Macross Fan Fiction ❯ Storm in the Gulf ❯ Prologue

Prologue

Whispers in The Dark

On 11 September 2002, al Qai'da terrorists hijacked four commercial airliners and used three in kamikaze attacks against the World Trade Center Towers in New York City and the Pentagon in Arlington, VA. This powerful statement of motivation and ability by terror actors with global reach began a years-long war known then as the War on Terrorism. Today, historians call that period of global conflict the Unification Wars-the last in a long line of major world wars preceding the institution of Earth's first global government.

- ed., Commodore (ret.) Presley H. Cannady, UE Space Navy "Introduction," A Critical History of the Unification Wars, published in Warfighting of the Future, official journal of the US Joint Military Affairs College, Winter 2019

* * *

Kushka, Afghanistan (On the Afghan-Turkmen Border)

2 May 2002

Most of the people were gone, casualties of the lingering violence that still threatened Allied efforts to pacify the Northwest. Some had fled to the refugee camps in Turkmenistan, seeking haven from the few Pashtun tribes who either had yet to give up on the dying Taliban-once the fundamentalist Muslim rulers of ninety percent of Afghanistan-or had given into their centuries old, violent hatred of Turkmen and Tajik minorities and persecuted them whenever ethnic cleansing piqued their interest.

Ismail looked out on the village from nearly fifteen hundred altitude, peering onto the small black and white dots that on closer inspection would probably yield a small herd of goat and its aged master. Some hadn't fled, choosing instead to become one of the handful of inconsequential survivors tasked with upkeeping their homes and ensuring that the displaced would be able to find the sites of their former homes and rebuild. For the most part they were old men. Many were widowed with grandchildren who'd long since left for more promising protectorates. The four or five women who stayed remained veiled in the bur'qa-their own choice, not that of an tyrannical warlord. Ismail bin Ali al-Majouz, all of fourteen, was the youngest. By that virtue, he was the strongest and the fastest. That's why he carried the rifle and guarded his uncle's herd.

His long dead father taught him how to use the Kalashnikov when he was just a child. Soon after leaving home to fight the Soviets under Masood and the great elders of the Northern Alliance, the elder Majouz died when an infidel gunship slammed itself onto the rock face from which he and his second had fired the deadly Stinger missile. It was the first family member Ismail had lost to the War, but not the last.

His brother had been killed at Mazar-e-Sharif. His cousin died there, too, but Iddi had fought for the Taliban. Three of his father's daughters had died from disease, and a fourth tortured and killed by the hands of drugged-up Tajik mujahadeen who came down from these mountains and terrorized Kushka one stormy night five years ago. Even so, never once did Ismail use the gun. Even though he was supposed to guard his village's livestock, he could not protect his sister. He longed for retribution, insallah-if Allah willed it. His mother had, too; or so he thought. She'd died soon after his sister, of either grief or sickness. He would never know, for his mother had worn the burqa as she always had when she suddenly died in the street. There were no doctors in Kushka, and what healing art was available was restricted to men--drones who would not treat a woman who wasn't their spouse or blood.

His two best friends once shared this duty with him, but they ran away months ago to fight for the winning side at Herat. He hadn't heard from them since, but he'd wished he'd gone. Kushka, like so many other villages far from their tribal seat of authority, bred men who could or would not peg themselves into any single loyalty. When they were indebted to the North Alliance, they'd fight for Masoud. When the Taliban came and imposed their strict rules, the zealots amongst the Kushkan villagers rose up and fought for Mullah Omar. Ismail, it seemed at times, was the only man of age and able-body who did not fight. He didn't have to. He protected the goats.

He was doing just that when two strangers made his way into the village.

* * *

Ismail's aunt called him Hafiz. The first stranger spoke Iranian Farsi, not terribly different from the village's native Dari dialect but strange enough that Ismail couldn't understand his words without concentrating very hard. He wasn't Hazara, his forehead was too large and his nose too long and narrow. It bent outward in an almost unnatural way towards the top of the bridge, but even though Ismail had never seen a Persian before he knew that this man had not been born with such a feature. Another villager had claimed he was Ismaili, even though he claimed to believe in the twelfth imam. In any case, he was a brother Muslim. This village had no protector other than Ismail, and that this stranger had not descended into banditry like so many others that had come this way quickly reminded the villagers of their charitable obligations.

The most pious of the local men doted on the newcomer; they were old and wealthy enough to house him and his friend-a man who had not revealed his name to the village people-without much difficulty. Hafiz lodged with the man who fancied himself an mullah, largely because he could read Arabic the best. When Ismail and other townsfolk were around, he talked with a conviction and the tenderness in his voice long associated with the sweet, sound of an educated cleric. He did not talk much except about news of the outside world.

