The Watch (35 page)

We walk right up to the wire. What I see before me is truly surreal. In the middle of the field made black by the shadows cast by the mountains, a flock of sheep mills about in confusion, while the girl sits motionless in their midst. There’s something almost statuelike in her stillness. Unable to hold her gaze, I look away. Every feature of the landscape stands out in black and white. An electric current seems to run through the air. I’m about to steal a glance at her again, when
a ray of sunlight falls on the dew-dappled ground and carves out a shape like a scimitar.

I clear my throat and look sideways at Ellison, who’s gone very pale.

I can’t wait to put up an observation post on the spur of that mountain, I remark conversationally. It’s our biggest frickin’ vulnerability in this place. It’ll be our first task once she’s outta here. Then we can stop worrying about shooters, and those razor-teeth slopes are gonna look a lot less intimidating. We’re gonna fix this problem once and for all.

I hear you, Sir, he says.

I turn toward the field once more and study it closely. Kinda funny there’s all these sheep and no one looking after them, don’t you think?

He stiffens as he follows my gaze, but doesn’t reply. Clearly, it hadn’t occurred to him. His eyes don’t leave the field.

Did we find out how she killed the lamb? I query him.

She used a knife, Sir. Some of the men saw her do it.

I aim a baleful glance at Whalen, but he’s staring somewhere else. There’s a moment’s awkward silence. Ellison stands ramrod straight beside me, looking glum.

And what are those things covering some of the sheep? I ask him irritably.

He raises his binoculars to his eyes. They look like blankets folded in half, Sir. Probably to protect them from the cold.

Probably? You’re speculating, Lieutenant. I don’t like it when my officers can’t give me answers to simple questions. Do you follow me?

Yes, Sir.

I look through my binoculars as well. Do you know if we’ve checked them out?

I don’t believe we have, Sir.

Jesus. Fucking sheep in the killing zone. I hate imponderables.

I could send a team out right now.

No, let it be. There’s no point in spooking her. You can deal with it after we’ve brought her in.

We’ll chase the whole damn flock back up the slopes, Sir, Petrak says smartly.

Break the terp’s heart, Tanner says with a laugh, but stops short when I stare coldly at him.

All right then, I tell the others. I’ve seen enough. We’ll assemble here at 0900, fog or no fog. First Sergeant Whalen: I want you to assemble a team from First and Second Platoons to be her escort. Call it her guard of honor, if you like. You can ask for volunteers.

Whalen hesitates. So you really mean it, Sir?

You bet I fucking mean it.

I turn to Bradford. You better round up Masood. We’re gonna need him to translate.

Yes, Sir.

Great. Let’s go and get some breakfast. I can smell those scrambled eggs and hash browns all the way from here.

0845.

I tie Shorty’s leash to my bunk. He’s not used to being confined, and it seems to make him restless. To reassure him, I pet him and tell him I’ll set him free as soon as I get back.

Good dog, I tell him. Good boy.

He wags his tail uncertainly and whimpers. As I walk away, he strains to free himself. He starts barking as soon as I leave the hut.

0905.

I watch the men lining up by the Hescos. There’s Duggal, Lee, Jackson, Ramirez, and Pratt from First Platoon, and Everheart, Pietrafesa, Scanlon, Lawson, and Wonk Gaines from Second Platoon. With their
zinc-covered noses and sun-blackened faces, they look intimidating, even to me. I shake my head. Don’t you guys ever sleep? I remark.

I walk up to Scanlon. Don’t forget to talk to Lieutenant Ellison about your wedding band.

I won’t, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

I turn to Pratt. Glad to be doing this, soldier?

Yessir, he says. Then his forehead furrows. But something don’t feel right. An’ I can’t figure out what that be. He reaches down to touch the desert floor. Snakeskin ground, he says. It’s givin’ me bad vibes.

Maybe you’re worried because she’s armed, soldier, I say tongue-in-cheek. Don’t forget she has a knife.

One of the men snickers, but shuts up as soon as I scowl at him.

Masood runs up, panting. He glances at me apprehensively. I was wrong about her, Comandan Saab, he says in a stricken voice. She’s a parvaneh. A butterfly.

