Private Rogue

Chapter 20

Floyd had never been more pleased to feel himself shiver at the cut of an icy wind. The stars had never shone so brightly, nor the air tasted so sweet. Floyd’s British guardian angel led him along a rough track that ran between two rows of terraced houses, and every step felt like a gift. The bleak threat of death had brought the little things of ordinary life into sharp relief for him.

“Harsh conditions can create harsh people,” John said. “It probably won’t seem like it now, but that’s not true of the Kom people. They’re usually very friendly and welcoming. It must have been the uniform. Americans haven’t done much good here.”

The track was illuminated by lights in the windows of the houses they passed. To Floyd’s left, the roof of the nearest house formed a support for the one above, and beyond that stretched an unbroken run of five similar step structures built into the mountain until the next lateral track, which cut through the town. Narrow alleyways separated each run of houses from their neighbors, and enabled people to access the homes in the center of each “staircase”. The same pattern of construction was visible to Floyd’s right, going down the mountain.

“This place is something, isn’t it?” John remarked.

Floyd nodded.

“I couldn’t believe it, when I first saw it. That people managed to build like this in these mountains before modern technology. Or that they’d want to. But spend long enough here, and you understand why.”

Floyd hadn’t reached that revelatory moment yet. His lungs were acclimatizing to the thin ice-cold air, and he was still getting over having almost been murdered.

“Live at the limits of existence,” John said, “and you understand what it means to be truly alive.”

It sounded like a snowboard manufacturer’s tagline.

“You been here long?” Floyd asked.

“Uh-huh,” John replied. “Some years.”

Floyd could appreciate the majesty of the place, but he couldn’t think of anything better than being curled up on the sofa with his family, watching a movie and munching caramel popcorn. He didn’t need to be on the edge to appreciate life. He’d been close enough to the brink far too many times to forget the view. Tonight was just the latest and most painful trip.

“Up here,” John said, and hurried left, along one of the lateral alleyways that ran directly up the mountain.

Floyd’s heart starting pounding a little harder and his breathing grew labored. He envied John, who marched ahead as though the slope wasn’t there. Kamdesh was located at an altitude of six thousand feet, well above the point at which most people noticed a reduction in oxygen. Floyd told himself it didn’t mean the Englishman was any fitter than him, only that he hadn’t just come round from a sharp blow to the head.

He was glad when John slowed by the third house. The Englishman walked past the stable level, went up some steps and through a door that led to the upper floor. He held it open for a puffing Floyd to follow.

“Took me months to acclimatize to the altitude,” John said as Floyd shuffled inside.

He entered a small hall with two wicker benches and a run of wooden pegs along one wall. There were boots arranged on the benches and thick coats on the pegs, a combination of modern mountain gear and traditional Nuristani garb.

John removed his coat and boots, and Floyd took off his boots and rubbed his aching sides.

“Any idea who has my flight jacket?”

“We’ll find it,” John replied. “Now you’re not dead, it’s not a trophy. Taking it would be theft, and, as you’ve gathered, thieving is taken very seriously here.”

Without his coat, John looked lean and muscular. He wore a traditional jumper adorned with an eight-pointed red star woven into blue wool. He opened an inner door, and Floyd was greeted by a blast of warm air and an umami, meaty aroma that lit up his taste buds. He started salivating almost immediately and his stomach growled.

They stepped into a large, open-plan living area. A rustic kitchen with a wood-fueled stove was located in the heart of the space, beneath a hanging stone chimney. There was a rough dining table, and around it rugs and throws that created a living area focused on the hearth. Toward the downslope, a set of curtains had been drawn back to reveal the rooftops of the houses below, and beyond them the dark shadows of the mountains on the other side of the valley. To the right of the window was a screened sleeping area with a large mattress on the floor.

A Western woman in a traditional Nuristani dress tended a pot on the stove. She glanced at Floyd. Her light brown hair fell straight around her shoulders. She had a tiny, almost button nose, and a wide mouth with thin lips. Her cheeks and nose were covered with delicate freckles. At first glance, she seemed fragile, but her eyes gave her away. They were beautiful wide ovals of amber brown, but there was a hardness to them that Floyd had only ever seen in the eyes of soldiers.

“So they didn’t kill him?” she asked. Floyd immediately recognized a Californian accent. “I’m Christine. Chris to my friends.”

She came over and offered Floyd her hand. He felt nothing but confidence when he shook it.

“Joshua Floyd. Captain, US Army. How did you two wind up out here?”

“Life is full of surprises, right?” John replied. “How about you? First time in Afghanistan?”

Floyd smiled at the evasion. “First time on the ground.”

“You sightseeing?” Christine asked. “Or looking for something in particular?”

“Heading for the border. I lost some friends.” Floyd’s mood darkened at the thought of the pitched battle that had cost so many lives.

“Sorry to hear that,” John replied. “We understand your loss.”

The two of them shared a knowing look.

“I told the elders I would make sure you’re not a threat to the village,” John said.

“No threat. Just passing through.”

John nodded thoughtfully.

“Is there a phone anywhere?” Floyd asked.

John shook his head. “No cell signal up here, and the landline went down yesterday. Happens pretty regularly. Usually a couple of weeks before it’s fixed.”

“Nearest phone outside of Kamdesh is about three hours’ drive. Maybe four in these conditions,” Christine said. “There are government checkpoints on the roads, which I’m guessing you want to avoid.”

Floyd nodded. “I just want to get home to my family.”

“We might be able to help you get to the border,” she said.

“Can you ride?” John asked.

“Badly,” Floyd replied.

“Good enough.” John smiled. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

“In the meantime, you look like someone who’s forgotten the taste of food,” Christine said. “Let’s eat. Pull up a chair. It’s goat stew and rice.”

“Smells delicious,” Floyd replied, smiling at the prospect of sating the worst hunger he had ever experienced.