Chapter 12
Kabul, Afghanistan
December 23, 2001
“To the finest men I have ever served with.”
George raised a bottle of Russian Baltika beer, Number 7, and held it high. “I am honored by every single thing you gentlemen did. Every moment you spent here on the ground. Every ounce of blood, sweat, and determination you gave. Everything you did was heroes’ work.” He pumped his bottle as his chin wavered. “We will get him. I swear it. We will get Bin Laden. Not today. But we will.”
In the corner of the command center at the CIA station in Kabul, in the same old Taliban guesthouse, Ryan turned away, hiding his face in the shadows. Kris watched him blink fast, wipe his nose. Sniff hard as his jaw muscles clenched and held.
At Kris’s side, David leaned into him, their bodies touching from shoulders to ankles. One of David’s arms wound around Kris, his hand disappearing beneath Kris’s sweater, palm against the skin at the small of his back. His thumb ghosted over the baby-fine hairs on Kris’s skin, hairs he hadn’t known he had until David strummed them, made him shiver. Made his bones melt.
He’d wanted to fling himself into David’s arms when he’d seen their jeep bounce down the mountain, sliding and shaking on flinty shale and the jeep’s broken shocks. They were more mud monsters and frozen swamp creatures than men when they’d arrived, covered in dirt like they’d burrowed through the mountain. David’s burnished skin, rich like bronze, had seemed ghostly, a deathly pale, and Kris had wiped his hand down David’s cheek, ostensibly to clean the dust away. He’d just wanted to feel David’s warmth, his presence, to know that he was alive.
Beneath his palm, David had trembled, a grenade shivering before it exploded. He hadn’t said anything, but Kris saw the supernovas in his gaze, the burn of his soul blasting through the tattered remnants of his control.
David, like Ryan, like Palmer, like the rest of them, had come back defeated. Wounded. Empty.
Jim had arranged for transport straight back to Kabul, from their base camp through Jalalabad and back though Nangarhar Province. In the weeks they’d been in the mountains, Jalalabad had turned from a war-ravaged ghost town to a vibrant trading city, full of honking cars, rickshaws, bicycles, and people moving in every direction. After staring at the bleak moonscape of Tora Bora, the explosion of life, of color, of humanity, was almost too overwhelming. David had hidden his face, tucking his head sideways against Kris’s shoulder, and they’d hidden the clasp of their hands between their thighs for the entire drive.
Kabul had changed as well. As vibrant as Jalalabad had become, Kabul was a hundred times more. More people, more color, more traffic, more horns, more life. More women in hijab, fewer burqas. More children playing games and flying kites. The movie theater, shuttered under the Taliban, had reopened, and lines stretched for hours.
George had met them at the CIA station and had promptly ordered Palmer and his men to continue driving to Bagram, to the new Army’s Unified Command Center. They needed to be debriefed and seen by medical, and the Army insisted on doing it their way. Kris almost hadn’t let go of David, and their fingers had clung to each other until their arms would have pulled apart if they’d held on any longer.
“Don’t worry, Kris,” George had murmured. “They’re coming back. We’ve got a new mission coming up.”
He’d taken a lukewarm shower and tossed and turned on his thin mattress all night, his thoughts consumed by David.
But, just after breakfast, as he was trying to coax resurrection out of a cup of shitty instant coffee, Palmer had led his men back into the CIA station. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said to George, who’d been sitting two seats down from Kris.
“Pull up a chair, gentleman. Dig in.”
Palmer’s team had torn into the breakfast the Afghan cooks had made. They’d eaten like they’d never seen food, shoveling breakfast into their mouths at world-hot-dog-eating-championship pacing.
David had come around the table and sat in the empty seat beside Kris.
He’d showered, and his cuts had been bandaged, and there were stitches above one eyebrow. Bruises along his cheeks and jaw. His knuckles were raw, his skin cracked from the cold. But his eyes still burned every time he looked at Kris. Need pulsated from him, like gravity, like the oceans’ tides, pulling Kris in.
George had called a meeting after breakfast, carting in a crate of beers and passing them out individually. “From Uzbekistan.” He’d grinned. “I heard this is the strongest Russian beer an American can drink. The rest of the brews are fermented engine oil.” Chuckles rose, halfhearted.
After he’d thanked them all and had extolled their heroics with hearty cheers, he led the team in the first round of drinks. George sputtered after his first sip, nearly choking on the thick, dark brew, far more robust than a Guinness or a black stout in the States. Palmer laughed and clapped him on the back.
