by Jack Terral
"We're not doing a thing but keeping an eye on the warlord in the wooden castle over there," Chad said. "Between standing watch and patrolling, we're starting to get bored."
"I don't quite know what to think of that chief or whatever he is," Penny said. "My interpreter told me she learned that he and his people have slaves."
"I haven't heard anything about that:' Chad said.
"They were evidently conquered by the warlord in some battle or war a long time ago:' Penny said.
"You say they're slaves?"
"Yes," Penny replied. "And they are not allowed to take advantage of our services."
"Can't your boss do anything about that?"
Penny shook her head. "He can't do a thing to ease the situation because of a UN mandate that forbids aid teams to interfere with certain local customs and practices. We try to keep friction between us and the people's leaders to a minimum."
Chad stopped walking, turning to look at her. "I'll bet the Skipper can help out those slaves in the winking of an eye." "Who is the Skipper?"
"My commanding officer:' Chad said. "Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. He'll go over there and give that warlord an attitude adjustment."
"Oh m'God!" Penny exclaimed. "They told us he was a powerful man! A warlord! He has an army, Chad!"
"He had an army," Chad said. "We just kicked his and his troops' asses but good. If that son of a bitch as much as blinks the wrong way, he'll find his butt right between the rock and a hard place."
Penny was stunned. Here was this tough guy she had once known as an awkward boyfriend, who in reality was now a stranger. That proverbial ninety-eight-pound weakling of those long ago days had disappeared forever. Instead, here he was as muscular as a football player, and talking about defeating entire armies in the company of somebody he called Wild Bill.
Chad took her hand. "Let's go talk with the Skipper. C'mon!"
.
BRANNIGAN'S CP
1720 HOURS LOCAL
LIEUTENANT Wild Bill Brannigan lay on his mattress pad inside the tent he used as his office. With very little paperwork to do, he had no furniture. Frank Lopez had organized a commo center with the newly acquired Shadow-fire radio and the platoon's PRC-112s in another tent.
The Skipper had almost drifted to sleep when he perceived the sound of footsteps approaching. He opened his eyes and waited. A moment later he heard Chad Murchison's voice.
"Sir! I need to have a word with you. It's me, Murchison." "Well, c'mon in then," Brannigan said irritably.
"Are you decent, sir? I have a young lady with me."
Brannigan laughed. "I'm having my way with two of the skankiest whores this side of Baghdad. So maybe I better join you out there if you're with a fucking lady." He got up and went to the flap, stepping outside. He stopped, his eyes opened wide. "Jesus, Murchison! You do have a young lady with you." He grinned as his face reddened with embarrassment. "Excuse me. Please. I thought Petty Officer Murchison was joking with me."
Penny smiled. She had run into all sorts of situations since going to work for the UN. "That's perfectly all right. I just hope those skanky whores can spare you for a moment or two."
Brannigan, liking her right away, laughed. "I truly apologize. And Murchison should have said he was with a charming young lady."
"You're most gallant," Penny said, smiling at the compliment.
"Sir," Murchison said, suppressing a chuckle. "This is Penny Brubaker, who works with the UN relief group. We're old friends from way back. She has some information she'd like to pass on to you."
"I just mentioned a situation to Chad," Penny said. "My boss, Dr. Bouchier, can do nothing about it. Chad said you could help."
"What's going on?"
"We've learned through our interpreters that this warlord, or whatever he is, has slaves," Penny explained. "He is not allowing them the benefits we are giving the other people."
"I'll get my cover," Brannigan said. "Take me to the doctor."
.
DR. B0UCHIER'S TENT
1730 HOURS LOCAL
THE doctor sat in the folding chair across from Brannigan. They sipped brandy from a couple of goblets that Bouchier kept in a special trunk along with other luxury items he allowed himself. He not only had Italian brandy, but could also boast of French champagne, Danish vodka and other expensive liquor. Additionally, he possessed bartending implements and an assortment of glasses in which to mix his favorite libations.
