Holding teacups, they stared judgmentally at Rambo, then turned to one another, talking in low but energetic tones. Gunbelts and obsolete Enfield rifles lay beside them.

  Rambo noticed that one of the young men had burn scars all across his forehead and that the old man had lost the three middle fingers of his left hand.

  “They do not like strangers, especially infidels,” Mousa said. “I explain you are no ordinary infidel, can be trusted, come to kill Russians.”

  “To get the colonel,” Rambo corrected.

  “I bend the truth to vouch for you. It is good to keep your rifle in its pouch.”

  Rambo set the pouch and those containing his bow and arrows against the wall beside the door.

  “They are moujahideen,” Mousa said, sitting opposite the Afghans. “Holy warriors. Soldiers of Allah. All rebels called moujahideen.” He opened his pack and prepared to make tea. “They come from fighting jihad, holy war against the Russians. In our sacred book, the Koran, Allah grant permission to fight only two types of enemy. Infidels, and those—even Muslims—who drive us unjustly from our homes. The Russians are not only infidels. They are atheists. An abomination. This is holy war. These moujahideen come from the fighting, travel to Pakistan to get supplies, return to the war.”

  “But don’t the Russians come into the mountains?”

  “All the time.”

  “Then why haven’t these rebels posted a sentry? We could have been Russians.”

  “Perhaps they do have sentry. Perhaps he decide we not dangerous and let us through.”

  “Six horses in the corral. Six men in here. No, it doesn’t look like they posted a sentry.”

  “Holy warrior not like ordinary soldier. Trust in God.”

  “Better to trust in God and a sentry.”

  As the rebels stopped talking, one of them began to sing. His voice was soft at first. Gradually it gained volume, the others joining. The tune was eerie, energetic yet sad, high-pitched, rhythmic, its few notes repeated relentlessly. The voices sounded like mandolins tuned to an Arabic scale.

  “They beg Allah to make them martyrs,” Mousa said. “To die in holy war is greatest honor. Martyrs go at once to paradise. All pleasures await them.”

  “The point of war is to stay alive and kill the enemy.”

  “Oh, they kill plenty of Russians,” Mousa said. “Moujahideen not martyrs if enemy not die with them. Afghans have holy day to honor brave dead. The day of martyrs.”

  Rambo felt increasingly on edge as the song continued. It was loud enough to be heard outside the hut and quite a distance across the valley. If he was right and the moujahideen hadn’t posted a sentry, if a Russian patrol heard the song…

  “I hope they get their wish another time,” Rambo said. “I’m not eager to be a martyr.”

  “Inshallah,” Mousa said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “God willing. Make tea now. Eat and rest. Long day tomorrow.”

  7

  In the blinding glare of the midday sun, they rode to a wooded summit and faced a desolate plain below them. Fir trees gave way to scrub brush. Lower, stunted grass gave way to barren dust. The wasteland rose and fell as if gigantic fingers were pressing up beneath it.

  “This was once cropland,” Mousa said. “Russians drop chemicals. Kill wheat.”

  At the bottom, as they entered the wasteland, Mousa pointed toward the sky at the far end of the plain. Rambo squinted, not sure what Mousa wanted him to see.

  Then he understood and frowned. In the distance, the sky’s blue began to turn gray. White clouds darkened. Black pillars sank from them, touching down, roiling, sucking up sand into churning clouds.

  “Black wind come soon,” Mousa said. “Always something difficult here. We must stop and prepare.”

  Mousa blurted instructions. Rambo hurriedly obeyed. In a hollow, they unpacked the horses and arranged the saddles and crates so they formed the corners of a square. Within the square, they made their horses lie down. One animal resisted. Rambo gripped an arm around its neck and wrestled it to the ground. He and Mousa draped blankets over the animals, then tied the blankets securely to the saddles and crates.

  Specks of dust began to fly. A far-off moan gained force.