You’re gonna have to learn not to talk out of turn, I tell him irritably.

Doc arrives with his medic bag and a couple of blankets. He opens the bag and shows me extra dressings and gauze.

I’m good to go, Sir, he says, snapping the bag shut.

I turn to Schott and Ashworth. To Schott, I say: Once we bring her in, I want you to get her biometrics, okay? No ifs, ands, or buts, just get them—and I don’t care how you do it.

I watch as soldiers climb up on the Hescos and set up machine gun positions to cover the field and the slopes. Turning to Ashworth, I ask: D’you have your men on overwatch positions?

Yes, Sir.

And you’ve got all approaches covered?

Yes, Sir.

Why all the fuss, Sir? Ellison asks quietly. I thought the drone gave us the all clear.

Contingency planning, Lieutenant. When you’ve been here long enough, it becomes second nature.

Behind us, the men arrayed along the Hescos in the overwatch position scan the field and the shadowy slopes. A weapons team from Second Platoon moves an M-240B machine gun from their fighting hole and places it on a tripod. One of the men slings belts of ammunition over his shoulders.

I walk over to Simonis, who’s settling down on his perch on top of the Hescos. The mountains tower over us. With my gaze fixed on the slopes, I say: If you see anything happen out of the ordinary, take the shot. Don’t hesitate. That’s a standing order.

Roger, Sir, he says tersely. Wilco.

I watch him uncase his sniper’s rifle and run his eyes over the field and the mountains’ faces. Binoculars and another rifle, an M-24, lie next to him. He stretches out on a bed of sandbags, one leg crooked, eyes pressed to the rifle’s sight. He’s my ultimate lethal weapon, with a kill ratio of almost one hundred percent, and that reassures me.

I climb down from the Hescos and walk back to where everyone’s waiting.

A raven flies low overhead and circles the field twice before heading east toward the mountains.

That’s frickin’ bad luck, someone mutters.

Whalen turns to glare at the speaker.

I address the men: Any questions?

I wait for a moment, and then say with a tight smile: All right, then. Let’s go.

We troop out past the concertina. Whalen takes point.

I pause to absorb the breathless feeling I get whenever I step outside the wire.

I turn to the men and say in a calm voice: Now remember, this is going to be a Zen operation. We’re not going to use any force on her. We’re going to respect her dignity and treat her with the honor she deserves.

Her eyes stare watchfully at us as we advance, bulky in our body armor.

I can see her bangles glinting in the sun.

Our knees click like castanets as we march in unison.

Scorpions scuttle out of our way.

We’re almost there, when she turns suddenly and reaches for the dead lamb. Her knife flashes at the same time as I spot a movement on the slopes. Get down! I scream, even as everyone around me is hitting the ground. A cloud of dust rises from our falling bodies, and it distracts me momentarily from the shot that rings out. We hear the bullet whistle past, and then the girl’s falling backward with a bright red explosion where her heart used to be.

In the pin-drop silence, a voice cuts through the air from behind us.

It’s Simonis. He says: Score.

I’m breathing in gasps. I feel helpless and disoriented.

Masood’s the only one standing. I glance past him with disbelief at the slope where Shorty is darting between rocks. How the fuck did that dog get free?

Masood lurches toward the cart. He moves jerkily, as if someone’s pulling his strings. When he reaches the girl, he falls to his knees. Her wide open eyes stare at him. She attempts to speak, but only blood wells out of her mouth. She’s pointing at the lamb, and he gently moves her outstretched arm out of the way. The knife slips out of her nerveless fingers. He frees the bright red blanket from the animal and discards it along with the plaited-wire harness that she’d cut. Apart from the portion of its fleece covered by the blanket, the rest of the lamb is drenched in blood. Picking it up, he rises to his feet and begins to walk shakily toward me. When he reaches me, he bends down and places it on the ground. His eyes brimming with tears, he says in the voice of a young boy: Why did you kill her, Comandan Saab? The lamb was her gift to you. We were to feast on it tonight. It is a part of our culture.

I watch my hands reach slowly forward. They sink deep into the fleece of the lamb. It feels absurdly soft to the touch.

Whome’er the State

Appoints, must be obeyed in everything
,

Both small and great, just and unjust alike
.

