He heard a scuffle, opened one eye, and realized the television wasn’t on. Is the air-conditioner busted in here? Wait a minute. Hold up! Boss, this isn’t Motel 6! Seaman’s Cap opened the other eye and realized he was holed-up in Peshawar, not Islamabad. Cramped between the hospital wall and the generator, his neck felt stiff like a giraffe’s–SC hated dogs more than giraffes. He arose, crept around back of the hospital, stretched his neck, peeked through one of the narrow windows, and swore. The matron and her staff-had returned to work, and the hospital was abuzz with activity. An expectant father had boiled water, and a newborn had brought both peace to the heart of her mother and signaled the return of normalcy to Peshawar.
Seaman’s Cap squatted behind the heavy back door, depressed the handle, and yanked. “Still locked.” He growled, disgruntled that he couldn’t storm in, kill the new father, and overpower the women. He scampered on all fours beneath the narrow windows and then stood up–his back against the wall. One side-step at a time, he crept around the building’s circumference hoping to peak into the village undetected. “There she is, there she is–still parked where Coco left her—goodie, goodie, go-go.” He took one step toward the Humvee then froze, looked sixty yards up the far side of the Khyber road, and couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Grave-robbers? What are you digging him up for? That’s Catfish Durant. Leave him be,” he snarled under his breath as four men painstakingly retrieved and bagged the bound body. SC backtracked a few steps but continued watching as the men hoisted the rigid bag to their shoulders, marched out of step, and carried the captain toward the hospital. A few passersby paused and reverently observed the procession, but most Sunni citizens crisscrossed the square on their way to and from the market, greeting one another as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Even Rami rolled in from the alley, backed her cart against a display case, and unloaded a few dozen eggs–and two plucked chickens–without even noticing the procession.
SC smacked the wall nine times while repeating, “I’m in the right place at the wrong time.” But before he could make his move on the Humvee, he heard a man’s voice call Rami by name and come hustling, out of breath, from the alley. SC took note of the sidereal auburn hair, combed over to hide the otherwise bald pate belonging to the rotund gentleman, but he was intrigued by the gold chain hanging from a black satin vest. “Gold Watch, I’ll bet.” The chain glimmered in the sunlight when the gentleman bowed and glibly greeted the vendor.
“Rami, you old hen, I tried to catch up before you flew the coop, but you got away.”
“Old hen? Surely you mistook me for my sister, Mr. Mayor.
“My oh my, as usual you are very witty today, my dear woman.”
“And, as usual, you are very winded today, my dear Mr. Mayor.”
They cackled and clucked cheerfully like two birds of a feather. After a few minutes, the mayor turned away and pulled two coins from a bulging purse. He dropped them, one at a time, into Rami’s cupped hand and pecked her cheek. “Good-day to you, Miss Chicken-charmer, and thank you for candling my eggs,” he said mirthfully. The mayor picked up a white plastic bag and headed back down the alley, whistling and swinging his purchase like a sling-shot.
“Gold,” SC grunted. “There goes the goose that could lay my golden egg.” He ran a few options plays across his narrow field of vision. Option one: Interfere with the mayoral election cycle and withdraw everything portable from his campaign fund— including the watch, chain, and coin purse—and then hitchhike to Islamabad. Option two: Forget the mayor; hot-wire the Humvee, drive east, and sell it for cash. Easy pickins.
SC’s ticker ticked like a time-bomb urging him to hastily chose option two. But problem number one: Which way is east? Problem number two: Where’s the key? Problem number three: Which pedal is the brake?
Without parting his lips to allow for a debate, he made a decision. He straightened, stepped away from the building, and casually pretended to be a typical Sunni out for a stroll. He passed to the blind-side of the vehicle, stooped down, and congratulated himself by shaking hands. Then he lifted his head like a child about to sneak a cookie and looked through the rolled-up window. No key in the ignition. No ride.
