IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
Ahmad left Kabul early on Friday afternoon; he wanted to get to his weekend hideaway south of the city in time for dinner. It’d been a long week for Ahmad and he looked forward to a home cooked meal prepared by his wife and relaxing in his modest home in the country away from the hustle of the big city. He watched the poor villages pass by the window of his white Hyundai SUV as his driver expertly navigated the single lane highway that connected Kabul to Qandahar. He was considered affluent by current Afghan standards though he nowhere near held the riches of the warlords that ruled his country. Nevertheless, he was paid well for his skills as a bomb maker.
Ahmad walked through the front door of his home wearing an impeccable gray silk suit consisting of pants hemmed just above the ankle and a long sleeve loose fitting shirt that hung low over his thighs; typical dress for the successful Afghan man. He feasted on a delicious home cooked meal of pilau, a meat and rice mix and nan, the traditional unleavened bread of the region. After his meal, Ahmad enjoyed a cup of green chai, or tea, and a strong Turkish tobacco cigarette while watching the sun set over the mountains to the west. He spent the next several hours on his cell phone talking business before retiring for a good night’s sleep after the long hard week he’d worked.
Ahmad awoke abruptly to a loud thunderous noise. Feeling his house shake he immediately thought that it was an earthquake though his mind told him that was impossible this far south. Through the incessant loud roar coming from outside he could hear the windows being peppered by blowing sand wondering what kind of tempest had suddenly hit his home. He saw nothing but darkness as he peered through his bedroom window.
Ahmad flinched only a little at the explosion just prior to his front door crashing in. “The Americans,” he whispered suddenly understanding what was happening. Two-dozen heavily armed soldiers entered the dark house, methodically searching behind doors, around corners, and under furniture while making their way to the bedroom.
Ahmad stood rigid as his captors entered the room, offering neither resistance or flight. But hed did fight. He fought with his every fiber to hide tje fear swelling inside. Fear of what these storm troopers might do to him if they knew how many Americans have died as a result of his work. Resigning to his fate, he said nothing as his hands were bound with plastic ties in front of his midsection. An interpreter was saying something to him as he was led out of his home into the dawn of a new day and the wind of the morning tempest.
Ahmad was amused to learn of the source of the incredible noise, vibrations, and winds that had interrupted his slumber. It was one of the American twin rotor helicopters they called “Chinook.” He thought that this behemoth must have been the chariot for his captors and wondered would it also be the chariot to carry him from his home and to his destiny. It would.
Ahmad felt the firm grasp of the soldier on his right as he grabbed his elbow, preventing his fall, as he stepped into the beast of a helicopter, the Chinook. He walked passed another American soldier wearing a strange helmet and speaking into a microphone words that could not be heard above the now even louder, almost deafening noise. That same soldier helped to buckle his seatbelt as his hands remained bound and then placed a headset upon his ears to muffle the loud noises. He sat between two silent storm troopers. He was still dressed in his gray silk suit.
Ahmad would make no more bombs.
Ahmad is not his real name.
Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 1201 zulu | | Permalink
This post is filed under: Reconstructed & The Stan
