Dinner with Ahmad

By Scott Steward, 28 June, 2022

I woke to a distant explosion. Then another. Then moments later another. Each one getting louder in the distance. Rockets. It was December. It was freezing outside. I sat up and looked at Jim. He was awake. “Does it sound like they are walking those in?” I asked. He paused to listen. Another explosion. Close this time. “Yeah, I think so.” Jim was former special forces. He had a parachute accident which forced him to retire three years early. He fell two thousand feet with a partially inflated parachute and spent the next three years in rehab until he signed on to this contract. Another explosion. This time real close. The bunker was down the hall and outside. I pulled the comforter around me and tried to go back to sleep. There was a pause. Then a loud explosion. Perhaps fifty yards away from my window. There was a thirty-foot tall concrete wall separating our living quarters from the runway. Two more explosions. Just outside the wall and the window above my bed. The last rocket hit the wall. The sound of metal striking concrete. It didn’t explode as it fell to the ground, impotent, onto the air strip. That morning we almost died.

I snapped out of memory dream. I was on a fast-moving helicopter with a rifle between my legs. It was March. The lieutenant was sitting next to me. There were a few British special forces on board. The crew chief moved between two fixed machine guns on each side of the aircraft. An RAF patch on his shoulder. Both side doors were open. We were close enough to the ground we could see the smiles of farmers as they waved to us as we passed them at a high rate of speed. The other members of my team were on another Puma just ahead of us. I watched as it danced in the sky. It was overcast. Muddy rivers raged brown below us as we swerved and banked and spiraled our way through the mountain pass at tree top level.

There is a valley in Afghanistan surrounded by the snowcapped mountains of the Hindu Kush. Sweeping grass plains stretch as far as the eye can see under a canopy of blue sky and dappled clouds. The rivers that flow from the rugged Hindu Kush provide the source for an extensive irrigation and canal system for the farms of the valley. Clumps of oak, juniper, and cedar trees huddle together on hillside copses along foothills and riverbeds. Somewhere in the valley nestled among rolling green hills is a nineteenth century fortress surrounded by orchards. This was our destination.

The sun broke through the clouds as our aircraft emerged from the mountain pass. The valley opened before us as we gained altitude. We passed over fields of wheat and maize and networks of dirt roads and small villages. The fortress loomed into view as our pilot circled. We landed in the center of a dirt compound. The walls of the ancient battlements obscured by the dust the rotors kicked up as we landed.

Two British commandos greeted us. Special Boat Service. They stored our gear and ammunition into the beds of two small trucks. I was tired. It was late afternoon. I watched out the window of one of the trucks as we passed Afghan soldiers walking about the campus like setting of the large base. Female Afghan soldiers carrying eggs with children in tow. Gardeners tending flower beds. An occasional peacock strutted along the side of the paved road. Stone fountains gurgled in the center of roundabouts.

We arrived in front of a black iron door. A tower with machine gun positions loomed just above. There was a peacock in the tree next to the iron door. “You have to be careful when you go out of the compound at night.” The British commando said while pointing at the multicolored bird. “These fuckers will hide in the trees and screech and scare the shit out of you.” he said, laughing. “Happened to me a few times.”

The iron door opened into a long and narrow stone hallway. Beyond was another fortress. A network of passages and living quarters. A kitchen, a gym, and a headquarters building. As we progressed deeper inside the complex a magazine fell out of the lieutenant’s rifle and skidded onto the ground. I picked it up and handed it to him. “Get your shit together.” I hissed.

The commando took us to an open bay area with bunks along three sides of the wall. The two female linguists, Mashel, and Meriam were taken to their own quarters. They were sisters from Northern California. They were of Afghan descent and spoke fluent Pashto and Dari. The other linguist was Farook. He was a good-looking guy from Burbank. I sensed there was a love triangle between the three of them.

There were four of us on the counterintelligence team. The lieutenant, who was our client, was in charge. He was Air Force OSI. Office of Special Investigations. He was a dipshit. On the contract side there was Paul, who was the team lead on this mission. He had a lazy eye and although a nice enough guy he was weird. A Trump supporter. He often talked politics in the office. Then there was Stan. A retired ATF agent and my team leader at my base. I respected Stan. He was a careful man. His judgement was solid. He was tall and thin. He wore his long gray hair combed back and it touched his shoulders. Stan was sixty-three years old and fit. Nobody could keep up with him when he walked. He had this old man energy.