  “Quickly,” Mousa said. They crawled beneath the blankets and lay on their stomachs between their horses, pressing an arm across each animal’s neck to soothe and keep it down. With palms turned upward, they clutched the blankets, pulling them tightly over their horses’ heads and their own.

  It was difficult to breathe. Rambo waited tensely as the shadow beneath the blankets turned ever darker. He could barely hear Mousa’s muffled voice. “Afghanistan once called Yaghistan.”

  “What?”

  “It mean ‘land of the unrestrained.’”

  “What’s that got to do with—?”

  “‘Land of the free.’”

  “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

  “We show the Russians the truth of our country’s name.”

  “I said keep quiet.”

  “But Yaghistan also mean…”

  “Shut up!”

  “‘The land of the out-of-control.’”

  The black wind struck with a terrible roar.

  PART FOUR

  THE WASTELAND

  1

  The persistent roar alone would have been excruciating. But when added to the force of the storm, it became an almost unendurable agony. Pressure squeezed Rambo toward the ground at the same time it threatened to scrape him backward. He gripped the blankets with all the strength he could muster, whispering assurances to the horses, trying to hold them down. Sand accumulated on the blankets, adding to the weight of the wind. Heat built up beneath the blankets. The air turned foul. He found it ever more difficult to breathe. His thoughts swirled. Delirious, he saw a blurred vision of Co, her bullet-ravaged body shuddering as he held her and she died. At once Co’s double-focused image changed to Trautman, in the foundry, the last time Rambo had seen him, when Rambo had refused to do the favor the colonel had asked. Trautman’s voice echoed far away, repeating what he’d said when Rambo refused to accompany him on the mission: “Nothing personal.” Rambo wanted to scream. Nothing personal? Damn it, this was very personal. He needed to save…

  He’d become so used to the roar of the wind that his mind retained the sound even when it wasn’t there. He suddenly realized that all he truly heard were the labored breathing of the horses, his own frenzied gasps, and a ringing in his ears.

  Breathe. Need to breathe.

  He let go of the blankets. Burdened with sand, they continued to press upon him. He let go of the horses. They squirmed. He tried to crawl backward from beneath the blankets.

  Couldn’t.

  Tried to raise himself.

  Couldn’t.

  No air. Too weak.

  Inching his knees up beneath him, thrusting his hands against the ground, straining his back up with all his might, he still couldn’t move the blanket. He thrust up harder, with no result.

  We’re going to suffocate!

  The horses were barely inhaling. His mind became dark. His lungs cramped.

  No!

  He fought the need to hug the ground and sleep. Inch by painful inch, cramping with effort, he tugged his shirt above his waist. Completely out of breath now, he didn’t waste time by trying to work his lungs. He concentrated on only one goal, converged his energy on only one purpose.

  His knife. He needed to grip the knife. Draw it out of its scabbard. Cut the blanket.

  When he did, sand cascaded onto his head, filling his ears, squeezing his eyes and cheeks. He clawed at what smothered him, grabbed fistfuls of sand and crammed them beneath his chest, squirmed and groped, scratched and pawed. All the while, he kept thrusting his knees up under him, straining to raise his back.

  His agonized lungs rebelled. He fought their insistence, but consciousness dimmed, and reflexes took control. He breathed in sand.

  And burst up from his grave toward sunlight so glaring it felt as if fiery needles had pierced his eyes. He coughed sand from his lungs.

  He bent over, vomiting.

  He straightened and screamed.

  It seemed he would never stop. The scream kept on and on, ravaging his throat, as he saw the ordeal that now awaited him. He’d emerged from a three-foot-high mound of sand. Mousa and the horses were still under it. They’d die if he didn’t uncover them.

  His movements were frantic. With powerful thrusts, he scooped armful after armful away from the mound. He clawed sand between his legs and burrowed like a dog. With a moan of triumph he reached the blanket, grabbed where he’d cut it, and tore it upward, exposing the face of a horse. Scrambling to the left, he tore at the blanket again, and this time he found Mousa, his face pressed into the ground.

  The Afghan wasn’t breathing.

