Page 73 of Cross Down
The trail disappears into a muddy creek, and we slosh across as quietly as we can, and on the other side, Bibi says triumphantly, “That was the Panj River, my friends. We are now officially in Afghanistan.”
I think,You might be here officially, but we’re not.
He says, “Time for tea, perhaps?”
I say, “Up ahead there, where those boulders are. It’ll give us some cover. Elizabeth?”
She checks her watch. “All right, as long as it’s a quick Afghan tea, not an hours-long British tea.”
The break for tea deep in a tumble of rocks is indeed quick. Our position hidden, Bibi lights a small gas stove, then prepares tea and slices of flatbread spread with cold greasy mutton. I’m not choosy about what I eat, since I still have vivid childhood memories of dumpster-diving for tossed-out food. Once the stove cools and our eyes readjust to the darkness, Bibi puts the stove back in his rucksack.
Deacon checks her watch again. “It looks like we’ll get to the bombed village sometime after dawn. That square with you, Bibi?”
“Yes, it does, Miss Deacon.”
“Then let’s get moving.”
I’m thousands of miles away from home, away from electric lights, warm rooms, flush toilets, and my friends and my Willow. But it’s amazing how my body slips back into what was once routine, humping gear and a weapon along a barely lit and barely there trail, all my senses on alert, looking and smelling and, most of all, listening.
For voices.
For a rock falling on a rock.
For metal striking metal.
Light begins to appear in the rocky east, and I hear it: Bells. Little bells.
We cross a slight rise, and a village comes into view: stone corrals holding sheep and goats, a collection of one-story brick and rock buildings. Smoke is rising up, men are moving about, and little barefoot boys kick a soccer ball so dirty, its white hexagons have blended into the black pentagons.
Two armed men watch us approach with calm, curious, nonthreatening expressions.
“Elizabeth,” I say.
“I know,” she says.
“This can’t be the right village. This village is still alive,” I say. “None of the buildings even have a cracked wall.”
In a sharp voice, Deacon says, “Bibi! Where the hell did you bring us?”
But Bibi doesn’t answer. He starts running away.
I stand there, stunned, but Deacon brings up her M4, puts her finger in the trigger guard—
A man running away.
I slap at her weapon, and it jerks to the left. Deacon lowers the M4.
“You about to shoot a guy in the back for running away?” I say.
Deacon’s face is calm. “Maybe it was going to be a warning shot.”
“Was that your plan?”
She swings the M4 over her right shoulder.
“Guess we’ll never know,” she says.
Chapter
