Khalid noted a squad of Special Forces speeding away in a Humvee, armed and ready for battle. He wanted to protect Emma. It was his natural reaction. Telling himself she was a warrior like him, he kept his thoughts and his hands to himself. She was all business now. Another crew rolled up in a fire engine and began spewing foam over the burning CH-47 transport helicopter, already a total loss.
Emma turned. She was glad she had her Kevlar jacket on because gunshots were suddenly being traded at the end of the runway. “Come on, this is under control. No sense standing out here like targets.” She gestured toward Ops again.
Shaheen wasn’t so sure, for a minute longer, he watched the Special Forces from the Humvee spraying the bushes where the Taliban had been hiding. “Do they get inside the camp?” he asked as he followed her into Ops.
“Not so far, but we’re always watching.” Settling the .45 back into the holster on her waist, she added, “We’re never safe here. Let’s get back to discussing the mission, shall we?” Emma stopped and poured herself another cup of black coffee from the urn at the side of the Ops desk. Khalid did the same and they returned to the meeting room.
There were several enlisted men in there. They’d already picked up the ceiling tiles that had dropped from the explosion, so Emma thanked them and, once more, she and Khalid were alone. They pulled their chairs to the table and sat down. Her heart pounded and she felt tense and on guard. As she sipped the coffee, she hoped it would soothe her jangled nerves.
“Will they attack more than once in a day?” Khalid wondered. He found himself drowning in her dark, forest-green eyes, fraught with care and concern. If he read her correctly, it was concern for his welfare. That touched and warmed his wounded heart. There was something ethereal about Emma. Was it how her mussed red hair curled slightly at her temples? Was it her huge green eyes fraught with compassion? Or those lips that reminded Khalid of a rose in full bloom? His inspiration to cut the first red rose of the year from his family’s garden hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. “Well, let me lay out some information to you on Operation Book Worm,” he said, returning to business.
Asad Malik crept away from the end of the runway with his men. Bullets were singing around them, but he knew from long experience that the Special Forces couldn’t see them and they were firing blindly into the thick brush. One day, when there was time, such brush would be cleaned away. He had ten men with him. They continued to work their way through the heavy brush, their AK-47s and grenade launchers in hand. Smiling to himself, he congratulated them in a whisper on destroying one of the helicopters. It was a good day!
Dressed in baggy brown trousers, a crisscross of wide leather straps containing bullets across his chest, Malik did not think this attack was done. No. He would wait, skulk through the brush with his men and wait on the other side. Malik knew this forward base was vital to the war effort by the infidel Americans. Until lately, he’d not had enough money to buy more grenades and bullets. Now, he had a new donor from Saudi Arabia who had given him millions to support the Taliban effort.
Grunting and breathing hard, Malik knelt, hidden. He waited for his ragtag group of nine other men to catch up with him. Most were barefoot, their clothes thin and threadbare. They were all skinny, their cheeks sunken, for coming here had been hard on them. Malik usually worked other areas, but this base was crucial to the American mission and he’d wanted to strike the head of the snake finally.
“Everyone all right?” he demanded roughly as they sat in a semicircle around him. “No wounds?”
“None, my lord,” one of the bearded men spoke up.
Malik grinned. “Good. Now, let’s sneak around the other side of the runway. Knowing the infidels, they’ll think this attack is over.”
There were soft, knowing chuckles from the men, all of whom nodded their accord to follow their charismatic and brave leader.
“Come!” Malik whispered harshly, lifting his hand and moving forward. “I want another helicopter,” he snickered.
Emma could see the burning intensity in Khalid’s blue eyes as they narrowed speculatively upon her. They’d just finished off their coffees and got down to the business at hand. She felt giddy and thrilled with his interest in her. Sure, he respected her as a professional, but she sensed something deeper. Sternly, she chided herself for thinking he was drawn to her.
