“Yes, sir.”
Miriam’s face was crusted and more swollen. Blotches of red covered her neck and forehead. Her arm was heavily bandaged from the escharotomy, but Camp could feel a pulse. The IV bag kept a constant flow of antibiotics, pain meds, sedation and fluids flowing. The intubation tube was uncomfortable, but it was better to have it in, especially if the airway should close from swelling. The Level 1 clinic on a Forward Operating Base was intended for PT sprains, colds, diarrhea, flu and Ambien. It was hardly a burn center, but Miriam was luckier than most burn patients. Camp and the medics got the fire extinguished quickly. The patient would be in recovery for several weeks; there would be scarring, but she would live.
“Miriam, can you hear me?”
Her eyes were swollen shut with bandages and ointment covering them.
A weak raspy whisper pierced the silence.
“Yes.”
“How are you feeling?”
“My son… my husband will kill him if he finds out that I lived.”
Camp walked around to the other side of her bed.
“You’re dead, Miriam… we sent reports to the Afghan media about the suicide bomber who killed herself and several others at the hospital. So relax… you’re dead.”
“I wish I was.”
“But your son may not be as lucky as you, Miriam.”
Her body writhed, and she grew agitated.
“What have you done to him?”
“Nothing yet. But I intend to hunt him down and kill him myself unless you tell me what I want to know.”
Camp heard the clinic door open. He saw Billy Finn walk into Miriam’s room just as Camp bent over toward Miriam’s ear.
Miriam became still.
“Mr. Finn is here,” she said to their mutual surprise.
“How are you, Miriam?” Finn responded though not really caring if she was feeling well or ever would.
“Your husband, Miriam, who is he? Why did he make you do this?” Camp continued the interrogation.
Miriam did not speak.
“Did he have something to do with Major Banks’ kidnapping?” Finn asked.
Miriam stayed silent.
“Does he live in Khost? Does he live there with your son and his family?” Camp asked.
She did not respond.
Camp walked away from Miriam’s bed and over to the desk phone in the room. He looked up at the phone numbers on a sheet of paper taped to the plywood wall. Pressing the speaker button, dial tone filled the room before Camp punched in the numbers.
“Task Force Duke, this is Sergeant Melendez,” said the voice on the other end.
“Melendez, you’ve got Khost in your area of operations, do you not?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Great. Operation Baby Bird is now green. Send your team over right now. Dead or alive, doesn’t matter to me,” Camp said as he pulled the handset up and disengaged the speaker phone.
“No!” Miriam pleaded as urgently as possible through the pain.
“Sir, what the hell are you talking about? You’ve reached the medical clinic at TF Duke in Khost,” Sergeant Melendez shot back into Camp’s handset and ear.
“Excellent. Let me know as soon as the mission is completed.”
Camp hung up the phone and walked closer to Miriam who was starting to twitch uncomfortably as Finn pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and held back the laughter.
“I’ll tell you.”
“Too late, Miriam, you’re nothing but a suicide bomber with a dead kid. You certainly didn’t care whose sons you were going to kill yesterday. Why should you care if your son is killed today?”
“Datta Khel, Miran Shah District, in the northern tribal regions.”
“Pakistan?” Finn asked now fully engaged.
“He is called Khyber Abbasin.”
“Is he Talibani?” Camp asked.
Miriam did not answer.
“Haqqani? He deals in the Haqqani network, doesn’t he Miriam?” Finn prodded.
“ISI… Inter-Services Intelligence,” Miriam said as Finn bolted out of the room.
“Okay, Miriam, I’ll trust you on this one… we’ll call off the mission for your son.”
“No… please rescue him… bring me my son.”
Camp reached down and touched her left hand by the IV drip, the only part of her upper torso that wasn’t burned.
“Inshallah.”
10
Kabul, Afghanistan
Camp and Finn exited the Blackhawks on the LZ at Camp Phoenix and made their way to the Rhinos for the six-mile ride through the streets of Kabul and over to ISAF where General Ferguson was waiting for them. The Rhino was an up-armored “Winnebago on steroids”, virtually indestructible in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and served as a civilian and military personnel carrier. It was presumed to be indestructible until the Taliban sent a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device into one a few months earlier. The VBIED car bomber knocked the Rhino over and left a morass of twisted steel scattered among 14 dead and 11 wounded civilians and military personnel from three different NATO nations.
Ferguson and two coffee-pouring majors were seated and waiting for Camp and Finn when they arrived.
“Camp! Billy Finn! Great to see you, boys,” Ferguson said as he got up to shake their hands then stopped abruptly as he saw the bandages wrapped around Camp’s hands.
“Good God, Camp… your AAR said nothing about being wounded.”
“I must’ve forgotten to write it down, sir.”
Ferguson leaned over to one of his majors. “Make a note and file the paperwork.”
“Sir, really it’s nothing.”
“That’s another Purple Heart, captain… your nation is paying you jack shit for dollars. The least we can do is to give you a damn medal when it’s earned.”
“Why don’t you just send me a bottle of cabernet, and we can break General Order Number One together and call it good.”
Ferguson smiled and lit a cigar. No one was about to tell him he couldn’t smoke in his own office in the middle of a war.
“What do we have, Billy?”
“Well, Miriam the Terp straps on three plastic water bottles, loads them with what I’m guessing was acetone peroxide — kitchen table TATP, the woman always smelled like bleach to me — and then coupled a homemade fuse out of some cotton shoelaces and lit the candle.”
“What about the Afghan doctor?” Ferguson asked.
“That one puzzles me a bit. The guy sports a brand new pair of Air Jordans, not a speck of dirt on them, had to cost him a month of salary, even in the black market. But he was standing in the middle of the kill zone when Miriam lights up the room.”
“Finn’s right. Clearly Miriam didn’t mind killing Mahmoud, so it’s hard to know if they were in bed together, figuratively speaking of course,” Camp added.
“Base commander at Thunder?”
“Well, that’s an interesting study in itself. He refuses to send any Afghan army troops after the ambulance claiming he’s out of fuel but calls for a full investigation of his checkpoint and medical crew.”
“That’s good,” Ferguson reasoned.
“It would be, except he’s still thinking about who he wants to appoint to that committee. As far as he knows, Miriam blew herself up and killed an undisclosed number of Afghan soldiers, Afghan civilians and American military.”
“That was the point of the ruse, right?”
“That’s correct, general, but wouldn’t you think he’d like to reclaim and identify some bodies or notify next of kin? Nothing. Not a peep about the casualties. But he’s on all of the Afghan radio and TV stations promising retribution to those who committed the cowardly act on his base,” Finn said.