Warrior Pose Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jeep, start the engine, and roll past the guards, waving and smiling like one big family.
    â€œI have to remember this trick,” Rasoul says as he hands the manifest back to me with a huge sigh of relief.
    â€œI thought we were dead,” Dennis says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound frightened.
    â€œOr at least going to jail and having everything confiscated,” Brockunier chimes in.
    â€œIt’s a good sign,” Rasoul says, calming everyone down. “We still have a long way to go. Let’s get some rest.”
    I’m exhausted and try to close my eyes and doze off again, but it’s impossible to sleep as we wind higher into the mountains and the road becomes narrower and more difficult to navigate, especially with our headlights still off. Finally, we stop in the middle of nowhere. No more road. Nothing but mud and snow.
    â€œWe must unload everything here,” Rasoul says, still whispering and gesturing for quiet. “No flashlights. No talking.”
    Once we have our things, our mujahideen driver and guard hug Rasoul, jump back in the Jeep, start the engine, and somehow find a way to turn around and drive off. The woods around us are pitch black. While it was hot in the valleys below, it’s freezing cold here. Deep banks of springtime snow are illuminated by the brilliant starlight. We just stand still and shiver, our gear held in our arms, as the drone of the Jeep’s engine disappears down the mountainside.
    â€œWhat the hell is happening?” Dennis whispers to me, risking a rebuke from Rasoul. “We might just freeze to death!”
    I look at him and shake my head. Shrug my shoulders. Then I pat the sleeping bag roped onto my backpack and wonder how warm it will keep me in the wet snow. Suddenly I remember we only have oneor two days’ worth of food with us. As I start to think it might have been better had the tribal Pakistanis arrested us, we hear a faint, sloshing sound at the tree line. Now we can make out the silhouette of two figures under the starlight. A man with a rifle over his shoulder and a mule. They approach silently. He is mujahideen. His first glance is toward Rasoul, who then gestures for us to pile our gear on the mule.
    We walk behind the mujahideen, who leads us into the cover of the woods and up the mountainside. It’s slow going. Grueling, in fact. The snow is up to our knees and the temperature beyond freezing. We touch one another’s backs to keep from getting lost. An hour later, we arrive at a bombed-out farmhouse. More mujahideen appear in the darkness. There are no lights. Not even a candle. Nothing to give the Soviets a chance to discover their position. We stumble into a dark, frigid hallway of the home, finally making it to a room with a wooden floor covered in straw. About to collapse, we unroll our sleeping bags and slip in. Curling up, I roll over and whisper to Dennis, “We made it.”

    We’re beyond exhausted, but we get only two, maybe three, hours of sleep before we are told to roll up our bags and quietly depart before sunrise. There are three mules now, the one with our gear, the other two laden with rounds of ammunition, artillery shells, and grenades. It takes a full day of vertical hiking through heavier snow to find the hidden camp of a group of some two hundred mujahideen. The fighters line up in the glistening snow to meet us, surrounded by towering pines. They shoulder their weapons, from old rifles to AK-47s to rocket launchers, as a show of pride and dedication. Most are rustic farmers from small mountain villages. They range in age from fourteen to eighty-four. Several have lost a leg or an arm to land mines. It hasn’t slowed them down a bit. Instead, it has strengthened their resolve. I will soon realize the oldest among them could outhike me on my best day.
    Rasoul introduces us as American journalists who have come to document their struggle. Like the Pakistanis,