And then her heart contracted. Was Khalid interested in her or was she imagining things? That couldn’t be. Khalid was the head of the mission and held power over her. His comments would eventually go into her career jacket. Maybe he was this charming with everyone. She couldn’t allow herself to get involved with this intriguing, romantic Afghan warrior. But why did he have to be so damn good-looking? She vowed to savor this rugged male pilot secretly; he’d never know it. She could hide her feelings. For now.
Khalid pulled out a map from one long pocket on his flight suit leg and spread it out before them. He stood up and, using a pen, said, “This is the route we’re going to follow. We’ll move from one village to another.” His index finger was on the map, tracing the small villages along the border with Pakistan. It bothered him that he was drawn to Emma, despite her military demeanor. Khalid refused to put another woman in the gunsights of Asad Malik. It would be too easy to become personal with red-haired, brazen Emma Cantrell.
“For the next six months,” he said, straightening and moving his shoulders as if to shrug off the tension gathered in them, “you will be with me and Kinah, and you will surely be well-educated into our Sufi world. We believe that all religions have a good message for the spirit. My father, who was born in Kabul, comes from a long line of Sufis. My mother, who is a medical doctor from Ireland, continues to this day to be a Presbyterian missionary. She came to this country after she finished her residency in Dublin, Ireland. Her father is an elder in their tradition. And her entire family has been missionaries here in Afghanistan for nearly a hundred years.”
Surprised, Emma’s brows rose with that information. “Then…you’re half-Afghan and half-Irish?” Maybe that accounted for those dancing blue eyes that always had a bit of devilry lurking in their depths.
“I am,” he said with pride. “I am a good example that east meeting west can actually get along.”
“Your religions are so different.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Khalid said, turning the map over. “The Sufis have no quarrel with any other religion in this world. We accept people as they are and respect their beliefs.”
“Too bad that all religions can’t hold the same ideas,” Emma said. She was thinking of the evil Asad Malik.
“That’s why,” Khalid explained, “the jihadists who are twisted and out of touch with true Muslim traditions, hate Sufis and will kill them on sight. The terrorists among those who profess to be Muslim are threatened by the enlightened ways of the Sufi people.”
Emma sat back. “And so you have no trouble being half-Christian and half-Muslim?”
Chuckling, Khalid shook his head. He spread a second map on to the table. It showed close-ups of some of the more major villages along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. “Absolutely none. Sufis honor and respect every religious tradition on the face of our Earth. We believe all paths lead through the heart to the Creator, no matter what name you call him or her.”
Emma watched as he traced a red line around certain areas. “What are those?” she demanded.
“This is Malik’s territory, where he and the Taliban are constantly attacking the villagers.”
Emma got up and leaned over, their heads inches apart as she studied the map. “This guy is big. I know I’ve heard his name.”
“Yes, he’s north of your base camp.”
Emma straightened. “Like you said, we’ll be alert.”
“Agreed,” Khalid said. He picked up the papers, neatly folded them once more and tucked them away in the leg of his flight suit. “So, Captain Cantrell, are you ready to fly back to Bagram Air Force Base with me? We have muc
h to do and there’s so much to show you about our mission.”
Surprised, Emma watched as Khalid stood, lean, strong, his broad shoulders thrown back with unconscious pride. “Bagram? I thought we’d be working here, out of Camp Bravo?”
“Oh, we will,” Khalid assured her. “I’m inviting you to have dinner with me tonight at my family’s villa in Kabul. You may stay overnight. As you know, there are male and female sections to each home. I have had our housekeeper prepare you a room in the women’s part of the house. After we have a wonderful dinner, I will take you to my office and show you Operation Book Worm. I think you will appreciate what I’ll show you. Then, you can grasp even more of the mission and its priorities.”
Shocked by the offer, Emma sat staring up at him. “But…”
“This is a work invitation, Captain Cantrell. I’m an excellent host. It’s easier for me to show you what we will be doing at our villa where it is all stored, than to try and lug it piecemeal back and forth to this camp.”
