Jason Elliot - The Network

‘By God,’ he says, ‘those men are no Afghans.’ And a look of relish spreads slowly across his face.

H calls down to the others, who are looking up at us expectantly. ‘I need an ammo count. Everything we’ve got.’ He pats the metal ammunition box that’s fixed to the PK belt-fed machine gun at our feet.

‘Chand hast?’ I ask.

‘Devist,’ answers the guard. There’s two hundred rounds of link in the box. H slaps the guard firmly on the back, points to his own eyes with two fingers and then to the horizon. Then we run to the rear turrets and look over the terrain.

‘No way out there,’ says H. ‘Right track’s mined and the left one’s too steep.’

The track that leads to the neighbouring ravine is far too steep for an ordinary vehicle, but looking at it gives me an idea.

‘We can do it,’ I say. ‘In the G. It’s steep but we can do it. With all the diffs on and in low-range gear. All we have to do is get out of the front and along the side of the fort. They won’t be able to follow us.’

‘Then we need a diversion,’ says H. ‘Let’s get the others set up.’

We speed down the earthen steps that lead to the courtyard, where the men have gathered the weapons and ammunition. Everyone has heard by now of the approaching trucks, and their faces have the solemn look of men who feel the closeness of the unknown.

Our weapons are spread on the ground. There are four high-explosive rounds for the RPG launcher, three AKs, including the one we borrowed from the Talib, and Mr Raouf’s AK-SU, which means each of us has a weapon of some kind, except for H. In the guards’ webbing there are six full magazines, which H divides between the AKs. We also have the Brownings and several magazines’ worth of 9-millimetre rounds.

Spontaneously the men have drawn themselves up in a rough line, which H now travels, assigning each of them a weapon after examining it and telling him where to position himself. Then he asks Aref to translate for him, and steps away from the line.

‘It was not our intention to bring you into a battle,’ he says, looking into the faces in turn. ‘But if the men who are on their way here have evil intentions against us, we must be ready to defeat them. They are not our friends. They are not your countrymen. I hope to avoid fighting them, but if they choose to fight us, they will pay the price.’

‘Allahu akbar,’ says one of the men, quietly but distinctly.

‘There are many of them and few of us. But remember they will not be expecting us to resist them, and the surprise will cost them dearly. We have a strong position of defence. And they know nothing of how many we are, or how determined we are.

‘Be aware of these things. If our enemy reaches the slopes around us they will be able to destroy us. Allow nothing to move above us, and nothing to come through the doors.

‘If we fight hard, we will succeed. Everybody clear?’

There’s a moment’s silence, then one of the guards speaks. ‘We’re Afghans,’ he says evenly. ‘We already know how to fight.’

‘Then be ready to fight,’ says H, ‘and God help you.’

All the men deploy to the turrets except Sher Del, whose experience and help we need. The three of us move to the room where the missiles are piled and haul out the wooden case which contains the 82-millimetre mortar. While H manoeuvres it onto its baseplate in a corner of the courtyard, I drag the ammunition boxes with Sher Del out from the room and open them alongside. There are twelve rounds, which Sher Del shows us how to prime and charge. H adjusts the mortar bipod to its maximum elevation.

‘I’ll need you to spot for me,’ he says. ‘Watch for the fall of shot and call out the range.’ He pats the mortar tube. ‘This ought to keep their heads down.’ He smiles at me and wipes the sweat from his face with his forearm. ‘Don’t fret,’ he says. ‘There’s only fifty blokes out there. There were two hundred of them at Mirbat.’

I feel strangely at peace. The pure and uncomplicated purpose of battle, which tranquillises all thoughts of past or future, settles on me now. It displaces the habitual tyranny of the mind and opens onto a luxurious quietness, which one longs for but never quite attains in ordinary life. Life seems miraculously beautiful and fragile.

The three of us walk to the forward turret and watch the convoy of pickups as it ascends the track. I take the magazine from the Browning and slide two rounds into my hand. Then with the pliers on the Leatherman I pull free the lead slugs in turn and remove half the cordite charge from the casings. I replace the slugs, then return the two rounds to the magazine.

The pickups swing onto the flat ground beneath us. The guard in the opposite turret, tightening his grip on the stock of the PK, looks across to H, who returns a gesture of restraint. The men below us are not expecting a fight, which means they’ve been put at ease by their commander. I’m hoping it’s because they’ve been told we’re unarmed and not in a position to resist. They dismount casually from the trucks, shaking the dust from their clothes and looking up at the walls of the fort like tourists beneath a cathedral. Three or four men with scarves tied Middle-Eastern-style around their faces dismount more cautiously and position themselves defensively behind the cabs of the trucks. There are perhaps some Afghans among them but it is impossible to know. They have all become our enemy now. H is lying on his stomach, watching them through the Kite.

One of the pickups is black. Clusters of RPG rounds are fastened behind the cab like satanic bouquets of flowers. Six or seven men sit in the back, but two have jumped out and are conferring with whoever’s inside. Then the nearside door opens, and a man in a black shalwar emerges with the confident manner of someone in authority. It’s Manny. I feel the pounding of my heart.

‘Is that your friend?’ asks H in a whisper.

‘Yes.’

‘Doesn’t look much like he’s come to save us.’

I don’t reply. To judge from appearances, H is right. It’s hard not to suppose that Manny has brought this overwhelming force to attack us. The next few minutes seem to confirm this worst of scenarios.

Manny takes a loudhailer from the pickup and blows into the mouthpiece. Two men behind him unsling weapons from their shoulders but their posture is still relaxed.

‘You in there, Ant? Hello?’

He walks brazenly to the centre ground in front of the fort, looks up and brings the loudhailer to his mouth again.

‘Open up, Ant,’ he calls. ‘You’ve got something in there that we want. If you don’t come out, we’ll have to come in and get it ourselves. Think we can arrange something that suits everyone? We’ve all come a long way.’

It’s the pass phrase I’ve been waiting for. H nods at me then whispers an instruction to Sher Del.

‘Why don’t you come in so we can talk about it?’ I shout.

Manny confers with the man who comes to his side. He’s a bulky-looking fighter with a black scarf tied around his head revealing only his eyes. Ammunition pouches stretch across his chest.

‘Mind if I bring a friend?’ calls Manny.

‘Just the one,’ I reply.

H and I descend to the courtyard, where H positions himself against the wall next to the entrance. I pull on the bolts of the smaller door, open it fully and walk back towards the centre of the courtyard. There’s a clear but narrow view to the flat ground outside, which is momentarily obscured as Manny’s bodyguard steps inside, followed by Manny. The bodyguard looks understandably puzzled and anxious. He sees H, unarmed, behind him, but no one else, because they’re hidden by the walls. The two of them walk towards me. The bodyguard is standing to my left and a couple of paces behind Manny, who gives a nod of reassurance to him, then steps forward.