Brannigan had come over expecting an argument when it came to the matter of the slaves owned by the warlord. But he found that Bouchier not only had no objections if the SEAL officer chose to deal with the problem of the captive laborers, but encouraged him to take action.
"I am tightly bound by regulations," Bouchier explained, swirling his brandy around in his glass. "We in the UN must be exceedingly careful that we do not trespass into specific areas that deal with matters that are rather sensitive. Do you understand what I am saying?"
"Of course," Brannigan said. "It's a lot like what I have to put up with. There are times when I feel very strong about blowing certain people or places off the face of the earth. I realize that the world would be better off without them, but I can't do a thing because of orders or regulations."
"But you say you can deal with this warlord?"
"I defeated him in battle," Brannigan said. "I've been assured this gives me a certain leverage with the man. He evidently feels he has something to lose if any big trouble occurs around here."
"That is correct:' Bouchier said. "It would interfere with the opium trade. It would be exceedingly costly to him if that enterprise was taken away."
"I'm not concerned with that," Brannigan said. "All I want to deal with are those poor bastards he thinks he owns. Will you be able to help them?"
"I'll see that they are given priority over the others when they appear at our camp:' Bouchier assured him.
Brannigan finished his brandy. "It may take a day or two, but I'll have them here." He stood up and offered his hand. "Nice to do business with you, Doctor."
"Likewise, monsieur le lieutenant."
.
UN RELIEF CAMP
4 SEPTEMBER
0845 HOURS LOCAL
ACTING under Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's extremely stern orders, Warlord Hassan Khamami smothered both his pride and his anger to send his chief lieutenant, Ahmet Kharani, with a party of guards, over to the Dharyan camp to gather up the slaves.
The UN relief workers had seen much human suffering in their experiences with bringing aid to victimized peoples, and the Dharyans weren't the worse by far. They were not walking skeletons covered with sores, but it was obvious they had been badly used by their masters. The clan was malnourished, dressed in rags and suffered from various ailments brought on by the mistreatment.
As soon as they arrived at the relief camp, the slaves were quickly and efficiently split up by sex and age. After the proper grouping was accomplished, they were further divided according to their physical conditions. Many of the men, though in need of sustenance, had a natural strength that served them well. The women, on the other hand, were all in terrible shape. Giving birth had sapped their strength, and their men had kept them pregnant as if it were a divine command sent down to them from Allah. The children they brought into the world showed the effects of suckling at the breasts of malnourished mothers. On two occasions, UN workers gently but firmly pried dead infants from the arms of delirious young women who had been carrying them around several days after death.
At that point, Dr. Bouchier decided to forgo any medical treatment for the moment. That was just as well because all the Dharyans had any interest in was getting something to eat. When the first packets were passed out, the hungry people quickly tore them open to scarf down whatever victuals needed no cooking.
Even as they consumed the packages of dried fruit, energy bars and candy, they were herded over to a spot where tents had been erected for them by mujahideen who had survived
the battle with the SEALs. This camp also included blankets, along with cooking pots and utensils. The clan leader took over from the UN at that point. His name was Bashar Dahrain, and he was a young man aged far beyond his years. He quickly prodded and hollered at his people until the various family groups were properly installed in individual tents.
Within a quarter of an hour pots of rice were hanging over fires while wheat flour was being molded into dough for bread. Penny Brubaker and her small team went from family to family, passing out powdered milk and nursing formula. The interpreters gave quick and adequate instruction on how to use the plastic bottles and nipples to feed the babies. The mothers, ecstatic with the knowledge that they could now give nourishment to their infants, turned their attention from the cooking tasks to see to the feeding of the little ones. Older daughters and nieces took over the other chores.
Dr. Bouchier gazed at the tents with his assistant surgeon. "We'll take care of the medical examinations tomorrow." He looked over at the edge of the camp, noting the arrival of a half dozen SEALs. "C' est bon! Lieutenant Brannigan has sent some of his men to make sure these poor people are not molested."