“I told you we were going to find Bin Laden, and I meant that. We, the people in this room,” George said, nodding to each and every man, in his team and in Palmer’s. “And we have a new mission. We are the team charged with hunting down and capturing Bin Laden, wherever he is, no matter how long it takes. And we’ll capture every other high-value al-Qaeda leader, too.
“Which means we’re moving shop. Al-Qaeda isn’t in Afghanistan anymore, at least not in any real presence. They fled, or they’re trapped in Kandahar, which means the Marines are going to smoke them out. Most of the high-value leadership made it out of Afghanistan overland to Pakistan. They’re either hiding in the tribal areas, or they’ve made their way to Peshawar or Kashmir. So, we’re on the move. In two days, the entire team is moving to Islamabad station.” He took another sip of his beer, cringing as he swallowed. “The next two days are yours. I’m sorry we can’t give you a better Christmas vacation. But the Army has set up some facilities at Bagram for their soldiers. There’s the theater, showing Bollywood’s finest from a decade ago. And there’s plenty of beds, hot chow, and secured internet here. Sleep, eat, and call home.”
“Sounds great, sir.” Palmer held out his hand. George shook it. Jackson and Warrick were already cheering, talking about plans to eat until they puked and then sleep until they couldn’t physically sleep another minute. Jim and Phillip had their heads together, muttering about Bagram and the facilities there. Ryan stayed in the corner, his arms folded, staring at the ground.
David’s gaze met Kris’s.
Two days, all to themselves.
Visions tumbled through Kris’s mind, dreams he’d nurtured through the scant few minutes he’d slept at base camp, always clutching the radio close in case David or the team radioed in. Finally, after all this time, after everything. He could see his own eagerness reflected in David’s eyes.
“Kris, Sergeant Haddad.” George stopped in front of them as the rest of the team peeled away, off on their own adventures. “I… wanted to say something to you, Kris.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. “I am very proud of you. You proved everyone wrong. Really rose above all of the challenges you faced.” He smiled and held out his hand.
Never let anyone else define your life, Kris. Never let anyone else define who you are. They will always get it wrong. David’s words came back, slamming into his skull like gongs being struck, like fireworks shooting off into the night sky.
“George, the only real challenge I faced here was you. And Ryan.” Kris felt that fire that had always burned in him reignite, felt the flames grow larger. Something had slipped, between the boy he’d been, who’d refused to hide, and the man he’d become, who had let other people set barriers for him. When had he given up? “The only thing I had to prove wrong was your prejudice. I knew what I was doing. I was confident in myself. I didn’t struggle with what I could do. No, George, I am proud of you for finally seeing that I was working my ass off, that I was doing everything I could. That I knew what I was talking about and really was put on the team to be the subject matter expert.”
George stared. His jaw hung open.
Kris put the cherry on top. “I’m proud of you for finally seeing the real me, George.”
“That’s… one way to put it,” George said slowly.
“It’s the right way to put it.”
George’s gaze darted to David. David stood beside Kris, silent and sentinel. He stared at George, daring him to disagree.
“I think I was right about one thing, at least,” George finally said, his voice low. He stared pointedly at them both, holding each of their gazes for a long moment.
David straightened. Kris heard his vertebrae crack, felt his muscles tighten until they started to tremble.
“Which brings me to my next question.” He cleared his throat. “State wants to reopen the US Embassy in Kabul after the new year. They want someone to go through it first, get an assessment of the damage. I… was wondering if you two would be interested. It’s a big, empty building. Might take two days to go through.”
Kris’s head swam, like he’d been plunged into the ocean, tossed on waves after falling from a high cliff. George was… giving them space? Privacy? Calling them on their fledgling relationship, and, inexplicably, enabling it? In all of Kabul, in all of Afghanistan, was there any place he and David could possibly be together without any fear of discovery or of reprisal?
“We’d be happy to,” David rumbled. “We’ll start immediately.”
“Good.” George looked like he’d just shit his pants. “I expect you back here in two days.”
The doors to the embassy had barely shut behind them when David first pressed Kris against the wall.
David’s body surrounded him, covered him completely, devoured him. David pressed his forehead to Kris’s, lips hovering microns apart. Their breaths shook, tiny gasps keeping the last of their bodies separate.
“You want this?” David breathed. “You want me?”
Kris saw the spark of hesitation, of fear, in David’s eyes. He reached for David, his hands on David’s hips, pulling him closer, tighter, as if they could melt into each other’s bodies then and there. “I want you, David.”
