Free Green on Blue by Elliot Ackerman

Assent to our request was given with a grunt or a nod. Soon every chimney billowed smoke and all of Gomal was awake.
    The last house we visited was on the village’s edge, among the border’s first low hills. It didn’t have a chimney and the outer wall was made of concrete, not of mud, and a satellite dish extended from its roof. Mortaza banged on its red steel gate with the heel of his boot. There was an expectant clunk and the gate slid open. A man with smooth olive skin greeted us. This was Atal, an important spingari I’d come to know well. His dress was neat and his body perfumed so heavily that his scent caused in me a spinning moment of drunkenness. He extended his hand as though we should kiss it.
    Salaam, may I help you? he asked.
    His turban was bright orange and his shalwar kameez an emerald green, matching his eyes, which were flecked in many places. Beneath his two-fist beard hung a tear-shaped opal on a chain of braided silver. The kind of necklace a woman would wear. Around his neck the feminine trace suggested a cunning and manly ferocity.
    Salaam, I said. We are here with—
    Atal interrupted: Ah, well, I’ve forgotten my hospitality. Please come in, you must be hungry, join me.
    He shook our hands as we entered. His touch left my palm oiled and smooth. We crossed the outer wall and walked toward the main house. Parked in the courtyard was the same-model Toyota HiLux the Americans supplied to us. But unlike ours, which were painted gray to match the mountain rock, his bore a civilian paint scheme, white with a pronounced silver lightning bolt down its side. A generator hummed in the compound’s far corner. From it, insulated wires ran in a tangle to the main house. In the living room a heater blew, and carpets covered tiled floors while plush sofas lined the walls. In the corner an enormous Hitachi television leaned against the ground. I could hear lowmurmurs of Urdu as programs from Pakistan flashed across its plasma screen.
    Please, sit, sit, said Atal.
    I unlaced my muddy boots so I wouldn’t dirty his carpet. He gave me an appreciative nod, but Mortaza shot me a hard glance. I tied them back on. Soldiers don’t lounge around in their stocking feet. We sat across from Atal, and he stretched himself elegantly along one of the sofas. Between thumb and forefinger, he spun the opal that hung around his neck and pushed his chest up, leaning toward the back of the house.
    Fareeda! he shouted. Bring breakfast, child. We have guests.
    A clanging and shuffling came from the kitchen in back. Atal lazily rolled his head toward us. His expression was so relaxed it offered more warmth than had he smiled. I apologize, he said. My niece would’ve already prepared something had I known of your visit, but I am very pleased to have guests. You have come here with Sabir, no? I trust he is well. Please offer him my warmest regards.
    Mortaza nodded. He sat on the sofa’s edge and leaned forward, tensely, his elbows perched against his knees. Commander Sabir is holding a shura in the bazaar, he said. The head of every household is asked to attend.
    Ah, yes, please send him my apologies, but I have other business today.
    Mortaza leaned further over his elbows, repeating himself: Commander Sabir requests the head of every household.
    A young woman, still girl enough to go without a burka at home among strangers, emerged from the kitchen. She struggled to carry a heavy silver tray crowded with glasses of milk tea and honey cakes. She hoisted it high above her head, using only her left arm. She set the first glass in front of Atal, who kissed his teeth at her and waved the backof his hand so that we, his guests, would be served first. She nodded and looked at Atal kindly. Her hijab sat loosely over her head, she’d yet to wrap it properly, and her smooth black hair spilled from its edges like a sheet of oil. Her eyes held many colors, never catching light the same way twice. Flecks of emerald and black, and a deep uncut