After an hour of walking they had reached the outskirts of a small village. They took a knee behind a mud wall that was certainly part of some family’s qalat, or walled-in compound. Rampert and Matt huddled while the other three faced outward, providing security against detection or enemy fire. While the town of Asadabad was largely pro-government, and supported the Coalition Forces that were fighting the terrorists resident in their country, the metropolis was infested with indigenous scouts, some armed, some not. These zephyrs provided early warning to the enemy that typically enjoyed sanctuary in the upper reaches of the villages where backdoors led to escape routes into impossibly difficult terrain.
“The GPS shows we are less than two hundred meters from the grid coordinates for the target compound.” Rampert spoke in hushed tones, his voice barely audible.
“Soft knock or hard knock?” Matt’s question was one they had discussed earlier. Did they quite literally knock on the door and wait to be invited in? Or did they breach the door with explosives or by a well-practiced battle drill?
“The guide should be here any moment. That orchard over there next to the river is our line-up point.” Rampert pointed at a grove of fig trees that was barely noticeable in the blackness. The moon was cresting above the eastern mountain range, whose massif ran parallel to the north-south flowing Kunar and whose peaks were the meaningless indicator of the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. “The issue is that AQ are here, too. They know he’s being protected, but the village elder refuses to give him up. Pashtun-wali. I give it a few more hours before they decide to take him by force.”
In the scant moonlight Matt saw a figure emerge from the fig orchard, as if on cue. The man walked toward them holding his hands high so that the Special Forces team could see that he was unarmed.
“Do you have any figs for us?” Matt asked in Pashto.
“I have only one fig.” The man knelt down and held out a small fig in his right hand, completing the bona fides and confirming he was the contact.
“This way,” the man said as he led them toward the front of the compound. “He is inside.”
CHAPTER 57
Zach Garrett figured his time had come. He had been bewildered by the fact that his hands had not been shackled nor his feet bound — bewildered, but nonetheless grateful. He was equally mystified by the apparent care that he was receiving in captivity. The armed men had brought him food, real food. Lamb and rice. He had eaten ravenously. They’d given him water and nursed his wounds.
He had awakened this evening with two insistent thoughts competing for his attention, like children tugging at his leg. The first siren in his mind was that he had to escape, and now. Despite the seemingly good care he was receiving, he could reasonably conclude it would not continue. Even more, he determined that they, the enemy, were either fattening him up for a television or video appearance or perhaps an International Red Cross visitor to confirm his prisoner of war status.
The second alarm ringing in his mind was that Amanda was in trouble. He didn’t know why or how, but he could sense her distress the same way an animal tastes distant fear. His dreams had been vivid and true. She was perhaps not calling out to him so much as she needed him. Nine time zones away, he could sense the chaos awakening in her life again. She needed him, and that was all the motivation he required.
The two instincts were intricately linked, of course. He needed to escape in order to get back to Amanda.
With that thought, he slowly stood. His left leg screamed with the sharp pain of a break in his lower calf area, probably the fibula. He was able to sustain some weight on the leg, especially if he leaned inward. The fibula was designed to protect its larger mate in the lower leg, the tibia. He determined that with some effort, he would be able to endure the pain. He steadied himself against the wall.
He noticed a rectangular section of dim light beaming onto the floor. He followed the ray to a high window that he surmised to be about two feet wide in both directions. Reaching with his hand, he took hold of the ledge and pulled himself upward. His ribs — broken, he was sure — came alive with searing heat. Despite the pain, he was able to lift his good leg onto the ledge and work his body into the sill. Moving with more deliberation now, he slowly pulled his left leg through the opening so that both legs were suspended outside of the home. Again his ribs hurt, as they rubbed against the outer ledge of the window, the pain nearly unbearable. He looked beneath his feet as he dangled a few feet off the ground. If someone were to happen upon him now, they might just as easily consider that he was breaking into the home as he was fleeing.
He let go and dropped mercifully onto his good leg, a one-legged parachute landing fall, which you are never supposed to do, he reminded himself. Nevertheless, he had absorbed the fall with no consequence.
Immediately he was leaning against the wall, calculating his surroundings. The moon was rising above the mountains in the east. His last memory outside of this building was that of falling into the river. Now he could hear the whisper of the rapids in the distance that perhaps carried him to safety or had nearly drowned him. It all depended on how he considered his fate. In life there was always such a thin margin between luck and skill, winning and losing, good and evil, redeemer and taker.
As he moved toward the gate in the high mud wall, he felt the sharp sting of the broken fibula with each abbreviated step of his left leg. It was as if someone struck the same spot on his leg with a ball-peen hammer the moment pressure was applied. Once he passed through the gate, he noticed a fig orchard to his right, toward the river. Outside the high walls of the compound, the river spoke more loudly. He felt its presence — perhaps calling him or maybe warning him, he was not sure.
He limped between two rows of fig trees, wanting to move as quickly away from his previous confines as possible.
Now the river roared with life. The sound of the water’s rush dominated his environment. Loud and overwhelming, the water actually appeared less menacing than it sounded. He stood awkwardly upon the bank, fig orchard to his back, rising moon to his front.
The boat lying on its side in the rocks looked like a wooden canoe. Poplar or ash planks ran horizontally like a tongue-in-groove hardwood floor held together by black resin or henna along the seams. This gift that appeared at his feet seemed Heaven sent, and he was thankful. Carefully, he edged his way onto the rocky bank. His left leg was unable to negotiate the loose stones as well as he’d hoped. He slipped once, which caused a brief loss of breath as his ribs pinched him like a vise. Positioning himself behind the canoe, he was able to pull it into the water about a third of the distance.
Suddenly, the boat began to spin, sucked into the raging current. Out of position, he had to leap from his left leg into the boat, banging the injured bone against the lip of the rail as he slipped into the now-speeding craft.
Nursing his leg momentarily, he grabbed the one oar that had been positioned in the vessel and began a futile effort of attempting to steer. He remembered Riley’s Thomas Cole painting and thought that he was most certainly entering raging waters to an unknown destination with little more than a makeshift paddle. He was essentially without ability to govern his speed or direction. A better allegory to Cole’s idea, he had not seen.
So, with little ability to assist in the process of steering through the rapids, he used the paddle as a crutch as he knelt. While upright, he spread his arms wide as if he were a preacher in the pulpit and screamed his daughter’s name against the thunderous and omnipotent roar of the river.