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Arabian Nights.
Big Marcus being hauled away by Ali Baba and his forty
thieves to meet the fucking genie. I could not, of course, know they were acting on the direct
orders of the village elder, who had told them to get me out of there in case the Taliban decided
to ignore the ancient rules and take me by force.
Once outside, they doused the light and set up their formation. Two guys to walk in front with
AK-47s and one guy in the rear also carrying an AK. The same three guys as before carried me,
Sarawa included, and began to walk out of the village, downward along a trail. We traveled for a
long way, the guys walking for more than an hour, maybe even two. And they walked tirelessly,
like Bushmen or Bedouins.
In the end we headed down a new trail all the way to a river — I guess the same one where I’d
met them — by the waterfall, on a higher reach. I must have been a complete dead weight, and
not for the first time I was amazed by their strength.
When we reached the river, they stopped and adjusted their grip on me. Then they walked
straight into it and in near total silence carried me across, in the darkness of this moonless night.
I could hear the water rippling past but nothing more as they waded softly through it. On the
other side, they never broke stride and now began to make their way up a steep gradient through
the trees.
It was lush and beautiful in the daylight. I’d seen it, and even in this cold night, I could feel its
soft, dark green isolation, heavy with ferns and bushes. Finally we reached what I took to be a
cave set deep into the mountainside. They lowered me to the ground, and I tried to talk to them,
but they could not see my signals or understand my words, so I drew a blank. But I did manage
to make Sarawa understand I suffered from diabetes and required water at all times. I guess the
dread of dying of thirst remained uppermost in my mind, and right then I knew I could not get
down to that river, not by myself.
They carried me to the back of the cave and set me down. I think it was around 0400 when we
got there. It was Thursday, June 30. They left me with no food, but they did come up with a
water container, an aged Pepsi bottle actually, the most evil-smelling piece of glass on this
planet. I thought it must have been used for goat shit in a previous life. But it was all I had, a
bottle from a sewer, but filled with water.
I was afraid to put it to my lips, in case I contracted typhoid. Somehow I held it above my face
and poured its contents into my mouth like one of those Spanish guys tending their bulls, or
whatever they do.
I had no food or weapon, and Sarawa and his guys were on their way out. I was terrified they’d
never come back and had just made a decision to dump me. Sarawa told me he’d be back in five
minutes, but I was not sure I could believe him. I just lay there on the rocky floor, in the dark, all
alone, shivering in the cold, uncertain of what would befall me next.
In the remains of that night, I fell to pieces, finally lost my mind and sobbed hopelessly out of
pure fear, offering no further resistance to anything. I thought I could not take it any longer.
Reno would have kicked my ass, for sure and certain. Hopefully on the right side, not the left.
I kept on thinking of Morgan, crazily trying to communicate with him, trying to get my thought
waves tuned in with his, begging God to let him hear me. And soon it began to get light. Sarawa
had been gone for over two hours. Jesus Christ! They’d dumped me out here to die; Morgan
didn’t know where I was or whether I was dead or alive; and my SEAL buddies had given me up
for dead.
My brain would have been racing but for the fact that I had suddenly been attacked by a tribe of
big black Afghan ants, and that really got my attention. I might have given up, but I was fucked
if I was going to be eaten alive by these little sonsa-bitches. I got myself raised up and laid into
’em with my Pepsi bottle.
Most of them probably died from the smell, but I killed enough to beat them off for a while. And
the hours ticked by. Nothing. No Pashtun tribesmen. No Sarawa. No Taliban. I was getting
desperate. The ants were trickling back. And I no longer had the strength to mount a full assault
on them. I went into selective-killing mode, going for the leaders with my Pepsi bottle.
Then I found a piece of flinty rock on the floor of the cave, and, lying painfully on my left side, I
spent two hours carving the words of the Count of Monte Cristo onto the wall of my prison:
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: |
