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All his men heard the question, of course, because they, too, had helmets on and were plugged in to the inter-cabin radio system. Gavin saw the load master at the far end turn and give him a questioning look. He also heard the explosion of laughter from Nike.
“Oh, let’s see, Captain, I got my helo-driver’s license at Disneyland in Orlando, Florida,” she drawled. “Does that count?”
His men were guffawing in reaction, but no one could hear it over the noise of the vibrating helo around them. Jackson chuckled. “I feel better, Captain Alexander. So long as Mickey Mouse signed off on your pilot’s license I feel safe and sound.”
Jackson thought some of his men were going to fall out of their nylon seats they were laughing so hard. He joined them. And then he heard Nike joining their collective roar of laughter. She had a wonderful, husky tone and it made his body ache with need. What kind of magic did this Greek woman have over him?
“Actually,” Nike said, chuckling, “it was Minnie Mouse who signed it. You have a problem with that?”
“No, not at all. Now, if Goofy had signed it, I’d be worried.”
Even the load master was giggling in fits, his gloved hands closed over the fifty-caliber. Unaccountably, Gavin felt his spirits rise. If nothing else, Nike Alexander gave as good as she got. Even more to her credit, she could take a joke and come back swinging. Looking into the faces of his men, Gavin felt a warmth toward the woman pilot. Did Nike realize how much she’d just lifted everyone’s spirits? Probably not. But he would tell her—alone—and thank her for being a good sport on a deadly mission.
“Okay, boys,” Nike said, catching her breath, “let’s get this show on the road. Sergeant, once we’re airborne, lower the ramp and keep that .50 cal ready to shoot. We’re not in Disneyland and where we’re going, the bad guys are waiting. Hunker down, you’re about to go on the wildest roller-coaster ride you’ve ever taken. I’m ready to rock….”
* * *
For the next fifty minutes, Nike’s full concentration was winding between, around and down into one valley after another in the steep, rugged mountain range. When they roared past Do Bandi, another village, she knew they would soon be climbing steeply. Zor Barawul sat in a rich, fertile valley ringed by the snowy mountains. On the eastern side of those mountains lay the Pakistan border where Taliban hid. The valley was a well-known Taliban route. They boldly passed through it because the Afghan villagers could not fire on or challenge them. If they did, the Taliban would come in and kill men, women and children.
The sunlight shone in bright slats across the mountaintops as she brought the Chinook up steeply, pushing with throttles to the firewall to make it up and over the snowy slope that blurred beneath them. How badly Nike wanted a copilot to do all this other work, but that wasn’t her luck today. Captain Emma Trayhern, the XO who was supposed to fly with her, had caught a nasty case of food poisoning and was laid low for the next twenty-four hours. Her CO, Dallas Klein, had faith in her to handle this mission all by herself. Helluva compliment, but Nike would have preferred a copilot, thank you very much. The sunlight made her squint even though she wore a pair of aviator’s sunglasses. The bird rocked from one side to another as she aimed the nose downward at top speed and skimmed headlong down a steep, rocky slope and into another valley.
Nike could see herds of sheep and goats being tended by young boys here and there on the bright green valley floor. They would look up, wave as the CH-47 streaked by them. The herds of animals would flee in all directions as the noisy Chinook passed low overhead. Nike felt sorry for the young herders who would probably spend half a day gathering up their scattered herds. What she didn’t want to see was yellow or red winking lights from below. That would mean the Taliban was firing a rocket up at them. Not good.
The mountains were coated with thick snow even in April. The lower slopes showed hopeful signs of greenery sprouting after enduring the fierce, cold Afghan winter. The helicopter vibrated heavily around Nike as she flew the bulky transport through the valley. Shoving the throttles once more to the firewall, she urged the helo up and over another mountain range and down into the next valley. And, as she glanced out her cockpit window, it was comforting to see an Apache helicopter with her women friends from BJS 60 flying several thousand feet above her, working their avionics to find the enemy below before they shot her Chinook out of the air. She might not have a copilot, but she had the baddest son-of-a-bitch of a combat helicopter shadowing her flight today. That made Nike smile and feel confident.