A few minutes after we settled into our living quarters a commando came and showed us to the arms room to store our rifles. We kept our pistols. A man with long brown wearing jeans and a white linen shirt greeted us. “I’m the commander here.” He said as he shook our hands. “We’ve been working with the Afghan commandos here for fifteen years.”, he said as he led us down the hallway into the headquarters facility. “We trust them with our lives, and they trust us with theirs.” He paused in front of an aerial map mounted on the wall. “As you can see by the map we are located within grounds of an abandoned university. Our zone of control extends another fifteen kilometers beyond the walls where we patrol with the Afghan commandos.”, the commander said. “The kitchen is across from this building. We have our own chef.”, he continued.

I stumbled on an uneven piece of tile in the dining area. I almost lost my plate of food. I looked over into the kitchen and saw an Afghan gesturing with his hands and smiling. I laughed. I was chagrined. “That’s Harry.” the commando said. “At least that’s what we call him. He’s a deaf mute. He’s been working here for over a decade.”

“Nobody take any of the ripits I brought.” The Lieutenant said at the dining table. He had brought a case from our base in Kabul. “I want to give those as gifts to the Brits.” Ripits were the energy drinks the US military provided to his soldiers. They came in half can sizes. “Nobody gives a shit about Ripits.” Mashel said. The lieutenant shot her an irritated look. The lieutenant and the linguists had a history. When I first came over on temporary assignment to Special Operations the lieutenant pulled me aside and told me he didn’t trust the linguists. He sold me some far-out story about how they tried to undermine him and filed complaints against him. When I sat down with the linguists, I learned that he refused to give them the code to the office despite having security clearances. On a trip back from outside the wire the lieutenant ordered the linguists to get out of the armored SUV and look for bombs. The lieutenant also ordered Mashel to clean his office. All three incidents prompted an investigation into his conduct. “I’m suicidal.” The lieutenant told me on the roof of the special operations building when we were still in Kabul. “Don’t worry. You’ll survive this.” I told him. “This will pass. You have to try and maintain your perspective.”

We were sent here to help the British identify threats within the ranks of the Afghan commandos. We were to conduct interviews of the Afghans to identify any potential force protection or intelligence threats. We needed the help of the Brits for a portion of our mission. The lieutenant failed to inform the British commander of this fact. “I could send your team home right now.” I overheard the commander telling the lieutenant. There was a row between them that tarnished our entire stay. I was on my way to the showers. I found a TV room with plush sofas, a coffee station, and a refrigerator. I opened the refrigerator and found it half full of Ripits but a different flavor than the ones the lieutenant brought.

I woke to the sound of a phone alarm. Then another. Ten minutes passed then another. The lieutenant had set five alarms to wake to. I remembered this being an issue at the Norwegian special operations base when Jim and I went to help them with their mission. “I’m going to kill the lieutenant.” Jim said glumly over breakfast. The multiple alarm thing was an issue. “He set five alarms over an hour and a half period.”

I got out of bed and opened the door from our bay to the dining hall. I passed a metal container in the corner labeled “Body Bags”. Stretchers lined the walls of the dining hall. Harry, the deaf-mute Afghan was sitting down to breakfast with his co-worker. They were both Chef’s assistants in the kitchen. I sat with them. I spoke with Harry through his friend. I learned that Harry had eight children he supported with his work with the British. They lived with his brother. His wife was killed by a Taliban rocket attack in the early days of the war. I realized in speaking with Harry that he wasn’t making fun of me when I stumbled on the uneven tile. He was genuinely concerned and tried to warn me the best he could. Later that day I stumbled upon Harry’s door to his living quarters. On the door was painted “British are freinds to me” in black paint.

I first met the Colonel when my team was setting up operations in their command center. It was an old administration building for the abandoned university. I set up my computer in a small bedroom off the main auditorium. A small bed was in the corner. Stan worked with me in the small room. It was long hours. The Colonel would have one of his officers bring us saffron tea with Afghan raisins, pistachios, and almonds. I learned that this small room was the bedroom of the Afghan Commander. At lunch on the first day Stan offered to stay and watch our gear while I walked back to the British fort for food. Stan would give you the shirt off his back. He was a devout Catholic who stood by his faith. The lieutenant said no. “You need to break everything down and take it with you. It’s best practice to not leave anyone alone.” He said. “These are our allies.” I protested. “I know, I know, but that’s what I want.” These Afghan commandos would have died defending us against anyone seeking to do us harm. The lieutenant was xenophobic. Deep down I knew he was right. For once.

