”

“Yo el-tee. Everything good from up here.” He was crouched on a rooftop, the Barrett in carry position.

Thomas pointed at the guide. “Raza, keep those kids away from the weapons.”

Raza yelled out something in Urdu, and then in Pashto, but only got blank stares from the boys. “They don’t speak Urdu or Pashto, I think only Kalash, but it’s a strange dialect.”

“Well, figure it out or just shake your finger at em.”

The team must have looked very unusual to the boys in spite of their futuristic firearms. The Kafir men were strong, as most mountain people, but didn’t look anything like SEALs, who when not practicing for operations, lived in the gym. Turk being the tallest at six-five was also the strongest and could bench three hundred and fifteen pounds, twenty-five times. The boys’ fascination soon moved from the weapon to Turk’s tattooed biceps.

Two tribal men approached Raza and began talking with him. Bryan could tell by the Kalashnikovs and ammo belts draped over their shoulders that they weren’t rifle-stock salesmen. The group followed the two inside a house on a corner of the village where the rock path turned forty-five degrees.

The largest shelter in the village, it was the only one with a tin roof. There was also a sign on the front of the structure written in Urdu. Since the villagers were predominantly illiterate the sign would have been meant for visitors, travelers wanting to stay the night. Bryan got a chuckle from the one tie to the world beyond the village; a motel for guests. Who had stayed here? Passing through the “motel lobby,” a small room with a low ceiling, they sat down in an adjacent larger space, completely covered in ornately woven wool rugs. Even the walls were covered. It was there that Bryan saw her for the first time.

A young woman was sitting on the floor in a seiza position, her buttocks resting on her feet and toes pointed back. Her posture was straight, and her shoulders square. Delicate hands were at rest on her thighs, palms partially turned to the ceiling. What a vision! Bryan couldn’t believe how extraordinary she was. She was wearing a brightly colored outfit similar to that worn by Muslim women to cover their body, with the exception of the face and hands. Called a Sharqyat, it conformed to the Quranic codes of modesty for women. But the beauty Bryan now saw, departed from the fundamentalist guidelines of women’s dress. The blouse, which came to her knees, was made of wool, with a variety of colored patterns, from pink, to garnet, and decorated with embroidery and small beads in random arrangements.  Her pants were black and also made of wool. Instead of an under-scarf, and shawl, she opted for a white silk shawl only, dark brown hair peeking out from the sides. Although the women of the area were known for their exotic appearances, perfectly applied make-up accented her natural beauty. She was far more beautiful, and her eyes were blue. Baby blue! He was instantly mesmerized.

Raza introduced her. “This is Shamema. She is the granddaughter of Prince Rehman. She speaks English very, very good.”

Bodyguards of sorts, the Kafir men sat cross-legged on either side of Shamema, weapons in their laps. Bryan took center position sitting across from the hostess, flanked by Thomas on his right, and Raza on his left. Don’t out number the other party! The remaining team was outside, Turk still entertaining the children, now numbering five, the others keeping a vigilant eye.

“Captain Craig, I am pleased to meet you,” she said slowly, but with surprising annunciation, and a hint of aristocratic influences. “You have been expected.”

Expected? “Thank you for welcoming us to Chitral and to this village. Where did you learn to speak English?” Bryan asked politely.

“In Pakistan, of course, and England where I have studied as well. Besides the languages and most dialects here, I also speak French, Greek, Arabic, and Farsi,” she said smiling, visibly embarrassing Bryan.

She then went on. “I am here at the request of my grandfather, who apologizes for not meeting with you in this place.” She turned and spoke with the two Kafirs.

Raza understood this particular dialect and whispered in Bryan’s ear. “She's telling them something about you, sahr.”

“What?” Bryan asked.

“And she also wants to show you something.”

“What?”

“It’s a book, sahr.”

“Please Captain Craig, my grandfather wishes that you sign this book as a friend, one at peace with his people.” She handed Bryan an old leather bound book. The title was faded, but legible. Registry?

Bryan pointed the cover in the direction of the Lieutenant. “It’s a hotel guest book,” Bryan said to Thomas.

“That it is sir.”

