Jericho 3 (12 page)

“Datta Khel, Miran Shah District, in the northern tribal regions.”

“Pakistan?” Finn asked now fully engaged.

“He is called Khyber Abbasin.”

“Is he Talibani?” Camp asked.

Miriam did not answer.

“Haqqani? He deals in the Haqqani network, doesn’t he Miriam?” Finn prodded.

“ISI…Inter-Services Intelligence,” Miriam said as Finn bolted out of the room.

“Okay, Miriam, I’ll trust you on this one…we’ll call off the mission for your son.”

“No…please rescue him…bring me my son.”

Camp reached down and touched her left hand by the IV drip, the only part of her upper torso that wasn’t burned.

“Inshallah.”

Kabul, Afghanistan

C
amp and Finn exited the Blackhawks on the LZ at Camp Phoenix and made their way to the Rhinos for the six-mile ride through the streets of Kabul and over to ISAF where General Ferguson was waiting for them. The Rhino was an up-armored “Winnebago on steroids”, virtually indestructible in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and served as a civilian and military personnel carrier. It was presumed to be indestructible until the Taliban sent a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device into one a few months earlier. The VBIED car bomber knocked the Rhino over and left a morass of twisted steel scattered among 14 dead and 11 wounded civilians and military personnel from three different NATO nations.

Ferguson and two coffee-pouring majors were seated and waiting for Camp and Finn when they arrived.

“Camp! Billy Finn! Great to see you, boys,” Ferguson said as he got up to shake their hands then stopped abruptly as he saw the bandages wrapped around Camp’s hands.

“Good God, Camp…your AAR said nothing about being wounded.”

“I must’ve forgotten to write it down, sir.”

Ferguson leaned over to one of his majors. “Make a note and file the paperwork.”

“Sir, really it’s nothing.”

“That’s another Purple Heart, captain…your nation is paying you jack shit for dollars. The least we can do is to give you a damn medal when it’s earned.”

“Why don’t you just send me a bottle of cabernet, and we can break General Order Number One together and call it good.”

Ferguson smiled and lit a cigar. No one was about to tell him he couldn’t smoke in his own office in the middle of a war.

“What do we have, Billy?”

“Well, Miriam the Terp straps on three plastic water bottles, loads them with what I’m guessing was acetone peroxide – kitchen table TATP, the woman always smelled like bleach to me – and then coupled a homemade fuse out of some cotton shoelaces and lit the candle.”

“What about the Afghan doctor?” Ferguson asked.

“That one puzzles me a bit. The guy sports a brand new pair of Air Jordans, not a speck of dirt on them, had to cost him a month of salary, even in the black market. But he was standing in the middle of the kill zone when Miriam lights up the room.”

“Finn’s right. Clearly Miriam didn’t mind killing Mahmoud, so it’s hard to know if they were in bed together, figuratively speaking of course,” Camp added.

“Base commander at Thunder?”

“Well, that’s an interesting study in itself. He refuses to send any Afghan army troops after the ambulance claiming he’s out of fuel but calls for a full investigation of his checkpoint and medical crew.”

“That’s good,” Ferguson reasoned.

“It would be, except he’s still thinking about who he wants to appoint to that committee. As far as he knows, Miriam blew herself up and killed an undisclosed number of Afghan soldiers, Afghan civilians and American military.”

“That was the point of the ruse, right?”

“That’s correct, general, but wouldn’t you think he’d like to reclaim and identify some bodies or notify next of kin? Nothing. Not a peep about the casualties. But he’s on all of the Afghan radio and TV stations promising retribution to those who committed the cowardly act on his base,” Finn said.

“Me thinks he doth protest too much,” Camp quipped.

“Responsibility?”

“Less than 30 minutes after the news broke the Taliban spokesman claimed responsibility and threatened more actions.”

“Pretty standard, Billy. The Taliban will claim responsibility for a car accident, goat flatulence or runny scrambled eggs in the DFAC.”

“But this was different, general. The Taliban referred to the bomber as being a woman, an interpreter who had been hidden within Coalition Forces for four years. Sir, we never described the bomber,” Camp added.

“So, they had no doubt that it was Miriam. Have you gotten anything out of her? Can she talk?” Ferguson asked.

“I spent some time with her yesterday morning, sir, and was able to, ah, persuade her to cooperate with us,” Camp said.

