Rushing nearer, he told himself it didn’t matter if Akram won. As long as they know I tried, I’ll gain their respect. It’s better if Akram wins. If I win, Akram’ll lose face, hate me even more, and refuse to help, regardless of whether he gets the rifles. Confused by conflicting intentions, Rambo galloped abreast of Akram and again tried to grab the calf. Once more, Akram whipped him.

  Across the lips.

  Across the nose and eyes.

  Rambo felt as if a swarm of hornets had stung him.

  You bastard!

  Tasting blood, Rambo lunged in fury, grabbed Akram’s beard, and yanked viciously, with every intention of ripping the beard out by its roots.

  He didn’t succeed, but Akram screamed, clutching his beard, and Rambo pulled the calf away. Hearing the rumble of pursuing horses, Rambo almost flung the calf across his saddle but decided instead to drape it across his shoulders, behind his neck. Stooped by its weight, he let go of the reins, guided his horse with his knees, and locked his arms around the calf’s legs.

  On either side of him, riders grabbed for the calf. He galloped onward, the trench looming closer. Akram knocked Rambo’s right arm off the calf and grabbed its legs. Rambo kept his left arm securely in place and fought to pry Akram’s fingers loose.

  The calf stretched across Rambo’s shoulders. The gash in its stomach split open. Guts cascaded over him, stomach, liver, and bowels spilling down his bare chest, blood drenching him, intestines draping him like writhing snakes turned inside out. The organs flopped and dribbled, swung and slopped. Their hot slippery wetness smeared him. Their stench was overpowering.

  He twisted Akram’s arm until he thought it would crack. Akram would not let go. Even when they reached the trench, Akram would not give up. Rambo needed to lean over and drop from the horse, almost carrying Akram with him. Only then did Akram release his grip. Rambo tumbled into the ditch, landing hard on the carcass, his face and chest almost indistinguishable from the mangled calf and its guts.

  He lay on his back, breathing stridently, struggling not to be sick.

  Indeed his breathing became the only sound he heard. The players were silent, the villagers dumbstruck, astonished that Rambo, an outsider, an infidel, had won. Akram glared, his eyes like blazing charcoal.

  The chieftain barked what sounded like a curse. He leapt from his horse, stormed into the ditch, grabbed Rambo’s shoulders, and jerked him to his feet.

  Rambo didn’t resist. For letting his emotions control him, for allowing his anger to force him to win, he knew he deserved to be punished.

  With another bark that sounded like a curse, Akram embraced him.

  Rambo blinked in surprise.

  Blood smeared Akram’s shirt. Crushed organs stuck to him. He kissed Rambo’s cheek and shook his hand.

  The villagers now understood how to react. Cheers filled the clearing. The other players hurried over, embracing Rambo, sharing the warm sticky feel of blood. Babbling, they kissed Rambo’s cheek, then pumped his hand.

  Bewildered, Rambo grinned in response to their grins.

  Akram made a speech, walked over to Khalid and Rahim, nodded, and pointed toward Rambo.

  Talking excitedly, the villagers began to disperse, disappearing into the trees, returning to camp. The exhausted players stepped back to take care of their sweating horses.

  Michelle came over and lit a cigarette. “It looks like you’ve made a friend.”

  Still confused, Rambo touched the stinging welts on his face.

  Michelle continued, “Akram says no Russian could have beaten him in buzkashi. As far as he’s concerned, you’re definitely not an enemy. I might add, you’re also a good judge of character.”

  Rambo limped from the ditch. “I don’t understand.”

  “At first I hoped you’d be smart enough to try hard but lose.”

  “That was my intention.”

  “But losing’s not in your nature.”

  Rambo glanced at the guts on his blood-soaked pants. “Sure looks that way.”

