“We did, sir — several times. There was never any indication that they either heard or were willing to acknowledge the order to turn back.”
“From the location of the encounter they were clearly in Iraqi air space,” Jahin observed, “and according to Captain Nayef’s report there were no survivors. At the moment I am unclear as to why you are concerned. General”
“We monitored the scene for quite some time, Major,” Nayef said.
“The aircraft burst into flames on impact with no subsequent indication of any survivors…”
Baddour had taken a seat at the head of the table, listening.
“That is precisely the part of your report that troubles me. Captain Nayef. No indication of any survivors. How can we be certain?”
Jahin leaned forward.
“Other questions arise, General. For me they are quite disturbing. We must ask ourselves, was this an attempt by Ba’thist factions to penetrate our defenses? If so, who authorized it? And how closely are they monitoring its progress? Will they be alarmed when the occupants of the aircraft do not report back?”
Baddour nodded.
“Excellent, Major Jahin.
Those are precisely the questions I would ask.”
“Quite obviously then there are ways to answer these questions,” Jahin offered.
“I can arrange for a patrol to be dispatched to investigate the crash site.”
Fahid leaned forward, hunching his massive shoulders, pulling an ashtray toward him and lighting a cigarette. He was looking at Jahin.
“How long would it take such a patrol to get to the crash site and how many men would you send, Major?”
“First of all, I would propose dispatching a patrol of six men led by Captain Khaldun,” Jahin said, “and I would equip them with sufficient equipment to make certain there were no survivors and that the crash site was no longer visible from the air. The latter, of course, should be a primary consideration in the event the Ba’thists come looking for their errant craft. Then, while we are in the area, it will also give us an opportunity to check out rumors of a small Kurdish village in the vicinity of the reported crash site. It is said to be located near the Kaba River.”
“Excellent,” Baddour said.
“How soon will your patrol be ready, Major Jahin, and how soon may I expect a report?”
“The area where Captain Nayef reports the crash is rugged,” Jahin hedged.
“There are virtually no roads in the area. It will take us a day, possibly two, to get there. I will have a preliminary report within twenty-four hours.”
Baddour nodded in approval. He was pleased with Major Jahin’s plan.
It was late in the day before Bogner found the strength to get up and stretch his legs. He tried to recall how the Kurd woman had assessed his injuries.
Contusions? Was that the word she used?
Maybe — but what exactly did that mean? A couple of bumps? Some black-and-blue places? Wasn’t there something about a concussion? His head was splitting.
Because of his restricted vision, he forced himself to use mincing steps and worked his way across the cluttered room. Even as small as the area was, it was a challenge. Everything hurt — but as the woman had said, it didn’t feel like anything was broken. It hadn’t taken him more than a few steps to decide that if he had been back in Washington he would have insisted on a second opinion.
The legs somehow worked long enough to get him across the room and close enough to look into the only other room in the hut. There was a man in the room, lying on a bed. His face was swollen and discolored.
“He is a villager. He was shot by an NIMF patrol.
I’m afraid he has some internal bleeding,” a voice said.
“He is coughing up blood and there is little I can do for him.” It was a woman’s voice, the same one that had clawed its way through the cobwebs earlier. She had told him what her name was but he had forgotten. Bogner looked around a room draped in shadows and illuminated by one flickering candle beside the man’s bed. Finally he saw her; she was sitting in a rocking chair partially hidden by the darkness.
Bogner tried to bend over, felt the pain slam into the base of his skull, and realized he was too unsteady to continue standing. He sat down in the only other chair in the room.
“Did you try sending for a doctor?” he asked.
The woman’s laugh was small and musical.
“Mr. Bogner,” she said, “I am the doctor. I am also the nurse, the midwife, and occasionally the village teacher. Good or bad, I am the closest thing to a medical resource these people have.”
“Do I remember a little boy?” Bogner asked.
“Good, you are starting to recall, that’s a good sign. And the answer is yes, you do remember a little boy. His name is Bondil, my son, and I would be remiss if I did not again mention his disappointment in you as a playmate. He complains that all you do is sleep.”
It was the second time that Bogner was being forced to try to pull the pieces of his chaos together.
But this time there was a difference; he wasn’t starting at ground zero.
“You — you said you brought me here? Where is ‘here’?”
“To Koboli, Mr. Bogner. You are in a small Kurdish settlement. You and the man we have identified as Mr. Ozal are the only survivors of your crash.”
Bogner stared through his blurred vision trying to make out the woman’s features.
“How does it happen that you speak English?”
“My father was a doctor. A Turk by birth. We lived in Baghdad. He sent me away to study medicine in Nasiriya. Unfortunately, he died before I could complete my studies. So, like any enterprising young woman would do, I implemented Plan B, figured out how much money I had, took a shortcut, became a nurse, studied English, and dreamed of someday going to the United States.”
“So what happened?”
“I met a young soldier, fell in love, and got married.
It happens to many women. A year later my son was born.”
“Where’s his father now?”
“He was killed in a skirmish on the border one night. He died because there was no medical attention available.”
Bogner took a deep breath and winced. He was finally able to see the woman’s eyes in the candlelight.
“So you decided to come here to this village and see that at least some of the locals had medical attention. Right?”
The woman nodded.
“Why not? My son is a Kurd. This is the village of his father. This is where he should be. This is what I should do.”
Bogner tried to get up, sagged back in the chair, and gave up the struggle.
“I guess I’m a whole lot weaker than I want to think I am,” he admitted.
The woman stood up from her chair and stepped out of the shadows. Bogner was surprised at her beauty. She was tall and despite her crude attire, obviously feminine. Her eyes were soft and dark. It occurred to him that what life had hardened, the candlelight softened.
“You need rest, Mr. Bogner,” she said.
“You are right, you are not as strong as you want to think you are. Come, I will help you back to your bed.”
Bogner was surprised by the strength in her hands as she helped him to his feet. She lifted his arm, put it around her shoulder, and guided him into the other room. She sat him on the edge of his bed, helped him lie down, and covered him with a blanket. The last words he heard her say were, “You will need this. It gets very cold during the night.”
For Bogner, the return to consciousness was again accompanied by a snare of confusion. The first thing he could make out when he forced his eyes open was the square, brooding countenance of a man wearing a tattered hat reminiscent of something that might have been worn by Indiana Jones. He had secured the hat with a strip of wool over the top of his head and tied under his chin.