The village of Zor Barawul contained two hundred people and sat at the north end of a long, narrow valley that was sandwiched between the mountains. On the other side lay the border of Pakistan. As in all villages Nike had seen, the wealthy families had houses made of stone with wooden floors. Wood was usually scarce. Those less well-off had homes made of earth and mud with hard-packed dirt floors. Some who could afford it would have a few rugs over the earthen floor. Roofs were made from tin or other lightweight metals. The poorer families had thatched material on top.
As they passed over all kinds of homes, Nike felt the sweat beneath her armpits. Fear was always near since at any moment, they could be fired on. As she located the landing area, she ordered her load master to bring up the ramp. Moments later, she heard the grind and rumble of the ramp shutting. The ramp had to be up in order for her to land.
Nike brought the Chinook downward and gently landed it outside the village. The earth was bare and muddy. Nike let out a sigh of relief. They were down and had made it without incident. She powered down, shut off the engines and called to her friends in the Apache flying in large circles outside the village. This was Taliban-controlled territory and the Apache was using its television and infrared cameras to spot any possible enemy who might want to shoot at the Chinook after it had landed.
The whine of the engines ceased. The women in the Apache reported no activity and continued to circle about a mile from where she’d landed. Nike thanked them and signed off on the radio. The Apache would wait and escort her back to base as soon as everything was unloaded. Unstrapping the tight harness, she pulled the helmet off her head and stood. Andy had removed the fifty-caliber machine gun and set it to one side. He opened the ramp and it groaned down. Once the ramp lip rested on the muddy ground, Andy signaled the A team to dismount.
As she glanced to her left, Nike caught sight of Gavin. This time, he was grim-faced and not smiling. Right. He understood this was a very dangerous place. No one knew for sure how the villagers would respond to their landing. Bullets or butter? For a moment, Nike felt a twinge in her heart. Jackson looked so damned responsible and alert. This wasn’t his first dance with the Afghan people. She saw the grimness reflected in the flat line of his mouth as he gathered his gear and slung it across his shoulder.
His other team members were already moving down the ramp. Several took the cargo netting off the many boxes and prepared to move them outside the helo. What were the people of this village thinking of their arrival? Were they scared? Thinking that the U.S. Army was going to attack them the way the Taliban did? When the Russians had invaded Afghanistan a decade before, that’s exactly what they had done. People here justifiably had a long memory and would probably not trust the Americans, either.
“Hey, do these people know you’re coming?” Nike called to Jackson.
“Yeah, we sent an emissary in here a week ago.”
“So, they know you’re on a mission of peace?”
He took the safety off his weapon and then slung it across his other shoulder. “That’s right. It doesn’t guarantee anything.”
Worriedly, Nike looked out the end of the Chinook. She saw several bearded older men in turbans or fur hats walking toward them. “Well, they don’t look real happy to see us.”
Gavin glanced out the rear of the helo. “Oh. Those are the elders. They run the village. Don’t worry, they always look that way. Survival is serious business out here.”
“They’re carrying rifles.”
“They sleep with them.”
Smiling a little over the comment, Nike walked down the ramp and stood next to him. “Do you ever not have a joke, Captain?”
Gavin grinned over at her. Nike’s hair lay against her brow, emphasizing her gold eyes. He heard the worry in her voice and reached out to squeeze her upper arm. “You care….”
Nike didn’t pull away from where his hand rested on her arm. There was monitored strength to his touch and her flesh leaped wildly in response. Seconds later, his hand dropped away. “Oh, don’t let it go to your swelled head, honcho.”
“Hey, I like that nickname.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Gavin chuckled. “I’ll take it as such.”
“Ever the optimist.”
“I don’t like the other choice, do you? Thanks for the wild ride, Captain.” He gave her a salute and smiled. “How about a date when we get back off this mission?”
“That’s not a good idea.” Nike saw the regret in his deep blue eyes.
“Okay, I’ll stop chasing you for now.” Looking out the rear of the helo, Gavin said, “I’ll be seeing you around, lioness.”
She felt and heard the huskiness of his voice as he spoke the word. Lioness. Well, that was a nice compliment. Unexpected. Sweet. And her heart thumped in reaction. She hated to admit it but she really did care. But before she could open her mouth, he turned and walked nonchalantly down the ramp and into the dangerous world of the Taliban-controlled village.
Suddenly, Nike was afraid for Gavin and his team. The ten elders approached in their woolen cloaks, pants and fur hats to ward off the morning coldness. They looked unwelcoming and grim.
