Word: cave
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...empty white boxes decorated with palm trees and the words, "Sherjah Dates." Scattered on the floor were a few green metal boxes of ammunition with Russian writing on them, and a canister about the size of an unexploded cluster bomb but the wrong color - red instead of yellow. Another cave next to it was about the same size and filled with ammunition, mostly bullets for Kalashnikovs and rocket-propelled grenades. Another nearby was much bigger and also filled with ammunition. Its cavern sloped up and back and seemed to lead to a passage, but nobody ventured...
...caves faced a narrow valley that twisted its way through mountain ridges that seem to overlap as they rise toward the White Mountains. As Tuesday afternoon waned and it was clear that the Al Qaeda fighters had accepted the cease-fire, the area took the appearance of an archeological dig. Across one ridge 20 mujahidin fighters scratched at the ground with sticks looking for fragments of U.S. bombs, which they loaded into a huge cooking pot and carried to a pickup truck. One fighter handed me a rubber jug with a strap. "Al Qaeda," he said with a nod. Arabs...
...entered my first cave by walking through a narrow 20-foot passage chiseled into a 60-degree mountain slope. The effect was of walking through a deep cavern open to the sky. I walked down the passage, stepping over two rows of sandbags that blocked my way, and came to a three-foot opening. I ducked into the mouth and dared go no further. Not even the mujahidin would follow, and several were making "boom" noises and gesturing about flying body parts. Everybody expected booby traps or mines...
...Last week the hush was shattered by the blasts of hundreds of American bombs, the rattle of Kalashnikovs and the roar of tanks and pickup trucks carrying about 1,000 anti-Taliban soldiers into the Tora Bora cave complex to deliver a final reckoning to Osama bin Laden. The Afghans crept through the valleys and into the caves in the wake of U.S. air strikes, hoping to nab enemy militants as they tried to scramble to higher ground...
...rehabbed hell of 14 Plympton St. Because we were the What?—and hence scoffed at by the newshound bosses—and because The Crimson was tight on space, the three of us were exiled to the most dismal sub-sub-basement, a cave at the bitter end of the cellar, past the presses and the half-tone machine. Our putrid little home glistened with slime-mold, reeked of ink, photo chemicals, and rot, and was cluttered with mysterious tin buckets sloshing with murky green chemicals. The stink would make us slightly queasy, but during good weeks...