Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  “What do you mean, disregarded?”

  “My Uncle, for many hundreds of years our lands, this land, has been exploited, our territory carved up and given away by the British, the Russians and the Americans. They have taken our minerals, our heritage, our women, our homes, and our religion and made them worthless. All we have left is opium. That is, my grandfather says, our Gross National Product. Opium! Not wheat or barley. Opium! We grow it to appease your country’s drug lords who market it. That is what is wrong. Our leaders have always bent to their will. But now it is different. Now we have our own leaders. Now they will control the oil production here, not your international oil companies and we will no longer need to deal with drugs. The oil will make us powerful. Our leaders have no fear now. You see, we have nothing left, so we will fight and we will never surrender. It is the same in Iran, Iraq, Pakistan and Palestine, wherever there are Arabs, there will be Jihad. It is inevitable. Our fate is to kill or be killed. It is the fight of good against evil.”

  “But this is wrong,” Mason looked at the boy, “Look at what is happening to women here.”

  “I have never seen your women,” the boy answered, “but I know that it is too dangerous for a woman at this time. They cannot travel unaccompanied here, we must protect our women. They are always covered, seen only by their husbands and their family. What is wrong with that? These are dangerous times. Before the Taliban, women and children were raped and brutalized. The Taliban have brought law and order. I know of your democracy, my Uncle. This is not a democracy nor can it ever be. This is a tribal land run by families who believe in honor and continuity, not crooked politicians. Whenever the West is involved our standards are lowered and the foolish shun Allah.”

  “You speak like a wise old man, Amahl, yet you are only what? Fourteen or sixteen?”

  “You forget, my Uncle that in this land a man, if he is blessed with a long life, lives to maybe forty. Thus I am by these standards already a man and at twenty-one summers I will be middle-aged. Soon I will have a wife and children, they will take the continuity a few steps further and perhaps the sons of my children will have a life of peace. But probably not me. I expect to die. I will die for my cause. There is nothing else. We must be free of the West. We must be able to hold up our heads and walk in the path of Allah, peace be upon him.”

  “You can do that in a democracy, Amahl.”

  “Like your black people, perhaps? That is dignity? Or your Indians? No. We are fighters! Look my Uncle, look ahead. I think we are here. My Uncle, I tell you to be successful, because if you are not, you might never see your democracy again.”

  “America is not a democracy, it is a republic. Why is Zawahri not here? He is a surgeon, not I.”

  “He is in England, my Uncle, collecting money for us. Money,” he said with self assurance and belief that Mason had never seen in a teenager, “that comes from America.”

  Mason stared in disbelief as the vehicle pulled to a long drawn out stop. Before them were three horsemen with two fine Arabian horses and behind them, what looked like a medieval army. Dozens of turbaned riders had gathered behind them.

  “Have you ever heard of the game ‘Buzkashi’, my Uncle?”

  “That’s the one where many men on horses chase after the carcass of a decapitated goat or calf. It’s where the English got their polo from.”

  “The English game polo is for women in burquas. Our men actually pick up the carcass from the ground while staying on the horse, then they carry it around the flag and give it to the judges.”

  “Alright what’s your point.”

  “I think my Uncle, if we do not cure the son of bin Laden, even though Buzkashi is usually banned in the camps, our heads will be the object of the next game.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR

  It took what seemed like hours for them to reach their destination high in the mountains. They were taken on horseback by mountain guides to a small encampment overlooking a training facility. Large tents served as field hospitals and it was evident that they were rapidly being stocked with both medical personnel and equipment for future use. There were trucks nearby loaded with supplies, many bearing boxes with American and British pharmaceutical labels. One of the packages caught Mason’s eye. The package was labeled with an odd name he recognized immediately. He had attended a conference a few years before and previewed a product made from a mineral called zeolite. The mineral worked by absorbing water from blood and was used like a coagulant when sprinkled on a wound. The U.S. Military physicians attending the conference were in awe of its potential to prevent soldiers injured in battle from bleeding to death until reaching a surgical hospital. That it was marketed to allied military surgical teams was inevitable, but that it was somehow black-marketed to the Taliban was an awesome surprise.