Well, it wasn’t as if she could help him and she had to get back to base. A part of her didn’t want to leave Gavin. Nike looked up and saw the Apache continuing its slow circuit at about three thousand feet. Time to move. Grabbing her helmet, she gave Andy a gesture that told him to lift up the ramp. He nodded. As soon as they were airborne, he’d lower the ramp once more and keep watch with his hands on that machine gun.
Settling into her seat, Nike pulled on her helmet, plugged it back in and made contact with the Apache once more.
“Time to boogie outta here, Red Fox One. Over.”
“Roger, Checkerboard One. All quiet on the western front here.”
Nike chuckled and twisted around. The ramp ground upward and locked against the bird, causing the whole helo to shudder. Andy gave her a thumbs-up and put on his helmet. All was well. Turning around, Nike began to flip switches and twist buttons. As soon as she was ready to turn on the engines, one at a time, she’d get harnessed up for the harrowing one-hundred-foot-high flight back to base. It wasn’t something Nike looked forward to.
And then, her world came to an abrupt halt. A glaring red light began to blink back at her on the console—the forward engine light. Scowling, she flipped it off and on. Red. Damn. That meant either a problem with the engine or a screw-up with the light itself. Nike could do nothing at this point.
“Red Fox One, I have a red light for the forward engine. I can’t go anywhere. Can you contact base to get a helo out here with a couple of mechanics? Until then, I’m grounded. I’ll radio Operations and get further instructions from them. Over.”
“Bad news, Checkerboard One. Stay safe down there. Out.”
Well, it didn’t take long for Nike to get her answers. Major Dallas Klein, who was in ops, answered her.
“Stay where you are. We can’t get a mechanic team out until tomorrow morning. Stick with Captain Jackson and his team. Your load master will remain with the helicopter. In the meantime, go with the A team. We’ll be in touch by radio when we know the time of arrival to your location. Over.”
Great. Nike scowled and responded. “Roger. Over and out.”
Now what? She gestured for Andy to come forward because he had not been privy to what was going on. Shaking her head, Nike felt a sense of dread combined with unexplainable elation. She was stuck here with Jackson, who clearly would be delighted with her company. Double damn.
Chapter 3
Jackson walked toward village elders. The knot of men stood watching them. But before he could talk with them, Nike appeared at his shoulder, her face set and disappointed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, anchoring to a halt.
“My helo has engine failure and I’ve got orders to stay the night here with you and your team. My load master will remain with the bird. A mechanic team will be flown out to fix it tomorrow morning.”
She didn’t seem too happy about the news but joy threaded through Gavin. “Engine failure.” He tried to sound disappointed for her. “Sorry about that, Captain Alexander.”
Nike tried to avoid his powerful stare and glanced over at the knot of elders. They were a sour-looking bunch. Every one of them wore a deep, dark scowl of suspicion. She returned her attention to Jackson. “Let’s look at the positives. This engine failure could have happened en route. We’re damned lucky to have landed before the problem.”
“And here I thought you were a doom-and-gloom pessimist.” Jackson grinned and desperately wanted this moment alone with her, but the elders had to be properly greeted.
Nike shook her head and muttered, “Jackson, you’re a piece of work.”
He smiled quickly and then resumed his serious demeanor toward the elders. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“As always, I’ll take anything you say as a positive.”
“Get real,” she gritted between her teeth so that only he could hear her. On either side of them, the team had fanned out, hands on their weapons but trying not to appear threatening to the elders.
“Do me a favor?” Gavin said.
“Depends upon what it is.”
“These elders have strict laws regarding their women. I’ll be speaking to them in Pashto. They may have a problem with you not wearing a hijab, or scarf, on your head. That scarf is a sign of honoring their Muslim beliefs. So, if it comes to pass that someone hands you a scarf, wear it.”
Nike nodded. “No problem.”
“Thanks, I needed that.”
“Judging from their looks, you’re going to need more than a scarf on my head to turn this situation into a positive, honcho.”
Gavin said nothing. Nike took a step back, partly hidden by his tall, lean frame. The elders looked aged, their weathered faces deeply lined. Their skin was tobacco-brown, resembling leather, because of their tough outdoor life. Nike knew the elements at the top of the world in this mountain chain were unforgiving and brutal. Villages along the border had no electricity, no sewers and sometimes little water. These rugged Afghan people eked out a living raising goats and sheep. At this altitude, poppy crops wouldn’t grow because the season was too short. Winter came early and stayed late. Nike had found out through the weather officer at BJS ops that snow started in September and lasted sometimes into June. That was why they couldn’t grow crops and relied heavily on their animals for a food source.