  “These people sense when someone’s determined to win or else die trying. You couldn’t have fooled them. Akram would have hated you for holding back. That’s what I mean, you’re a good judge of character. You realized you needed to win. Akram’s honor forces him to give you credit. To win against him, you must be special, he says. And in that way, he makes himself look special, a champion graciously accepting another champion. You’re very shrewd.”

  “To tell the truth, I didn’t think it through. I just did—”

  “What was natural.” Michelle exhaled more smoke from her cigarette. “Akram even shook your hand.”

  “And kissed my cheek.”

  “You don’t understand Afghan customs. These people have a saying. ‘To kiss a man’s cheek is to be polite. To shake his hand is to remember him forever.’ Come up to the infirmary. I’ll disinfect your cuts.”

  “No. I need something to do first.”

  “What?”

  “Take care of the horse they lent me.”

  6

  A white-bearded old man stepped onto a boulder and chanted, his droning voice announcing midday prayers. The Afghans gathered before him, spreading their blankets on the ground facing southwest toward Mecca.

  Rambo turned toward the shadows of the cave. The wounded man whom Michelle had been treating yesterday had died in the night. A boy whose face was black with burns lay in his place.

  Michelle approached Rambo with a cloth and a basin of water. “Go behind that blanket, take off your clothes, and wash. You’ll find a clean shirt and pants. I need to get those blood-soaked things you’re wearing out of here before the stench makes my patients even sicker.”

  “The calf makes me smell that bad? I guess I got used to it.”

  “A person can get used to just about everything.”

  “No.” Rambo squinted toward the boy’s scorched face. “Not everything.”

  He went behind the blanket. When he came back, Michelle cleaned and disinfected the welts on his hands and cheeks.

  “The lashes aren’t serious,” she said. “You won’t have scars.”

  “I’ve got enough as it is.”

  “I noticed. What are you?”

  “Just someone looking for peace.”

  “Apparently you’ve been through the opposite. Looking for peace? Yes, aren’t we all.”

  Hearing wood click against stone, Rambo turned and saw a legless old man, who used sticks as crutches to hobble past the entrance to the cave.

  “A mortar shell blew off his legs,” Michelle explained. “Now he’s a crawling mine detector.”

  “A what?”

  “He squirms across mine fields and finds a safe path. It doesn’t matter to him if he touches a mine since he figures he doesn’t have much else to lose. Except his life. But his life means nothing compared to his country. He’s like the rest of his people. He has great spirit but little else.”

  Rambo walked from the cave, distress gnawing at him. He closed his eyes to subdue his anguish, opened them, and flooded with hope, seeing Mousa ride into camp, the three escorts behind him, their two packhorses burdened with crates.

  The villagers crowded around the horses, hurriedly unloading the crates. Khalid, Rahim, and Akram pushed through. Using a sword, Akram pried the lid off a crate, gazed down, and took out a rifle. He turned toward Rambo at the entrance to the cave and held up an M-16 exultantly.

  Rambo shook a fist, as if he too held a rifle.

  Michelle came out of the cave. “Yes, they’ll help you find your friend now.”

  7

  Trautman lay in agony on the floor of his spotlit cell. Bruises swelled his face. The small of his back hurt with every movement. The last time he’d urinated, he’d passed blood.

  Colonel Zaysan, Sergeant Kourov, and several Russian soldiers surrounded him.

  “You are on your own here,” Zaysan said. “You have only us to depend on. No one has asked about you. No one has tried to find you. You have been deserted by your government.”

  Trautman faced a wall, ignoring him.

  “I despise the way we both are considered disposable,” Zaysan said. “But I assure you I do not intend to lose the chance you’ve given me. I intend to get out of this shithole. So I ask you one more time. Spare yourself more needless pain. Why are you here?”

  Sergeant Kourov kicked Trautman’s stomach. Trautman’s knees jerked toward his chest.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Didn’t plan”—Trautman gasped—“to cross the border… Made a mistake.”

  “Tell me again! This time the truth!”

  Kourov kicked Trautman’s back.