Ismail had never seen an American.

"They are devils, infidels," his uncle told him after evening prayers that night. It had been two days since the stranger had arrived. His aunt remained silent, careful not to speak when her husband was around to head the household. "They think they are so strong in the sky. Someday, Emir Khan will show them."

The boy knew little about the mysterious, almost almighty, personality who ruled this part of Afghanistan from Heart. His aging uncle often brought back fanciful stories of war and foreigners after delivering some of his herd to the Emir of Herat, the Tajik legend whom young Ismail took his given name. However, his uncle was wise in such things; everyone in in the village relied on him for news from beyond the mountains and no one dared question him-not even the village elders.

The stranger spoke much like his uncle.

Hafiz spent two days in Ismail's village, enjoying the hospitality of the faithful, speaking of the infidel and his war against Allah, and negotiating some sort of arrangement with the elders. He mostly talked with the most influential of the village men, an old farmer who had claimed the lands leading up to into the mountain-side green where Ismail let his goats graze. There were caves on that land, and Hafiz and his men wished to rent them for a time being. In exchange, they would assist the village-Ismail particularly-in defending itself against the banditry of stronger, neighboring clans.

Ismail liked that; watching the goats was long, tough work. He was small for his age, too.

* * *

Seven trucks came the next day. Ismail stood to the side as the two and a half ton monsters-he'd never seen anything like these before-rocked back and forth on the narrow road, slowly but surely making their way towards the village. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. Nobody had ever driven a motor vehicle on these roads before, at least not since before the first war against the infidels. Two had rolled past before he finally raised his rifle in the air and fired a single shot. All seven trucks came to an immediate stop as Ismail wonderously pondered what would happen next.

The driver of the first truck dismounted and walked back up the trail towards Ismail; the young herdsman immediately recognized him as the stranger that had left late last night. Swiftly and respectfully, he lowered his weapon.

"Little Brother," the Man Called Hafiz called out to him in a pigeon attempt at Dari. Still the boy understood, fearing the blank yet dark expression on the man's face. "You would do better to stand over there. The herd is not very far but we could see you from a long way off. God will protect you."

Ismail scanned the road on which they had come. Indeed he could see it winding away into the mountains. It had never occurred to him that anyone with ill intent towards his village could see him from so far, yet he had no doubt that the stranger spoke the truth. After all, couldn't he see the fires from the village from almost a half hour's walk away?

"Thank you, uncle," he said meekly, partly ashamed that the stranger felt the need to critique his stewardship yet honored he had taken the time to speak with him. He didn't notice when Hafiz's expression changed to one of sympathy.

"Such responsibility for one so young," he clicked his tongue, lapsing into Farsi again. "I have a son about your age, but he is in school. How is it that you are here everyday watching over goats?"

Ismail took a moment to decipher the older man's words. "Who else will do it, Uncle?"

One of Hafiz's company said something in Arabic and they all laughed. Ismail couldn't even read the language of the Prophet, a source of perennial shame for many of the villagers when educated men came calling. Still, he laughed with them. The stranger saw right through it.

"My friend says that the only schooling a boy like yourself needs is in how to hold that rifle without getting yourself killed. He is right, but we do not mean to make fun of you."

"Please, Uncle. I took no offense."

"God praise him," Hafiz laughed back in the direction of his companions, laying a warm, approving hand on Ismail's shoulder. It felt so much like his father's touch after the boy had done something to make his family proud. Then Hafiz turned back to him, pulling out a small piece of paper. "Can you read this, Little Brother?"

A list of instructions dotted the dirty, ripped rag. Ismail instantly recognized the Dari letters and the Afghan Farsi dialect. He instantly recognized four of the bullets as passages from the Qu'ran he'd memorized once as a young boy.

"Yes, I can." Ismail nodded frantically, soaking up the moment. "What would you have me do with this, Uncle?"

"I would like you to stay here and guide any other trucks in our party to your village. You will be our sentry, to ensure that our friends find their way. Also, to ensure that those who we do not know stay away."

Ismail said nothing, but the confused look on his face did not go unnoticed.

"I will keep two men with you. Watch them always. They will show you what to do. Then you'll understand what I've given you. You may learn a great deal yet, Little Brother."

Ismail smiled and happily complied. Guarding the goats was tedious work. Now he'd have men about to keep him company and tell him stories.

Maybe they'd even teach him to shoot and fight like mujahadeen.

* * *