Then her eye fell on it: a 2010 Army sniper rifle. One of the fallen soldiers had it, and it lay by his side. Carefully, leaving her computer bag behind, Hoda inched out to it, about 20 meters away. She touched it, held it, and relieved the still, head-shot soldier of two magazines. She looked: it was not the 7.72 millimeter NATO version, but the new, longer-range 300 magnum. The scope was fitted. Gradually, keeping low, she shimmied back behind her depression.
Hell was still breaking as Hoda used the telescopic sight to scan the far-off flashes. One after another she identified targets, brought closer but not into easy range. About 600 yards, she guessed—and she had no spotter.
There! There was the machine gun that killed the men on the ramp.
Rolling on her back with the weapon on top of her, Hoda extended the bipod, checked to see if the magazine was full, worked the bolt and seated a round. Then she rolled over and assumed the firing position.
Not right: the adjustable stock was too long. That took a moment to fix. Try again. Good. Settle down, regular breathing.
Pop! Miss. Pop! miss. Pop! Miss. Adjust the scope down. Pop! There!
One of the machine gun crew crumpled. A hair to the right. Pop! Hit. Pop. Another. Four rounds left in the magazine.
There was a mortar pit, hidden behind beige sandbags nearly invisible against the backdrop of the terrain. The sandbags protected it from the camp’s direct fire, but Hoda’s position to one side accorded her the tiniest gap. She settled down, evening her breathing again. Soldierly.
Pop! Miss. Pop! Miss. The heavy recoil was beginning to bother her shoulder. No time for that now. Pop! Hit. Pop hit! And she seated the second of her three magazines. Hoda kept up fire on the mortar, killing or wounding five or six Taliban intent on keeping it firing. They almost surely had no way of knowing where she was. Presently, the weapon silenced.
She looked for more crew-served weapons, but found none. Still scanning, she found another target: four or five men in traditional Afghan garb, two with binoculars, and two with radios or big telephones. Observing for awhile, she thought she’d picked out the highest-ranking. Carefully, now! Squeeze…
Pop! And more than a second later, after the round went downrange, she fancied seeing its impact, center mass, and the target vanish, tumble over backward. The rest scattered in terror. When one came back to check the fallen leader, Hoda took a shot at him, and missed. By then the firing was dying out. Soon it ceased completely, and Afghan troops from inside the camp poured forth to check the Chinook and its passengers.
Hoda rose, shouldering the rifle and her computer bag. The Special Forces soldiers all wore beards and dressed in Afghan garb, but looking closely Hoda could discern them. One, obviously a medic, was working on a casualty.
“I’m a physician,” Hoda said. “Can I help?”
“Not here, doc,” said the senior sergeant, not even looking up. “But look around. You’ll find something to do.”
“Can I take some dressings?”
“Help yourself.”
And Hoda did, finding two or three men with relatively minor wounds and passing them by, for one soldier with a sucking chest wound. She closed it as best she could, and screamed for him to be brought inside the compound first. Afghans quickly complied, thanks to an interpreter.
Focused on her work, Hoda kept going for more than two hours. Then she interviewed the two Afghan women, forcing herself to bury her own combat trauma and find the compassion for women in crisis. Slowly, patiently, she extracted the horror the women had been through, and roughed out a report for her command. Only then did the events of the day overwhelm. She prayed with the rape victims, then excused herself, finding herself shaking almost uncontrollably. Outside, she heard other helicopters.
“Colonel?” said the Special Forces team sergeant, though the curtain on her working chamber.
“Yes?”
“There’s a bird waiting for you. You’re to go back to division right away.”
“Thank you, sergeant major.”
And less than an hour later, Hoda was sobbing by herself, secretly loathing herself for her weakness, in the darkness of her lonely room.
***
Marwa was running daily now, though she had trouble stopping; she usually just collapsed to the floor, using her hands to stop her fall. She had passed the so-called midline of development: handed a new toy, she put the one in the receiving hand into the other hand before accepting the offered one. She adored being read to, and cuddled with both Jake and her grandparents, though Jake was delighted that she much preferred him. She always knew when he was near. Working was hard for Jake, and he often had to rely on Maryam and Abdul to take Marwa on an outing for part of the day so he could get anything at all done, lest she just never leave him alone.