  “Amahl!” he shouted, “Make sure we get a box of that stuff,” pointing to the carton now being passed inside the smaller of the tents serving as a stockroom

  “What is it?” Amahl asked, getting ready to translate.

  “It’s a powder that should be sprinkled on wounds. There’s also a carton of coated bandages as well,” Mason said, remembering that clotting proteins like fibrin and thrombin also helped speed up the healing process and looking at a box of bandages whose main ingredient was Chitsan, made from shrimp shells. “They’re all coagulants, Amahl, bring them too. The other stuff in the small package controls internal bleeding. They’re trying to use it back home to stop hemophilia intravenously.”

  Following Mason’s instructions, Amahl took charge of the redirection of several of the packages, while Mason went into the larger tent to be met by a short woman heavily veiled in black robes accompanied by a man in traditional Afghan clothing with an AK-47 over his shoulder, carrying a clipboard.

  “I am Khashar, and I am a medical technician from Pakistan. I was trained in Cleveland at the University Hospital. I was almost a doctor until I joined the Holy War. I am not a trained emergency room physician, but I have been very useful on the battlefield and I can handle the frontline I think. I am the assistant to Dr. Zawahri when he is here.”

  “I am glad of your help. I have worked only in emergency room situations since I became a doctor and I have come from a surgical hospital to see this patient. Tell me what has happened and what you have done so far.”

  Khashar led Mason to the far corner of the large hospital tent. There surrounded by screens was a young man, perhaps no older than twenty, drenched in sweat and obviously in intense pain. His lower right leg was being cleaned by two young men, presumably nurses. One of them held the leg while the other attempted to wash the wound with an antiseptic which smelled like a mixture of chlorinated and ionated phenol, probably TCP, which was very popular in Britain. The clean smell made Mason remember his childhood visits with his grandparents in Chester, where it was used for every ailment from burns to cuts and grazes.

  He was surprised to find patient treatment sheets and physician’s clipboard notes and quickly scanned both. Saad bin Laden was nineteen, well-nourished with no history of severe illness or known allergies. The injury had occurred while running across a deserted Russian training ground now utilized as a Jihad camp. The piece of metal was rusted and protruded from the ground. Saad had deliberately veered to avoid hitting it but had stumbled backwards and caught the side of his lower right leg as he fell. It had not bled very much and as a precaution it had been thoroughly washed with hot water at the camp within minutes after the injury occurred. The patient had been x-rayed although somewhat primitively under the circumstances. The injury notes concluded that it was an open fracture. He had received a mandatory tetanus shot and a broad spectrum antibiotic at the camp medical tent within fifteen minutes. In the night the youth developed a fever which had eventually broken. After a few hours the wound looked as though it was clean and beginning to heal. However the following day the fever redeveloped and the wound was beginning to look yellow and angry. At the reoccurrence of the fever and the
developing appearance of infection the suggestion of a second opinion had been noted and Mason, being the closest and best trained emergency physician was sent for.

  After washing completely in a soap made of oil of cloves and sandalwood, Mason was given fresh robes and a set of surgical gloves, a cap and a mask. Donning them quickly he headed back towards the patient. The other two men acted as assistants and held the leg firmly. Mason began to probe the wound, carefully checking the size, location and degree of contamination. Khashar was busily taking photographs with a digital camera so that they would not have to continually reopen and examine the wound unless completely necessary. A sterile dressing was applied and would remain until Mason determined the surgical procedure. While he was unable to perform a neurovascular exam, he decided to move the patient into the operating room. Mason made the decision not to take a wound culture because the wound was not that unusual. Instead he felt the best course of action was what was medically termed a wound debridement of the skin, fascia, muscle and bone. All redundant tissue would be excised including the wound’s edges. He would determine the viability of the muscle by whether it bled and contracted. Anything that did not, dead muscle and bone fragments without adjoining soft tissue would be removed. If all went well the bone edge would be trimmed and the medullary canal irrigated with saline. He knew there would be no high pressure irrigation equipment available, so hand flushing would have to do. Hopefully Khashar was up to the task. Routine surgical fracture stabilization would follow and Allah willing, there would be no secondary infection.

