Were you to have opportunity, and were you to feel it appropriate for one such as yourself to show kindness to one such as I, I would look forward to hearing of your good health and well being.
I pray, as always, that Allah will place warmth in your soul and peace in your mind.
Respectfully. Humbly.
Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi
Azadeh stared at the letter, reading it carefully, then folded it twice and placed it in the brown envelope. And though she had fantasies of Omar receiving her letter and sending some of his men to whisk her away, her main reason for writing was to establish some type of contact with the outside world. She was desperate to believe there was someone out there who cared.
Still, she almost smiled as she reviewed the brief note. She felt like a little girl writing to an imaginary friend.
After sealing the envelope, she realized she didn’t know Master Zehedan’s address. She struggled as she thought, then did the best that she could, using his full name and a guess of his home’s location on the north side of the Agha Jari Deh Valley, five kilometers north of the village.
* * *
Although Azadeh had no idea what the outcome would be or where she would end up, she knew she was far better off in Khorramshahr than any alternative and she was grateful to be there, regardless of how bleak or hopeless it might seem.
She missed her father. She missed her village. She missed everything. Sometimes the homesickness washed upon her like a wall of cold water, leaving her shivering, lonely and cold. But she did not lose hope. There was reason still to live.
And just as she had done since she was old enough to remember, she started each day with fajr, the first morning prayer in the sala’h. Turning toward Mecca, she joined with the true believers from all over the world who demonstrated their faith in Allah by falling to their knees.
* * *
Azadeh believed, because she had been taught by her father, that Allah was closer to humanity than a father was to a child, and that nothing in this world deserved an equal surrender of self.
As a united people, Muslims begin each day by falling to their knees in worship of Allah, whom they consider the creator of the universe and every being therein. Bowing to pray is a demonstration of their surrender to the Allah, for Islam means submission to Allah’s will.
Azadeh had also been taught that she must always face Mecca when she prayed, for that was where the great Ka’bah was.
The Ka’bah, a stone building shaped like a huge black cube, was far and away the most sacred structure on earth. Forbidden to most non-Muslims, originally built by the Prophet Abraham and his son Ismai’l, the beautiful but simple structure was built for the purpose of worshipping Allah, and the ceremonies that were observed there had been performed by the Prophets for thousands of years.
Inside the Ka’bah, the Black Stone had been placed. Older than the creation of the earth, round and small enough to hold in two hands, the Black Stone was composed of several fragments of rock bound together by a silver band. According to Islamic tradition, God had given the Black Stone to Adam after plucking it from Paradise.
Because the Black Stone came directly from Allah, it was revered by all Muslims as the most holy object on earth. It was Allah’s gift to man, evidence of Allah’s being, and every prophet from Adam to Mohammed had at one time touched the Black Stone.
As the centuries passed, the Ka’bah was frequently damaged by calamities and war. In the early seventh century, a fire had ravaged the Ka’bah, and when it was rebuilt, the Arab tribes could not agree who should have the right to install the Black Stone in its place back inside the Ka’bah. After many arguments, which nearly escalated into war, the tribes finally agreed to let the next person who entered the courtyard decide who would be privileged to place the ancient stone in its place. As Allah had intended, the next person to come into the courtyard was Mohammed. A young man, not yet a prophet, Mohammed placed a piece of cloth on the ground and set the Black Stone at the center. Then he asked each of the tribes to select a delegate to gather around the cloth. Together they lifted the cloth with the Black Stone off the ground and carried it to the Ka’bah, where Mohammed set it in place.
Azadeh had been taught that if one kissed the stone, which was smooth and soothing and emitted a pleasant fragrance from Abraham’s hands, it would bear witness to that person’s worthiness on the Judgment Day.
Several feet in front of the Black Stone was the Zamzam well, another reason why the Ka’bah was considered so sacred. Tradition told that while Abraham was away from his wife Hagar and Ismai’l to visit Sarah at Mecca, the Angel Gabriel had hit the ground with his wings on this spot to bring forth a flow of clear water from under Ismai’l’s feet.
