Mason was taken to a hut for medical attention. After the unconscious Afghan was dumped in our hut, the rest of us were fed. The evening meal was MRE, Meals Ready to Eat. The meals come sealed in individual serving size bags. The upgraded versions are self heating by a chemical packet affixed to them. The guards got those. We got the non-heated version that contained cold beans, crackers, cold vegetables, rice, and cheese. It didn’t matter. Hunger has a way of making ordinary seem gourmet.
While we ate, I resumed surveying my surroundings. There was a hut for processing the raw poppy sap into heroin. A few of the Afghans worked in there. I had not seen the inside of that building, but I could smell the ammonia emanating from it. I recalled that chemical being part of the purification process. And there was plenty of it in the tanker truck parked near the fence.
I didn’t see bags of lime, but they could well be stashed in the processing hut. Ammonia and lime would be easy to obtain. They are standard agricultural chemicals, probably used in every state. But I recalled there were other chemicals in the processing of raw opium that were unfamiliar to me. Was it acetic anhydride? I did not know what that was, but guessed it wasn’t something one can buy everywhere. So it was likely they were processing raw opium as far as they could with their limited chemical inventory, then trucking and selling the crude product to someone else. Someone with money, lots of money, to fund the early retirements for the entire platoon that Gates commanded.
As I continued to survey the area, a truck was being loaded, presumably with the partially processed opium. It was packaged in brick-size chunks, each wrapped in plastic. I could see that several bricks were then bundled and tied with twine. The bundles were being carried from the processing hut to the truck. After it was loaded, the bundles were covered with a tarp, and two armed guards got in the back. Only the guards loaded the truck. None of us were allowed near it. The undercarriage of the truck was inspected, I suspected to ensure there were no stowaways. Then two other guards got in the cab and drove off, ready to leave as soon as the sun set over the horizon. Another shipment leaving, another sale, one step closer to their early retirements. One step closer to all of us becoming permanently discarded litter.
I noticed that in my thinking, I started referring to the Afghans and me as us. As different as I was from them, there was the common bond of captivity. So different, but so much the same. Even though we could not communicate with each other, we were in this together, for better or for worse, until death do us part. But I was not willing to accept that fate.
After eating, we were marched toward the hut, and a head count was taken. The security of our shackles was checked as we entered. When the last of us had been counted and shoved into that dark, dank place, the door was locked. The dim overhead light stayed on for a few minutes, then it was shut down.
In my mind, I still schemed escape plans. Probably all of us were. The Afghans spoke quietly among themselves. They could share information, knowledge, strategies, and escape options. The language barrier kept me out of the loop.
The hut gradually quieted as tired bodies flopped onto grimy mattresses and breathing faded to the deep sleep of exhausted souls. I too drifted off.