David shuddered, his eyes squeezing shut as he drew in a breath, as he pressed into Kris. Had anyone wanted Kris before? Truly wanted him, like everything in David wanted him?
Finally, David’s lips brushed Kris’s, a tentative kiss, so unlike their bruising clash at the base of Tora Bora. Their lips caught, stuck, clung together. David tasted him slowly, like Kris was made of honey and David was tasting his soul. Kris had had hundreds of first kisses in his life, from high school to college and beyond, hundreds of kisses at parties and before one-night stands, with men he’d wanted and men he didn’t care for. No one had ever kissed him with the tenderness of David’s touch, the intensity of his desire. Kris shivered, shook. His knees went limp.
David caught him. Their bodies aligned in just the right way.
“The ambassador used to live here,” Kris gasped. “His apartment is on the top floor.”
They kissed their way up the stairs, bouncing from wall to wall, pushing each other back and molding their bodies as one. Hands cradled faces, jaws, wrapped around waists. At the top floor, they started stripping, shedding mud-spattered jackets and dusty sweaters. In two months, they’d never seen each other’s skin, had never seen beneath the contours of a thick sweater. Kris’s bare skin puckered as the cold air hit him, his thin chest contracting. David was there instantly, wrapping his arms around him, pressing his furred chest to Kris, a primal connection completed when David closed his lips over Kris’s again.
Their bodies had changed. Kris had come to Afghanistan slender and waifish, his strength always of the lean variety. Weeks of mountaineering and combat missions had molded his upper body, given him strength where he’d never had any. David’s strength had ebbed thanks to the weeks in Tora Bora, the deprivation and harshness eating away at his reserves. Bruises and scars marred his skin from impact blasts, slides down the mountain, times when he’d had to duck for cover when al-Qaeda had fought back, sent their artillery raining down near David’s position. His body was a map of the war. Kris’s hands roamed, covering every mar, every battle, as if he could heal him with his touch alone.
The ambassador’s apartment had been left unused since Dubs’s assassination. They kissed their way into a time capsule, a replica of the late ’70s, dust-covered and forgotten. The windows were slim, near the ceiling, only to let in light. No one could see as they shed the last of their clothes, boots, pants, and briefs. No one saw Kris pull David on top of him, into the ambassador’s bed. No one saw David slide onto Kris, cover him completely, begin to rock against him, like he wanted their atoms to merge, like he was trying to disappear within Kris’s being. Like he was the ocean, coming in for Kris’s shore.
David lay between Kris’s legs, his head pillowed on Kris’s chest, ear over his heart. Kris’s hand stroked up and down David’s back. They’d made love until they’d thought they would die, until Kris had thought he’d combust, explode, become a star in the heavens.
Outside, the sun had dropped beneath the mountains, and the last rays of light sent long shadows through the thin windows ringing the room. Kabul hummed beyond the empty embassy, car horns and wagon wheels and donkey snorts mixed with shouts in Dari and Pashto.
“Does this come with us to Pakistan?” Kris whispered. “Or do we leave this here?”
David’s shoulders tightened. He looked up, his beard scratching against Kris’s chest. Kris tried to lock down his emotions, shield his heart. Tried to throw up walls behind his eyes, just in case.
“We both have experience loving and leaving, I think.” Kris tried to smile. He recognized in David the same love-them-and-leave-them style he’d had back in America. Ships passing in the night. The rush of combat. Adrenaline, close quarters. Too much had happened, too fast, and they needed to burn through it somehow. “If this is just what it is, I understand.”
David’s chest rose and fell, his breath quickening. He pressed a kiss to Kris’s chest, over his heart, and spoke into his skin. “I don’t want to stop.”
Relief was physical, the unclenching of Kris’s heart, the rush of giddy joy, the way he squeezed his fingers into David’s back, nails biting into his skin.
Smiling, David slid up the bed, tangling his legs and arms around Kris. He tugged a blanket up with him, a dusty wool cover, and snuggled close. “I don’t ever want to stop this. Us.”
“I had no idea,” Kris said, turning to face David. He propped his head on one elbow. “I never thought you were gay. You confused me. But I never thought—”
“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is the law of the land. I can fight and die for America, but they can’t handle me loving another man.” David shrugged. He laced his fingers through Kris’s, stroked his thumb over Kris’s knuckles. “I’ve lived my life like a kaleidoscope. If you look at me one way, I’m the Army Special Forces soldier. Stern. Solid. American.” He chuckled. Kris grinned. “But I’m also Arab. Muslim, in some part of me.” He swallowed, squeezed Kris’s hand. “And… gay. Even though no other part of me can accept that. It feels like I’m different people all in one body, and I don’t know how to be everyone equally, or if I even can.”
