Jericho 3 (4 page)

“Camp? You’d better come here,” Eileen said as she waved a drying towel toward the window.

Camp got up from the table as “Slick” kept telling his war stories to anyone still interested in listening.

“What’s up, gorgeous?”

Eileen pointed out the window and toward the driveway.

“Well I’ll be…Raines! It’s General Ferguson and his two coffee-pouring majors.”

Camp opened the side kitchen door and walked out followed by Raines and Eileen.

“General, I am so thrilled that you would make the drive all the way out here to honor Jane. Please come in and join us,” Eileen said from several feet away.

“Thank you, Eileen. We certainly want to honor Jane. The captain was a hero. There are thousands of wounded soldiers who owe their lives to her steadfast work in Iraq. How many missions did she fly, Camp?”

“Sir, one day she flew combat wounded into Balad on eight flights within two hours…officially, 860 missions…unofficially, who knows.”

“Gentlemen, please come in and join us for some home cooking,” Eileen said as she opened the kitchen door.

“Eileen, we’d be delighted. Perhaps you could take care of my staff first. I’d like to borrow Captain Campbell and Colonel Raines for a minute, if you don’t mind.”

Eileen smiled and hooked an arm around each of the two majors and led them into Lightner Farms.

“Walk?” Ferguson asked.

“Sure,” Camp said. “There’s a nice trail out back.”

The three walked behind the lodge and onto the bark chip trail that crawled in and out of poplars, evergreens and white birch trees. Ferguson unwrapped an Ashton Belicoso 52-gauge cigar, bit the top off and flared it five times with his lighter.

“Sir, is there any new information on the tularemia report out of Afghanistan?” Raines asked trying to ignite the conversation.

“Yes, I’m afraid so, but not with the tularemia. The battalion surgeon sent samples to the medical lab at Bagram, and it came back as garden variety. Probably undercooked meat or infected water.”

“Sounds about right for three guys in a cave,” Camp said. “Were they Taliban or local Pashtuns?”

“Taliban.”

“So that’s why you’re concerned?” Camp asked.

“Maybe. The three Taliban boys were put on a standard antibiotic regimen there in the regional hospital. They’ll be released within the week.”

“Then what’s the problem, general?” Raines asked.

“The battalion surgeon…he’s been kidnapped.”

“That’s impossible,” Camp said.

“Should be…supposed to be. He and his medic and interpreter had just met with the three Taliban patients. They were even joined by the Afghan physician. Our Army major went back to the ER to prepare the IVs and antibiotics. An ambulance arrived carrying the wife of an Afghan Commando colonel in it. She was apparently suffering acute pain, and the Afghan physician asked our guy if he could help.”

“Why our battalion surgeon? We don’t treat their people in their hospitals,” Camp said emphatically.

“Because ‘our guy’ happens to be a gynecologist stateside. He agreed to consult – to mentor – so he went behind the curtain with the Afghan doc while his medic and translator went back to the isolation ward and administered the antibiotics for the tularemia. When they came back, the ambulance was gone, the patient was gone, the Army surgeon was missing, and the Afghan doc was strapped to the gurney, duct tape over his mouth and his throat cut.”

“Geez. Always go in sets of two – never see the locals alone, if ever.”

“I know, Camp, I know. This guy is Army Reserves, been in theatre less than a month. Developed an unhealthy trust with the locals. Rookie move.”

“Sir, the Afghan doc…is he dead?” Raines asked.

“No, he’ll be fine. Couple of stitches, I suspect, and he’ll be back to work in a day or so.”

“Quite the plan. Ambulance, Afghan Army base, a Commando’s wife with female pain…this was staged,” Raines surmised.

“Agreed, but why? Why such an elaborate plan to kidnap a God-blessed gynecologist?” General Ferguson asked.

Ferguson and Raines stopped walking as Camp stepped over to a bird house nailed chest-high on a white birch. He unlatched the clasp on the door, reached in, and pulled out a Browning 9mm.

“What the hell, Camp?” General Ferguson asked. “Now you’re hiding 380 ACPs in the forest? Once a SEAL, always a SEAL.”

“I got it for Eileen. She won’t keep it in the lodge. Scared to death of guns. But she knows where to run if she needs one.”

“Hope she runs fast,” Raines said as Camp checked the magazine then put it back in the birdhouse.

“Les, you have a weapon at home, don’t you?” Camp asked.

“Yes, dad,” Raines said sarcastically, “but I haven’t fired it in almost four years. So I plan to run instead.”

The three shared a quick laugh as Camp closed the birdhouse door.

“Sir, do you think the kidnapping has anything to do with the tularemia?” Camp asked.

“Don’t know. That’s what I need you to find out.”

“Sir?”

General Ferguson reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope.

“Your orders, Campbell…we’re heading to theatre tomorrow.”

“Sir…we?”

“Yes. I’ve been asked to serve as one of the Deputy Commanders for the International Security Assistance Force Joint Command. They’re going to put me at ISAF in Kabul. My mission will focus on the organized crime circuits in Afghanistan.”

“With all due respect sir,
you
have a background in security. I’m just a former SEAL with a medical degree.”