“Does she know anything about Banks?”

“Sir, it looks to us like her husband may be the common denominator in all of this. Miriam says that if she didn’t fulfill her role, her husband would kill their son. She apparently lives for the kid,” Camp said.

“She’s from Khost. Khost and Paktya are all Haqqani turf. They’ve got shadow governors in place wherever you look. As far as I’m concerned, I’d bet you the commander at Thunder is Haqqani, too.”

“You don’t know that Billy.”

“No, but this much we do know,” Camp added, “Miriam said her husband is ISI.”

“Pakistani intelligence? Now what the heck am I supposed to do with that?” Ferguson grunted as he got up and paced the room. “Major Spann…play the video.”

Camp and Finn looked at each other.

“Video, sir?”

“Major Banks is a reservist out of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Board certified gynecologist for a women’s health practice. He’s got a son, Chad, and a daughter, Brittany. Two days ago Chad gets a video posted to his Facebook wall from one of his new ‘friends’, a friend he thought was part of a Philadelphia Phillies Baseball Fan Club.”

Major Mitchell dimmed the lights then started the two-minute video clip as Camp and Finn watched intently. Spann brought the lights back up. The room was silent.

“Well?” Ferguson asked trying to stimulate discussion.

“Well, at least they didn’t chop his head off in the video,” Finn said with some degree of honest relief.

“Camp?”

“He’s alive…at least he was…that’s a start. Maybe we should show it to Miriam and see if she can tell us anything about it.”

Finn stood up and walked toward the TV monitor.

“Major Spann, would you play that one more time? Let me have the remote control this time.”

Spann dimmed the lights and started the DVD over again from the beginning. He handed the remote to Finn.

“Watch his hands…his hands are on the table but he’s doing something with his fingers.”

They watched the video again and saw Major Banks contorting his fingers while he was speaking. The DVD ended and Spann turned the lights back on.

“Looks kind of random to me,” Ferguson said less than excited.

“Does anybody know sign language?  You know, for deaf people?” Finn asked.

The coffee-pouring majors looked at each other, but there were no takers.

“You think he’s saying something, Billy?”

“I don’t know, but the movement of the fingers isn’t natural. Something’s going on there. General, can you see if we have someone at Eggers or ISAF or even the Embassy who’s familiar with sign language?”

With a quick nod from General Ferguson, one of the majors scrambled out the door and down the hallway.

“Okay, why don’t you boys find some billeting and get some food. Let’s reconvene back here at 1400 hours. Camp, if you’d stay an extra second or two, I’d appreciate it.”

Finn stood up and left with Major Spann as Ferguson moved closer to Camp and sat on the front edge of his desk.

“You okay?”

“Hmm?  Oh, this? Fine. Not much worse than a sunburn,” Camp said dismissing his burns.

“No, I mean about Jane. Unfortunately we had to deploy you only a few days after her funeral. Not much time to grieve,” Ferguson said, sounding more like Camp’s friend than a commanding officer.

“Yes, sir, I’m fine. The grieving started and ended a long time ago. This was just the letting go part. I’m at peace with the whole thing. Really, I’m okay.”

“So have you talked to
her
since you deployed?” Ferguson asked with special emphasis.

“No. As a matter of fact I haven’t. I need to call and see how she and dad are doing.”

Ferguson laughed.

“I wasn’t talking about your mother, idiot. I was asking about Raines.”

“Raines? No, I haven’t contacted her recently. I ‘Skyped’ her from FOB Shank when I was stuck there in the snow last month. Not much bandwidth out of Lightning. Is something wrong?”

Ferguson shook his head in disbelief.

“Yes, something’s wrong…she likes you, Camp, and you’re too damn dumb to see it…too blind to appreciate it. The woman has been sending me nonstop emails. Why don’t you head over to the MWR and call her? I think she’d appreciate it.”

“Is the old grizzly playing matchmaker now?”

Ferguson took a long pull on his cigar and filled the room with a billow of smoke.

“You can’t wear the uniform forever, Camp. There’s life after combat boots. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about that.”

Camp got up and walked toward the door.

“With all due respect, sir; I don’t think
Mrs. Banks
is interested in my lack of a love life right now. But I’ll call Raines if that will make you happy. See you at 1400.”