Holding the book gingerly, he carefully opened it. The inside of the cover revealed the book was bound in London in 1890, and the binding glue had started to decay. Bryan didn’t want to cause any further damage. There was a thin cloth glued to the inside back cover not part of the original biding. It covered something shaped square, the size of a three by five. Lightly running his fingers over the shape, he could feel something hard. He wondered what it was. He turned the pages back to the front and scanned the entries. Reading the first three, Bryan was astonished.

                         Captain John Graham Robinson

Royal Engineer Corps

Twenty Eight July Eighteen Hundred Ninety Two

Rudyard Kipling

Lahore, British India

Twenty Eight July Eighteen Hundred Ninety Two

Captain Algernon Durand, C.B., C.I.E      

Military Secretary Viceroy of India

Ten September Eighteen Hundred Ninety Eight

“Who was this? “ He held the book up pointing to the first name so that Shamema could read the entry.

”The British officer, Captain Robinson - our first guest along with Mister Kipling.”

“Rudyard Kipling, impressive,” Bryan said. Thomas and Raza both leaned over to see the historical signature.

“Captain Robinson presented the book as a gift to Aman ul Mulk II, my ancestor who was the Mehtar when Chitral was still an independent district.” Mehtar was Persian for “Mighty,” and the title given to the ruler, or King in Chitral.

“That was during the time the Durand line was made. Isn’t that right?” Bryan commented, noting the dates of the entries.

“You are correct, and your knowledge of our history is impressive Captain Craig,” she said smiling with approval. Her teeth were perfectly white. “It was only a few years later that Captain Robinson was unfortunately killed fighting the Nuristan Afghans. His grave is in Chitral,” she added.

“Along with a number of other British soldiers,” Bryan said.

Shamema nodded in agreement, her smile disappearing. “There was conflict then - as now.”

Bryan knew the story. The Nuristanis were an Afghan tribe, and the subject of the Rudyard Kipling short story “Man Who Would Be King.” Bryan guessed the British Captain had been killed in one of the many skirmishes that occurred along the Durand line of the North West Frontier of India at the time. The British Government of India had drawn brand new, contentious boundaries, as they did throughout the old empire. The line tended to anger most warlords affected. The Nuristanis took the lead in doing what Afghan warriors love most, killing invaders. “He must have bought the farm in one of the battles near Chitral,” Bryan thought.

A relative of the Foreign Secretary of the British Indian Government, Sir Mortimer Durand, made the second entry. Sir Mortimer authored the dividing line that separated British India and Afghanistan. It was a blatant example of gerrymandering, and a line questioned ever since, Afghanistan considering it illegitimate.

Bryan started to turn the page, but two additional entries at the bottom got his immediate attention.

“Lieutenant Thomas, look at these.” He handed the book to the Lieutenant with his index finger marking the spot.

Thomas read the entries.

         Lieutenant General Arthur MacArthur Jr.

         United States Commander Department of the Pacific

         Twenty Four July Nineteen Hundred and Six

         Second Lieutenant Douglas MacArthur

         United States Army Engineers Philippines

         Twenty Four July Nineteen Hundred and Six

He looked at Bryan. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Looks like we’re in good company here,” Bryan said.

Bryan took the book and found an appropriate place to sign.

  Captain Bryan Craig

  United States Navy

 Eleven June Two Thousand and Eight

He handed the registry to Shamema. “That was an honor, thank you.”

“You may thank my grandfather in person when you see him,” she said smiling. She became serious and began,  “My grandfather is Rehman ul Mulk and Prince of Chitral. He is very interested in speaking with you.”

Why the interest with me? “What does he want to talk about?” Bryan asked.

Shamema’s eyes narrowed “My grandfather wanted to meet with you here, but to do so would endanger the people of this village. And it is because of the Taliban. They have become very cruel, and now responsible for many atrocities throughout Chitral.”

 Neither Bryan nor Lieutenant Thomas was surprised at what they were hearing. The Taliban had been raiding livestock, robbing travelers, stealing weapons, and had been a general scourge to the indigenous people of Chitral for the last seven years. Shamema continued. “The Taliban have forced their ways on to peaceful people, for example, the people in this village. The Taliban consider the Kalasha people to be infidels. They brutalize these people every chance they have.”

