Ground Zero(18)

But where exactly was Pasoon going? Reshmina started walking again as she considered the question. It wasn’t like the Taliban had a village or a camp or a base. They roamed the barren mountains and passes between here and Pakistan, slipping back and forth over the unguarded, unmarked border like they owned the place. Pasoon could be headed in that general direction, like Reshmina was, but how could he be sure he would find them?

Suddenly Reshmina remembered another time when she had followed her brother up into these mountains. What was it—a year ago? Two?

Pasoon had invited Reshmina to go exploring in the mountains, and Reshmina had been thrilled to skip out on her chores and go with him. Pasoon had picked up a stick along the way and was swinging it like a sword. Reshmina strolled beside him, naming things in English. Rock. Tree. Sun. Brother. Reshmina couldn’t remember a day so fine, a time she was so happy.

They passed a big rock with a Pakistan phone number painted on it—a recruitment sign for anyone who wanted to call and join the Taliban—and she and Pasoon followed the goat path up and around the mountain, higher and higher.

At last they came to a flat space at the top of a steep cliff, and there, leaning against a rock, was an old wooden rifle.

Reshmina gasped. The rifle was scarred and dented from years of fighting, but it still looked usable. Pasoon went right to it, like he’d always known it would be there. It was heavy for him, but Reshmina knew he had used a rifle before to hunt cranes and quail with Baba. She watched as her brother slid the bolt back to see if the rifle was loaded.

There were two cartridges of bullets on the ground, and Pasoon loaded them into the top of the rifle and slid the bolt back in place.

“Pasoon, what are you doing?” Reshmina asked, suddenly alarmed. “That’s not yours.”

“No, it’s the Taliban’s!” Pasoon said. “Darwesh and Amaan said they’d give me five American dollars to shoot at the American camp!”

Reshmina felt the blood drain from her face. Now she understood. Pasoon hadn’t stumbled on this rifle by accident, and he hadn’t invited her along to “go exploring.” He’d known exactly where he was going, and what he was going to do when he got there!

Legs shaking, Reshmina inched forward to look over the side of the mountain.

Across the valley sat a ragtag collection of plywood and plastic tarps clinging to a small, flat space that had once been a logging camp. It was a small American base. Deliberately planted in the heart of Taliban territory to invite them to attack it.

Pasoon took aim with the rifle, meaning to do exactly that.

Reshmina grabbed the stock of the rifle and tried to pull it away from her brother.

“Pasoon! You can’t! They have guns there! Big guns! They’ll kill you! They’ll kill both of us!”

Pasoon frowned and yanked the rifle away from her. “They won’t even know where I am,” he told her. “Besides, I’m not going to hit anything. Darwesh and Amaan told me all I have to do is shoot at them. Then they’ll jump around like angry monkeys, shooting off their expensive bombs at nothing. They’ll be at it for hours, and by then we’ll be long gone.”

“But why?” Reshmina had said. “Why not leave them alone?”

That scowl that would eventually cloud Pasoon’s face every day when he was older set in, and his voice turned sour. “We’ll leave them alone when they leave us alone.”

Pasoon steadied the rifle against a rock and took aim, and Reshmina backed away. Why had her brother brought her along for this? To watch? To cheer him on? He had to know she wouldn’t do that. Because he was scared? Possibly. Or maybe he had brought her along just so a single boy walking alone up into the mountains wouldn’t look so suspicious.

PAKOW.

The rifle kicked when Pasoon fired it, knocking him to the ground. Reshmina covered her ears. Pasoon quickly scrambled back to the rock and hid behind it, not daring to peek out to see what his shot had done. In seconds, Reshmina heard the shouts of the Americans, and then the tok-tok-tok-tok of their guns as they fired back. She had ducked low, but Pasoon was right—their bullets didn’t come anywhere close to them. The Americans had no idea where the shooter was.

Pasoon giggled behind the rock. “I’ll just wait until they think I’ve gone, and then shoot at them again.”

“Pasoon, this isn’t a game!” Reshmina cried.

But Pasoon wasn’t listening to her anymore. He was having too much fun feeling all grown-up and important.

And that’s what he’s doing now, Reshmina realized, coming back to the present. The Taliban would tell Pasoon what he wanted to hear: that he was old enough to make his own decisions. Old enough to join them and fight the Americans. That’s where Pasoon would go—back up to that ridge with the phone number and the gun. Back to the heart of Taliban country.

Reshmina hurried down the goat path into the valley. At the bottom of the hill, young boys from her village played on an old abandoned Soviet tank. The khaki-green tank’s treads were broken, and it sat tilted, half-buried in the dirt. Faded black scorch marks still showed where the mujahideen—the Afghan guerrilla fighters—had hit the armored vehicle with rockets more than thirty years ago.

The boys lined up along one side of the tank’s cannon and pushed it, turning the turret uphill, against gravity. When the turret was as far as they could push it, they hopped on top of the long cannon and rode it as it swung back down. The boys whooped as the heavy turret gathered speed, and then—clang!—it hit the bottom of its arc and threw them all into the dirt.