  “Mousa!”

  Rambo flung sand off Mousa’s body, in the process exposing the flank of another horse. He tugged at Mousa and dragged him from the mound, turning him onto his back. The Afghan’s normally sallow face was sickly gray. His eyes were closed, his chest still.

  Rambo pressed his hands on Mousa’s ribs, trying to get the lungs to work. He opened Mousa’s mouth and checked to make sure it wasn’t clogged with sand before he breathed past Mousa’s lips. He tried again, forcing air down Mousa’s throat. Again.

  And again.

  And…

  Mousa coughed.

  With greater resolve, Rambo breathed down Mousa’s throat.

  Mousa coughed again. His chest filled, taking in air on its own. When Rambo tried once more, Mousa raised a hand and weakly restrained him. Mousa’s chest rose higher. Wheezing and gasping, he inhaled greedily.

  Rambo scurried back to the mound. Earlier he’d exposed the face of one horse. Now he labored to uncover the faces of the rest.

  Exhausted, he studied their noses. At least the blankets had prevented sand from clogging their nostrils. The noses on two horses quivered slightly. The other two horses didn’t move.

  Rambo strained to uncover all their bodies, and when at last the weight of the mound was off them, he fell back limply. To his right, Mousa breathed forcefully, filling his lungs to capacity, his exhales prolonged sighs.

  “Such a wonderful thing. Such a gift from Allah. To breathe,” Mousa said.

  Rambo’s hands were bleeding. Under the circumstances, even the pain felt good. He propped himself up on his elbows, assessing the horses.

  Two were dead. The flanks on the other two were rising and falling. Rambo crawled to a water skin he’d exposed and trickled liquid into their mouths. Their tongues lapped their lips. He tried to get them to stand.

  They resisted. Gently he tugged at their reins. If they didn’t want to stand, that was one thing. But what if they couldn’t? What if—? They fidgeted and slowly rose to their feet. Taking a metal bowl from a pack, he filled it with water, let one horse drink, refilled the bowl, and let the other drink. He decided not to let them drink further for a while, to prevent them from getting sick.

  One final task remained. His weariness made it the hardest thing he felt he’d ever done. To tether the horses to the saddles he’d exposed. With that accomplished, he slumped beside Mousa, offering him the water skin.

  “No,” Mousa said. “You saved my life. Drink first.”

  Rambo didn’t give him an argument. He gulped tepid wonderful water down his parched throat. As drops rolled off his lips, he handed the skin to Mousa, who now accepted with eagerness.

  “We were lucky,” Rambo said. “I almost didn’t have the strength to—”

  “No, not lucky,” Mousa said. “Allah willed you to have the strength.”

  “Then you’d better thank Allah for me.”

  “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “I teach you.”

  “Maybe.”

  2

  In the glint of dawn, they felt rested enough to continue. Under Rambo’s expert care, the horses had regained their strength. Mousa said his prayers. He and Rambo ate, then buried the crates the packhorses had been carrying. Mousa marked the spot with a good-sized rock but looked worried. “If black wind come before we return, it bury rock. We never find this place.”

  Mounting their two remaining horses, they continued. The wasteland became more dismal. Rambo saw bomb craters, the rocks around their edges blackened and scorched. He rode past skeletons of oxen. He passed the burnt-out hulks of Soviet tanks and armored personnel carriers.

  As they neared the far end of the plain, approaching rugged foothills, Rambo noticed something he’d never seen before. It so puzzled him that he stopped his horse and dismounted for a better look. Ahead, on a slope of rocks, small green objects were scattered in profusion. There seemed to be hundreds of them. They looked like toys, like small green tops of the sort he’d spun on the ground when he was a boy. He led his horse toward one and stooped to pick it up.

  “No!” Mousa yelled.

  The alarm in Mousa’s voice made Rambo freeze with his hand above the toy.

  Mousa jerked his horse to a stop and quickly dismounted. “See.”

  Mousa warily picked up the toy and inspected it as he would a loathsome insect. Then using a cautious underhanded motion, he threw the toy toward the wasteland behind them.