Guess I’ll try my hand at hot-wiring like on TV. Lowering his head, he put the squeeze on the door handle, and then it happened: A dog, drunk with rage, began barking from behind the front seat. SC scratched out option two and ran, flat-out, for for his life–in the wrong direction–the Khyber Pass.
Dalal sat on the hospital stoop aiming and pretending to pick off the last survivor of Karim’s crew, but when the dog barked, she stood, sighted ahead of the bow-legged thug by a few yards, and watched him hightail it up the road. “Bang, bang, you’re dead.” She relaxed her trigger finger, having decided to let the vultures enjoy a hot meal, and squinted until SC was out of range.
Dalal approached the noisy Humvee, trailed by excited, curious children, thinking to rescue the thirsty, hungry dog trapped inside. “A telephone?” What a disappointment. Rescuing it from behind the driver’s seat, Dalal pushed a button or two in an attempt to turn off the bark before more children arrived in the square. Too late. She pushed another button.
A human barked, “Killpack here, United States Army Kabul Command, to whom am I speaking?”
“Me,” replied Dalal defiantly as she rested the stock of her loaded shotgun on the ground, shushed the children, and held the phone to her ear.
“I say, this is Colonel Killpack in Kabul. Identify yourself?”
“I already know who I am, and my name is Dalal, as if it were any of your business.”
“O—kay, Delilah, I need you to put me in touch with any US Army personnel at your present position. This is urgent.”
“Dalal replied, “First, my name is Dalal, and personnel? NO . . . I MEAN YES! JINNY.” She left the village children in her dust and raced down the alley—the shotgun in one hand and Sat-Phone in the other—her hijab waving like a banner on its way into battle. Shutters clattered and closed.
“No danger. No danger. Just business as usual,” she puffed, attempting to quell neighborhood jitters. “Colonel Killebrew, should I leave this thing on while I’m running?”
“No, it may soon need a charge. Turn it off until you get it to the sergeant. She’ll know how to use it. Thank you, Dalal. How long before you reach ground zero?”
“Ground zero?? Three or four minutes, if I don’t trip over my abaya.”
“Roger that. Out.”
“ Out of what?” Come again? Panting, Dalal shut off the sat-phone, raced up the stairs to Gharam’s apartment, and burst through the door.”
Gharam cane unglued. “What’s wrong? That monster hasn’t come back; Dalal, tell me he hasn’t come back!”
“No-no-no, you’re safe. Where is Jinny . . . and the boys? Look.” Dalal showed Gharam the sat-phone.
“Oh, thank the Lord. You scared me, girl. They left ten minutes ago to breakfast at Abdul-Akim’s.” Laying aside the trusty shotgun, Dalal slid down the banister and leaped through the open door into the alley. Across the way, Rami’s sister, snoring in the rocking chair, missed all the action, but others on the street inquired, “Dalal, what’s the hurry? Are you okay?”
“Yes, for the first time in many hours . . . I am okay. Please excuse me, my mission requires speed.”
After knocking three times on Abdul’s door, Dalal was greeted by Asad. Asif was close behind. “Dalal!”
“Where’s Jinny?”
“She left a few minutes ago to draw water from the spring.”
“Oh me, oh my!” Turning around, Dalal ran smack-dab into Jinny. Ignoring the upset water bucket, she thrust the sat-com into Jinny’s hands. “You must answer this call. His name is Killebrew.”
“But where did you find this phone?”
“It was barking at me from within the army truck. Really, a dog? You Americans are an odd bunch.”
“Oh yes. Why, why didn’t I remember? There is a sat-phone stored behind the driver’s seat in every Hummer on patrol.” Jinny excitedly fumbled for, pushed the call button, and held up the receiver so Dalal could listen in.
The calm voice of another American soldier warmed Jinny to full attention. “To whom am I speaking?” asked the voice.
“I’m, I’m . . . ” Like dominoes, the memory of Arlington grave markers pitched over one at a time and laid bare buried emotions. “This is Sergeant Virginia O’Dwyer, Bravo Company, Sir.”
