“That was the checkpoint at Thunder,” Mahmoud said. “The ambulance is bringing in Colonel Sadik’s wife.”
“Who’s Sadik?” Banks asked as he staged the IVs on a surgical tray.
“He’s the head of the ANA Commando unit here on Thunder,” Mahmoud said.
“What’s her problem?”
“They don’t know. The checkpoint guard said she’s screaming in pain and holding her stomach. Probably a female issue.”
“Probably so,” Banks said showing a substantial lack of interest. American doctors were in Afghanistan to take care of American soldiers as well as mentor and train Afghan physicians. They were not deployed to treat Afghan civilians.
“Dr. Banks, you are expert in woman medicine. I am best at colostomy.”
Henry laughed. “Damn right! A 13-year-old kid comes in here last month with a sore throat… maybe tonsils. Doc Mahmoud got him all fixed up and sent him out the door with a colostomy!”
“You gave the kid a bag shitter? For a sore throat?” Banks quipped.
“When I studied at Kabul School of Medicine my teachers showed me how to do colostomies. Now I’m expert.”
“Well, don’t give Colonel Commando’s wife a bag, or he’s liable to shoot you,” Banks said as the IV tray was fully prepped.
“Please, I beg you Dr. Banks; please consult with me on this woman. I need training.”
Banks stopped and rolled his eyes at Mahmoud.
“Okay, your English is pretty good. Captain, I’ll join Dr. Mahmoud for a ‘woman medicine’ consult. Can you and Miriam take this stuff down to our ‘tularemia trio’ and get them hooked up to the juice tree?”
“Roger that, sir.”
Captain Henry wheeled the cart down the fluorescent light corridor followed by Miriam 10 steps behind.
The back doors of the ER flew open as the deep anguished screams of a woman, and lots of Pashtu chatter that made no sense to Banks, echoed throughout the cinder-block ER.
“You get her vitals,” Banks directed the Afghan physician, “and ask if she’s willing to see an American doctor. Make sure you tell her I’m an American Army gynecologist. I don’t want the Afghan colonel’s wife going all Jihad Jane on me if I show up unannounced to take a peek at her girl parts, okay?”
Mahmoud nodded and disappeared behind the curtains. He sat down on his rolling stool so that only his well-worn Puma sneakers, dirty pants and the bottom of his lab coat could be seen. Banks could hear Mahmoud talking over the woman’s groans. Both ambulance drivers tried to keep her quiet.
The woman stopped groaning after Mahmoud finished speaking. There was a pause.
“Sha!” the woman moaned.
Still seated, Mahmoud pushed his rolling stool across the tiled floor and beyond the curtain’s edge.
“Dr. Banks, the woman said okay.”
With stethoscope around his neck, Banks walked up and inside the crowded exam room. The ambulance drivers looked at him, covered their hearts, and smiled. The woman was still writhing in pain, though much quieter. Banks practiced the entire Pashtu lexicon he had committed to memory.
“As salam aleikum. Ze la Amerika. Doctor Banks.”
The drivers put their hands to their hearts again then quickly back to the arms of the patient who needed some restraint.
“Aya ta pe… po-he-gy Englesi?” Banks asked.
The woman shook her head no.
Mahmoud stayed seated on his stool while Banks put the stethoscope’s acoustic buds into his ears and reached out slowly toward the woman’s neck. The stainless steel chest piece had a pink breast cancer bow on the top side as well as pink single-lumen tubing up to the splitter connection.
Banks was watching the woman as she stopped groaning. Her face softened and her eyes fixated on the pink bow, just as violent pain raced through his skull and the major’s lights went out.
The Ford Ranger’s tire iron crashed against the back of Banks’ head as Dr. Mahmoud watched his mentor fall face-first onto the now silent and very healthy woman.
One of the ambulance drivers pulled Banks up so the woman could get off the gurney. Mahmoud pulled out a vial and syringe. He pressed the needle into the vial and pulled the plunger back. A fine mist filled the air before he inserted the hypodermic needle into the bare arm of Major Banks. Mahmoud injected Banks with a full dose of ketamine that he had taken out of the meds cabinet earlier in the morning. Ketamine was the sedation drug of choice in Afghanistan and Mahmoud reasoned the hallucinations from the drug might not be as frightening as the reality Banks would soon face.
The other ambulance attendant wheeled in a second gurney from the Ford Ranger as the now fully-recovered woman and the other driver wheeled Banks out into the waiting ambulance. Mahmoud got into the new bed.
The driver bound Dr. Mahmoud’s upper and lower torso with leather restraint straps.
“Zar ba yi ter lasa kri,” the driver whispered to Mahmoud as he pulled off a six-inch strip of duct tape.
“I will if you don’t cut me too deep,” Mahmoud said as he laid back and closed his eyes.
The driver pulled a fresh scalpel out of its sterile surgical paper and gently tilted Mahmoud’s head back as though he was a barber preparing for a straight-edge shave. The incision was four inches long but only deep enough to trickle blood. The bloody scalpel was left on Mahmoud’s chest.
The ER doors closed and the engine of the Ford Ranger ambulance disappeared into background noise long before a distant siren was ever heard.
Mahmoud smiled as he considered the checkpoint guards. They wouldn’t have the courage to check on “the Commando Colonel’s wife” — supposedly the important “patient” in the ambulance — as she was driven through the main checkpoint gates of FOB Thunder, home to the 203rd Corps of the Afghan National Army and riding in a new Ford Ranger ambulance, bought and paid for by American taxpayers.
Mahmoud heard the approaching footsteps of Captain Henry and Miriam returning down the long fluorescent-lit corridor from the isolation ward. It was time to act terrified.
PART ONE
1
Section 60
The band leader stepped out in precision carrying a silver sword tucked in a ram-rod straight right arm that glistened against his dress blues. Behind him and off to the left the flag bearer carried the unit’s colors followed by the conductor with baton grasped tightly.
The music from the United States Army Band echoed and consumed the fog that hovered over Arlington, partially masking the view of the Lincoln Memorial across the Potomac.
It wasn’t just a band. It was Pershing’s Own.
Five rows of four marched with the fidelity of one as though they played for angels. Three trombones next to a French horn in the first row, then two saxophones, another French horn and a clarinet. There was a trumpet, two more clarinets and another trumpet in the third. Trumpets only in the fourth row followed by a bass drum, trumpet, tuba and snare drum in the fifth.
US Navy Captain “Camp” Campbell searched the souls lying in neatly measured rows of eternal rest, looking for heroes that might raise their heads and salute from their perches in heaven as yet another fallen soldier from a distant hell was brought home.
Six rows of two riflemen each followed like clockwork, white gloves pressed against freshly-oiled gunstock. The color guard trailed the rifle party and was anchored with riflemen on both sides, an Army flag bearer marched center left with stars and stripes center right.
The chaplain walked quietly behind the color guard, taking his place in a ceremony he had conducted twice that morning with five more yet to come.