![]() Black flecks whipped through the air: soot from the fires on the ground. Rashid, the colonel, and the interpreter conversed in Pashto. Subdued tones on the interphone like whispers at a funeral. Parson didn’t understand a word, but he could guess what they were saying: What a fucking mess. And Parson imagined the colonel was taking the thought a few steps further: These people will need everything-food, shelter, medicine. How will we ever airlift enough to make a difference? Oh yeah, and still fight the war. Parson wished his old Army friend Sergeant Major Sophia Gold had already arrived. She spoke Pashto so well, she seemed to read minds. Parson had requested that she come work with him as an individual augmentee, and she’d agreed immediately she just had to finish up some training back in the States. There was no better translator/interpreter in the business. And as a paratrooper, she’d been around aircraft enough to speak a little of that language, too. Parson had been back in-country only a month, in a new role as an adviser to the Afghan Air Force. His third tour, but his first in a nonflying position. In his other tours, he’d flown as a C-130 Hercules navigator and then as a pilot on the C-5 Galaxy. He’d never piloted helicopters, but as a rated officer he could help teach the Afghans the basics of running a squadron: maintain currency records, give regular testing, retrain the guys who bust their check rides, and always, always, always treat maintenance with respect. The Afghans were making progress toward a professional air force. However, Parson doubted they were ready for anything like the job ahead of them now. For that matter, he didn’t think he was, either. To fly his own plane, manage his own crew-that was one thing. To build an air force from scratch was another. The chopper began to descend for a flyover of the Mazar Airport. The field lay to the east of town, surrounded by a dusty brown expanse highlighted with a meandering strip of green-the weeds and trees that grew along a river. ![]()
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