Death Comes in the Morning

  Chapter 44

  I groggily awoke when someone pounded on the door of the hut. He yelled, “Everybody up!” Words were then shouted in a language I did not know. Presumably it was Arabic. So at least some of the guards spoke a language that the Afghans understood. Regardless of the language, it was clearly our call to work in the fields. I still felt like crap, but at least the nausea that had consumed me yesterday was gone, and the throbbing in my head had subsided to a dull background pain.

  A prisoner head count was taken as we emerged from the gloom of the hut, the security of our shackles was checked, and we were marched over to a short wooden table that held three large food containers. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, salted crackers, and water. The Afghans gorged themselves greedily. Though I was still full from stuffing myself at Gates’ expense the night before, I followed their lead and ate.

  I was certain these first few days of labor would be physically demanding, until I got past the soreness of strained muscles and became conditioned to the tasks. That was nothing compared to the demands on my state of mind. I felt depressed as the hard realization of my situation hit me. Trapped inside a seemingly impenetrable barrier. And the outside world thought I was a killer. No one out there even knew I was in here.

  My surge of hate and vengeful feelings last night had subsided. But they had not been entirely extinguished. I had to sustain that a long time, looking for the right moment to make a move. I had no clue what or when that move would happen, but it had to happen or I would die here. Today was a day of observation. Get the lay of the land, fall into the flow with the other prisoners, and avoid pissing off the guards.

  My work was switched from planting pine seedlings to watering duty. I recalled reading in my Internet searching that poppies are hardy plants, which will grow in many climates, as long as they get sun and water. The creek was a ready source of water. It was fed by a spring. The water bubbled out of the ground upslope of much of the poppy field, so irrigation trenches had been dug to feed many of the plants.

  I was given a shovel to clear out any trenches that had collapsed so that water continued to flow to the plants. Some of the ditches were a couple feet deep, forcing me to bend far down to reach the bottom, push the shovel under the wet soil, wiggle it back and forth or right and left so the suction of the mud would release its grip on the blade of my spade, then dump the small pile of debris down-slope. As young and as fit as I thought myself, it was not long before my back, legs, and arms burned from the effort. For hours I dug the muck from the ditches. And it only grew more difficult as the sun grew warmer, beaming mercilessly down on me even through the partial shade of the camouflage netting.

  While I worked, I also observed the Afghans at work. Their labor with the poppies was oddly familiar, even though this was my first exposure to it. It was another thing I had read in my Internet searching. The planting of poppy seeds was finished long before I arrived here. Early on, weeding to eliminate competition for the young plants would have been a constant chore, but now it was a secondary need. The immediate need was water.

  I recalled reading that from planting of poppy seeds to harvesting was about three months. With this being late August and planting probably being late May this far north, harvest time was in high gear. The key steps in harvesting involved slitting the bulbous seedpods and then collecting the sap. These steps required the use of short curved knives. Since the Afghans seemed to be very proficient at this task, several of them were issued knives for that work. They were sequestered from the rest of the workers, presumably so the whereabouts of the knives could be more easily monitored. Even though all of them were shackled at the ankles, the guards kept their distance and did not molest these workers. Wandering too close to a desperate man with a knife is a ticket for early departure from this life.

  Yet, in spite of this risk, I could see why the soldiers gave them knives. The Afghans seemed adept at this poppy farming, swiftly slicing a pod or collecting the sap and then moving to the next plant. It was a skill that any of the soldiers could learn, but they probably would not reach the level of proficiency of the Afghans for harvesting such a huge crop in the one planting season available to them.

  From first light, I spent the day mentally concocting all types of weapons out of the materials available. I wanted desperately to get my hands on one of those small curved knives. But since I was without the skills of the Afghans, a knife was never closer than many yards away. Other than the shovel I used to clear irrigation ditches, I had not seen any metal objects. There wasn’t even a spoon for the oatmeal at breakfast. We had eaten that with our fingers, dipping them into the liquidy gruel, or slurping it down from the rim of the cheap plastic bowls. The bowls were collected and counted after breakfast, so even taking one of those, smashing it with a rock, and using the chards as weapons was not an option. As for the shovel, I could see no way to conceal that or easily stash it as a weapon.

  There were no windows in the hut where we slept, so there was not even glass to be broken from a pane to use as a crude knife. The one light bulb in the hut was covered by a small metal cage, which was bolted high into the ceiling. Nothing there. The mattresses on which we slept did not have springs. They were just cloth coverings stuffed with something that was lumpy. And I had not seen any other obvious weapon-grade materials, except small rocks and wood. There were bits of tree branches on the ground, and I did pick up one and hide it inside my shirt. The end might be ground down to a point on a rock. A rough stake knife for sure, but certainly lethal up close.

