Colonel Drake paced the floor of his office, stroking his mustache. As he did so, the outline of a new plan slowly formed in his mind. The time of the drone strike came and went.
Ten agonizing minutes after the air strike, Captain Fox radioed his commander. “Colonel Drake, the compound is…obliterated, but we’ve sustained multiple casualties.”
“What about the enemy’s battle line—the one to the west of you?”
“Gone, sir. After the air strike, they just melted away. Sir, can you send in medics?”
“Yes, prepare the wounded for transport. Captain, are there any fatalities among our troops?”
The line was silent for a moment. “Yes, sir. Eleven that I know of,” replied Captain Fox grimly. “There’s probably more.”
Shaken, Colonel Drake decided to execute his newly-formed plan. “Hold tight, Captain. Help is on the way.” He then called General Clarke, his commander. “Sir, an NSA mission has experienced problems. We need to send medics and Bradleys,” The military’s armored personnel carriers could carry the soldiers out of the dangerous combat zone.
After making arrangements for the requested support, the general asked, “What happened?”
“My NSA contact ordered a ground assault on an Al-Qaeda compound, followed by a drone strike. The ground troops became pinned down and couldn’t be extracted before the air assault. We have multiple casualties and eleven confirmed ‘friendly-fire’ deaths so far, with probably more to follow.”
“Dammit!” declared the general. “What were they thinking?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, sir,” replied Colonel Drake, trying to keep his voice even. “I told my NSA contact it was a risky mission, but at the end of the day, I have to follow his orders.”
CHAPTER 14
Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan
Three days had passed since the bazaar bombing. Having decided to be a bit more attentive as he traveled amongst the buildings of Camp Eggers, Alton saw Lieutenant Wilson approaching in a breezeway. Even in her ACU—Army Combat Uniform—she was pretty. Very pretty.
When she reached Alton, Lieutenant Wilson stopped and glanced at his wheelchair. “That bad, huh?”
He laughed quietly. “No, it’s just precautionary.” In response to her skeptical eyebrow, he continued, “Honest, I should be back on my cane in a few days.”
“That’s good. I hope you’ll be feeling back to normal soon.”
“Thanks, I hope so,” said Alton, otherwise silent. He saw no point in telling her the injury would probably be permanent.
“I was hoping to run into you. I’ve been wondering how you’ve recovered,” she said, gesturing to his leg.
Her unexpected interest sparked a feeble flame in Alton that, albeit weak, momentarily shined a slightly brighter light on his path. Inexplicably energized by the Lieutenant’s comment, Alton replied, “I’m glad to see you too. No wonder I didn’t recognize you the other day. You look quite different without your war paint.”
Wilson snickered at his reference to the grime with which she had been covered on the day of the bazaar bombing.
An awkward silence ensued. Finally, Alton spoke. “You work near here, right?”
“Yes, the Quartermasters Corps is housed in that new building, just over there,” she said, pointing.
After glancing in the indicated direction, Alton smiled slightly. “Well, I should let you get to it. I don’t want to make you late.” The day shift’s start time was rapidly approaching.
She dipped her head to the side. “You, too. Maybe I’ll see you around.” She departed with a smile and a small wave of the hand. For a moment during the brief conversation, Alton had thought the empty feeling inside had imperceptibly eased. As Lieutenant Wilson’s form disappeared, he was no longer sure. He sighed and turned towards work.
Alton wheeled himself through Delta building and stopped at the coffee station on his way down the hall. As he arrived at his desk, he stared into the black liquid, his thoughts wandering to his own black emptiness. As always, the feeling threatened to consume him. And as always, he reminded himself of his family at home—of the devastation they would feel over his death. He wouldn’t allow himself to be the source of heartache to his family. He had to keep going for their sake.
Alton shook the distractions from his thoughts and began his workday. Captain Dunlow stopped by to discuss the morning’s decrypted Al-Qaeda correspondence. Alton trusted his colleague, and Dunlow seemed to return the feeling. Alton not only decoded and translated intercepted communications but also recommended the appropriate response, a set of skills that proved to be useful to his MI counterpart.
Thankfully, insurgent messaging had been light that week, allowing time for more than shop talk. As their work discussion ended, Captain Dunlow made the same offer he had tendered many times before. “Me and some friends are going to Gandamak’s Lodge tonight. Want to join us?” Located in downtown Kabul, the US-friendly restaurant and bar was a popular destination for coalition soldiers.
For reasons Alton couldn’t explain, he agreed, surprising himself.
Dunlow was equally caught off guard. “Really? Cool. Want a lift?” he asked, gazing at the wheelchair.
“Yes, thanks. What time do you normally leave?”
“As soon as we’re off shift—about nineteen-thirty hours.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Alton and Captain Dunlow arrived at the dimly-lit restaurant and bar just prior to 8:00 p.m. Dunlow introduced Alton to some of the officers who comprised his circle of friends. Alton nodded a greeting and ordered a Bud Light. He asked his new acquaintances about their assignments, their lives. It was the easiest way to avoid discussing his own.
“Some folks aren’t here yet,” explained Dunlow, “but they’ll be along shortly. In fact,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “here come a few now.”
