Most Dangerous, Most Unmerciful by J. Malcolm Garcia

Author:J. Malcolm Garcia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: political science;political philosophy;geopolitics;imperialism;government;political science books;world politics;political books;politics;international politics;philosophy;economics;culture;social;essays;world history;mystery;supernatural;paranormal romance;sociology;society;current affairs;classic;journalism;21st century;foreign policy;spirituality;american history;anthropology;urban fantasy;mythology;war;suspense;romantic suspense;christian;international relations;modern;cookbooks;drama
Publisher: Seven Stories Press
Published: 2022-07-19T18:07:25+00:00

FIRE IN THE HOLE

The convoy stops and the LT lowers his binoculars and opens his door and points at four Afghan men standing on a ridge beside a red telephone tower. They look little more than dots against the horizon. Boulders lie strewn across the slope of the mountainside and some have tumbled down to the pitted dirt road. The LT gets out. He picks six men and a translator. The four Afghan men watch as the soldiers trek uphill toward them, walking first to their left and then to their right, weaving back and forth, back and forth, in continuous motion to lessen the strain of the steep ascent.

“I hate it here,” one soldier says.

“Some people look at you weird,” another soldier says. “Kind of a glare. They’re just backward. They’re not used to hammer and wood. Not to the point of building walls and standing them up. They’re used to rocks and mud huts. They’re just trying to survive. I get that.”

“Fuck,” the first soldier says. “I hate it here. They can’t read their own language. You tell them not to do something so you can do what you have to do and they do it anyway.”

The second soldier offers him a cigarette and they keep climbing until they stand with the LT, the translator, and the rest of the soldiers beside the four Afghans. The Afghans smile and ask whether they want tea. They point at a pot and a small fire made from charcoal and twigs. They extend their hands and the soldiers shake them, except for one soldier who served in Iraq. He stands apart and stares across the ridge and then turns and faces into the wind.

The LT moves toward the telephone tower. Beside it in the rubble of what had been another telephone tower, he sees an unexploded IED. The Afghans walk up behind him and the LT spins around sharply and the Afghans stop.

“Put your hands on your heads,” the LT says.

An interpreter speaks to them in Pashto. The Afghans put their hands on their heads. They continue smiling but look confused. One of the Afghans tells the interpreter that they work for Roshan, a telephone company. They had discovered the IED moments before the convoy stopped.

“Do they have weapons?” the LT asks the interpreter.

He shakes his head no.

The LT stares at the IED. He lives in St. Louis and joined the army after September 11th, so he could say he did something for his country. He might go back to his job at Budweiser. Stocking supervisor. But the economy back home sucks. Some European company now owns Budweiser. He doesn’t know whether he wants to work for an American company owned by foreigners. He looks at the Afghans. Hands on their heads, still smiling at him. When he arrived here in Khost Province, a drill sergeant told him to be prepared for lots of contact. Nearly six months later and halfway through his tour, he hasn’t seen a firefight yet.

“They want to keep it,” the interpreter tells him.

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