Warrior Pose Read Online Free PDF

invasion. Rasoul is vehemently patriotic and devoted to the resistance, moving like a shadow behind the scenes. He has to be the contact Brockunier was waiting for all along. The one person making all of this happen.
    It must be close to midnight when I nod off to sleep. Suddenly, our driver slams on the brakes and my forehead smacks into the metal bar framing the backseat. “Get down!” Rasoul hisses with urgency. “Say nothing! No one speak! I’ll do the talking. Do not leave the Jeep!” He speaks like a general and we immediately fall in line. Brockunier freezes like a statue. The mujahideen who is riding shotgun grips his automatic weapon and holds it at his chest. Dennis and I curl up again, trying to disappear.
    As Rasoul jumps out of the Jeep and slams the door, Brockunier whispers, “We’re surrounded by armed men in military uniforms. They’re speaking Urdu, so they’re Pakistanis. This isn’t good.”
    I can hear Rasoul arguing loudly. I don’t understand a word, but it doesn’t sound like he’s getting anywhere. Suddenly, the Jeep is floodedwith flashlights, the doors are thrown open, and we’re ordered out. Brockunier seems to pass for one of the mujahideen despite his reddish beard. But Dennis and I, even in our new pajama-like garb, still look very much like foreigners.
    Rasoul is ordered back to the Jeep and whispers, “Don’t say a word. These are tribal people. They don’t speak English, but they know it when they hear it. They hate Americans almost as much as Russians. I’ve told them you are French doctors, volunteering to treat the wounded. Right now, they are threatening to arrest us all. Whatever you do, do not show your passport.”
    Three guards walk up and yell at us to get out of the Jeep, then quickly rummage through everything, finding our camera gear beneath the duffel bags filled with Brockunier’s medical supplies. This stops the show. The yelling gets louder. Rasoul is incredibly courageous, alternately confronting the armed men with verbal assaults then switching to gentle persuasion. But he’s getting nowhere. Finally, he somehow manages to get the guards to wait in a group as he comes back to where I’m standing at the rear of the Jeep.
    â€œThis is trouble,” he says with a sigh of resignation. “They want to know what doctors are doing with camera equipment. They want documents.”
    My mind starts racing for some sort of solution. It’s too dangerous to change our story and tell them we’re journalists. There’s no way we can show them our American passports. Then it hits me in a flash. “Tell them I’m getting documents from my bag,” I whisper to Rasoul.
    He looks shocked and is about to protest when I say, “Don’t worry. No passports. Trust me.” Rasoul calls out to the leader of the guards and gets his permission as I slowly reach into the Jeep for my shoulder bag and open the zippered pouch I keep my passport in. Right next to it is the equipment manifest we had to obtain from the Pakistan Embassy granting permission to bring our gear into the country. It’s covered with official government stamps.
    â€œTell them this is our permission document from Pakistan customs,” I whisper to Rasoul. The first two words beneath the government stamps are Sony Betacam. That’s our digital camera. “I’m Dr. Sony,” I whisper to Rasoul, pointing at the words. “Dennis isDr. Betacam. We’re treating wounded fighters and filming it to raise more money back in France for more medical supplies. We’re on the side of their Afghan brothers.”
    Rasoul’s eyes widen. “This is good,” he says as he takes the paper and walks toward the guards. There are a few tense minutes. The document changes hands several times. Suddenly, everyone is patting Rasoul on the back. Our gear is returned to us and we cram back into the