She began mimicking adult behavior, and making small sentences, usually just one or two words. When she wanted to get somewhere in a hurry, Marwa reverted to crawling, at which she had an incredible scampering facility.
And, she hugged and kissed Jake endlessly, a capacity for which he developed a passion never to leave him.
At their video conference that night, Hoda looked haggard. Jake tried to probe a little, but stopped when he realized things just were not right. Better to let the professional deal with it.
The sight and sound of Marwa, who was up at a special hour for the occasion, seemed to perk Hoda up. Jake hoped the perk would last, and not turn into a let down when Hoda was off camera.
***
Less than three days later, a lieutenant colonel of infantry visited Hoda. He was cordial, but businesslike, and interviewed her about the incident at the Special Forces camp. She kept asking if he was an Army journalist, insisting she wanted no publicity whatsoever, but the colonel brushed her off, investigating more like a detective than anything else. What was the weapon? Where was she when she saw it? What happened inside the helicopter? How did she get out? What caused her to find the targets she engaged? Where had she learned to shoot like that? Why had she chosen the Ranger School, when her aim was medical school? How did she reconcile the Hippocratic Oath with the taking of lives in combat? How did she practice her religion here, and was it any affect on her life in the military?
“Colonel,” Hoda told him finally, “with all due respect to the chain of command, I don’t see how this helps me do my job. I have patients out there waiting for me, and I need to sort them so I can begin treatment for those men, and a couple of women, who might need it. So if you’ll excuse me?”
The colonel stood. “Of course,” he said, and offered his hand. Hoda took it, ignoring the Muslim edict of non-contact. She often did in-country, as it was so much easier, though she suffered pangs every time. The colonel took his leave. Hoda thought no more about it, and certainly made no connection between her visitor and the astonishing herald from her own sergeant assistant, a medic, ten days later. They had been days of interminable hardship, as they all were, ending with the negligible reward of another day crossed off on two calendars, in two countries thousands of miles apart.
“Colonel?” said the long-suffering Sergeant First Class Junius P. York, Hoda’s admin. “Pack up! You’re going home!”
“What?”
“Pack up, ma’am. Your orders just came. You are out of here. Back to the world!” York, like everyone else not driven by puerile lust, loved “their colonel.” They would be sorry to see her go, but happy for her to reunite with her obviously much-missed family.
“What’s this all about?” Hoda asked.
“It doesn’t say,” Sergeant York said. “Just that you’re to use the most expeditious transport to get out of Afghanistan and back to Washington, D.C., reporting to this general at the Pentagon.” He handed her the brief. Hoda scanned it.
She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know where to begin. But the practical side of her took over immediately, she she told York to sit down with his legal pad. First things first: briefing for her relief. Then she began to plan packing. She as
ked York to check out transport, and like the good subordinate he was he came back with word of the next scheduled C-130 flight out, in about 45 minutes. Then came a command decision.
She wrote her home address in the USA on York’s legal pad. “This is classified, got it? Ship everything. I’m going like this.” And with that, Hoda packed her personal electronics, a light overnight bag, grabbed her hijab and regular beret in case she’d need it, and stepped out into the Afghan night, bound for the motor pool.
The Herky-Bird was out of Mazar-i-Sharif right on time, and made Kabul in the usual space. It was still dark outside. A few minutes later, Hoda was walking down the aisle of a charter Jumbo jet when she felt a touch on her arm. “Colonel Holman?” said a voice.
Hoda turned and faced a female major. Hoda glanced: cavalry, attached to the First Division.
“Yes,” Hoda said. As both were encumbered by baggage, they did not salute.
“I’m Major Dunlap,” she said. “Your escort to the states.”
“Escort?”
Dunlap nodded. “Division Public Affairs.”
“Public Affairs? Whatever for?”
“You don’t know what this is about?”
“Nobody told me anything. As usual.”
