A PLACE BY THE RIVER
prologue
The convoy enters the mountain road, slowing to negotiate the loose stones and uneven terrain. As the four trucks climb, lights flicker to the north, small fires in the villages that soon disappear. Lt. Alex Foster speaks into his radio. The sergeant in the truck just ahead answers. The conversation is curt. Foster turns his head past the driver, Corporal Sandstrom, to the rear seat. “How are you doing, Pashmina?” With only the dim illumination of the dash gauges, Foster can make out her general shape wrapped in a Kevlar vest.
Pashmina leans to the side, looking forward. She sees the side of Foster’s head fixed with night vision goggles. Through the windshield is darkness. “Fine,” she says, knowing the word does not convey what she feels. Their Humvee is rearmost in the convoy.
Sandstrom steers the truck close to the rock wall as he enters the curves. The convoy climbs. His mind drifts to the vision of a pond and a turtle. He hangs from a rope looped high in a tree and falls to the green water where his friend waits, treading water. He feels his face grin, remembering his friend, losing the thought as the truck jumps and shimmies over a washboard of rock, forcing him to grip the wheel tighter. Through night vision glass he sees the road narrow ahead.
Pashmina sits with her hands tucked into her vest. The air from the turret above her feels cooler now. Out the side window she sees nothing, twisting around in the vest trying to get comfortable. The truck jumps and leans on the knotty road. She hears someone on the radio: “Mongoose tree six…” Lt Foster answers. It is gibberish to her. She closes her eyes, hears the noise, the rocking motion, the discomfort of the vest and helmet. Why would anyone put up with this kind of life? she wonders. Why would they choose it? But she’s thankful, the oldest daughter of the minister of transportation. He has requested the army move his wife, two daughters and son out of Kabul and into the mountains to his brother’s village. Pashmina closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep, hoping for sleep as the truck bounces over an ancient road designed for donkeys.
When she wakes, her neck is stiff, aching. She looks into the cockpit at Sandstrom, wrestling with the steering wheel, trying to guide the Humvee over the invisible road.
She leans forward. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere in the foothills of Afghanistan,” Sandstrom says.
“Thank you, Sandy,” with more than a hint of sarcasm, seeing the insect-like outline of his goggles move with the undulations of the road.
“We’re making good time, Pashmina,” Lt Foster says. “Hold tight for another forty minutes or so. Maybe less.”
A faint flash of light appears at the corner of her vision. A torch? She turns to the light. It’s gone, replaced by a far brighter flash. Foster reaches for the radio. Pashmina hears Sandstrom say, “Shit,” as Foster growls into the mic. Through the front windshield, the dark night turns to day as the lead vehicle explodes, jumping into the air, falling over in flames. Pashmina has her hand on the back of Foster’s seat, pulling herself forward, straining to see, straining to breathe. To know.
“Go, go, go,” Foster yells as Sandstrom coaxes the truck to move faster up the shale incline. Dim tracers arc across the small valley—tracers from the two Humvees just in front of her, the ones carrying her mother, sister, and brother.
The convoy is caught in a saddle. Foster is talking fast on the radio. The truck bounces, shimmies over the road. Pashmina stares through the side window at flames and twisted metal as Sandstrom maneuvers around the fallen vehicle, around the flames that light the sky, around the severed and bubbling limbs, out of the restricting saddle, away from the fire zone.