The elders had good reason to be serious-looking, their hands hidden in the sleeves of their woolen robes, chins held high and their dark eyes assessing the A team. These proud and fiercely independent Afghan people had few resources. Beneath their threadbare woolen clothing, Nike saw the thinness of all the elders. There wasn’t a fat one in the group. Their leanness was probably due to the hardships of living in such a rocky, inhospitable place. She felt compassion and respect toward them, not animosity.
Gavin had been given an in-depth briefing on Zor Barawul before arriving at the village. Photos had been taken and the elders were identified in them. He recognized the chief elder, Abbas, who separated himself from the group. He was in his sixties and every inch like his name, which meant “angry lion” in Pashto. They approached each other like two competing football-team captains staring one another down. Tension sizzled in the cold morning air between the two groups of men. Walking forward, Gavin extended his hand to Abbas, who wore a dark brown turban and cloak. The man’s face was as narrow and thinned as a starving lion’s, horizontal lines deeply carved across his broad brow. Gashes slashed down on either side of his pursed lips. Ordinarily, the Afghan custom of greeting was to shake hands and then kiss each other’s cheeks as a sign of friendship.
That wasn’t going to happen here. Gavin fervently hoped that Abbas would at least shake his extended hand. The elder glared at him and then down at his hand. No, that wasn’t going to happen, either. Gavin pressed his right hand over his heart, bowed referentially and murmured, “Salaam-a-laikam.” This meant “peace be with you,” and was a greeting given no matter if the person were Muslim or of some other faith. It was a sign of respect and of the two people meeting on common ground.
Scowling, Abbas touched his chest where his heart lay and murmured, “Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah,” in return. That meant “And to you be peace together with God’s mercy.”
Gavin could see that Abbas was surprised by his sincere and knowledgeable greeting. His scowl eased and his voice became less gruff. “We told your emissary last week, Captain Jackson, that we did not want you to come to our village. The Kabul government has always ignored us. There is no reason you should be here at their invitation. If the Taliban finds out we are dealing with the Americans, they will come back here and kill more of my people. We are a tribe and as such, do not recognize the government as having any power or control over our lives,” Abbas said in Pashto, his arms remaining tightly wrapped against his chest.
Halting, Gavin allowed his hand to drop back to his side. “Sahibji,” he began in Pashto, “we do not come as representatives of the Kabul government. I realize you do not acknowledge them. The American people have donated all of this—” he turned and swept his hand toward the stacked boxes “—as respect for your tribe. Americans believe in peace and when they found out that your children needed help, they sent these boxes of medicine to you.” Gavin kept his voice sincere. “There is also food and blankets for your people, if you will accept their heartfelt generosity.”
Gavin knew that Afghan people, when given a sincere gift, would never forget the heart-centered gesture and would be friends for life with the givers. They were a remarkable warrior class who judged others on their loyalty and honor. They held an ancient set of codes based upon Islamic belief and here, in these mountains, the villagers practiced these morals and values to this day. That was one of the reasons the Russians had never been able to break the spirit of these proud people. The more they tried to destroy the Afghan tribal culture, the more stubborn the people became. Gavin felt General Chapman’s operation to win the hearts and minds of these people, one village at a time along the border, was much wiser and more humane. Gavin knew the Afghans would respond to honest gifts given from the heart, for they, above all, were a heart-centered people.
Abbas’s thick black-and-gray brows lifted slightly as he looked longingly toward the boxes. Then, his mouth curled as he swung his gaze back to the captain. “And for this you want what?”
Shrugging, Gavin said, “The opportunity to earn your friendship over time. Judge us on a daily basis and allow us to earn your respect.” He knew that the Afghan people were a proud people and that they were slow to give their trust. It was earned by deeds alone—not by any words, but actions.
“I have families who are sick and ailing,” Abbas said abruptly. “Even if there is medicine, there is no doctor. So what good is all of this?”
Gavin turned to his medic, Staff Sergeant Neal Robles. “This is Sergeant Robles. He is my paramedic and one level below a medical doctor. We have brought him to help your people. We are here on a strictly humanitarian mission. We are not here to cause stress or fighting.”