The assistant surgeon, a pacifist Canadian, shook his head in dismay. "If only we could accomplish our goals without help from the military."
.
BRANNIGAN'S CP
1400 HOURS LOCAL
THE Dharyan clan chief Bashar Dahrain and the UN interpreter entered Brannigan's tent. He offered them seats on a couple of camp stools. He remained standing, his arms across his chest. "What can I do for you?"
The interpreter was a Kabul city youth dressed in Western clothing. He spoke English with a combination of American and British inflexions. "Mr. Dahrain wishes to express his most sincere gratitude for the help you have given his people. They now have their freedom and are being helped back to their former lives. He wishes for Allah to bestow countless blessings on you:'
"All right," Brannigan said. "Tell him that he's welcome."
The interpreter spoke to the Dharyan for a few moments, then turned back to the American. "Mr. Dahrain begs your pardon, but he must ask you for more help. He says that his people have not all been freed by the warlord. He says there are eighteen young women who are still held in the fortress. He humbly pleads for you to see that they are rejoined with their families." The interpreter paused for a moment. "Dr. Bouchier is aware of this situation and also requests your help. He has dealt with similar cases in the past. He feels the women will need medical attention even more than the ones he has already seen:'
Brannigan was puzzled. "Why is the warlord holding these females?"
"I fear he has forced them to become inmates of a brothel, sir," the interpreter said. "They have been outraged now for many months by the mujahideen."
"Tell this gentleman that those unfortunate women will be taken to the UN clinic before this day is out," Brannigan said. "And I will need your services as an interpreter to put this crappy situation right."
"I will be only too glad to serve you, sir."
.
AL-SARAYA CASTLE
1420 HOURS LOCAL
WHEN Warlord Hassan Khamami took in the late Ayyub Durtami's people, he also became the master of the farming village Heranbe in the dead warlord's fiefdom. This added several more fields to his opium poppy enterprise.
Now Khamami and Ahmet Kharani were holding an important meeting in the throne room. The two men were deep into the process of planning out the next harvest program of the valuable crop. Production estimates had to be made, schedules designed for transport to the clandestine shipping center, and the next year's prices established. All this was done without paperwork. In an environment where most of the people were illiterate, it would have been impractical to establish complicated administrative procedures. The centuries-old custom of handshakes and committing to memory all arrangements of how the business would be conducted worked out fine in those Afghanistan mountains. A side benefit of the primitive system was that it was impossible for the authorities to trace these clandestine goings-on. A computer system had yet to be devised that could penetrate men's minds to read their thoughts and intentions.
The work was interrupted when the captain of the guard rapped on the door and stepped into the throne room. He bowed deeply to the warlord. "Amir, please forgive this interruption. The American commander and a UN man are outside. The American insists on seeing you now."
"Send them in," Khamami said. He looked over at Kharani. "I wonder what demands he has now."
"Let us remember what his honor Aburrani cautioned us about, Amir," Kharani said. "We must keep the opium farming a secret at all costs:'
Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan strode in boldly with the interpreter behind him. When he stopped, the interpreter stepped to the front and made the expected polite greetings and inquiries into the warlord's health.
Khamami was impatient. "What does this foreigner want with me?"
The interpreter turned to Brannigan and spoke. Brannigan uttered a discourse in English, his voice stern and authoritative. When he finished, the interpreter spoke again to the warlord, diplomatically leaving out certain expletives and impolite references as he had learned to do in his UN training. "Amir," he began, "this gentleman has heard that there are Dharyan women still being held under your authority. This grieves the gentleman much and he wishes for them to be returned to their kinsmen:'
"What women is he talking about?" Khamami asked. "The ones in the brothel, Amir."
"Them? Why does he bother with those harlots?" Khamami asked. "They are disgraced and soiled beyond redemption. Many men have known them. They have no future but to remain as they are until the day they die. It would be kinder for them."
The interpreter had expected that response. "Nevertheless, Amir, the gentleman begs for their release."
