Ground Zero(58)

“She’s a kid,” said Carter. “She just hasn’t learned about it in school yet,” he told Taz.

But when Taz showed the picture to Mor and Baba, they’d never heard of 9/11 either. Neither had Anaa, nor an elderly couple who’d been with them in the cave. Baba called the other villagers over, but none of them knew what 9/11 was, or why the Americans were so angry about it.

“That’s the World Trade Center in New York City,” Taz told them, tapping the photo. He was scowling now. He looked a little like Pasoon when he was angry, Reshmina thought. “Terrorists flew two planes into the Twin Towers, one into each building. Three thousand people died in the attacks. My dad died in the attacks.”

“Your father?” Reshmina said.

Taz showed Reshmina the other photo he carried, this one of a man and a boy in nice clothes. A father and son. The father had a broad chest, brown skin, and a nice smile—just like Taz. The little boy in the picture had high cheekbones, brown hair, and blue eyes. Also like Taz.

“I was there that day,” Taz said. “In the North Tower. I made it out, but my dad didn’t.”

Beside him Carter looked at Taz with a kind of reverence. Almost awe.

Taz traced his fingers over the man in the photo. “That’s him. My dad: Leo Chavez. He worked in a restaurant all the way at the top of the North Tower.”

“Chavez?” Reshmina repeated. “Your name is Lowery.”

Taz nodded. “That’s my adopted name. I took it in honor of the guy who helped me get out of the towers. He adopted me a year later. Richard Lowery. My name’s Brandon Lowery now.”

“We just call him Taz,” said Carter.

Reshmina looked again at the photos. If someone had done this to her village, to her baba, she would feel the same anger, the same sadness. She explained the pictures to her family and the other villagers in Pashto, and they nodded with understanding.

“So it is badal, then. That is why they are here,” Anaa said.

Reshmina sighed. The Americans didn’t follow Pashtunwali, but apparently revenge was something they knew and practiced as well. And who could blame them?

“Afghans did this to you?” Reshmina said sadly. “The Taliban?”

Taz shifted and looked uncomfortable. “Well, no,” he admitted. “It wasn’t the Taliban. The men who flew the planes into the buildings, they were mostly from Saudi Arabia. A group called al Qaeda. But the Taliban hated America and the West as much as al Qaeda did,” Taz explained. “The Taliban let al Qaeda set up their terrorist headquarters here. The al Qaeda leader, Osama bin Laden, he planned the September 11 attacks right here in Afghanistan.” Taz glanced around. “The Taliban government wouldn’t hand bin Laden over to the US, so we invaded.”

Reshmina’s anger flared like a brush fire. “Wait,” she said. “This Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda, they destroyed these buildings, killed three thousand people. That is terrible. Unforgivable. The curse of God and all his angels and of the whole people upon them.” She spat on the ground. “But how many more of our buildings have you destroyed in return? How many more Afghan people have you killed?”

Taz was quiet. Beside her, Reshmina’s family looked on with concern. She knew they didn’t comprehend her words, but they could hear the anger and confrontation in them.

“You said yourself,” Reshmina continued. “Afghans did not do this attack. You are seeking revenge against the wrong people! Did you find and kill this man? This Osama bin Laden?”

“Yes,” Taz said quietly.

“When?”

“Almost ten years ago. In Pakistan.”

“Then why are you here?” Reshmina asked again.

“Hey, if you’re not with us, you’re against us,” Carter said.

Taz looked away, and Reshmina waited. Did Taz agree with his friend? Or was his answer still “We’re here because we’re here”? What kind of excuse was that when people on both sides were dying? When Hila was dead?

“So if the United States does to my country what this Osama bin Laden and his al Qaeda did to yours,” Reshmina asked, “does that mean Afghanistan now gets to invade your country in retaliation for your attack?”

Carter laughed. “What? No.”

“Of course not,” Reshmina said bitterly. “Because the rules are different for the United States. You make your own rules.”

“Damn right we do,” said Carter.

Reshmina looked at Taz, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. It wasn’t right, and he knew it.

The walkie-talkie on Carter’s body armor squawked to life. “Carter, this is Pacheco,” the voice on the other end said. “We’ve got a house at the top of the village with at least five insurgents holed up inside it. No civilians in range. Over.”

Carter held a button on his walkie-talkie and stepped away to respond, but Reshmina could hear what he said. “Acknowledged. Pull back and I’ll call in a bird. Over.” Carter waited a moment, then spoke into his walkie-talkie again. “Base, this is Carter. We need a strike on a building with at least five insurgents in it. Pacheco will call in coordinates. Over.”

In moments, Reshmina heard the familiar thrum of an incoming Apache.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP. The helicopter thundered up along the river and hovered right over their heads. Everyone ducked and backed away from the downdraft, and a second later came the hiss and whoosh of a single missile streaking out from under the metal grasshopper’s wings. The missile struck a house at the top of the village, and it exploded in a burst of fire and rock.