The lieutenant was our client, so we had to comply. We had a lot of gear, and it was a hassle to pack everything up into long black cases and carry it across the campus just to grab lunch. We did that for three days.

The peacocks roamed freely around the British fort. One day when I was at the gym I was working out and saw Stan squatting and taking photos of one of them. I was irritated for some reason. Stan was a jeweler for seven years in Los Angeles before joining the feds. He always went with us to the bazaar in Kabul to help us get deals on gold jewelry and gemstones. I would grow to be very fond of this man.

Stan and I started to get to know the Colonel. “Please, you are guests. Call me Ahmad.” He told us as we shared tea with him and his staff. He spoke excellent English. He was tall and clean shaven. His short black hair belied a receding hairline. He was of Tajik ethnicity. His almond shaped eyes were brown, and he had crow’s feet wrinkles at their edges. Ahmad has seen some things. After we had been on the British fort for a few days Ahmad took us on a tour. He showed us to a building with a huge clay oven where Afghan soldiers in civilian clothes made the bread for the base. Ahmad showed us a grand hall with seating and war trophies along the sides of the walls. There was a Russian rocket launcher that was embroidered with beads. There were swords and rifles. There were wigs that were captured when the Taliban tried to infiltrate the base dressed as women. There was a steel plate with a bullet lodged in its center. “One of my men was wearing that when he was shot. He survived.” Ahmad said.

We left the 19^th Century fortifications and walked through apple orchards. The apple trees were blooming with tiny pink flowers in the spring. We walked to a large swimming pool surrounded by trees within view of the fortress. Snowcapped mountains could be seen in the distance. The blackish brown water of the pool reflected the sky. Leaves floated in clusters on the still surface.

We continued walking the grounds outside of the fortress. We came to a large structure covered in plastic sheeting secured to the rooftop with sandbags. As we walked into the dark foyer our eyes adjusted. The foyer was lined with plush chairs and potted plants. There was a stone fountain in the center of the foyer. The floor was gravel. A vine covered the entire ceiling. Further behind the foyer was another bright area illuminated by sunlight with more seating. To the left and right of the entrance of the foyer were large openings in the plastic walls that led to the gardens of the greenhouse complex. We wandered through the garden for the rest of the afternoon. There were fruit trees and peonies. Flowers and roses. Vegetable and herb gardens. “My soldiers care for this place.” Ahmad told us. He invited us to dinner with his soldiers and the British here at the greenhouse later tonight.

We arrived at dinner just after dusk. We walked inside the greenhouse with the plush chairs. The area was illuminated with Christmas lights and bronze sconces. The smell of bread and spices filled the air. We were served by the Ahmad’s men who wore traditional Afghan clothing. There was lamb biryani, lamb cutlets, saffron rice, braised chicken, lamb curry, an assortment of salads and bread. We sat in a large room under the canopy of the green house. Next to the room was an enclosure which held exotic birds. Paned glass doors were used for walls so that the birds may be both contained and observed. “Thank you for inviting us.” Stan said.

The British kept to themselves at the end of the great hall. The mood seemed strained between them and our team. I blamed the lieutenant. The British commander and Ahmad would exchange pleasantries. When the British finished up their food, they all stood up in unison and departed the greenhouse complex.

I was finishing up my food when Ahmad addressed me. “So, are you married?” he asked. I looked up. “I’m single.” I told him. “You should stay in Afghanistan and find you a beautiful wife.” He continued. “The women here are so beautiful.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.” I said.

“Where are you from?”

“California.”

“Oh yes, California. I’ve been there.” Ahmad said smiling.

“It’s a beautiful state.”

Ahmad sat across from us. He was surrounded by four of his staff. I asked him if he plans to move to the United States.

“No, this is my home.” He said.

“I’ve fought so long to help Afghanistan become a better place. I want to settle down on a farm and work to make my country somewhere people want to come to. I want to raise my children and see my grandchildren prosper. I am tired of fighting.”

We finished dinner and went back to the British fort. The next evening, we boarded our helicopter and flew back to Kabul. This time we boarded a Chinook with its twin rotors. It flew high in the sky.

A few months later Afghanistan fell to the Taliban. Stan and I stayed until the end of the war. We were evacuated with about four hundred Afghans to Qatar. I think back to our dinner often and wonder what became of Ahmad and his family in the chaos of the final days of the war. His dreams falling with his country.