“And the government can’t help?”

She opened her arms.  “The government would like to help. Islamabad believes in ethnic tolerance, and will not force people such as these to convert to Islam. They are doing much in the lower lying areas of Pakistan where they have shut down dangerous Madrasahs training very young children to hate infidels. But the mountains make it very difficult to stop the Taliban here. The Taliban do not believe in the same intolerance and have kidnapped, even killed some of these Kalash Kafirs.” Putting her hands on her lap and tilting her head, she added, “Here, we appreciate what the Americans have done for us, when the government cannot - but I know that many people in Pakistan do not have the same feelings as my grandfather and I have. That is unfortunate.”

Bryan understood. He recalled that many of the Muslims in Pakistan considered the outlaw terrorists and Taliban in the same light as Americans had their own outlaws in the Wild West. They were sympathetic folk heroes, romanticized icons, a common theme for the poor and oppressed. Most Muslims in Pakistan hated the United States, and glorified the terrorists that indiscriminately killed Americans. Children in many Pashtun villages had fallen under the influence of the Taliban or other Jihadists, who were bent on destroying the west. The innocents were being taught from a very early age that America was evil. “They’re bloody Robin Hood and we’re the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Bryan recalled a counter-terrorism man from British Military Intelligence, MI6 once saying.

The Taliban were a collection of Sunni Islamist Pashtuns from Afghanistan and the North West Frontier of Pakistan that had come into power in the aftermath of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. Unlike the Kalash Kafir, the Taliban, were not fair-haired, with light eyes, but instead they were dark skinned, with heavy eyebrows and low foreheads. With a reputation as plunderers, assassins, and opportunists, they lived by the gun and died by the gun. Fighting was a way of life, seeking revenge and killing was sport.

The Taliban came into power by pure chance. The Democratic Republic of Afghanistan had been overthrown which led to competing warlords vying for control of the country. The Taliban were able to organize a military force and ultimately impose its rule on Afghanistan. The fanatical organization reminded Bryan of the Mob. The Taliban became the head family in a country filled with smaller families, AKA warlords. The Godfather was a self-proclaimed cleric who had never completed the required Quranic studies to hold the title of Mullah. Disputes between families were a given, murders and assassinations commonplace.

As for the terrorists on the run from Coalition Special Ops teams, in the past a roadblock of honor and tradition stood in the way. Tribal elders held fast in harboring terrorist fugitives, protecting them from Coalition forces. Pashtun and Kafirs would give their lives before violating the code. But the Taliban overstepped their welcome when they turned into thugs, targeting the very people that hid them. The mountain tribes wanted the marauders out. Armed conflict between the natives and the unwanted “guests” was unavoidable.

Prior to 9/11 the Taliban had been recognized as a legitimate government by Pakistan, the UAE, and Saudi Arabia, the only countries to do so. All three were progressive Muslim countries and very friendly to the United States. Afghanistan under the Taliban was an Islamic State. A theocracy. Was it a payoff to the Mob? But the reign of the Taliban was one highlighted by severe Human Rights violations, cruel discrimination of women, and absolute intolerance of all religious practices other than strict interpretation the Quran. As oppressive as the Taliban were, surprisingly enough to Bryan, Saudi Arabia provided funding to the Taliban during their rule. However, as a strong opponent of Shi’ah Islamists, the relationship between the Taliban and Iran rapidly deteriorated and came near to the brink of all out war when the Taliban seized Iran’s consulate and summarily executed all of the Iranian diplomats.

Dismayed, Bryan couldn’t help but wonder at the never ending conflicts that continued to brew between Shi’ah and Sunni fundamentalists. Both believed in uniting the Islamic world, yet their disagreements were rooted in thirteen hundred years of history. Both believed in the same five pillars of Islam, but categorized in a different order. The discrepancies were enough to start a feud that had lasted for more than a thousand years. Recalling Shannon’s story “No wonder that a couple of Paki taxi cab drivers would almost come to blows over some triviality. These people can be as passionate as they are stubborn.” The Taliban added barbarism to the equation.

