Once again, for old times' sake: I own NOTHING. Really. I'm in debt up to my eyeballs. If I had any rights to a hit TV series like Numb3rs, I would own...well...something. Thanks to the wonderful people at CBS who share their toys so well, though!

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"There was nothing we could do, you know?" asked Colby, finally meeting the FBI team's eyes. "We couldn't carry those guys, couldn't even get to most of them. We had to keep the living alive and hope the Talibs would leave the dead alone until a team could recover them."

Smitty raised his glass. "And thanks to whatever God or Gods convinced the Talibs to stay clear 'cause six days later, those men were on their way back to their families." Colby raised his glass to clink against Smitty's, and was startled and pleased to see that his friends had all done so as well. Colonel Alero had been the commanding officer who'd led him into Afghanistan, and though he'd been a hard A__ sometimes, the guy was good to the people under his command. Usually a Colonel wouldn't have even talked to a Specialist, but Alero had known Colby's first name, the names of his brothers, and what he wanted to do 'after.' Colby had even asked the man for a letter of recommendation for the Bureau, but Alero had never finished it. Colby was more than glad when the recovery team had found Alero and the others in no worse condition than they'd been left.

"So, OK, um, where were we?" Granger shook his head to clear it. He looked down to see his glass was full again. When had that happened? "OK, yeah, the 'copter. So, we headed downhill, toward where we figured there was a road…"

Smith had found a map in Captain Lerg's cargo pocket. Though Sgt Osterman tried, however, he could not make out where the group actually was. One mountain looked pretty much like every other to them. Their best bet, as Granger had said, was simply to work their way downhill toward less-steep landscape, with the hope that they'd be able to avoid the locals long enough to be found by either the American or British army. Before leaving the helicopter, Osterman wrote a note to anyone who might find it, letting them know the group's plan. The Afghanis in these remote mountains were unlikely to be able to read, even in their own language, so the danger presented by leaving the message was slight.

Jeeter led off as the party picked their way carefully down the mountain in single file. After Jeeter came Rodriguez, limping slowly and carrying her big gun. The blood on her pant leg had dried to a black, hard mass which clung to her injured leg. Next came Granger, carrying Smitty on his shoulders, as he was still unable to handle a weapon. Following Granger was Doc Smith, who dragged Cpt Lerg on a litter behind her. They'd discussed having another of the party carry the other end of the litter, but had decided it was more important that every good shooter put their attention on the group's surroundings. Sgt Osterman came at the end of the line, watching for anyone who might be following the soldiers. They made a wide circle to avoid the area occupied the night before by the Talib militia. No one wanted to risk tripping a booby trap.

Granger could feel Smitty's heart beating against his shoulder. It was the only sign that the man remained alive. Granger would always remember the feel and smell of Smitty's blood running down under his flak vest. Some things just stay with you.

"I never properly thanked you for that, by the way," slurred Smitty. "I was OUT. You coulda just left me 'n Lerg. So thanks."

"How much of this stuff have u had, man? Ur DRUNK." Colby blearily looked at the bottle, now much closer to empty. "Me too, I guess."

"Ya think?" put in David. "I don't think I've ever seen you drink so much. So did you get off the mountain OK? I mean, you obviously survived this little adventure, but when did the Army find you?"

Smitty answered immediately. "Three days. This guy carried me for three days. Crazy SOB."

The first day, the soldiers made slow progress. The area was very steep, and covered in thousands of loose rocks and deep holes seemingly made to break travelers' legs. Despite the bitter cold, the team quickly found themselves sweating under their flak vests and heavy loads. Doc Smith had to stop often to wrestle Lerg's litter over a particularly wide crevasse or large boulder, often with the help of one or more of the Rangers. They ate little and drank almost nothing, trying to make their meager supplies last. Over time, Rodriguez's limp became more pronounced, and bright red blood started to drip over her boot. She made no complaint. Late that evening, the group stumbled upon a small cave, where they huddled against the cold until morning. They even managed to each get some sleep, succumbing to exhaustion borne of two day's exertion and a sleepless night previous.