Camp walked out and down the middle sidewalks of the ISAF compound. The Kabul air was heavy, dirty and disgusting. The local villagers burned wood fires in their cooking pits just about year round. The heavy winter air kept the smoke from escaping over the mountain passes. It took less than two weeks for every American to fall prey to the “Kabul Krud”, an upper respiratory cough that would seldom subside and hardly ever go away until the deployment was over.

Walking into the Morale, Welfare and Recreation building, affectionately known as the MWR, Camp checked in with the Filipino contractor who handled computer check-outs. A piece of wood with the number “7” written in Sharpie ink was Camp’s 30-minute ticket to computer number 7. Twenty-three other soldiers, civilians, contractors and NATO partners were already in the computer room, most of them on Skype talking to friends and family around the world as the war in Afghanistan raged all around them.

“Hello, sailor,” came the voice on the other end as Raines’ image finally caught up with the bandwidth burst. “I was wondering when I might hear from you again.”

“Hello, Leslie. I hope I didn’t call too late.”

“Just getting ready for bed. It’s only 2130 here, but I start at 0600 in the morning. A girl’s got to get her beauty sleep.”

“Well, then you should only need about a half hour. Looks like you’re gorgeous already.”

“That’s coming from the man who currently sees nothing but burka babes.”

Camp laughed and readjusted his headset.

“Geez, Camp…what happened to your hands?” Raines said as she moved closer to her computer monitor.

Camp had forgotten about the bandages.

“No big deal. Just a little grease fire in the DFAC when I was making French fries.”

Raines gave him a dirty look.

“This from the ‘king’ of microwaveable dinners? I don’t think so. But I suppose you’d have to kill me if you told me what happened.”

“How’s the new job going, Les? Do you like it?”

“It’s interesting, not terribly exciting, but fine. Couple of crazies at the gates with posters, but nothing we can’t handle.”

“Typical PETA stuff?”

“More of an international flavor these days. Some kind of loose alliance between BUAV, Animal Aid, SHAC and the Animal Liberation Front. Where did they finally send you?”

“Paktya Province.”

“Is that where the tularemia outbreak was? Where is it?”

“Eastern border with Pakistan, maybe an hour southeast of Kabul as the crow flies. The tularemia thing turned out to be nothing. Hey, could I ask a favor of you?”

“Anything for a sailor. Did you want me to steal a couple hundred lab mice or something?”

Camp laughed as he watched Raines cradle a cup of hot tea with her soft hands.

“Would you mind checking up on my parents some time, you know, just give them a call or something and see how they’re doing?”

“I’d be happy to, Camp. I’ll give them a call. Should I tell them about the bandages on your hands or just lie?”

“Save the bandages for another day. Well, General Ferguson wants to see us in a few minutes, so I’d better get going.”

“Us? Have you replaced me already?” Raines protested with an exaggerated upper lip pout.

“No one could replace you, Leslie. Ferguson sent a retired FBI agent out to work with me. Billy Finn – he’s actually a decent guy.”

“Hmmm…that makes a lot of sense…send an FBI agent out with the trauma doctor SEAL who burned his hands while making French fries in the DFAC. Some things never change, do they Camp?”

“You look beautiful, Leslie…talk soon?”

“I miss you Camp…not so long between calls next time, okay?”

General Ferguson and his coffee-pouring majors were already sitting in his office. The video posted on Chad Banks’ Facebook account was up and playing as a young woman from the US Embassy watched it. Finn and Camp took their places.

“Tina, this is US Navy Captain Campbell and retired FBI special agent Billy Finn,” Ferguson said. “Tina works in the public affairs office at the Embassy. She is fluent in dactylology.”

“Dacty what?” Camp feigned.

“Sign language for the deaf, captain,” Tina said. “There’s really not much to see in the video, and I wasn’t sure if his hand gestures were intentional or coincidental, until this part. I’d say it was coincidental if it weren’t for the letter z.”

“Z?” asked Finn.

“Major Banks’ fingers spell four letters, k-a-z-i. The k, a and i are very discreet and could be random. The thumb between the index and middle finger for the ‘k’, the fist with the outward thumb for the ‘a’, and the fist with the pinky finger up for an ‘i’ could all be random. But the sign for z basically requires that you trace the outline of the letter in the air. You have to make three distinct movements with your finger to communicate the letter z.”