Paul McKellips
JERICHO 3
Dedicated to
Rafed, Samir, Mohanned, Raouf and Jawed in Iraq and Afghanistan
ACRONYMS
AAR: After-Action Report
ABP: Afghan Border Patrol
ANA: Afghan National Army
BUAV: British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection
BSL: Bio Safety Level
BW: Biological Weapons
CAC: Common Access Card
CW: Chemical Weapons
CW2: Chief Warrant Officer, Two and commissioned by the President
DFAC: Dining Facility
FATA: Federally Administered Tribal Area of Pakistan
FOB: Forward Operating Base
HUMINT: Human Intelligence
IRF: Integrated Research Facility
ISAF: International Security Assistance Force Joint Command
ISI: Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence
LZ: Landing Zone
MILAIR: Military Air
MWR: Morale, Welfare and Recreation
MRAP: Mine Resistant Ambush Protected
NHP: Non-Human Primates
NIBC: National Interagency Biodefense Center
ODA: Operation Detachment Alpha
PET: Positron Emission Tomography
PETN: Pentaerythritol tetranitrate(military explosive)
SF: Special Forces
SHAC: Stop Huntingdon Animal Cruelty
TMC: Troop Medical Clinic
WMD: Weapons of Mass Destruction
PROLOGUE
Forward Operating Base Lightning
Paktya Province, Afghanistan
They left the briefing with the Minnesota National Guard Colonel in the Tactical Operations Center and walked quickly through a row of B-huts on FOB Lightning. The clouds were low and heavy with snow. A light dusting of powdered snow covered the gravel.
“Did you hear him?”
“I heard him, captain. Just let it go.”
US Army Captain Henry shook his head in disgust. “That’s not how they taught us at the Academy; I can assure you of that.”
“Captain, let it go.”
“How can you say just ‘let it go’? This is freaking tularemia, maybe a bio-weapon, and this idiot who teaches ‘lit’ in Saint Pete, Minnesota when he’s not a weekend warrior tells us not worry to about it… tells us he’s not going to elevate it.”
“Well, now you’re speaking to a weekend warrior from Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Feel any better?” asked Major Dean Banks, United States Army Reserves.
Captain Henry held his tongue. They walked past the dining hall and up the gravel road. Major Banks stopped and turned around.
“Look up there, Henry. Do you see them?”
Major Banks and Captain Henry lifted their eyes to the two hills that rose up from the valley floor. Mountain peaks encircled the valley. Soldiers from the army of Alexander the Great had built massive observation fortresses on each hill. For months they pulled stones and boulders up from the valley floor to build circular sentinel fortresses. No advancing army had any chance of surprising Alexander the Great.
“Battle outposts. Alexander the Great. Not exactly a news flash, sir. They’ve been here since 323 AD.”
“Genghis Khan came. The Russians came. Now the Americans have come. Every one of them had front-line sentinels, scouts whose job it was to sound the alert.”
“Roger that, major. But the colonel took your alert and buried it deep within the infinite wisdom of a PhD. No offense, sir, but I don’t think he’s used to working with a gynecologist.”
Banks laughed. “I’m not accustomed to working with professors of literature either. But Uncle Sam is going to get a tour out of all of us, one way or the other. Don’t worry, captain. I informed the colonel, but I also sounded the alarm back at Fort Detrick and with Command at ISAF headquarters in Kabul. Battalion surgeons, Reserves or National Guard, have a slightly different chain of command, especially when it comes to infectious diseases.”
They walked past the male latrines and the basketball court where some Army Joes were playing four-on-four in the brisk February breeze. The first dusting of snow had just covered the mountain peaks of the Hindu Kush heading over into Pakistan. Pulling the bolt lock back, they walked into the holding pen in front of the checkpoint. Thirty Afghan day-laborers were waiting to move through the turnstiles. They were searched on the way in each morning to make sure they weren’t carrying weapons or suicide vests and searched on the way out to make sure they hadn’t stolen anything as they cleaned American latrines, emptied American trash and mopped American floors. One path at the checkpoint led down to Terp Village, a small village within FOB Lightning’s walls comprised of 10 small B-huts with bunk beds where all of the foreign national interpreters lived. Next to Terp Village were seven Haji shops where the GI’s could buy pirated DVDs, batteries, Afghan rugs, or a carton of smokes.
Miriam was sitting on the wood bench, on time and ready for work.
“As-salaamu’ alaykum,” Banks said as he covered his heart with his hand.
“Sahaar mo pa kheyr,” Miriam replied scanning the morning sky.
“Every day you wear that same cheerful smile, Miriam… and that precious necklace. Is that crystal?” Banks asked.
“I don’t know. It was a gift from my husband.”
“Miriam is taking a three day leave after work next Thursday, Major Banks,” said Captain Henry.
“Great. I’m sure you’re anxious to see your son,” Banks said as they all walked toward the checkpoint.
Miriam had a pleasant personality and at times, an infectious smile could dash across her face. Like most Afghan interpreters, Miriam wanted the money but she didn’t like to work. Even though she was on call every day and every night, she was seldom required to work more than an hour or two each day. Major Banks thought he had found a soft spot in Miriam’s personality armor. He always had a kind word and a compliment for Miriam and the major hoped she was warming up to him.
Duty guards from the 101st Airborne Division waived them through as Major Banks and Captain Henry walked past the plain-clothed Gurkha guards from Nepal with Miriam trailing a few steps behind. The Gurkhas were slight of build and not much to look at, but they were ruthless. They made fine mercenaries and their allegiance could be bought for $25 per day, seven days a week, on a six-month contract. They were effective. No one had successfully penetrated Lightning’s checkpoint since the suicide bomber detonated at the gate a few years before.
When Major Banks and Captain Henry walked out of the Lightning checkpoint, they walked onto Forward Operating Base Thunder, the sprawling Afghan National Army base and home to the 203rd Corps. The Paktya Regional Hospital was only the length of a football field away from the checkpoint, a short walk along a nicely paved, American taxpayer-funded road on Thunder. A click behind the hospital a Russian Mi-17 lifted up and set its path toward Gardez. The Afghan Army preferred the Russian helicopters for high elevation terrain. Most of the Afghan officers and pilots spoke and read Russian. It was easier for them.
“Never have quite figured that one out,” Banks said as he watched the Mi-17 thunder overhead. “The Russians come here, invade, and occupy for 10 years. They were the enemy.”
“But they bought loyalty,” Captain Henry surmised. “Rubles. A man can smile at you, speak your language, and offer you tea for 10 years or more… as long as you’re handing out money.”
An Afghan ambulance with lights on, but no siren, passed the three of them and pulled into the hospital parking lot close to the Emergency Room entrance.
“There ya go; a Ford Ranger ambulance brought to you by Detroit and paid for by American taxpayers,” Captain Henry started. “American, Russian, Chinese, Pakistani, Iranian… the Afghans don’t give a damn who you are or what you think you’re going to do with their country. They’ll just wait you out and suck all your money until you go home.”