Alton turned and—for the first time—gazed upon Lieutenant Wilson in civilian attire. She was stunning: short and athletic, with a dark complexion and an international appearance that spoke of a family tree spanning great distances. She wore her hair in a determined bun on the clock but now let it flow over her delicate shoulders in a cascade of sable locks.
“Captain Blackwell!” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Likewise,” said Alton, “but it’s nice to see a familiar face.”
“And I’m glad to see yours,” she replied.
“Lieutenant Wilson—,” began Alton.
“Mallory,” she corrected with a smile. “In here it’s just Mallory.”
“Mallory, then,” said Alton, feeling pleased. “And you can call me Alton.”
“Alton, huh?” interjected Dunlow. “I’m David, by the way—thanks for asking. Can I call you ‘Al’?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“That’s cool. C ‘mere, Al. Let me introduce you to the rest of the insane asylum.”
Alton squinted his eyes suspiciously. Had David misinterpreted his answer?
Mallory had apparently noticed Alton’s puzzled expression. “You had better get used to it,” she teased. “Once David assigns you a nickname, you’re stuck for life.”
Alton shook his head and opened his mouth to continue the conversation with Mallory. At that moment, the last group of David’s friends approached their table. “Hey, Mallory!” exclaimed a burly man wearing a tightly-fitted linen shirt.
“Hey, Teddy,” replied Mallory. She glanced at Alton, her eyes seeming to invite a renewal of their conversation, but Teddy pulled her away before she could speak. As Mallory turned her attention to her jovial companions, Alton’s hollow feeling began to return. He silently cursed the timing of the last group’s arrival.
“So how do you like the palace?” asked David, gesturing with a sweeping motion.
“It’s okay, I guess,” said Alton, casting a doubtful gaze over the sparsely-furnished space and overtaxed air conditioners. “How’d you find such a treasure?” As he asked the
question, he was pleased to notice Mallory heading back to their table.
“Some Camp Eggers old-timers told me about it when I was first deployed. The staff here is friendly to coalition troops, and since it’s run by Christians, the Muslim prohibition against alcohol doesn’t apply here.” David leaned over to Alton conspiratorially. “This place is also a good source of information on insurgent activity. In Intelligence, we can’t rely on just the official channels for leads. We need diverse sources of information.”
“So you’re drinking that Miller not for yourself, but for your country,” said Alton with a straight face. David chuckled and punched his arm. Mallory, who had just taken a swig of beer as she rejoined their group, sent a sputtering arc of Coors Light onto the tabletop as she attempted to suppress a laugh.
“Seriously,” said Alton, “couldn’t that work both directions? If you’re collecting information about Al-Qaeda, couldn’t they also be collecting it about us? There must be more than thirty service members here, a potential treasure trove of information for a clever enemy.”
“Absolutely. I’m sure unfriendlies have ears present now and then. That’s why we avoid discussing strategic topics here.” He glanced at the female service members and saved a particularly lingering stare for the rather attractive local girl manning the bar. “Besides, why talk shop when there are so much more interesting subjects to discuss?” He broke into a laugh.
David’s cheerfulness couldn’t help but begin to thaw the ice encasing Alton’s tired soul. Until now, Alton hadn’t realized how much he needed—and missed—friendship. The evening’s change was nearly imperceptible; a glacier of ice remained. Nevertheless, after a virtual arctic winter without sun, Alton basked in the warmth of friendship flowing across his heart and mind, a balm of camaraderie he hadn’t experienced in many sad weeks.
The circle of friends conversed and drank at Gandamak’s until late into the night—too late, probably, considering the early hour at which they had to report on-duty the next morning. Although Alton spoke little during the remainder of the evening, he nonetheless enjoyed himself. David, Mallory, and the rest of the band of jovial soldiers continued to shine the first real light of friendship into the pain of his loss, the dull monotony of his new role, and the grind of his physical therapy.
Alton mused as they traveled back from the bar later that evening, wondering if he should accompany David to Gandamak’s Lodge again.
CHAPTER 15
Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan
A week after the bazaar blast, Alton exited Delta building during his lunch break and swung by Camp Egger’s hospital.
Specialist Murphy, the medic manning the check-in desk, looked up. “Captain Blackwell—are you having more problems?” he asked with a concerned look on his face.
“No, I’m just here to see one of the civilians injured in last week’s bazaar bombing—a young girl, maybe twelve years old.” Alton realized he knew very little about the child.
“We don’t normally allow interrogations of the patients, especially minors,” said Murphy.
Alton laughed. “I don’t want to interrogate her. I…helped her the day of the blast. I’d just like to see how she’s doing.”
“I see,” said Murphy. He furrowed his brow and sifted through file folders hanging in a metal cabinet next to his desk. He opened one and removed a photograph. “This the one?”
“Yep,” affirmed Alton, relieved that the girl hadn’t met her demise from the blast. “Can I see her?”
“Yeah—I don’t think Dr. Dunwoody would have a problem with that.”
“Great. Is there an interpreter available?”
“Yes—Kamaal is pretty good. He’s with another patient at the moment. I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”
“Thanks,” said Alton. He nodded towards the patient’s chart. “What’s her name?”
