James Rawles - Survivors - A Novel of the Coming Collapse

The conversation left Andy feeling uneasy about his plans for leaving active duty. Strapping on his MOLLE vest to leave his desk at the battalion headquarters, Andy turned to Echanis to say, “Well, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping . I’m going to stop by my CHU and grab a duffel bag and then I’m off to the Haji-mart.”

It was 90 degrees but felt even hotter, since Andy was wearing IBA and had the weight of an M4 carbine slung across his back, a PRC-148 radio, and numerous MOLLE magazine pouches. The only concession to being in a relatively safe area was that he was wearing a boonie hat instead of a MICH helmet.

As Captain Laine walked past the guards manning the HESCO barriers at the FOB’s main gate, he read the signs on the Haji market windows just across the road. They proclaimed: “Very Best PriceS,” “DVD,” and “Custtom TailoreR.” As he walked in the door, the smell of the market hit Andy like a hammer. It was an odd mix of Turkish tobacco smoke, incense, kerosene, sweat, and overcooked lamb. It certainly didn’t smell like the exchange store back at the FOB. Aside from the hint of JP8 jet fuel, which was a presence everywhere in the FOB, the exchange smelled just like any retail store in America: hardly any smell at all-almost antiseptic. In contrast, Ali’s store reeked. An aging Italian-made air conditioner was roaring above the door but not keeping up. It was perhaps 10 degrees cooler inside than outside.

Nabil Jassim Ali gave his usual “Salaam, salaam, Mr. Colonel” greeting. The portly and balding Pashtuni flashed his yellowed, crooked teeth. He called all the American soldiers “Colonel,” even the privates. It still made Andy laugh every time he heard it.

Eyeing the empty duffel bag slung over Laine’s shoulder, Ali chortled. “Perhaps you are wanting to buy plentiful numbers of thingings, Mr. Colonel?” Laine nodded. Ali waved him in and added, “The store I am closing in a few minutes, but for you, Colonel, I am willing to be late.”

“You always have the best deals, Mr. Ali,” Andy said with a smile.

“Do you have afghanis? The American dollar not so good, today. It is slipping off another five percent.”

“Down five percent in one week?” Andy asked.

“In one day, Colonel,” Ali replied seriously. “Soon, I think, I take no more American money.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I have plenty of afghanis.” His front pocket indeed bulged with a huge wad of cash: a mix of afghanis, dollars, and a few euros. In the bottom of his pocket he also felt the weight of eighteen American Eagle one-ounce silver coins in plastic sleeves.

Ali’s store had the usual “Haji-mart” merchandise. There were cigarettes, pirated CDs and DVDs, imitation designer sunglasses, magazines (mostly in Arabic), cheap Chinese knives and ersatz Leatherman tools, candy, sunflower seeds, sodas and sports drinks, jerky, chewing gum, and assorted trinkets.

There were three young Stryker troops already in the store when Captain Laine arrived. When he passed them in the dimly lit narrow aisles, they each acknowledged him with a hushed “High speed, sir!” That was the newly arrived battalion’s unofficial motto. But Andy was accustomed to hearing it at a much higher volume inside the FOB.

Laine sorted through packets of jerky, settling mostly on the teriyaki flavor, piling up a large stack in the crook of his left arm. The three enlisted soldiers completed their purchases, buying the usual Fobbit food: energy bars, packets of salty chips, and Coca-Colas that came in cans with both English and Arabic markings.

After the three soldiers left the store, Laine stacked the packets of jerky on the counter. Then he walked back to the shelf to get a second armload. This, too, he stacked on the counter. Ali smiled. “Perhaps you are wanting to buy all of my jer-kee?” he asked. Laine chuckled, and replied, “Well, not all of it; just most of it.”

Next he went to stock up on batteries. He ignored the Egyptian bargain brand-of dubious quality-and selected a dozen four-packs of Energizer AA batteries, being careful to pick the ones with the latest expiration dates. While Laine was sorting battery packages, Ali locked the front door and turned the “OPEN” sign around.

Laine stacked the batteries in a couple of piles next to the jerky on the counter, then his gaze shifted to Ali’s permanent smile. After a pause, Laine asked, “I’ve heard that you sell some other, ah, unusual merchandise that you keep in back.” He pointed to the doorway to the back room, which among other things served as a kitchen and bedroom.

“Sir, I have none alcohol. It is forbidden.”

“No, no. That is not what I meant. I’ve heard that you have some more expensive merchandise, like watches, some good optics, and guns.”

Ali’s smile got bigger than usual and he nodded. “One moment, Mr. Colonel,” he said, then disappeared into the back room.

Ali returned lugging a large suitcase, and Laine knew that he’d struck pay dirt. This was where the rumor mill at the FOB said the shopkeeper reputedly kept “the good stuff.”

Ali gently slid the heavy suitcase onto the store counter, unfastened the latches, and spun it around. He opened it to display a large assortment of new and used wristwatches, digital cameras, film cameras, binoculars, assorted boxes of ammunition, and a few pistol holsters.

Laine and Ali spent the next five minutes haggling over the price of a pair of rubber-armored Nikon 7x30 compact binoculars. They finally settled on a figure that seemed high to Andy, but he assented, realizing the prices would surely be double that in less than a month, perhaps in just a few days.

Laine paid for the jerky, batteries, and binoculars, nearly depleting his wad of afghanis. Eyeing the boxes of ammo, he said: “I see you have some nine-millimeter ammunition here. Do you have any pistols in that caliber?”

Ali frowned. “Yes, Colonel, I do, but you are cannot be afford them. Prices are-what is it they say-‘escalating.’ For a pistol, a good one, we are conversing of $5,000, American.”

“What if I paid you in silver, uhh, lujain coins? Lujain ?”

“Ahhh! Lujain! This works for me. In Kabul, silver closed today at eighty-three American dollars for one ounce. In London it was eighty-one dollars.” Andy nodded. The man certainly knew his markets.

Mr. Ali turned and again walked to the back room. Laine heard the sounds of boxes being shifted and restacked. Soon the store owner returned with another suitcase that looked even older than the first. He put it on the counter, flipped the latches, and swung it open. Captain Laine let out a slight gasp when he saw the contents. The suitcase was crammed full of pistols, revolvers, holsters, and magazines.

Andy sorted through the guns. He saw older Afghan Army-issue Tokarevs, a few ancient revolvers that looked either Belgian or German, and a couple of Egyptian Helwan pistols. One revolver immediately seemed suspect. It was a Pakistani copy of a Webley .38 revolver. Looking closely at the gun, he saw that it was peppered with fake proof mark stampings and was erroneously stamped “WELBEY.” That made Andy laugh.

Seeing Andy’s expression, the storekeeper noted: “The guns from Peshawar, they are not so good.”

Andy replied, “Now, that’s an understatement!” He didn’t trust their metallurgy and mechanical tolerances any more than he did their spelling.

Putting the revolver down, Andy noticed that there were several plastic Glock Model 19 magazines but no Glock pistols.

“Do you have any Glocks?”

“Sorry, Mr. Colonel, but none of those I have. Those guns of Glock sell very quick, when I am getting one.”

Then Andy spotted a pistol in a well-made holster that looked different from the others. Withdrawing it from the holster, Andy was pleased to see a SIG P228 9mm pistol in nearly new condition. It looked just like the U.S. Army-issue P228s that the CID agents carried, except that it wasn’t stamped “U.S. PROPERTY.”