“I know who you are Camp. That’s why I’ve chosen you to replace Major Banks at FOB Lightning. They’re short a battalion surgeon right now, and I need your boots on the ground, your nose in the air, and your head up. We need some clues. This feels like a criminal kidnapping.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Raines.”

“What will I be doing? You want me to focus on the tularemia?”

“No, ma’am. You’re staying stateside. Doctor’s orders. No combat-related missions for one year after a chest flail.”

“Sir, I feel –“

“Save it Raines. You’re being assigned to the NIBC at Fort Detrick.”

“National Interagency Biodefense Center?”

“It’s a full level-four biocontainment facility. I need you there in case we’re dealing with something more than just garden variety tularemia.”

“Sir, it’s a fabulous BSL-4 but –“

“Colonel, you’re going to Detrick. The animal rights groups are still trying to shut down our chemical weapons research at Aberdeen Proving Grounds, even though the president lifted the Executive Order. They’re after Detrick as well. If we get some Jihadists hell-bent on weaponizing Marburg, smallpox, Crimean-Congo or any other God-forsaken hemorrhagic diseases, then I’ll need you in place. We need your expertise with non-human primates.”

“Yes, sir, but I’m good to go. I’m ready to travel now.”

“We’ll keep you busy, colonel, not to worry. Camp, I assume you still have a ‘go bag’? Well, we go at 0400 from Andrews. Better let your parents know.”

“Actually general, my mom and dad are inside enjoying Eileen’s freshly baked blueberry muffins. I’m sure they’d love to hear the good news first-hand from my boss.”

Ferguson raised his eyebrow and snarled his lip. A sarcastic smile lit his face as he took another pull on his cigar.

“Have I ever told you that you’re an ass, Campbell?”

“Every day, sir, every day.”

Ferguson led the way back to the lodge steadily working down to the last draw on the Belicoso before going inside the lodge. Camp and Raines looked at each other as a million unspoken words were said in one long glance. He reached out softly and caressed the side of her face. She closed her eyes and printed his touch to her heart.

Old Town Alexandria

Virginia

C
amp lathered his face with shaving cream the old fashioned way with a silver tipped pure badger brush, just like his father had taught him to do so many years before.

Shaving wasn’t a chore or a task. It was an event. A perfect symphony of precision with each instrument conducted to perform in harmony with the others.

The glycerin got down to the roots of his morning beard. The coconut oil aroma filled his senses more than his first cup of coffee would before he headed out the townhouse for Andrews. The iPhone was docked, and Mumford and Sons split the morning haze.

With the gentle, calculated strokes of a trauma surgeon, Camp contorted his face to the proper angles as he pulled and pushed the French Thiers-Issard straight-edge razor along the contours of his reflection in the mirror.

The pounding at the front door interrupted his singular moment of self-indulgence. He wasn’t happy as he stomped to the door in boxers and shaving cream.

“Leslie?”

Raines was out of uniform, dressed in a tight pair of Levis and an oversized Army sweatshirt. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

“Morning, sailor.”

“What the hell? You drove all the way down here from Gettysburg for a booty call before wheels-up at 0400?”

“Booty call? You’re nasty!” Raines said laughing. “I thought you could use a ride to Andrews so you don’t have to park your girlfriend in the elements for six months.”

“Hey, that’s a great call. I’d rather leave my Defender 90 in the garage here. But you didn’t need to do that.”

“Nice boxers.”

“Let me finish shaving. You wanna brew some coffee?” Camp walked into the kitchen and pulled some beans out and set them next to the grinder.

Raines walked past him and into his bathroom, grabbed the straight-edge and a towel.

“Sit down, sailor.”

Camp sat down in a kitchen chair as Raines wrapped his shoulders with the white cotton towel. She tilted his head back slightly. As the blade touched his skin a subtle hint of Leslie’s perfume blended with the coconut from the cream and filled his senses as he closed his eyes. With each stroke she wiped the razor clean on the towel until his face was fresh, smooth and ready to fly. She held his face in her hands and wiped away the last remnants of cream with her finger. He opened his eyes as she brought her face against his, first the left side, then the right.

Camp’s mind was racing and his emotions were out of control. He felt guilty. Camp had never been in love until he met Jane. The war in Iraq prevented Camp and Jane from intimacy or even sharing a date together. Though they shared a few meals with each other in an over-crowded chow hall between shifts, Camp wanted Jane, like fire wants oxygen to burn. His love for Jane never stopped burning while she lay in her bed waiting to die. First-love never dies, Camp reasoned, but sometimes it fades. He wasn’t looking for another woman when he was ordered to join the working group that Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines chaired in San Antonio. He wasn’t looking for love when he and Raines shared a hotel room in Morocco during their covert mission under assumed identities. And Camp wasn’t prepared for the guilt he was feeling when his feelings for Leslie Raines became raw and vulnerable.

“There, you’re within the regs now. Better get dressed,” Raines proclaimed as the shave was complete.

Camp was silent as he walked to the bedroom. The coffee grinder shattered the ambience that neither Mumford nor his Sons could repair. As Camp stared into his dressing mirror, he was acutely aware of something unusual, something that had not happened to him in years.

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.

Bagram Air Base

Afghanistan

G
eneral 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.