  Contrary to both modern medical and fundamentalist Islamic practices the patient’s mother was close by. The look of gratitude in her eyes was enough for Mason to keep working on this young man. The woman had bathed her beloved son’s entire body in a solution of Melaleuca and Citrus Lemon oil. A small pot of sandalwood oil and water boiled in a clay pot over another container holding a small candle. Mason could imagine telling his sister at some future date about this rudimentary aromatherapy. Haley was a big supporter of the practical use of essential oils in medicine. Perhaps, he now thought, she had a viable point.

  After irrigating the wound with antiseptic Mason gripped the dead tissue with forceps, scalpel and scissors, cutting away all that was non-viable. Three hours later the impromptu surgical procedure was complete. After the procedure he carefully packed the wound with the zeolite product, which Khashar commented looked vaguely like cat litter, and added coated bandages as an additional precaution. He left the tent exhausted, only to find Amahl waiting for him with a plate of naan bread and some weak mint tea.

  “Do you have any of the peppermint left, or even better, some peppermint oil?”

  After a few minutes the boy returned with a vial of oil that he rubbed into his hands and began to remove the tension in his uncle’s shoulders and neck. It took very little time for Mason to fall completely asleep.

  Later that evening Mason awakened and returned to see his patient, who by now had received a sponge bath and had been spoon fed a small bowl of lukewarm chicken broth. Completing his cursory examination, Mason advised all present of the possibility that the procedure would need to be repeated if anything appeared slightly wrong. He felt most sincerely the procedure had gone very well indeed. Noting the color had returned to the young man’s face, Mason felt sure his patient would fully recover.

  “I am grateful to you, Doctor. You have healed my son. Allah is gracious and merciful, praise be upon him and his followers,” the boy’s mother said as she gently massaged her son’s hands and arms, willing him back into good health. “His father arrives here tomorrow. He has been informed of the outcome.”

  “You must have very fast horses, Madam bin Laden.”

  Reaching into her burqua’s inside pouch, she smiled broadly revealing two gold teeth and said smugly, “I have a cell phone, Dr. Ansari. I am the FIRST wife.”

  “Ah yes, Madam,” he replied, as he bowed and left the room quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping youth. “Rank no doubt has its privileges.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE

  After the dawn with the morning prayers and the breaking of their fast, Mason made his rounds of the hospital ward, tending first to the other three patients, discharging them where necessary. This accomplished, he went to Saad bin Laden, whom he had left until last so he could spend more time with him. Khashar had remained with the young man during the night and they were now completely sure there was no immanent danger of re-infection.

  When Mason drew open the curtain surrounding the bed, he discovered his patient sitting upright typing frantically on a laptop computer. Looking up, he greeted Mason cordially, saying, “Good Morning Dr. Ansari. I understand from Khashar that you’re a medical genius.”

  The young man’s English was perfect. Mason answered him in Arabic, and the young bin Laden responded in Pashto.

  “Checkmate,” answered Mason, “This reminds me of trying to talk with my sister Hallah. Sometimes we speak three languages in one sentence.”

  “Ah yes. The government lawyer who dislikes Arab men.”

  “It’s not that she dislikes Arab men, she simply dislikes what she perceives as their mistreatment of Arab women. However, you are exceedingly well-informed.”