They were awoken just as the sun lit the eastern face of the mountain by voices shouting in Pashto somewhere above them. Granger didn't even pause. "S__t. OK, Osterman, you and me need to go see where those guys are. Jeeter, Rodriguez, you stay here, keep an eye on Smith and Lerg. Doc, I want you to stand where you can see us—carefully—and let the others know what's going on." He grabbed a flashlight. "If you see a red light, get back inside and get everyone moving. If you see a yellow light, sit tight. We're on our way back." He picked up Doc's M9, painfully but successfully squeezing his left index finger inside the trigger guard. "I get to learn to shoot lefty!"

Osterman laughed wryly. "If the REMF starts shooting a little M9 pistol—lefty—don't wait for a red light. That's a clear signal that things have gone SNAFU right there."

Doc Smith, Osterman and Granger slid quietly out of the cavern. Doc found a small space just uphill and settled down to watch the others. They moved carefully, and in the in the dim half-light of the dawn, wearing camouflage, the two soldiers soon became very difficult to see against the mottled rocky surface of the mountainside.

By unspoken agreement, Osterman took the lead. The two soldiers made their way slowly toward a confused babble of voices somewhere above and to their left. After a time, a rasp and crash, followed by an indignant shouting, caused them to drop to the ground. Osterman signaled Granger to stay where he was, then slithered forward on his belly. Granger took out the flashlight, affixing the red filter over the lens. He waited.

Osterman made his way carefully toward the voices. One seemed to be screaming in fear, the other in anger. The rasping sound came again, and the fearful screaming increased. Osterman peered over a rock to see he'd come to the edge of a steep path worn into the side of the hill. On the path stood two men and the battered remains of a large hand-cart. One wheel had come off the cart and one of the men held that side awkwardly, barely keeping the contents from emptying and being lost forever over a steep cliff. The other man held the cart's pull-bar, keeping it from rolling over completely and escaping completely over the hill. The rasping sound came again as the second man's sandals slid on the gravel of the path and the cart tipped further. The man holding it upright screamed again. A small boy, whom Osterman had not seen at first, scrambled up the path from below him, crying out in Pashto. The men hailed him, and he promptly ran to them and began hurriedly and carefully removing objects from the cart. The rasping sound came again, followed by a crash as some of the men's possessions tipped out of the cart and rolled down the steep slope. Man one shrieked, looked up, and noticed Osterman lying beside the path.

Their eyes met briefly. Osterman froze. Man one stuttered, and then shouted in Pashto. Man two yelled back, looked toward Osterman, and then the boy. Osterman followed Man two's eyes to see the boy, holding an ancient AK47, pointed with credible steadiness at the soldier. Neither man could let his burden go, but the boy looked fully capable of finishing Osterman without their help. And Osterman couldn't bring himself to harm a child.

Granger saw Osterman stand slowly, his hands at his side. Though Osterman's M16 hung from a sling around the man's neck, Granger saw that Osterman made no attempt to aim the rifle. He rose to a crouch and started toward the Sergeant. Before long, he had sized up the situation; the two men with their cart, the boy with his gun, and Osterman speaking softly, reassuringly. "…not going to do anything. We just want to go down the hill. We aren't interested in hurting you or anyone else. Hero where the Hell are you. If you let us, we'll just walk away. We don't want to take your stuff. Hero I need your help…"

Granger circled to the right, then emerged from cover behind the Afghanis. He brought the M9 up with his left hand and calmly said "Drop the gun." The boy jumped, but luckily didn't fire his weapon. He swung around to find the new threat, and Granger saw the boy's eyes. He was scared. Probably more scared than the soldiers were. Osterman took that moment to close the distance between himself and the boy, then removed the AK from the boy's hands so quickly that Granger could barely follow the movements. Man two shouted, dropping the cart's handle and moving to protect what was obviously more important—his son. Man one yelled as the cart's full weight shifted to his shoulders and he began slipping, spilling the men's possessions on the ground. Granger grabbed for the handle without thinking. The cart steadied.