“We’d better sit together. Do you mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I’d prefer that. Last time I was on one of these flights, I was masher material.”
Dunlap grinned. “I know what you mean. Doesn’t pay to be a woman in a combat zone. Well, we’ll talk this over and you’ll be up to speed.”
Hoda took the window seat and Dunlop the aisle. There was a seat between them, and the aircraft was not sufficiently filled to have it taken, for which Hoda was immensely grateful.
Hoda liked Dunlap’s look. She was lithe and athletic-looking. No Ranger tabs, but that was no surprise. Female Ranger grads like Hoda were extremely rare: many were called, but few chosen, and it was a very near thing with Hoda. Few outside her knew how close the course came to breaking her, both physically and mentally. Dunlap did wear the CIB, the coveted Combat Infantry Badge. Like Hoda, she’d been shot at in the field.
The jet was finishing its climb when the seatbelt light went out. Dunlap turned to Hoda and smiled.
“So, no one told you why you’re headed home?”
“No. I’m in the dark.”
“Well, get ready for the bright lights, soldier. Because your orders came from on high.”
“Really.”
“Really. Really, really high. The Oval Office.”
“You’re joking!”
“I am not. That’s why I was assigned as escort. It hasn’t leaked out to the media yet, but a woman is under investigation for the Medal of Honor. Or, at least the DSM.” Distinguished Service Medal, the nation’s second-highest combat decoration.
“Not me, surely?”
“None other. Don’t be so modest. You kicked ass in that helo crash. Single-handedly wiped out a mortar and a machine gun the camp guns couldn’t find, covered the crash survivors, then offered medical attention to the wounded. And, you did the shooting while under fire. Nice work!”
“I’m a soldier,” Hoda said simply. Her emotions were welling up. She wasn’t sure she was ready to have more made of simple duty than just what it was. That was the advantage of working in Jake’s shady world: everything was secret, and there wasn’t much politics. Only the mission. This was something different.
“You’re a woman,” Dunlap said. “And the politicians need female heroes. It’s good politics.”
“No matter who’s life gets dragged down in the process?”
Dunlap turned serious. This was why she was picked for the assignment, her Public Affairs training kicked in. “Don’t be like that,” she advised Hoda. “It’ll make it that much harder.”
Hoda was silent for awhile. “So now what?”
“So now you report to the Pentagon, get a desk there for a few weeks while the investigation continues, and then, when the decision is made, you’re on hand for the ceremony when the Commander-in-Chief wants you.”
“The President?”
“Himself.”
“You’re joking.”
“I assure you, this is no joke, colonel.”
“All for a few rifle shots.”
“From six hundred yards? Are you kidding? You retrieved the weapon under fire, you knew how to use it. You’re a Ranger School graduate, for God’s sake. A woman! Do you know how many little girls will look up to you? This is important, Colonel. Think outside yourself.”
Hoda cast a scathing eye on the escort one grade her junior. “I’m a medical doctor, major. I’ve thought outside myself for as long as I can remember.”
“Well, ma’am, you sure were out there at that green beanie camp. Which brings up the subject that you, yourself, were Special Forces. It just keeps getting better and better. This is a Public Affairs dream.”
“It’s a regular officer’s nightmare,” Hoda replied, and lay back to digest the latest news.
And she had plenty of time to do that. Regardless of anything else, this whole scenario did one good thing: it cut short her Afghanistan tour. Even if she had to return, she would see Jake and Marwa. Marwa! Oh, what must she be like? Hoda called to memory all the videos Jake had shared, all the still photos and video conferences over the intervening weeks and months. Hoda’s heart melted at the thought of what she’d missed in her precious daughter’s life. And her devoted husband’s. Her body responded to the thought of Jake’s touch, and she shivered. Tears welled up again, and she hoped Major Dunlap wouldn’t notice; apparently she didn’t, but was snoring softly.
Hoda booted her laptop, and wrote a long, thoughtful e-mail to Jake. She told him all she knew, and added some personal thoughts. She didn’t know where or when they’d be landing, so she couldn’t expect Jake and her parents to be there. Perhaps he could find out. He did have resources.