Once in power, the Taliban instituted very strict Islamic law, Sharia resulting in punishments that included beatings, amputations, and stoning. In addition they banned television, radio, music, sports, or any form of imagery, including photography. All citizens were required by Islamic law to comply with traditional dress, men grew beards and women were required to keep their bodies completely covered under the codes of modesty. Bryan read the scriptures that Islamists literally adhered to in enforcing women’s dress codes.

“ Say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what must ordinarily appear thereof. " [Quran: 24.31]

" Say to the believing man that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that will make for greater purity for them, and God is well acquainted with all they do. " [Quran: 24.30]

Strict interpretation of the first led to simple guidelines for modest Islamic women to follow:

1. Clothing must cover the entire body. Only the hands and eyes may remain visible.

2. The material must not be so thin that one can see through it.

3. The clothing must hang loose so that the shape and form of the body is not apparent.

4. The female clothing must not resemble the man's clothing.

5. The design of the clothing must not resemble the clothing of the non-believing women.

6. The design must not consist of bold designs that attract attention.

7. Clothing should not be worn for the sole purpose of gaining reputation or increasing one's status in society.

Strict interpretation of the second meant that men could look at a woman once, but not twice, for in doing so would encourage lustful thoughts from the woman. Failing that, Taliban women would be severely beaten, or worse.  Men got a pass.

Besides their oppression of women, religious intolerance, and other Human Rights violations, including encouraging the persecution of minority groups, the Taliban harbored Al-Qaeda. That was their real crime. The two radical Islamic organizations had formed a cabal of sorts. In fact, the Taliban gave the okay for the Al-Qaeda to operate terrorist training camps; a state supported haven for terrorists. The Taliban had also taken the surprising measure of integrating Al-Qaeda militants with their army.

Following 9/11, the United States made five demands of the Taliban controlled Afghanistan and failing those demands, the Taliban faced possible military action from NATO and the United States. The demands were easy to understand. Bryan remembered the words from the President’s speech to Congress by heart.

“By aiding and abetting murder, the Taliban regime is committing murder. And tonight the United States of America makes the following demands on the Taliban:

-- Deliver to United States authorities all of the leaders of Al-Qaeda who hide in your land.

-- Release all foreign nationals, including American citizens you have unjustly imprisoned.

-- Protect foreign journalists, diplomats and aid workers in your country.

-- Close immediately and permanently every terrorist training camp in Afghanistan. And hand over every terrorist and every person and their support structure to appropriate authorities.

-- Give the United States full access to terrorist training camps, so we can make sure they are no longer operating.

These demands are not open to negotiation or discussion.”

Insular in their attitudes to the leadership of democracies, the Taliban rejected the ultimatum. Clearly understanding the implication of the demands, the UAE and Saudi Arabia no longer recognized the Taliban as a legitimate government. The two Arab countries were correct in their assessment. A new sheriff was in town! Never an empty threat, military operations commenced the following month. Rabbit Barnes was the Joint Task Force Commander and Bryan had his Special Ops. Oust the Taliban and wipe out Yoorish Shaheed! The Taliban were forced out of Kabul and Kandahar, ultimately taking refuge in the mountains with their terrorist stepchildren.

“Now we have an even greater problem,” Shamema said, holding back tears. “The Taliban have allowed a new, even more evil group of Islamists to hide with them in the mountains of the Hindu Kush. They are independent of any Al-Qaeda, and much more sinister. They have been kidnapping young boys from throughout the district and training them in new Madrasahs. There they are being taught to kill in the name of Allah by killing themselves. They are all Pakistanis and are called Yoorish Shaheed.”

 Yoorish Shaheed! Bryan felt a chill when he heard the words again. Religious schools run by sociopaths teaching the illiterate children to blow themselves up in the name of God. And the movement was tied directly to Wazir and Petrov. The dots were being connected at last. The money?

“How are the schools paid for? It can’t be just the Taliban,” Bryan asked.

“I am certain that it is illegal activities. The government has found that it is impossible to control because of the many secret passes and tunnels through the Hindu Kush. The opium smuggled from Afghanistan is much greater than ever before, and the Taliban and Yoorish Shaheed are paid to protect the shipments and farmers growing poppy,” Shamema answered.

