Captain Gholam Mojatba draws a cheap Korean cigarette from a plastic pouch on his chest. It’s midmorning, and the sun has finally climbed high enough to burn off the alpine chill. The captain is already halfway through his pack. He strikes an MRE match and takes a long, pensive drag. He hacks and spits like an old engine on a cold morning. Two packs a day and a bullet wound to the lung will do that. When the convulsions subside, Mojatba brings the filter to his lips again. No coughing now. He exhales, casting an exhausted, hangdog gaze over the valley a thousand feet below.