Parson asked.
“I hope not what I think.”
Whatever was happening, it did not accord with what Parson knew of the Taliban. When they hit a village they didn’t like, they usually left behind nothing but bones and ashes. Killing civilians was one of the few things at which they excelled. It certainly figured that in a time of natural disaster, they’d find a way to add to the misery. But whatever they’d done here had more method than madness.
“Did she recognize any of the bad guys?” Parson asked.
“No,” Gold said. “But she probably wouldn’t tell if she did.”
True enough, Parson thought. It’s hard to convince people you’ll protect them if they don’t know how long you’ll stay.
“Let’s see what else we find,” Parson said.
In the next house, they found nothing. Half the walls had collapsed in the quake or one of the aftershocks. The dirt-floor dwelling smelled of mold and stale bread, along with the cold soot of a burned-out cooking fire.
At the house after that, Parson walked through the door and stopped short. The sight before him ripped through all the barbed-wire fences he had strung around his emotions.
The little girl who’d been following Gold around lay clinging to the body of her mother. The child cried silently, could not form words or even sounds.
Blood had flowed along the edge of an overturned table and pooled in a corner of the room. Blood had spattered a shelf of crockery, apparently ejected from an exit wound. Tracks of blood wound through the hut: large boots, small shoes.
Gold kneeled by the girl. She put her hand on the child’s back. The girl spasmed as if in a seizure but made no other response.
When Gold spoke, the child turned, buried her face in Gold’s lap. Scarlet smears covered her hands and arms.
“Let me check her out,” Reyes said.
“Her name is Fatima,” Gold said.
Gold whispered in Pashto, stroked Fatima’s back. The child shook her head. Parson could imagine the conversation:
-Let the strange men examine you. -No, strange men have done enough today.
Finally, after much talk, Fatima stood and let Reyes look at her. The PJ opened his medical ruck, checked her for wounds, took her pulse.
“She’s not hurt,” Reyes said. “Physically, I mean. That must be her mother’s blood all over her.”
“She says they came and took her brother,” Gold said. “Their mother tried to stop them.”
Reyes unsnapped the tube to his CamelBak and offered it to Fatima. “Tell her to drink from this,” he said. “She’s dehydrated.”
Gold spoke. Fatima took the tube in her hand, which looked to Parson like the fist of a doll. She paused before placing her mouth on the tube, sipped once and then stopped. Too distraught to want water or food, Parson supposed. She was only doing as she was told because she felt some small connection to Gold, and because she simply didn’t know what else to do.
“This is so fucked up,” Blount said.
“You got that right, Gunny,” Reyes said.
“My daddy used to slap me and my mama around,” Blount said. “Ain’t nothing lower than hurting a little one.”
“I bet he didn’t slap you around for long.”
“I fixed it so he didn’t do that no more.”
For just an instant, Parson thought he saw a thousand-yard stare in Blount’s eyes. But then the big man focused again, watched for threats, monitored his men.
“Ask her if she knows why they wanted her brother,” Parson said to Gold.
Gold cut her eyes at him without turning her head. Parson knew that look:
You’re pushing it, sir.
She never hesitated to tell him when she thought something was a bad idea, and for that he was grateful. But this time she allowed one more question. Gold spoke again in Pashto.
“She says the men told him he’d become a soldier of God,” Gold said. “They shot the mother and took him away.”
So they were kidnapping boys for child soldiers? Using the chaos of the earthquake, perhaps, to pull off something they might not
“I hope not what I think.”
Whatever was happening, it did not accord with what Parson knew of the Taliban. When they hit a village they didn’t like, they usually left behind nothing but bones and ashes. Killing civilians was one of the few things at which they excelled. It certainly figured that in a time of natural disaster, they’d find a way to add to the misery. But whatever they’d done here had more method than madness.
“Did she recognize any of the bad guys?” Parson asked.
“No,” Gold said. “But she probably wouldn’t tell if she did.”
True enough, Parson thought. It’s hard to convince people you’ll protect them if they don’t know how long you’ll stay.
“Let’s see what else we find,” Parson said.
In the next house, they found nothing. Half the walls had collapsed in the quake or one of the aftershocks. The dirt-floor dwelling smelled of mold and stale bread, along with the cold soot of a burned-out cooking fire.
At the house after that, Parson walked through the door and stopped short. The sight before him ripped through all the barbed-wire fences he had strung around his emotions.
The little girl who’d been following Gold around lay clinging to the body of her mother. The child cried silently, could not form words or even sounds.
Blood had flowed along the edge of an overturned table and pooled in a corner of the room. Blood had spattered a shelf of crockery, apparently ejected from an exit wound. Tracks of blood wound through the hut: large boots, small shoes.
Gold kneeled by the girl. She put her hand on the child’s back. The girl spasmed as if in a seizure but made no other response.
When Gold spoke, the child turned, buried her face in Gold’s lap. Scarlet smears covered her hands and arms.
“Let me check her out,” Reyes said.
“Her name is Fatima,” Gold said.
Gold whispered in Pashto, stroked Fatima’s back. The child shook her head. Parson could imagine the conversation:
-Let the strange men examine you. -No, strange men have done enough today.
Finally, after much talk, Fatima stood and let Reyes look at her. The PJ opened his medical ruck, checked her for wounds, took her pulse.
“She’s not hurt,” Reyes said. “Physically, I mean. That must be her mother’s blood all over her.”
“She says they came and took her brother,” Gold said. “Their mother tried to stop them.”
Reyes unsnapped the tube to his CamelBak and offered it to Fatima. “Tell her to drink from this,” he said. “She’s dehydrated.”
Gold spoke. Fatima took the tube in her hand, which looked to Parson like the fist of a doll. She paused before placing her mouth on the tube, sipped once and then stopped. Too distraught to want water or food, Parson supposed. She was only doing as she was told because she felt some small connection to Gold, and because she simply didn’t know what else to do.
“This is so fucked up,” Blount said.
“You got that right, Gunny,” Reyes said.
“My daddy used to slap me and my mama around,” Blount said. “Ain’t nothing lower than hurting a little one.”
“I bet he didn’t slap you around for long.”
“I fixed it so he didn’t do that no more.”
For just an instant, Parson thought he saw a thousand-yard stare in Blount’s eyes. But then the big man focused again, watched for threats, monitored his men.
“Ask her if she knows why they wanted her brother,” Parson said to Gold.
Gold cut her eyes at him without turning her head. Parson knew that look:
You’re pushing it, sir.
She never hesitated to tell him when she thought something was a bad idea, and for that he was grateful. But this time she allowed one more question. Gold spoke again in Pashto.
“She says the men told him he’d become a soldier of God,” Gold said. “They shot the mother and took him away.”
So they were kidnapping boys for child soldiers? Using the chaos of the earthquake, perhaps, to pull off something they might not
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