I warrant such an one in either case

Would shine, as King or subject; such a man

Would in the storm of battle stand his ground
,

A comrade leal and true; but Anarchy—

What evils are not wrought by Anarchy!

She ruins States, and overthrows the home
,

She dissipates and routs the embattled host;

While discipline preserves the ordered ranks
.

Therefore we must maintain authority

And yield no title to a woman’s will
.

Better, if needs be, men should cast us out

Than hear it said, a woman proved his match
.

—S
OPHOCLES
,
Antigone

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

My dear friends Lana Cable and Eshi Motahar redefined the meaning of what it means to believe in the literary enterprise. Thank you above all for your integrity.

The Watch
owes its existence to the single-minded efforts of one person, my guardian angel, muse, and agent of dreams, Nicole Aragi, who shepherded it from its inception through its final stages with characteristic determination and panache.

My grateful thanks to Becky Hardie, my lead editor at Chatto & Windus and Hogarth UK, to Lindsay Sagnette, my editor at Crown and Hogarth USA, and to Louise Dennys at Knopf Canada and Meredith Curnow at Random House and Hogarth Australia. Your collective faith in the book proved inspirational. Dearest Becky: how strange that the journey from
Gabriel
to Antigone should have led through Africa—for both of us. And Lindsay—Tsvetaeva was meant for reciting at Union Square at midnight, no?

Thanks as well for their full-throated support to Molly Stern and Maya Mavjee at Crown and Hogarth USA, Clara Farmer and Parisa Ebrahimi at Chatto & Windus and Hogarth UK, and Anna Govender and Antonia Hayes at Random House Australia. In Canada, my humble thanks to Anne Collins at Knopf Random House Canada, Marion Garner, Amanda Betts, and Susan Traxel at Vintage Canada,
Matthew Sibiga, and Maral Aguilera-Moradipour. In the UK, James Jones designed the cover, Katherine Ailes managed editorial details, Nicky Nevin guided the book through the production stages, and Kate Bland and Ruth Warburton handled publicity. In the US, Christine Kopprasch assisted, Chris Brand was jacket art director, Tal Goretsky designed the cover, Amy Boorstein and Mark Birkey managed production, Mary Anne Stewart copyedited the manuscript, and Dyana Messina, Rachel Meier, Annsley Rosner, Jay Sones, and David Drake attended to the marketing and publicity details.

If I possessed half the idealism and candor of my friend and first reader, Captain Richard Fitzgerald Sullivan of the U.S. Army, I would consider myself fortunate. You’re one of a kind, Rick.

My friend Master Sergeant Jeff Fenlason of the 101st Airborne read and commented extensively on the manuscript. I can’t thank you enough, Jeff.

To the U.S. Army officers in Afghanistan who befriended me and technically foolproofed the book—you know who you are—I have no words to adequately express my thanks. I remain in awe of your objectivity, in gratitude for your unwavering enthusiasm, and in your permanent debt for your gift of friendship.

The Watch
was prompted by a twenty-one-year-long dinner table conversation with the philosopher and classicist Thomas Bartscherer, lately joined by the poet and philosopher Joan Retallack. In the United States, Christie Hauser, Anisa Maqdisi, Scott Morgan, Ravi Ramaswami, Nasreen Samadpour, and Masha Svetlanoff diligently commented on drafts of the manuscript. Gerhard Stossel in France and Gian Carlo Trissino in Italy inspired me with their passion for Afghanistan and its peoples. Bill Mullen shared with me his love of the U.S. Army and its traditions, and Anna Nardo her knowledge of Louisiana and Baton Rouge. Connie Barnes, Monte Belmonte, Lorna Bieber, Barbara and Jeremy Dworkin, Suzanna Hermans, Patricia Hutchinson-Day, Bonnie Kassel, Pat and Archie Kutz, Barbara Meade, Jeff Mayersohn, Bill Newman, Lynne and Bill Reed, Jane
Stuart-Andrus, Gary Weissbrot, and Jonathon Welch provided me with forums to discuss early versions of the book. My friend Claudia Ord inspired with her passion for the classics and her unflinching faith in the project; my sister, Joyshree Reinelt, held my hand when it needed holding.