  “I am Saad bin Laden,” the boy answered with the arrogance of his youth and status, “I must remain well informed to stay alive.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by what seemed to be the roar of a crowd of people. “Zindibad Osama. Zindibad Osama. Zindibad Osama.” It sounded like hundreds of voices joining together in the chant of “Long live Osama” growing louder and louder, echoing in the valley below. Mason walked over to the window. Looking down, he saw men on horseback lining the mountain path and then a convoy of about fifty vehicles. What looked like a custom designed white Toyota Corolla with an elongated hatchback was shielded by six armored vehicles and four-wheel drive trucks. The white car; he must be in the white car, Mason thought to himself. Well, he mused, the last time the one they called the Messiah arrived on a donkey. Maybe this time, with better technology the chosen one will survive.

  Finally through the throngs of people the motorcade arrived outside the hospital. The tall, thin man emerged from the car shielded by his green uniformed commando squad, combat ready with special grenade launching Kalashnikovs. Osama bin Laden, with his loose grey robes blowing in the wind, gave the appearance of effortlessly gliding, rather than walking up the pathway to the hospital door. Draped over his shoulders was the familiar camouflage jacket. The crowd went wild. “There is no God but God. God is Great. Long live Osama!” He turned, looked directly at the crowd and smiled.

  For some inane reason, Mason thought of the last time he had seen the Rolling Stones in Washington. He had gone with his mother and stepfather and he observed there the adulation of rock stars for the first time. Here there were certain similarities. Good grief, the man certainly had stage presence. Almost as though bin Laden had picked up this thought, he began addressing the crowd. Osama bin Laden, the new redeemer, had them now. They gave him their full attention. They were in his power and he began to scream.

  “God is ever with us!” He bellowed even louder, “We will never surrender!” And then, just as suddenly, he lowered his voice, looking at the hoard of tribesmen lining the path. Facing them he placed his right hand over his heart paying the traditional homage to the ethnic Pashtun leadership. Had this man ever looked frail? Mason now wondered. Now he looked strong. Bin Laden’s arms were now raised as though conducting an orchestra, “We have weapons. We have technology,” he said, commanding their attention again. “They may come, they may drop their bombs and burn our villages, but we will go on. They cannot win.”

  This was truly amazing, Mason thought, watching in awe of the man.

  “What we need is your moral support. May God grant me the opportunity to see you and meet you again on the front line!” Bin Laden was smiling as his loyal followers walked towards him.

 
All he needs now is music, Mason mused, anticipating a John Williams or John Barry overture.

  “God is great!. There is no God but God!” the crowd roared. Another man greeted bin Laden, taking his hand and holding it within his. Behind bin Laden, also waving to the crowd much to Mason’s surprise, was Ghulam Ansari.

  He could hear voices and the sound of running footsteps down the hallway toward the door. “Allah be merciful, Look Uncle Masud, he is here. My master is here!” Amahl shouted excitedly, running into the room, staring at Saad bin Laden and hopelessly tried to control himself. The tears were flowing down his face. “He is here. They’ll be coming for you soon. Let me come with you! Please let me come with you! I am your nephew. I must see him face to face. He is my hero. He saw me at my grandfather’s wedding, but I am a warrior now, not a child.”

  “Then compose yourself and stop all this blubbering, Amahl. He is a man, like any other man.”

  “No, Uncle. He is divine. Outside there are leaders from all the tribes in Afghanistan. It’s going to be a council of war. I have heard that the allied forces are going to bomb us very soon. We will not stay here long.”

  The door opened, and bin Laden’s entourage entered. Bin Laden was carrying a Kalashnikov machine gun which he handed to Amahl, who cradled it like a newborn child.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX

  “I see my son is better already. You were a good choice, Masud Ansari. You do honor to your father and you have my thanks. Now please excuse us.” He signaled to one of his guards who led the way for Mason to follow. He was ushered into a smaller room at the end of the makeshift hospital.

  Mason kept staring out of the plastic windows, the theme from the old TV show MASH popping into his head. His mother had loved the movie but he preferred the TV show, watching it on late night television at every opportunity. The Army surgeons had been his early role models in medicine and here he was. “Live in Afghanistan, for your evening’s entertainment. It’s Hawk-eye Desai, or should I say...” he shouted before being rudely interrupted.