He had feeling again.
Captain Campbell emerged from the bedroom in his service dress khakis and a carry-on “go bag.” Raines held out a mug of steaming fresh coffee as he walked into the kitchen. He dropped his bag. Reaching out with both hands he held Leslie’s face for a brief moment then wrapped his arms around her. Neither of them wanted to let go. Neither of them knew what to do with all of the emotions that were finally unpacked.
But Captain “Camp” Campbell was packed for another mission. He knew that the heart must wait when duty calls.
3
Bagram Air Base
Afghanistan
General Ferguson and Camp were the first ones to deplane the USAF C-17A Globemaster inbound from Ali al Salem Air Base in Kuwait. Boarding first and getting off first were some of the few perks afforded senior military officers. The burdens of long hours, immense pressure and self-imposed guilt more than compensated for the occasional MILAIR benefit.
A small fixed-wing plane was staged and waiting to transport Ferguson on the 20-minute flight to KIA, the Kabul International Airport.
“Check in with the flight office across from the USO. You’re already listed on the ring route for Lightning today. If the weather changes, there’s a fixed-wing mail run into Gardez tomorrow morning. Here’s the contact information at Lightning’s TOC. They can send a ground movement to pick you up if necessary.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll check in with you as soon as I’m billeted at Lightning.”
After a quick, yet somewhat casual salute between friends, Ferguson got on board his fixed-wing and Camp followed all of the others who were making their way to the palletized luggage holding area. With only a go bag, Camp walked up to the counter and was first in line.
“Captain Seabury Campbell, Jr.,” Camp said as he opened his envelope from General Ferguson. “Looks like I’m on mission Tango Charlie Fifty-Seven.”
The staff sergeant behind the desk pointed to the mission board on the wall.
“Sorry, sir, TC57 has been cancelled due to heavy snow in the pass. I can get you as far as FOB Shank today, but you’ll need to take a ground convoy from there or wait for the weather to clear.”
“What about the fixed-wing mail runs into Gardez tomorrow morning?”
“Questionable at best. With temperatures this cold and mountain elevations as they are, weight becomes an issue.”
“What would you do staff sergeant?”
“Sir, I’d take the ring to Shank. It’s less than 20 clicks from Shank to Lightning. A ground convoy might be your best bet until the weather breaks.”
“Then let’s do that.”
“Sir, I need your orders and your CAC card.”
The staff sergeant entered all of Camp’s information into the computer and asked him to step onto the scale holding his bag. He recorded the total weight and put Camp on the manifest.
“Seems a bit late for snow.”
“Sir, it’s been warm and comfortable here in Bagram. Chilly at night. But mid-March can bring some heavy snows in the Khyber Pass and Hindu Kush region.”
“How long have you been in theatre, soldier?”
“Nine months, 17 days, and — judging by the clock — 11 hours and 13 minutes, sir.”
Camp laughed.
“I assume that’s your best guess?”
“No, sir. That’s what my donut girl says.” The sergeant turned his computer monitor around so that Camp could see the countdown clock that featured a scantily clad pin-up who took more clothing off as “in country” time counted down. The “donut girl” was an animated PowerPoint clock that helped thousands of soldiers endure multiple deployments.
“Khyber Pass… so you’re pretty familiar with the terrain around here?”
“Yes, sir, but only as it pertains to flights. FOB Lightning is pretty damn close to Pakistan and the North Waziristan region. The Taliban should be heading back down from their caves after the winter.”
“How far?”
“Sir?”
“How many miles from Lightning to Pakistan?”
“Fifty miles top, sir, right up the Tochi Pass, unless you prefer to take the Silk Road.”
“Pesh Habor,” Camp said to himself.
“Sir?”
“It was called Pesh Habor in the Bible. Khyber is both a Hebrew word and a Pashtu word. Means fort. Darius the First, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, the Israelites, Arabs and even the Russians; they all tried to conquer this place.”
“And now the Americans?” asked the sergeant with eyebrows raised.
“We don’t make the policy, staff sergeant, that’s for the geniuses in Washington. We just enforce it.”
“Roger that, sir, you’re all set. We’ll call the flight about 1330 hours, so you’ve got about 90 minutes to blow.”
Camp took his bag and walked across the street to the USO hoping to find a computer so he could let Raines know he had arrived safely, albeit 14 long hours later.
Datta Khel, Miran Shah District
North Waziristan, Pakistan
Major Banks was rolled up like a mummy in the back of a small pick-up truck. His mouth was still covered with duct tape. His eyes felt swollen. His left cheek was throbbing, probably beaten during episodes of consciousness. His hands were still tied behind his back.
The three-vehicle convoy made its way out of Miran Shah and into the distant but neighboring village of Datta Khel. Finally stopping outside a sheet metal house, partially constructed of rocks and mud, they saw smoke pouring out of the fire stack.
Four men grabbed him and hoisted his rolled body over their heads. He heard the voices of several people inside, but nothing was said in English.
They placed him on a long table, maybe a bed. He was face down. The ropes that cinched the Afghan floor rug together were untied and he was rolled out of the rug in two or three swift pulls. The quick spin sent his body to the mud floor where his forehead and nose hit first. Blood poured from his nose.
Three men pulled him up to his feet then slammed him down in a chair. His eyes started to adjust to the light, as he squinted to shield himself from the bright open fire in the pit against the back wall.
The leader barked out some command and one of the men ripped the duct tape away from his mouth, which quickly filled with the unmistakable taste of blood from what was probably a broken nose.
“Hawale karna!”
One of his captors pulled out a knife, a Pesh-kabz, and held it in front of his eyes. With a wicked smile, he turned him around and cut the plastic ties that bound his hands together. He pulled his hands forward and rubbed them as he tried to loosen his shoulder joints.
His feet were still bound. Another man handed him a cloth and pointed to his nose. He applied pressure with the cloth and tilted his head back, never taking his eyes off the Pesh-kabz.
His eyes looked past the knife where he saw another bed. Someone was in it. The body was covered with a long, black burka, hijab and black face veil.
A man approached from the back of the room. He had a smile and a bounce to his step.
“Major Banks… you’re a doctor, no?”
Banks said nothing.
“A female doctor, a gynecologist, no?”
Banks said nothing.
“My name is Kazi. I attended university in Alabama. Have you heard of Auburn?”
Banks stared at him, pinching his nose, blinking without showing fear though frightened to the core.
“I must apologize for my friends, no? They treated you harshly. But we need help. When we heard that someone like you was so close, well, we couldn’t wait to meet you.”