Referencing the folder, Murphy slowly pronounced, “Mastana.” He looked at a scheduling application on his computer monitor. “I have a couple of appointments arriving soon. Can I take you to Mastana’s room now so I can make sure I’ll be back in time?”
“Sure—no problem.”
On the way, Murphy raised the interpreter on a short-range radio. “When you’re done with your current patient, can you meet a soldier in room sixteen?” He listened, then nodded an affirmative to Alton. “You shouldn’t have to wait for Kamaal too long.”
They entered the room to find the child sleeping. Alton saw no point in waking her until the interpreter arrived. Despite the bandages covering much of her body, her face looked peaceful in repose. Alton quietly lowered himself into a chair and watched the girl’s steady breathing. He wished he had asked Murphy about Mastana’s prognosis and family members, but he suspected Murphy wouldn’t have been permitted to pass along that information anyway.
Within minutes, Kamaal bustled through the door. The short stubble on his head and chin were of the same length, and he radiated cheerfulness. His eyes seemed a size too large for his head, giving him an appearance of perpetual surprise.
After exchanging introductions, Alton explained the purpose of his visit. As they talked, Mastana’s eyes fluttered open. Her wide eyes darted between Alton and Kamaal. She asked Kamaal a hurried question in Pashto, the Arabic dialect spoken in Afghanistan.
Kamaal turned to Alton. “She asks why you are here. She is worried you will make her leave.”
Alton smiled at her and pulled up a chair next to her bed. With Kamaal providing a running translation, Alton initiated a conversion. “Do you remember me?”
The girl shook her head.
“My name is Alton. On the day of the bombing, I found you injured in the marketplace and brought you to the cafeteria for medical treatment.”
Mastana’s features relaxed at this revelation.
Alton continued, “They told me your name is Mastana.” She nodded. “I wanted to know how you’re doing,” he said.
“My body hurts,” replied the child. “The doctor gives me medicines. They help the pain but make me sleepy.”
“Are you improving?”
“Yes, most of the injuries are scabs or bruises now, except for my arm. It was the most injured. The doctor had to stitch it up. She gives me antibiotics to prevent an infection.”
Alton raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected such a lucid conversation from a young, medicated bombing victim. “Do you have anyone visiting you here?”
“Yes, my mother has come twice. Our house is sixty kilometers away, so she cannot come every day. I don’t have any other family…besides my uncle. He cannot visit.”
“Your mother and uncle weren’t here on the day of the bombing?” asked Alton.
“I came with my mother to the bazaar. When the bomb exploded, she was at the end of the shops, looking at teapots, so she was not injured much.”
“I’m glad your mother is well and is able to visit you. Do you need anything?”
The girl swiveled her gaze to Kamaal, who nodded.
“I would like to use a laptop computer. If I had one, I could communicate with my mother every day.”
Alton rubbed his chin in thought. “We don’t have too many extras. Let me see what I can do.”
Mastana nodded with downcast eyes, her manner suggesting she held out little hope of her request being granted.
Alton removed a battered photograph from his wallet and passed it to her. “This is my sister Ruth. I told her about you—what happened in the bazaar. She hopes you’re feeling better soon.”
For the first time, Mastana smiled. “I think I will be better before too long,” she replied, handing the photo back to Alton.
“Ruth is eleven years old. She wanted to know how old you are.”
“I am also eleven. I will be twelve next month.”
“Thanks—I’ll let her know. And I’ll let you know what I can find out about a laptop. Is there anything else you need?”
“I do not need anything else, but I am wondering…are you frie
nds with the lady who came to visit yesterday?”
Alton looked to Kamaal in surprise. “Someone visited Mastana yesterday?”
Kamaal pinched his lips in concentration, then continued. “Ah, yes—an officer. Short and pretty. Mastana says she was very nice.”
Alton snapped his fingers. “Last name of Wilson?” Mallory had seen Alton assisting Mastana on the day of the bombing.
“That’s it,” confirmed Kamaal.
Alton turned towards Mastana. “I didn’t know she came yesterday, but yes, she’s a friend of mine. I agree with you; she’s very nice, especially to those of us recovering from injuries.”
When Alton had first taken a seat at her bedside, Mastana hadn’t seemed to notice the cane leaning against his chair. The girl’s eyes grew wide as she gazed upon it as well as the black, Velcro brace encircling Alton’s left thigh. Was she realizing the effort he must have undergone to carry her inside from the bazaar?
“I have to return to my job now,” said Alton, glancing at his watch. “Would you like me to visit you later?”
Mastana nodded vigorously. Alton empathized with the cheer the child clearly felt in discovering she would no longer have to endure her recovery in virtual isolation.
“Okay—I work pretty long hours, but I’ll stop by as often as I can, probably around this time of day or a little after seven p.m.”
“Thank you,” said Mastana. “I will like to see you again.”
The next evening, Alton stopped by the camp hospital after his work shift ended. After rounding up Rahim, another interpreter, he entered Mastana’s room quietly in case she was sleeping.
She looked up and visibly brightened when she saw him. “Alton!” she said with a charming, melodic accent.
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