“So, you are alive, Sergeant. This is Colonel Bobby Killpack, in command at what’s left of Eagle Camp, Kabul. Do you copy.”
“Roger that, Sir.”
“Now to the point—how many U.S. military personnel are with you in Peshawar?”
“Sir, one deserter, who called himself Sham, took his own life several days ago; and Captain Edmund Durant was killed by, well you probably know who . . .”
“So he’s dead.” Pause. ” And we have eyes on you as we speak? What’s the current status of the two soldiers, Sergeant? Can we bring them home?”
“Durant is being prepped for burial, Sir. Sham is in the cemetery. Does this mean you are coming for me? For us?”
“Yes, soldier.” There was another pause. “I am putting two Blackhawks in the air from Jalalabad as we speak—one to provide cover and one to exfil all three of you. How soon can you get both soldiers ready for exfil?”
Jinny stared blankly; her chin dropped; her mouth dropped open. Dalal caught the phone on its way to the floor and stammered, “We can be ready within the hour, Mr. Sir.”
“Will the roof above your location support the weight of a Blackhawk?”
“How does He know where we are standing?. . . It supports the weight of a hundred people whenever it needs to,” replied Dalal.
“Roger that. We’ll pick you up at 0930 hours. Do you copy that?”
“Yes sir, but . . .”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
Dalal continued as Jinny’s proxy. “Are you aware of the two little boys rescued a few days ago?”
Jinny whispered, “From Sector 12, Sir.”
“Yes, Sergeant, we were updated by Lieutenant Staley, who, by the way, called you a hero before he died. He thought you’d been blown to hell. Are the children in good hands?”
“Yes, Sir. My hands,” replied Dalal as she handed Jinny the phone.
“Say your goodbyes, Sergeant O’Dwyer. We have a war going on over here. You are still on duty.”
“Yes Sir, but . . . “
“You have your orders, Sergeant. Return and report. Do you copy?”
“Yes, Sir. Loud and clear.”
Dalal took the phone. “We’re done here.” She pushed the end-call button and helped Jinny rejoin Asad, Asif, and Abdul-Akim inside his apartment. Dalal then rubbed her eyes, dry, executed a crisp about face, and hurried to complete her pledge—retrieve and bag Sham, update Gharam, and ask the hospital staff to deliver Edmund Durant to the roof of Abdul’s building.
Jinny collapsed to the floor between Asad and Asif as they huddled under her protective wings for the last time. The infected wound on her face stung, sanitized by salty tears. Her plaintive, chocolate brown eyes looked to Abdul, who leaned forward, his countenance drawn, but empathetic. He gently placed a hand on Jinny’s head. “God will give you what to say and strength to endure—the same God who healed Asif’s eye.”
Overcome, Jinny could not speak. Asad asked, “Mama, why do you weep?”
She choked out, “A helicopter soon lands to return me to my duties as a soldier, but my heart . . .”
Three broken hearts. Three quiet sobs. Asad pled, “But Mama . . . “
Gharam arrived out of breath and fluttered into the nest. “Yes . . . Mama, Asad. But until the day of your reunion may I be your mother’s sister? Please, please, please?” Smudged faces stayed pressed against Jinny’s worn, wrinkled uniform.
Abdul led poll-bearers up the stairs to the rooftop. The boys followed Jinny, without a word, like lambs to the slaughter. Dalal carried Jinny’s gear, but Gharam carried a heavy heart, large enough to love everyone. Sober-eyed, all looked upward like first-time visitors at Golgotha. The wash of helicopter blades cooled the resilient colored tiles; Jinny was warmly welcomed aboard. Bernie Oliver urged back the collector, and the Blackhawk lifted Llewellyn’s child up and away.
Asad, Asif, Abdul, Gharam, and Dalal looked on from the rooftop. No one waved. All refrained from bawling goodbye. The helo crested the snow-capped mountains. The boys’ eyes remained fixed on the horizon long after Jinny had vanished into thin air.
My sons. My sons.