  The toy exploded with a roaring flash, stones and shrapnel pelting the dirt.

  Rambo steadied his startled horse.

  “Enemy leave toys for children,” Mousa said. “Toys green, the color of Islam. Children trust. They spin tops. Bang! Hand gone, foot gone. Everywhere these. Russians not want kill children, just want wound so parents take care of them instead of fighting. To be wounded in Afghanistan is to die. Slow. Very slow death.”

  Rambo swelled with outrage.

  “You saved my life,” Mousa said. “Now I saved yours.”

  “We make a good team.”

  “Inshallah.”

  “Yes,” Rambo said. “God willing.”

  “See, you learn.”

  3

  “I want you to teach me,” Rambo said.

  As they rode, Mousa brightened. “About Islam?”

  “How to speak Afghanistan.”

  Mousa shook his head in discouragement.

  “I know in a short time I can’t learn enough to speak it well,” Rambo said. “But if I understood a few basic words…”

  Mousa kept shaking his head. “In Afghanistan is ten nationalities, eight different languages, thirty-two dialects. No such thing as speak in Afghanistan language.”

  Rambo remembered what Mousa had said as the black wind came. The land of the out-of-control.

  “Aren’t some languages used more than others?” Rambo asked.

  “Two. Pashto and Dari.”

  “Then teach me a few words in one of those.”

  An echoing rumble became a powerful roar. Jolted, Rambo reined back his horse. Another black wind?

  Amid the growing roar, he heard a thunderous whump-whump-whump and suddenly knew in dismay that the ominous sound he heard was made by something far worse than the blackest of winds.

  Two Soviet gunships rushed across the sky. They’d been hidden by a bluff to the right. Now they sped relentlessly above the barren landscape. MI-24 helicopters. Streamlined boxcars with wings and grotesquely shaped armaments hanging beneath them.

  He jumped from his horse and ran with it toward a cluster of massive boulders. Mousa raced beside him. They reached the boulders and peered from behind them toward the rapidly enlarging gunships.

  “They see us!” Mousa said.

  Rambo grabbed for the rifle in its pouch as the gunships sped toward a ridge four hundred feet ahead.

  But he didn’t remove the weapon. Didn’t need to. Instead of continuing toward these boulders, the gunships circled above the ridge, then swooped below it, disappearing. Five seconds later, Rambo heard machine guns, the burping racket of thousands of bullets shattering a target.

  He swung onto his horse and galloped toward the ridge.

  “No!” Mousa yelled.

  Rambo barely heard him amid the impact of his horse’s hooves and the explosions now echoing beyond the ridge. Just before he reached its rim, he halted sharply and jumped from his horse. He ran the last few yards.

  Below him, a wide scoop in the land had somehow not yet been despoiled by the Soviets. The land was green with crops. A stream ran through it. On the far side, rectangular buildings made from dried mud rose in tiers up a slope toward the foothill of a snow-capped mountain. The buildings reminded him of pueblos built against cliffs in northern Arizona. He judged that there were fifty buildings at least, and the gunships were disintegrating them with machine guns, cannons, rockets, and missiles.

  The village was a hundred yards below him, close enough for him to see Afghans scurrying in panic. Veiled women grabbed children and darted into doorways. Men fired antiquated bolt-action rifles and out-of-date machine guns toward the gunships.

  But the gunships hovered just far enough away that if by chance a bullet struck a weak spot in their armor it would do no damage.

  As mud walls erupted in flames and smoke, the gunships kept unleashing their missiles and rockets. A building into which three women had scrambled suddenly wasn’t there any longer. Men who fired from behind a large stone water container became a mist of blood.

  The gunships flashed more rockets from their wings. Their machine guns stuttered, muzzles sparkling. Shattered buildings were turned into rubble.

  The volcano that swelled in Rambo’s chest at last overflowed. He turned toward his horse, unzippered the end of his rifle pouch, and withdrew the weapon.