  “What were you doing across the border?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  “Spying! How many Americans came with you?”

  “None.”

  “Liar! How many Americans crossed the border? Do not waste my time or insult my intelligence!” Zaysan ordered. “Two gunships were shot down yesterday! This has never happened in my sector! Do you think I believe your arrival and yesterday’s attack are coincidence? Where can I find the rebel leader called Akram Haidar? Where can I find another bandit leader known as Khalid? And yet another known as Rahim! You came to promise them weapons, to help them, to train them, to show them how to kill more of my men! Where are they camped?”

  Kourov punched Trautman’s face.

  “If there is a plan to upset the order of this region and in so doing destroy my reputation,” Zaysan said, “you will tell me.”

  PART SIX

  THE VALLEY OF PAIN

  1

  Rambo sat among sunset-tinted trees at the edge of the camp. Uneasy, he finished cleaning his combination rifle/grenade launcher and for the third time today checked the crate of explosives.

  In the camp, a wedding was about to take place. Women wore ornate veils. Men used splinters of wood to apply thin lines of red, green, or blue dye above their eyelids. Several stuck bright flowers into their turbans. Musicians played exotic instruments. A small rectangular box—the back of which pumped air in and out, the front of which had keys—sounded like a high-pitched accordion. A long narrow stringed metal instrument sounded like a tightly tuned mandolin. A spicy meal was being prepared from the village’s meager supplies, the fragrance of goat mixed with curry and rice filling the air.

  Mousa came over. “Sometimes I not understand this life. People get married in morning, die in afternoon. War make people hurry.”

  Rambo nodded. “Sometimes you can live years in days.”

  An approaching sound made him grab his weapon and turn toward pounding hooves. He watched a horseman gallop into camp, jump to the ground, and rush toward Khalid. The man spoke urgently. His military uniform made Rambo stand in alarm.

  “He’s a government soldier,” Rambo said.

  “He is also spy for us. After coming here, he dare not return to his base. But his news is worth the loss.”

  “News?”

  “He say tomorrow the Russians send an armored column here.”

  2

  The men danced not for a wedding now, instead for battle. As their shadows wove across the firelit camp, drums and sitars pulsed. Word of tomorrow’s combat had spread to other villages. One hundred moujahideen milled excitedly, inspecting weapons, tending to horses. Wide-eyed children watched from a cave while women scurried to help their husbands.

  Khalid, Rahim, and Akram came out of a tent, all talking at once, all disagreeing.

  From the dark of the trees, Rambo watched. “Mousa, what are they arguing about?”

  “Who will lead men. Who will plan attack. All chiefs think they smarter than the others. All think their plan is best. All think they know God’s will.”

  “And if they don’t decide, they’ll all get killed.”

  Mousa shrugged. “Always they quarrel. That problem with rebels. Afghanistan country of tribes. All tribes, all leaders equal. Each tribe go own way, not work together.”

  Rambo watched the leaders try to outglare each other. Rahim shook his head stubbornly and walked away. Khalid and Akram followed him, each insisting on his own point of view.

  As they argued, they approached the trees where Rambo stood. A campfire revealed him in the darkness. The sight of him made them stop.

  Rambo knew what was coming. At least, there’s one thing they agree on, he thought.

  “You fight with us, American,” Khalid said and Mousa translated.

  “No, I’m here to get my friend.”

  “It will wait,” Rahim interrupted. “We must stop the Soviet convoy before the soldiers find our villages.”

  “But what about my friend?”

  “We help our people before we help you,” Akram insisted. “You fight, or you watch?”

  There it is. The challenge, Rambo thought. He’s made this a point of honor. If I don’t fight, I’ll look like a coward. I’ll be back where I started with them.

  With all his heart, he didn’t want to do this.

  “Where are you going to attack?” Rambo asked.

  “A valley twenty kilometers from here,” Akram said. “Far enough that they won’t suspect where we hide.”