Bryan thought about the laborers. “What about human trafficking?”

“They are committed to that too, I am certain of. I know of a Russian – a very brutal man, who bought young children from their fathers. The children were used as jockeys for camel races in Arabia and the Emirates,” she said.

“Is his name Leonid Petrov?” Bryan asked.

“I believe that is his name. My grandfather will verify that for you.”

 Petrov again. The trail was becoming warmer. “Would this same Russian be involved in the manual labor businesses for construction in Dubai? The businesses defrauding Pakistanis.”

“We know he helped build labor staffing businesses. Those same businesses literally stole money from workers. It destroyed many families,” Shamema said, her beautiful face becoming distraught.

“How do you know all of this Shamema?”  Bryan asked curiously.

Her voice quivered. “My life is dedicated to stopping such things. I build shelters for the homeless displaced from natural disasters. We lobby the government to enforce laws against human trafficking. We seek to protect women who are victims of violence and honor abuses by their husbands. Helping people who are suffering is my business.”

Shamema was passionate. They were both on common ground, similar missions. What separated Bryan from Shamema would be their dissimilar courses of action, but not their mutual determination to succeed in saving people and preventing further suffering. Shamema was inherently kind. Nonviolence and peace were her approach. Death would be in Bryan’s wake.

 “We’re here to help you Shamema, but it’s important that I meet with your grandfather as soon as possible. Can these men take us to him?” Bryan asked, gesturing towards the fierce Kafirs. 

“Yes, of course. He is up in the mountains - at a lake.” She smiled at Bryan. “These two will take you to him.”

They stood up. She was tall, perhaps five foot eight, maybe an inch more. She shook Bryan’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.

Lieutenant Thomas stopped Bryan after they stepped outside.

“Captain Craig, just what exactly is our mission up here besides getting you and Rehman together? I didn’t plan on sweeping these mountains for Taliban or the Yoorish Shaheed, which must be some faction of Al-Qaeda. I don’t mind sir; we can adapt, we’re SEALs. I’d just like to plan a tiny bit, or at least let me have the eight by ten photo to study, not the wallet size.”

Bryan put his sunglasses on and placed his hand on the SEAL’s shoulder. “Here’s the eight by ten glossy – get me up to Rehman. The meeting is a must. The Russian she mentioned was murdered last week. He was working with the Yoorish Shaheed and they’re the ones responsible for the Memorial Day bombings,” Bryan said emphatically.

“Are we going to be active in seeking out the Taliban and these Yoorish Shaheed guys, or is the ROE to fire after being fired upon?” 

“If we run into them on the ground, and I’m very confident that we will, we’ll engage them. Is that clear?” He’d essentially just bumped up the Rules of Engagement one notch.

“What’s your intent with Rehman?”

“I want him to fully understand that we’re on his side. That he needs to look at us as his ally. It‘s important that we establish credibility with him as a friend, not just up here to get what we want, and then take off for good.”

“I’ve met with him on a sit down before, and we really didn’t get anywhere,” Thomas said, thinking about the Special Ops team that operated for five years searching for key Taliban and Al-Qaeda leadership.

“Times have changed Tim. The Taliban, Al-Qaeda and now the Yoorish Shaheed have been responsible for crimes against Rehman’s people and evidently he’s completely fed up with them. We’ll do what it takes to help him where the Pakistani government can’t. It’s in our best interest.”

“Captain Craig, I think you’ve just given me the eight by ten.”

The Lieutenant radioed Sinbad and Cowboy to move up to the center of town. The team was on the go again. Doc pried Turk away from the children, who were being curled three at a time while they hung from his forearms. Rendezvousing with Proton at the edge of town, the team followed the two Kafirs.

Giving the village one last glance as the team moved on, Bryan thought about the people there, the simplicity of their lives and their link to the vastly different world of Dubai, with its massive towers stretching to the limits of man’s engineering skills. The people of the Hindu Kush still stood taller. In echelon once again, they marched on. Turning to the north, they climbed further up into the mountains.