Grunting, Abbas lifted his chin a little higher. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. Looking over at the paramedic, he demanded, “And this man can do what?”
“He can give vaccinations to all your children. Many Afghan children die unnecessarily of diseases and our vaccinations can stop that. He can examine a male and treat him accordingly. We have brought antibiotics, as well.”
At that, Abbas’s brows lifted in surprise. Hope flared in his narrowed eyes.
Gavin saw his response. Abbas knew antibiotics were as valuable a commodity as opium made from the poppy fields of southern Afghanistan. The elder understood, thankfully, that antibiotics could save a life. But in this remote village, there was no way to get them nor was there the help of a doctor to dispense the lifesaving drug. Gavin was sure that Abbas had seen any number of children, men and women die of ailments that could have been stopped and turned around by antibiotics. “Sergeant Robles will train a man and a woman whom you suggest to use the antibiotics that we will supply to you. Your village will always have them on hand from now on.” Gavin could see the surprise and then the gratefulness in the man’s narrowed dark eyes.
Abbas heard the elders of the village whispering excitedly over the officer’s last statement. Turning, he saw them eagerly nod over receiving such a gift. His tribe had suffered severely for years beneath the Kabul government, the Russians and now, the Taliban. Drilling a look into the captain, Abbas growled, “My people have died without the help of our own government. They do not care whether we exist. If not for a Sufi brother and sister who are medical doctors who visit our village twice a year, many more would have died.” He jammed a long, thin index finger down at the hard brown earth where he stood.
“The United States of America is trying to change that,” Gavin told him in a persuasive tone. “We are here on a mission of mercy.” He walked toward the boxes, printed in English and Pashto. “Come and see. This is not the Kabul government nor my government. This is from the American people who do not like to see anyone’s children die. Look at the gifts from my people to your villagers. There is clothing, blankets, food and medicine. All we ask is to be able to distribute it and have our medic help those who ask for medical attention.”
Abbas walked commandingly over to the bounty, his lean shoulders squared, head held at a proud angle. He reached out with long brown hands and placed them on the tops of several of the cardboard boxes. Walking around the fifty cartons, he stopped, read the Pashto lettering on one and then moved on. The rest of the elders came to his side at his gesture. Gavin watched the group of men carefully read each label and check out the gifts.
Gavin turned and to Nike spoke quietly, “Listen, I need a favor. There are women here who need medical attention. Abbas isn’t about to let Robles touch any Muslim female since it’s against their religion. Can I volunteer you to help him?”
“But I don’t have any medical training,” Nike whispered.
“Doesn’t matter. Robles will teach you the basics.”
She saw the pleading in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anyone with my lack of experience.”
“Don’t worry, that won’t happen.”
Abbas strode over and gave Gavin a brusque nod of acceptance. “Allah is good. The gifts are indeed welcome, Captain Jackson. Shukria, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, malik sahib,” Gavin murmured, touching his heart and bowing his head respectfully to the elder.
Mouth quirking, Abbas looked directly at Nike and jabbed a finger toward her. “And this is the woman who will help Dr. Robles?”
Gavin didn’t want to correct the elder. To do so would be a sign of disrespect. Besides, it would humiliate Abbas in front of the others and he had no wish to destroy what little trust he had just forged between them. “Yes, sir. Captain Nike Alexander will assist Dr. Robles, if you wish. With your permission, she will care for the women and girls of your village.”
“I wish it to be so,” Abbas said in a gruff tone. “My wife, Jameela, will bring her a hijab to wear over her head. She must respect Islam.” He folded his arms across his narrow chest. “You are welcome to remain here and help my people, Captain Jackson. We are a peaceful tribe of sheep- and goat-herders. I will have my second-in-command, Brasheer, help you.” He eyed Nike. “This woman is not allowed among your men. She will remain at our home. My wife will give her a room and she will remain in the company of women and children only.”
“Of course,” Gavin murmured, and he explained that Nike would be a transiting visitor because the helo was down. “You are most gracious,” he told Abbas, giving him a slight bow of acknowledgment. “We would like to stay as long as you need medical help.”
“I approve. Captain, you shall honor me by being my guest at every meal. We will prepare a room in our house for you. Your men will be housed at the other homes, fed, and given a place to sleep.”
