beautiful illumination of the stars. He never forgot how amazing Ladakh and Kashmir were, but sometimes, like tonight, its beauty astonished him. The moon cast unusually strong light down from above. It framed the mountains at each side of the plateau. He felt as if he were riding on the moon.
Aquil-eh sometimes wondered what the world was like outside of Kashmir. But tonight he focused solely on his duty to his family and town, and his fear. He felt a constant, gnawing sense of fear as he pushed the horse along at a good pace; a chemical uneasiness at the realization that everything in his world had just changed, forever. He couldn’t forget the terrible incidents of the day. He hadn’t seen Arra being assaulted, but he had watched Tok destroy the man’s skull and had stood less than a foot from Artun when he was shot through the chest.
At a small pond he stopped to let the horse drink. With a match he examined the leather map. He was more than two-thirds of the way to Khardung, if the old man’s etchings were drawn to scale and accurate. Twenty more miles. The army camp at Pullu would be a short trip from there. In a mile or two, if the map was correct, he would pass Hunder, another small village. He remembered the words of the old man; he would stop in Hunder and ask if they had a radio.
* * *
The two Pakistani soldiers parked the jeep and walked, one in front of the other, up the steep path to the village. On their helmets, Petzl headlamps cast a bluish glow for twenty feet in front of them. They each carried their Kalashnikovs aimed in front of them as they marched, safeties off. They were more than ten miles across the LOC; they’d done it before—it was part of what they were trained to do—but even so, both soldiers knew they could be shot on sight if they were discovered by the Indian Army.
“There,” said one of the soldiers, turning to the man behind him. He nodded at the path. “Yagulung. We’re nearly there.”
The soldier in back took a radio from his belt and depressed the sidebar.
“This is field unit two,” he said. “We’re at Yagulung. We’ll report back.”
The soldiers each pulled a set of ATN night vision goggles from their combat backpacks. They pulled the goggles down over their helmets and flipped the switches on. The goggles gave each soldier a clear view up the gravel road toward the small village. The outlines of the low-flung homes, clinging to the mountainside, were illuminated for the soldiers in apocalyptic orange.
“Let’s move,” said the first soldier. “I want to be back by sunrise.”
* * *
Aquil-eh trotted the small horse into the village of Hunder at half past two in the morning. Hunder sat at a higher elevation than Yagulung and he felt the thinner mountain air in his lungs. He had pushed the mare hard, and she was exhausted.
Hunder, a town of nearly one hundred inhabitants, was a collection of wood frame and stone huts arrayed at differing elevations around small steppe plots. In the middle of the village was a small square with a restaurant and a general store. The town was shut down for the night, but remained illuminated by a pair of kerosene lanterns on iron poles in the middle of the small dirt square.
At the first house, Aquil-eh stopped and dismounted. He approached the door and knocked hard on the wooden frame.
“Hello,” he said loudly as he knocked. “We need your help.” He knocked on the door for more than a minute, saw a light go on through a tiny crack at the eave line of the roof.
The large door opened. A teenager stood inside the door, darkly tanned, with long black hair, shirtless. He rubbed his eyes as he opened the door.
“I’ve ridden from Yagulung,” said Aquil-eh. “The Pakistani Army killed one of our men. The Pakistani Army is coming. They will be there soon.”
“Let me get Father,” the teenager said.
Within five minutes, a small group had gathered in the middle of the square. More arrived with
Aquil-eh sometimes wondered what the world was like outside of Kashmir. But tonight he focused solely on his duty to his family and town, and his fear. He felt a constant, gnawing sense of fear as he pushed the horse along at a good pace; a chemical uneasiness at the realization that everything in his world had just changed, forever. He couldn’t forget the terrible incidents of the day. He hadn’t seen Arra being assaulted, but he had watched Tok destroy the man’s skull and had stood less than a foot from Artun when he was shot through the chest.
At a small pond he stopped to let the horse drink. With a match he examined the leather map. He was more than two-thirds of the way to Khardung, if the old man’s etchings were drawn to scale and accurate. Twenty more miles. The army camp at Pullu would be a short trip from there. In a mile or two, if the map was correct, he would pass Hunder, another small village. He remembered the words of the old man; he would stop in Hunder and ask if they had a radio.
* * *
The two Pakistani soldiers parked the jeep and walked, one in front of the other, up the steep path to the village. On their helmets, Petzl headlamps cast a bluish glow for twenty feet in front of them. They each carried their Kalashnikovs aimed in front of them as they marched, safeties off. They were more than ten miles across the LOC; they’d done it before—it was part of what they were trained to do—but even so, both soldiers knew they could be shot on sight if they were discovered by the Indian Army.
“There,” said one of the soldiers, turning to the man behind him. He nodded at the path. “Yagulung. We’re nearly there.”
The soldier in back took a radio from his belt and depressed the sidebar.
“This is field unit two,” he said. “We’re at Yagulung. We’ll report back.”
The soldiers each pulled a set of ATN night vision goggles from their combat backpacks. They pulled the goggles down over their helmets and flipped the switches on. The goggles gave each soldier a clear view up the gravel road toward the small village. The outlines of the low-flung homes, clinging to the mountainside, were illuminated for the soldiers in apocalyptic orange.
“Let’s move,” said the first soldier. “I want to be back by sunrise.”
* * *
Aquil-eh trotted the small horse into the village of Hunder at half past two in the morning. Hunder sat at a higher elevation than Yagulung and he felt the thinner mountain air in his lungs. He had pushed the mare hard, and she was exhausted.
Hunder, a town of nearly one hundred inhabitants, was a collection of wood frame and stone huts arrayed at differing elevations around small steppe plots. In the middle of the village was a small square with a restaurant and a general store. The town was shut down for the night, but remained illuminated by a pair of kerosene lanterns on iron poles in the middle of the small dirt square.
At the first house, Aquil-eh stopped and dismounted. He approached the door and knocked hard on the wooden frame.
“Hello,” he said loudly as he knocked. “We need your help.” He knocked on the door for more than a minute, saw a light go on through a tiny crack at the eave line of the roof.
The large door opened. A teenager stood inside the door, darkly tanned, with long black hair, shirtless. He rubbed his eyes as he opened the door.
“I’ve ridden from Yagulung,” said Aquil-eh. “The Pakistani Army killed one of our men. The Pakistani Army is coming. They will be there soon.”
“Let me get Father,” the teenager said.
Within five minutes, a small group had gathered in the middle of the square. More arrived with
Similar Books