***
Jake’s eyes were glued to the screen, and his chest swelled with pride. What could he say? The light of his life—of all their lives—was coming home, and bathed in the warmth of glory. The very womanly humility that made Hoda uncomfortable with it made Jake’s maleness sit up and take notice. He was not jealous; far from it. Jake Holman had had his share of glory, both in the Army and the CIA afterward, and he was more than happy for Hoda.
But the President! Himself! And Hoda was coming home!
“Told you she was a great shot,” Jake said to himself and the computer screen.
“Baba!” said the voice beside him. Jake burst into a smile, and picked his little girl up onto his lap. “No, not Baba, Mama!” Jake pointed to her picture. “Mama! Mama coming home!”
“Calendar!” squealed Marwa, pointing to it, with its X’s in her very own toddler hand.
“To hell with the calendar,” Jake said, right to his daughter.
“To ’ell with calendar,” Marwa mimicked, pointing to the offending object.
“Oops!” Jake said, regretting his moment of profane jubilation. “No-no, Marwa. Naughty. Baba was naughty and said a no-no.”
“Baba naughty!” Marwa said crossly to him.
“Let’s have some cookies,” Jake said.
“Cookies!” Marwa cried, delighted at the unexpected treat.
Jake set her in the high chair, handed her her favorites, and reached for the telephone. He had to talk with his in-laws, but first there was John Robinson. He could count on that being short and businesslike. Once his mother-in-law was on, it could take awhile.
Much later, in the wee hours of the following morning, Jake stood in the arrival lounge at Andrews Air Force Base as uniformed soldiers, sailors and airmen—mostly soldiers—stepped out from the incoming flight. Halfway down the line, a radiant beauty stood tall among the few women, her red beret perched perfectly on pulled-back, but still luxuriant, blue-black hair.
“Hoda!” Jake called. His command voice lifted over all, and her head turned instantly, her face tr
ansforming into unbridled joy. They raced together, and Jake lifted her from the ground as she clasped his neck, a searing kiss but one of many in a large room filled with passionate reunions. Tears filled both their eyes.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring Marwa,” Jake stammered when he caught his breath. “It was just too late for her.”
She kissed him again. And again. And then again. “It’s all right, Jake,” she said. She wanted him close—wanted his hands on her. And hers on him. Wanted them together. Powerfully. Overwhelmingly.
“Hoda?”
“Yes?”
“I made a reservation at a bed-and-breakfast a few blocks off base. I can cancel if you like, but they’re expecting us.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s a military town, Hoda. Yes, they know.”
“Ohhh, Jake!” She crushed herself to him, and they kissed yet again.
“Let’s go,” she said, and led him away by the hand. She was fairly running.
***
Major Dunlap had let Hoda off her leash for the time she took to see Jake, but it was a nervous Dunlap that collected Hoda at the bed-and-breakfast and fairly dragged her to the Pentagon for reporting in. That was toward the close of business that day, and some askance looks were cast at the two female officers. Hoda didn’t care, and Dunlap knew it. She also thought it was worth it, and Hoda certainly did: she was rejuvenated, despite her exhaustion. Hoda’s handlers—for that’s what they were, now she was on the verge of stardom—told her to go home and say nothing to anybody. Any interviews would be done in Major Dunlap’s presence.
Promising Dunlap to be on her best behavior, Hoda went to the condo and found Jake and Mara waiting. Hoda had to summon her courage, and her professional skill, when little Marwa turned her face away shyly, into her father’s shoulder when introduced to her mother. Hoda had been away a third of her daughter’s young life. Jake saw the hurt in his lover’s eyes, and she saw that he saw; it helped. Hoda quickly changed out of her uniform, and things took their first, tiny turn toward normality when Jake was reading to Marwa for her nap. Marwa let Hoda take over part way, and her mother was thrilled beyond words to feel the toddler’s head on her side as they lay on the master bed. Pretty soon Marwa was snoring gently, angelically, and her father carried her to her bed, no longer a crib. The little girl slept soundly for a long time, during which her parents did not.
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