Emma considered the unexpected invitation and her vivid imagination took off. What would it be like to be with this Afghan warrior? And truly, that’s what Khalid was. She knew he professed compassion and love for others, but her body was not reacting to him in that way. No, she felt a hunger and drive to know Khalid on a much more personal level. How was she going to keep this fact a secret? Looking deeply into his eyes, Emma realized that this wasn’t at all personal to Khalid; it was merely a formality to offer her dinner. After all, Emma knew from experience that all Afghans, rich or poor, would automatically invite her to their home for dinner. It was a custom and way of life in Afghanistan.
“Of course I’ll go with you, Captain Shaheen. I look forward to it.”
Khalid brightened. “Excellent. If there is anything you need to pack in your flight bag before we take off, why not go get it now. I’ll meet you back at Ops.”
Good, he was remaining all business. As she walked with Khalid out of Ops and into the warming sunlight over the camp, Emma couldn’t explain the happiness threading through her. Khalid bowed slightly where the path forked and led to Ops. The fire had been put out on the destroyed helicopter and there was still a lot of activity on the tarmac.
“I’ll see you soon, Captain?”
“Yes,” Emma said, “this won’t take long.” Khalid was all business. All military. That warm smile, those inquiring blue eyes of his were veiled.
“Good, I’ll meet you at our Apache.” He strode confidently back into Ops to file their flight plan.
Shaking her head, Emma trotted down another dirt avenue between the desert-tan-and-green tents. Khalid and Brody had a lot in common, but she’d never spent too much time with a man who had one foot in the east and one foot in the west. The breeze ruffled her red hair as she continued to jog down the dirt path. Making a left, she found her tent and unzipped it. Worry hovered over her. Above all, she had to keep her silly heart out of this. It was bad enough that Khalid was in the active gun sights of Asad Malik, but the Taliban leader would target her, too. In a heartbeat.
As Emma packed essentials into her canvas flight bag, she couldn’t stop thinking about Khalid. He’d loved and lost his bride. That explained why he was still single at thirty, unheard of for a Muslim man. She replayed the grief that was raw and alive in his eyes as he’d shared the tragedy of Najela’s death at Malik’s hands.
After grabbing her toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and brush, Emma quickly finished her packing. She zipped up her flight bag and took her helmet bag off the makeshift chest of drawers. As she headed outside, she felt the sunlight warming up the coolish temperature. She turned on the heel of her flight boot and walked quickly down between the rows of tents. Despite the unexpected Taliban attack an hour earlier, the air was alive with the puncturing sounds of helicopters landing and taking off once more. The smell of jet fuel was always around. Metallic, oily smoke still hung above the camp from the destroyed chopper. The growl of huge military trucks belching blue smoke, their coughs and grinding of gears, filled the air, too. As she jogged across the camp to the control-tower area, Emma’s heart took off.
Why did she feel giddy? Like a school girl who had a crush on the all-star football quarterback? Would she be able to tread on the edge of the sword with Khalid? Separate out her womanly need to know more about him on a personal level from the professional one? Emma wasn’t sure. She slowed to a walk and pulled open the door to Ops. As she moved through the busy building and out the other door to the tarmac, Emma sensed her life was about to change. Forever.
Chapter 3
Emma was surprised that Khalid insisted she be the AC—air commander, on the Apache that was to be flown to Bagram. She stowed her bag in a side slot of the combat helicopter. Mounting the helo, Emma was strapped into the back cockpit in no time. She tried to ignore Khalid’s charisma as he climbed into the cockpit in front of her. The sergeant helped her and then tended to Khalid’s needs. A sudden shiver of warning went up her spine. The whole base was on high alert because of the attack.
Looking around, lips compressed, Emma saw the remains of charred, still-smoking helicopter that the Taliban had destroyed with a grenade launcher. To her left, several Humvees contained Special Forces who were still looking for the terrorists who committed the offense. Something was wrong….
Malik lay on his belly, the binoculars to his eyes. He studied the Apache combat helicopter, more interested than usual in the pilots. Actually, one pilot. A snarl issued softly from between his full, thick lips. Allah had blessed him! There was his sworn enemy, Khalid Shaheen, in the front seat of the Apache. Mind spinning, Malik watched intently.