  “I want to go there two hours before dawn. I’ll need six men.”

  “No. You go with us together,” Akram ordered.

  “Listen carefully.” Rambo’s voice was as sharp as the knife at his side. “If you want my help, you let me do it my way.”

  The chieftains blinked in astonishment. No one, certainly no outsider, had ever spoken to them like that. They looked in surprise at each other. Akram touched his silver-streaked beard. As if remembering the buzkashi they’d played and the bond they shared because of it, he slowly nodded.

  3

  Rambo tugged back on his horse’s reins and stopped on a bluff above a rock-strewn valley. Moonlight glimmered off sand that resembled lye. Countless boulders resembled massive skulls.

  “What is this place?”

  Mousa steadied his horse beside the six moujahideen who’d ridden with them. “They call it Valley of Pain.”

  The moon revealed a primitive road through a narrow pass to the right. The exit from the pass opened like the mouth of a funnel, merging with the cliffs along the plain.

  “There.” Rambo pointed. “We’ll set the charges up there.”

  Darkness had turned to the gray of false dawn by the time they reached the top of the pass. Rambo unloaded a box of explosives from the back of his horse. He waited until first light, studied both sides of the pass, and prepared the charges, placing C-4 plastic explosive into metal tubes, inserting a detonator into each, then wiring each detonator to a small battery-powered radio receiver. He capped the tubes.

  “Mousa, tell the men to treat these things as gently as they’d handle a baby.”

  “They do what you say. They want to die in battle, not before.”

  “No talk about dying.” Rambo indicated strategic spots along both sides of the pass and within the valley. “Tell the men to put the charges into crevices, to put them down deep and cover them with rocks.”

  The men climbed down a niche in the cliff. As the morning brightened, Rambo watched three of them cross the bottom of the pass and start up the opposite side. He couldn’t see the men on the cliff directly below him, but everyone else was obeying instructions, so he tried to stop worrying and planted charges along the top of the ridge.

  An hour later, Mousa and the others returned. Rambo handed Mousa another small radio transmitter and kept the first one for himself.

  “To set off a charge, all you need to do is flick this switch to turn the transmitter on and then press this button. It’ll send a radio signal. A receiver will catch the signal and send a battery current to a detonator. The C-4 explodes.”

  Mousa nodded.

  But Rambo wondered if he truly understood how remote-controlled detonation worked.

  Mousa surprised him. “When I press button, won’t all charges go off together?”

  “Not if you do it right. See this dial above the button. The numbers on the dial match up with different charges. One through six are the charges you set in the valley floor. Seven through twelve are along the opposite cliff. The next six are arranged along this cliff. And I put six up here on the ridge. If you want to set off number twelve, just turn the dial to twelve and push the button.”

  “Complicated. But I remember.”

  “I know you will.”

  “You have transmitter also,” Mousa said.

  “The same as yours. I want a backup in case one of these doesn’t work.”

  “Or one of us die.”

  “I told you, no talk of dying.”

  They led their horses to a hollow and tethered them to scrub brush. As Rambo climbed out of the hollow, he looked toward the far end of the valley. Mounted warriors approached the pass. They split up, some going to the right and left, others staying in the middle. Dismounting, they hid their horses behind boulders a safe distance from the pass and ran forward on foot. When they reached strategic positions, they sank to the ground, pulled sand-colored blankets over themselves, and blended perfectly with the huge rocks they lay among.

  “Who taught you to fight like this?”

  “It is way my people fight for thousand years.”

  “A good way.” Rambo thought for a moment. “When are the Russians supposed to come?”

  “Another hour.”

  He crept forward to study the pass a final time. Flat on his stomach, he peered from the rim of the cliff. He still couldn’t see where the moujahideen were hiding. He didn’t doubt that the charges had been properly placed. All the same, something felt wrong.

  “It’s too easy. If I was a Russian, this is one of the places I’d worry about. I’d take precautions before I drove through.”