Osterman pulled the rifle out of the boy's hands and immediately tried to remove any rounds from the AK's chamber. There weren't any. He grunted, looking at Granger. "It's not loaded!"

Man two reached for his son, pulled the boy toward the cart and shouted again, this time at Osterman. Osterman assessed the situation—Granger and man one holding the cart, man two and the boy backing away from him, obviously terrified. He lowered the AK to the ground, then stood, his hands in front of him, the M16 still slung around his neck. "It's OK. We don't really want to hurt you." The Afghanis didn't understand a word. "Hero, give the nice man back his cart."

"I don't think I can do that." Granger grunted. "D___ thing's heavy. I think you need to take some stuff out, like the kid was doing. These guys had it right."

Osterman nodded, then slowly circled to the cart. It was loaded with pottery, rugs and straw. The men had been taking handicrafts down the mountain, probably to sell in a market below. Osterman reached into the cart and carefully removed a pot. Placing it on the ground, he removed another, then another. There was a rasping sound as Granger's boots slid on the path, and man one screamed again. Man two yelled to him, man one answered rapidly, and man two pulled the boy after him as he went to help man one hold up the cart. Granger felt a distinct lightening of the load as the Afghanis propped the cart up. Osterman began to remove pottery more quickly. The boy watched the process from his father's side, warily guarding the two men from anything these strangers might do. Before long, the pottery had been removed from the cart and it was light enough that the men were able to push it to a flatter space. Granger thankfully dropped the cart's handle and the soldiers backed away. The men considered this.

"Darawem." Man two said, his hands out in the universal 'stop' signal. "Darawem." The soldiers stopped. Granger's hand tightened on the pistol. The man backed to the pile of pottery. "Suhker. Suhker." He picked up a small vase, stepped warily over to Granger and handed it to him. "Suhker." He gestured to the cart.

"Um. You're welcome."

Osterman thought a moment, then produced the map. He pointed to the map, and then to the ground. "Where?" He pointed back to the map.

The man looked at the map and then at Osterman. He took the map. Studying it for a moment, the man looked around them, then pointed to a spot on the page. "Halta." He handed the paper back to Osterman and walked away. Though he had decided that the soldiers weren't planning to hurt him, he'd also obviously decided that they'd risked enough by telling the Americans what they had.

Osterman studied the map, and then their surroundings. He smiled. "Suhker." He looked at Granger. "Let's get back to the others."

"You still got that pot Hero?" asked Smitty, looking about the living room.

Colby pushed himself out of his chair and walked to a shelf next to the TV. "Of course. Weirdest moment of my life. I'll never forget it." He passed the pot to Nikki, who studied it.

It was about 6 inches tall, with a broad base and narrow top. A geometric design painted on the side suggested, more than showed, mountains and birds. The design framed a line of script written in dark green. "What does it say?"

"It's a line from the Koran. Some poetry about a girl with blue eyes. I got it translated once, but I don't remember it exactly."

Nikki passed the vase to Charlie who commented "It's in Arabic—not Pashto."

"Yeah. The Koran's always in Arabic. Probably the guys we met couldn't even read it, just copied it out of the book."

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah."

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Military to Civilian (and Pashto to English) glossary:

SNAFU: Situation Normal, All F___ed Up.

Darawem: Stop

Suhker: Thanks, thank you

Halta: There

I'm not trying to be nasty when I insist that the Afghanis the party meets are illiterate. Afghanistan's literacy rate is about 16%, and in the rural areas, comes pretty close to 0%. The likelihood is that any grown Afghan men in the region may have gone to school, likely a religious school, for three or four years when they were little, but nothing since then. If they read at all, it's likely that they read Koranic Arabic. This is slowly changing in the youngest generation.

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