Khamami looked up into Brannigan's angry face, then swung his eyes back to the interpreter. "It doesn't sound to me like he's begging." Then he shrugged. "Certainly! If he wants them sent to their families, so be it."
"They are to go to the UN doctor first," the interpreter said. "Tell the American his request will be granted within the hour," Khamami said.
The interpreter bowed and spoke aside to Brannigan. "He obeys your command, sir. The women will be taken to Dr. Bouchier immediately."
Brannigan gave the warlord a curt nod, then turned and strode out, with the UN man scurrying after him.
.
UN CLINIC
2000 HOURS LOCAL
TWELVE of the sex slaves, rather than eighteen, were delivered to Dr. Pierre Bouchier. The explanation was that six of the eighteen had died during the time they served the lusts of the mujahideen.
Even the first cursory examinations the doctor gave the women indicated they were in poor health. They had all been in their teens when taken into captivity and had endured a long period of cruelty. Although they were fed reasonably well to keep their physical appearances acceptable, the repeated rapes had caused them all serious internal medical problems. The human vagina was not designed for repeated entrances on a nightly basis. It was impossible to gauge their exact psychological conditions, but it was obvious most of the women were candidates for long periods of treatment in mental health centers.
Dr. Bouchier sent a note over to Lieutenant Brannigan informing him that the women were in no shape to be returned to their families yet. They would have to first be airlifted to the UN medical facilities in Kabul for badly needed hospitalization.
Chapter 22
THE SEAL BIVOUAC
5 SEPTEMBER
0750 HOURS LOCAL
IT was almost time for the forenoon watch to relieve the morning watch, and Mike Assad glanced anxiously over at the tent area to see if his relief, Dave Leibowitz, was in sight. After a few minutes Mike could see the figure of his buddy ambling toward the sentry post.
Mike checked his watch as Dave walked up. "It's about time."
"I'm early," Mike said, shifting the
CAR-15 on his shoulder. "If I wasn't such a good friend, I'd have waited until right at oh-eight-hundred to take over the watch." He grinned and thought a moment. "Maybe I'll do exactly that." He stepped backward several paces.
"Have mercy!" Mike jokingly beseeched him. "I'm exhausted from long hours of keeping my shipmates from harm."
"Oh, all right, you poor bastard," Dave said with a wink. "You're relieved."
"What's been going on since I came out here?"
"Not much," Dave said. "They found out that the warlord had put a bunch of them slave women in a whorehouse somewhere in that wooden castle."
"No shit?"
"No shit," Dave responded. "They weren't volunteer whores either. The poor girls were in their teens and had been forced to work there. I guess they were raped every night. They're gonna send them back to their families after the doctor is done treating them."
"They can't do that!" Mike exclaimed, suddenly serious. "Sure they can," Dave said.
"I got to go see the Skipper." Mike took off running toward the CP.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Dave yelled after him.
Mike didn't answer as he rushed back to the platoon bivouac. When he reached the Skipper's tent, he went directly inside. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan, drinking a cup of coffee, looked up at the interruption to his morning routine. "What are you all worked up about?"
"Dave told me that a bunch of those slave girls had been sent over to the UN doctor for treatment," Mike said.
"Yeah," Brannigan said. "They'd been forced into prostitution. As soon as they're fixed up, they'll go back to their families."
"They'll kill 'em, sir!"
"Who will kill them?" Brannigan asked.
`The men in their families," Mike exclaimed. "They disgraced their kin by what they did. Their dads and brothers are obligated to murder them. It's called honor killing."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yes, sir," Mike said. "There was this family from Syria living in my neighborhood back in Michigan that had just immigrated to America. One of their daughters fell in love with a Christian kid in our school. The two ran off and eloped. The family had already arranged for her to marry some guy back in Syria. It was bad enough she disobeyed them about the marriage, but she'd also fallen love with a non-Muslim, and that was a double dishonor for the family. So her father and his oldest son were going to murder the girl when she and her husband came back. I guess the girl figured the old rules didn't apply in America."