  There may have been better weapon options available. But I was not experienced in finding them. This was my first time as a prisoner. And probably all the good choices had already been snatched up by the Afghans. They had been here for weeks or months. They surely were thinking about and preparing for escape as much as I was. After all, one of them did manage to get out of here recently. That gave them hope that it was at least possible.

  And the soldiers realized that too. During breakfast, outside under the watchful eyes of several guards, other troops went into our hut and searched it. They were in there a long time and emerged with a small sack containing items confiscated during their search. I assumed they were crude weapons, perhaps like my stick, though I could not see the contents of their sack. I supposed that was the same in any prison facility. Anything hard that can be honed to a sharp point becomes a knife: pencils, plastic combs, toothbrushes, wood, metal. Anything.

  Lieutenant Gates made his appearance in the fields late in the morning. Overseeing his domain, no doubt. He strutted about, talking to his troops, pointing and nodding, admiring his empire. His men seemed to be obedient to his commands and respectful of his authority. I had to admire someone who had that kind of commitment from his charges. Even though he had no real enforceable authority over them, they seemed to respect him and maintained the chain of command. Inspiring leadership skills, though they were misdirected toward evil purposes.

  Or maybe it was not about respect and obedience. Maybe it was just that he would be making all of them filthy rich if they followed the plan. So they were obedient and true to the cause. It would only be a matter of a few weeks, and then they would be done here. All the poppy harvesting would be done. Then they would go their separate ways, on vacation for life. I suppose anyone could maintain an external show of obedience for a short time for the sake of the big prize. And I suspected that as soon as the cash was doled out, these guys would disperse like dust in the wind. Take the money and run, no longer tied to Lieutenant Gates or any other authority figure.

  Finally, there was a water break from our work. I guessed from the height of the sun that it was around noon. Head counts were taken before water was provided. But there was no food. I suspected then that our next meal would come at the end of the day. The Afghans, of course, knew that. They had grabbed extra crackers and even wet oatmeal, stuffing it in their coat
pockets for later. I didn’t. Already, the grumble of hunger roared loudly from my stomach. It was a gnawing made worse by having to watch them nibble on their stashes in the field. I stared in envy at their hoards, but they were not inclined to share. It was a lesson learned.

  For the afternoon, I was given a different task. For those plants in higher places where gravity would not deliver the water through the irrigation trenches, I carried it in buckets. Fill two five-gallon buckets, haul them upward to the plants, water the plants, back to the spring to refill the buckets. It didn’t take long before my arms ached from the strain and felt like they had been pulled from their sockets. Even lifting them to wash the grime and sweat off my face at the spring sent searing pain through my strained arm and shoulder muscles. But at least I did not lack for drinking water. It was the only positive about this muscle-tearing task.

  As I was returning yet again to the fields with two buckets of water, I heard a booming voice behind me.

  “What do you think of our enterprise, Mr. Parker?”

  It was Lieutenant Matthew Gates, apparently hoping for another ego boost. He had come up behind me and was now just a few yards away. He had a confident yet inviting look on his face, as if he was expecting me to offer praise for his accomplishment. I was not in the mood. I was hot, tired, and hungry. And he was the enemy.

  I stopped walking and turned toward him. He stood with the sun on his back. When I looked up at him, I had to squint from the glare. That put him in a superior position, something he would naturally plan for.

  I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Instead I said, “Has my pizza order arrived yet?”

  His tight-lipped grin suggested he was not amused by my comment. “I suppose it’s comforting for you to maintain your sense of humor. You’ll get over that soon enough.”

  He gazed around again at his empire. When I didn’t say anything, he continued unprompted. “It has been a great adventure, building this from scratch. I love it when a plan comes together.” I still was not biting on his ego trip, but he didn’t let that bother him in the least. “You are surrounded by a couple billion dollars worth of opium, Mr. Parker. Most of the world’s population works their entire lives and never comes close to achieving that level of financial success. You should feel humbled by the scale and achievement of this operation. You should feel honored to be a part of it.”

  The words fuck you came to mind again, but I only said, “As you wish.”

  Since I did not feed his ego, he abruptly turned and strode away. He probably wanted to gloat to all the other prisoners in the valley also. If only they understood English.

  The man was a megalomaniac. However, he was going to fall hard when all this was over, and he had no empire to boast about. But then perhaps he would find some other cause to feed his expansive ego. I had known people that were like that. No matter how far they had fallen, there was still that king-of-the-hill attitude about them. I guess it’s one way to deal with failure. Refusing to face failure then means that everything was a success, in spite of the facts. I hoped I could, even in some small way, bring him back to hard reality.