So, Shaheen was back in the northern provinces? Malik had his spies and they kept him somewhat updated on his enemy’s whereabouts. The last Malik had been told, Khalid was in Helmand Province flying Apaches against his brothers in the Taliban. Malik knew where Shaheen lived in Kabul. He and his upstart, rebellious sister, Kinah, could be found at their family home from time to time. Was that where he was going? A hundred questions ranged through Malik’s traplike mind.
“My lord,” Ameen whispered near his ear, “it’s time to move away. Troops are coming.”
Malik growled a response; he didn’t want to leave, but he knew he must. Those ground troops would have dogs with them and dogs would find them. Tucking his binoculars away, he got to his feet.
“Where to, my lord?” Ameen asked.
“A change of plans,” he told the teenage soldier. “We’re going to Kabul….”
Thirty minutes after completing the flight check list, Emma had taken the Apache off the tarmac. The shaking and shuddering was familiar and soothing to her. She’d felt the Taliban nearby. She’d not seen them, but she instinctively knew they were close. Emma wondered if Khalid was testing her flight skills. After all, he’d been in Apaches for four years and she had only one year of combat beneath her belt.
At eight thousand feet under a sunny April-afternoon sky, Emma relaxed to a degree. Still, she was tense about going to Shaheen’s home. This was out of normal military protocol. She had no experience with Afghans except in the villages, and Shaheen was much more powerful than those people who survived in the wild mountains along the border.
“Do you like dogs?” Khalid asked through the intercom.
Emma scowled. Now, what was this all about? Shaheen had the ability to rock her world. “Dogs?” What did dogs have to do with them? It was the last conversation she would think of having with this pilot. If nothing else, Khalid was turning out to be one surprise after another.
“Yes, dogs.”
“Why are we talking about them?” Emma demanded, automatically looking around outside the cockpit.
“So you will be well-prepared when I open the door to my family’s villa. My father raises some of the finest salukis in the world. Two years ago, he gifted me with Ayesha, a female with a black coat, white chest and cinnamon-colored legs and underbelly. My father gave her to me shortly after Najela was murde
red. The dog helped me in ways I can’t explain. She gave me back my life and brought me through the darkest tunnel with her love and devotion.”
Not wanting to be swayed by his words, Emma swung her gaze across the instrument panel out of ingrained habit. The chances of attack were minimal, but she never completely let down her guard. “I’m sure I can handle your dog,” she said, laughing. “Hey, it’s kinda nice to have a dog around. We have a few base mongrels that we feed, but they’re wild and you can’t pet them. I’m always leaving scraps outside my tent for a black dog that comes by every night looking for something to eat. If I try to walk toward him, he takes off at a run and disappears. I’ve learned to put the food in a pie tin, close up my tent and not try to befriend him.”
“Ah, you are a true lover of animals, too. That speaks highly of your heart, Captain Cantrell.” Khalid’s job in the front seat was to keep watch on the two video screens in front of him. There wasn’t much chance of attack at this altitude, but you could never quite relax on the job. He was intensely curious about Emma, but hesitant. She was a by-the-book military officer. Giving her a rose had been a misstep. Khalid had hoped it would open a door to signify a good, working relationship, but Emma had taken it all wrong.
Worriedly, Khalid realized he’d set them on an awkward course with one another. And he desperately needed a woman pilot who could fulfill his vision to inspire the little Afghan girls. How to fix what had already gone wrong? She didn’t sound very interested in his dog story, either.
Brows dipping, Khalid asked himself why he was so interested in Emma. She was a tough military combat pilot. Her record showed her abilities and fine skills. He got the feeling she really didn’t like him at all and was just tolerating the situation. Maybe it was the attack this morning that had set her off. He shrugged his shoulders to ease them of tension. He simply didn’t know how to deal with Captain Cantrell. Most people melted beneath his charm and sincere smile. But all it did to her was make her retreat, becoming stony and unreadable. As his U.S. military pilot friends would say, he’d blown it.
Operation: Forbidden Page 3
