“Hello, Les… I’m doing great. Took a little backpacking expedition with Outward Bound through the Hindu Kush and finally got a hot shower and three bowls of chili in the DFAC. Feeling great.”
“Are you still at Lightning?”
“No, ISAF headquarters in Kabul. Here with Ferguson and my new best friend Billy Finn. Les, I just wanted to call and talk to you. I wanted to hear your voice. How are you doing?”
Raines lost her breath. I wanted to hear your voice?
“Crazy busy. I assume Ferguson has filled you in?”
“Roger that. Sounds like you’re cooking up some recipes for death. Ferguson told me about the Russian train and tularemia. Hey Les, I found one of your SkitoMisters in North Waziristan.”
“Camp, are you serious? Did you blow that sucker up?”
“Too close for comfort, couldn’t afford the fireworks. We put a GPS beacon on it, and the drones watched it move to Miran Shah, then Islamabad.”
“Guess they can’t bomb it in the capital, can they?”
“Nope, because it’s not there anymore. It was flown to Tehran and then driven to Damghan.”
“Damghan? Isn’t that where the Iranians do all of their biological and chemical weapons work?”
“One in the same.”
“These guys really freak me out, Camp. I just have a hard time believing that they’d be so stupid as to attack other countries with biologicals or even nukes.”
Camp paused and thought about the many conversations he had with Omid.
“You have no idea, Les… this regime doesn’t have a western logical bone in their collective body.”
“So, when are you coming home, sailor?”
“I’m not sure; just met with Ferguson after lunch. He’s heading back to the states to meet with the SECDEF, the SECSTATE and hopefully the US Ambassador to the United Nations. Billy Finn and I are heading to Turkmenistan to see what we can find out about the Russian freight train. After that… if I were a betting man… I’d say Tel Aviv.”
“Israel? Oh my gosh.”
“When will you be done with your work, Les?
“As soon as we can cook up a vaccine recipe. Just this morning we got four dead NHPs, so we know we have a strain that is now vaccine-resistant. Now we need the other side of the equation. Once we’ve got that, we hand it off for manufacturing and let the Pentagon, State and maybe the FDA take it from there.”
“Well, work fast… I may want you to join me in Tel Aviv.”
Raines smiled and lowered her voice.
“Another undercover assignment in a crowded double-sized bed like our escapade in Morocco last year?”
“I don’t know about all that… the last one didn’t end so well for you as I recall. You’re the expert on the biologicals. I’m just a trauma doc.”
“And a former SEAL… that’s the part that seems to bring trouble your way.”
Camp laughed out loud. He knew she was right.
“I’ll be in touch, Les… but get your suitcase out… just in case.”
“Hey, Camp? Call your parents, okay?”
There was a brief pause.
“Why? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure… I mean I think so. You know, they just want to hear from you. Let ‘em know that you’re okay, that’s all.”
19
Tehran Imam Khomeini International Airport (IKA)
Tehran, Iran
Emirates flight 977 from Dubai pulled into the gate as the ground crew marshaled in the Boeing 777-300ER. Omid was exhausted from the two legs of the journey back home. After the 9:00am flight from Islamabad’s ISB airport into Dubai, Omid had a nearly seven-hour layover before the Tehran flight.
The seatbelt sign went off, but his traveling companion was still asleep.
“Hey, wake up… we’re at the gate,” Omid said as he gently tapped the man’s shoulder.
Omid grabbed his backpack out of the overhead bin, and the two of them shuffled down the aisle with the rest of the passengers, out the plane, over the jet bridge and into the terminal toward customs.
The customs agent looked at Omid’s passport and the military ID he presented with it.
“Colonel Farid Amir, welcome home. You weren’t gone as long this time,” the customs agent said to Omid as he quickly assumed his true identity. “How is your father doing?”
“All praise to Allah, he continues to live, but his days are numbered. I am thankful that he’s getting good care.”
The agent stamped his passport, and Omid proceeded to baggage claim.
Omid and his traveling companion waited as the carousel began to spin. Omid’s large bag came first.
“It was nice to see you again. Will you be in Tehran long this time?” Omid asked the man.
The man was lost in his thoughts as he waited for his luggage.
“No. Actually I’m heading to my lab in Damghan. Not sure when I’ll return to Islamabad.”
“Damghan? I haven’t been there in a long time. I was stationed there early in my career for a few years. I hope you enjoy your time.”
Omid and the man exchanged good-bye kisses on each cheek.
“May God be with you, Farid,” the man said. “I will pray for your father.”
“And with you as well, Kazi,” Omid said as he touched his heart, picked up his suitcase and hoisted his backpack over his shoulder before exiting the terminal.
ISAF Headquarters
Kabul, Afghanistan
Camp had an hour to spend before the 30-minute Suburban ride with Billy Finn over to Kabul International Airport. The nameplate on the door said Major John O’Brien, so he knew he had found the right place. He was only slightly embarrassed that he didn’t know how to find the chaplain’s office given that he had no clue where the chapel was even located.
Camp was not a publicly religious man. But faith was an important part of his life as a child, growing up on a farm in rural Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. He hadn’t forgotten his roots.
According to the bio on the DOD website, O’Brien was born and raised in Texas, did his undergraduate studies in religion at Texas Christian University and earned his Masters of Divinity at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky.
Camp tapped lightly on the door, perhaps secretly hoping that the chaplain might have stepped out or was running late from a previous appointment.
“Come in,” came the warm but soft voice from the other side of the door.
Camp opened and walked in.
“Camp? I’m so glad you stopped by. I’m John. Have a seat.”
O’Brien was in his early 30s and seemed quite affable and approachable. He had a welcoming smile with none of the formalities or honorifics that other military officers were accustomed to using.
Camp sat down on the edge of his chair. He didn’t want to appear too comfortable.
“Chaplain, I have to head to the airport for a flight at 1800 hours, so I can’t take much of your time.”
“Please call me John. I prefer to keep my counseling sessions informal.”
Counseling session? Camp wasn’t really looking for a counseling session or even pastoral advice as much as he wanted some theological insight.
“John, I really just have a question or two that I thought maybe someone like you could answer.”
“Try me.”
“Well, my mother used to haul my ass, um, me out to church every Sunday — usually against my will I might add — and I remember my Sunday school teacher talking about the end times and Armageddon, and all that stuff. Do you believe in that, John?”
Chaplain O’Brien sat back in his chair across from the coffee table that separated him from Camp. With interlocked fingers in a praying position, he looked quite pastoral.