Page 24 of Whisper

“I’ll walk, I’m fine.”

“We’re at six thousand feet above sea level. Going up that hill? We’re all going to be puking in ten minutes. But we need you to be solid.” Haddad took in the brakes and the suspension and the way the engine ground as the Afghan driver tried to move forward with the weight of their gear in the back. “This truck is the best.”

“What about the river? How are you guys going to cross that?”

“We’ll wade. I’ll stay beside this truck. C’mon, get up in there.”

“I can handle myself, Sergeant.”

“I know you can. But you also have to handle all of us, too. We need you to be at your peak, especially now.”

He could only hold Haddad’s stare for so long. Even through his sunglasses, there was something there, some intensity that made Kris turn away. Haddad’s gaze seemed to go right through him, like an X-ray that turned him inside out. He felt naked, down to his bones, under that gaze. “Fine.”

The trucks lurched toward the river, kicking up dust that made them all cough. Palmer’s men pulled their undershirts up, covering their noses and mouths and making them look like bandits from the Old West.

From the air, the river had seemed calm, almost tranquil. As they bounced and jerked closer, Kris spotted the whitecaps breaking around submerged boulders and the rush of the current swirling in eddies. He stared at Haddad, running beside him and the pickup.

Haddad frowned at the river. He looked up at Kris. “Hold on tight.”

“What about you?”

The truck accelerated, its engine wailing as the driver floored it, heading for the riverbank. Jerking left and right, they bounced over the rocky embankment and plunged into the river. Water splashed over the cab, hitting Kris. He clung to his ruck, the truck, the crates jammed in beside him.

The engines screamed underwater as the trucks rumbled through the river, water rising to the doors. They had been modified for water crossing, but still. The river current pushed at his truck, and Kris felt the tires sliding off the rocky river bottom, felt them jerk and lurch more sideways than forward.

He watched Haddad, his heart in his throat, fingers scraping on the rusted frame of the truck. Haddad struggled in the water, his rifle up to his chest. He stared at Kris, striding as fast as he could against the current.

Kris wanted to reach for him. Pull him to safety.

Haddad was a two-hundred-pound super soldier. What could Kris really do to help him?

Still, he watched, holding his breath, until Haddad stumbled from the river and up the muddy bank after Kris’s truck roared free. Wide arcs of frigid mud splattered over the truck bed. Kris felt it hit his cheek, saw it splatter his jacket.

True to Haddad’s word, ten minutes into the drive up the hillside, Haddad, Palmer, and the rest of the soldiers started puking. They didn’t stop jogging, just leaned over and hurled into the dust. As the road rose and they climbed up the first ridge, they aimed their vomit for the gorge while trying not to slip and fall to their deaths.

The road could barely be called a road. On one side the mountain rose, sheer rock, and, far above, ice. On the other, a sickening drop, a ravine that went straight down, tangled with dead brush and a thousand lines of snowmelt meandering down the foreboding mountains. It was wide enough for one horse, barely wide enough for the trucks. Tracks etched into the earth over centuries showed lines and lines of single-file horses had marched up and down the ridge. Deep ruts where hooves had struck caught the tires, making them spin out, lurch heart-stoppingly close to the road’s edge, nearly plummeting over. One driver spun out, and the rear passenger tires hovered over empty air and nothingness before he careened back onto the trail.

Kris would rather puke his guts out than fall to his death on the back of a bullet-riddled death trap, but when he tried to hop out, Haddad shook his head. He was right there, always right beside Kris and the busted gap where there should have been a tailgate.

Eventually, the convoy turned onto a smaller trail, winding into a narrow mountain pass that was ball-shrivelingly terrifying. The team walked single file behind the trucks as each picked its way through frozen mud and fallen rocks. Finally, they arrived at the village.

Stone huts squatted on either side of the dirt track. Mud covered the walls, insulating the homes through the bitterly cold winters. Gray dust swirled through the air, kicked up by the trucks’ tires. Thin men leaned on hand-hewn wooden tools, watching the convoy as dirty kids played with deflated soccer balls with faded Chinese characters.

Beyond the village, tucked into the hillside, two buildings formed a larger compound overlooking the valley. A rutted, dead field, more dirt and broken concrete than anything else, spread in front of the compound. Decrepit tanks, remnants of the Soviet invasion, were parked at angles, pointing down the road and overlooking the village. If they tried to fire any ordnance, the tanks would blow apart.

Another team of Afghans awaited them, including an older man who was clearly in charge. He wore traditional kameez pants and a camouflage jacket. His beard was short and scraggly. After the convoy parked in the dirt field, Fazl and the Afghan warmly embraced.

Kris stumbled from the back of the pickup, every bone in his body jarred loose from the rough ride up the mountain. Haddad was right there, steadying him. Kris squeezed Haddad’s arm and headed for Fazl and his friend. “Salaam,” he said, one hand on his chest.

Both eyebrows on the Afghan’s face rose. He stared at Kris, not speaking.

What was it? What about him screamedgay? He didn’t think he was aggressively homosexual, not now with his double jackets and Haddad’s beanie shoved on his head. He wasn’t strutting a catwalk, wasn’t catcalling like he was the wildest of drag queens from the Village. He didn’t have eyeliner or lip gloss on. Frustration simmered within him.

There was a twinkle in the Afghan’s eyes, though. He chuckled, and then embraced Kris, returning the greeting, speaking in Dari. “Did America send children to fight their wars?”

Goddamn it. Kris forced a smile. He rubbed a hand over his chin. Despite not shaving since he’d left DC, he had only a scattered few hairs poking through. “I am jealous of you,” he said, pointing to the Afghan’s beard. “Mine does not grow.” And, of course, he was now in a country that judged men by the thickness of their beards.

The Afghan laughed again. “My name is Ghasi. I am the manager of this compound. It was General Massoud’s Panjshir headquarters.” Pride sang through Ghasi’s words. His eyes glittered.