David pressed his forehead to Kris’s, turned those burning, starlight eyes into Kris’s soul. “When I am with you, I feel parts of myself come together. Parts I thought couldn’t ever mix. You make me want to be everything I am. For you.”
Kris couldn’t breathe. “I’m… just—” He was just a kid, a skinny, brown Puerto Rican who had been underestimated his entire life. He was just a side-eyed snort, an afterthought, someone people consistently expected nothing from. Hadn’t George just proven that?
How was he everything to David? When David had become everything to him?
“You’re like a part of me I didn’t know was missing. Part of my mind, or my soul. Like you have the thoughts I haven’t thought yet, feelings I haven’t felt yet, waiting for me. Inside you. You feel like a part of me I’ve been craving.” David’s voice was a whisper, a breath.
“David…” His vision swam. He couldn’t breathe. He cupped David’s cheek. Words wouldn’t come, not through his strangled throat.
“Ever since we got here, things have been upside down. What’s right and wrong. According to the others, we’re here to kill all the Arabs, get revenge for what happened. But I’m Arab. And I’m not saying I condone or understand what the hijackers did, or anything about al-Qaeda, I don’t. Not at all. But I do understand… Arab pain. Muslim pain. Libya—” He hissed, and everything in him tightened. “I saw it in Somalia. And I see it here. There’s this collective pain, this ache, in the Muslim soul. And now I feel the world turning even more against us. Are we supposed to shoulder the collective guilt, the blame for nine-eleven, too? When the Muslim soul is already shattered?” He buried his face in Kris’s neck, shallow breaths warming Kris’s skin. Kris stroked his back, tangled his fingers in his dark hair.
“What do you think is going to happen?” David whispered. “Now, after this?”
Kris chewed on his lip. “This isn’t just a battle to capture Bin Laden, or to avenge the deaths from nine-eleven. Or to get rid of the Taliban to make a free Afghanistan and eliminate terrorist safe havens. Bin Laden spent years building the narrative for this attack. He’s framed his entire movement around one hadith from Abu Hurairah. ‘When you see the black banners coming from Khorasan, join that army, even if you have to crawl over ice’.”
David spoke the last half of the hadith with him. “‘For no power will be able to stop them, and they will reach Jerusalem, where they will erect their flags’.”
“The Islamic end times, Armageddon, begins with the fighters coming out of Khorasan, after striking a fatal blow against their enemies. Bin Laden’s declaration of war against the US was signed from ‘Hindu Kush, Khorasan, Afghanistan.’ He’s used the Khorasan hadith in all of his speeches, his videos, his recruitment. He believes, and the people who join him believe, that they are fulfilling the Islamic end times prophecies.” Kris stroked down David’s back, fingers dipping into the valley of his spine, mapping the bones of his vertebrae.
David exhaled. “There’s too much pain. Too much Muslim pain.” He swallowed. “Are you going to stay in?”
“I have to. The hijackers, their names were on my desk. And we should have known. With Bin Laden’s ’96 declaration of war and his fatwas. His three warnings, like the Quran prescribes, for declaring war. We should have put the dots together. I should have seen…” Kris chewed on his lip. “I bear some responsibility for what happened.”
“Kris—”
“I do. I knew Bin Laden and al-Qaeda were dangerous. I knew they wanted to hurt us. The embassies in Africa, the USS Cole. I just didn’t think… I never imagined they’d do what they did. I didn’t think it was possible.” He sighed, biting his lip and rolling it back and forth. “I need to spend the rest of my career making up for that. And always think about what is possible. What is coming next. I have to.” Kris scooted close to David, hitching one leg around David’s calf. “What about you?”
“I have another few years left on my second enlistment. Sounds like my unit is linking to the CIA. Happens, occasionally. I’d never been part of a CIA secondment before.” David stroked Kris’s leg, his palm circling Kris’s thigh. “I want to stay with you,” he said softly. “I’m afraid I’ll get lost in this war.” His eyes were black holes, and the burning edge of his soul peeked out, just barely. Like the shadow of a crescent moon, or a whisper against Kris’s skin.
“I think the whole world is going to get lost in this war.”