For these reasons it was essential for all Muslims to face the Most Holy Mosque of Ka’bah as they began their morning prayers, and Azadeh had never even considered breaking this command.
Once she had prostrated herself on her prayer rug and faced the city that contained the Black Stone, she closed her eyes and repeated the words her father had taught:
“Oh Allah,
I am the daughter of my father, Your Servant
And the daughter of my mother,
Your gift to me.
My soul is in Your palm
I receive light by Your finger.
Your judgment is perfect,
Now I ask you by every name given to you by the Prophet
That you keep my life in Your palm
That you touch me with Your finger
to remove my sadness
and give me joy today.
Prophet Muhammad,
Peace be upon him.
And though Azadeh had great faith in this prayer, she had come to believe that there had to be something more. So she closed her eyes again and boldly added other words to the prayer, words of her own, words that had not been taught.
“Allah, my God,” she began in a quiet voice, “In my heart I realize I don’t deserve what You have given to me. You have given me life. Yet I am a weak and unworthy child. You gave me a mother who wanted me, though I don’t remember her face. You gave me a father who loved me so much that he put aside everything that he cared about in order to take care of me. You gave me health and a strong body, and the opportunity to be here in this life.
“And while You have given me disappointments and heartaches, I accept them as well. I accept all of your gifts, both the good and the ill. Show me Your will, God, and I will follow Your way.”
With those words, Azadeh took a deep breath. Standing, she moved to her tent flap to look out on the refugee camp, one of the most empty and lonely places in the world, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the harsh sunlight.
EIGHT
Camp Freedom, North of Baghdad, Iraq
The HH-60G Pave Hawks landed in formation, four helicopters in a right echelon position, each maintaining a position five feet above and to the right of their leader as they descended through the semidarkness. The sand blew before them as their enormous blades stirred the air, sending the dirt—fine as talcum powder—up and over the helicopters in a vertical whirlpool of sand. The pilots landed quickly through the blowing dust, barely able to see. When the helicopters touched down, the landing pistons hardly compressed for the helicopters had spent all of their fuel and most of their ammunition as well. The pilots nosed their helicopters forward and taxied across the corrugated steel that had been placed over the uneven terrain, moving toward the load-up area.
Dawn was ready to break, and the sky was in the transition from deep black to dark gray. Pulling onto the loading tarmac, the helicopters came to a stop. As they did, the soldiers opened the cargo doors and began to spill out, thankful as always to be on the ground. The men wore full battle gear: desert camouflage battle-dress uniforms, flak jackets, Kevlar® helmets, and brown leather boots. Each soldier also wore multiple web belts and a small pack containing ammunition, rations, water, smoke grenades, radios, miniature GPS receiv
ers, grenades, cigarettes, lip balm, night vision goggles—all the essential elements of modern war.
A hot breeze blew up from the west desert, the air uncomfortable, brittle and dry. It had been a cold night but it would be a hot day.
As the soldiers, all Delta Special Forces with subdued unit patches on their shoulders, piled out of the helicopters, it was clear from the way they walked that they were exhausted. Sweaty and covered with grime, most had spent the night on their bellies, crawling through the dirt, spider’s webs, and rat droppings that covered the cement floors of an old weapons storage complex that had recently been taken over by insurgents again. When the battle was over and the bodies identified, the Deltas hadn’t been surprised to find not only Iraqi insurgents, but Iranians, Syrians, Kuwaitis, and Chechens as well.
Once the United States had pulled most of their forces out of Iraq, things had quickly started to fall apart.
With only a few units left behind, the U.S. Army had their hands full. Dangerously full. As to their Iraqi counterparts, without the ability to gather their own intelligence or air assets to support their missions, with strained logistics and having been infiltrated by insurgents, they were simply overwhelmed. Too many bad guys. Too few good guys who believed in a national identity. Leadership that was weak and corrupt. The Iraqi military was simply unprepared to handle the chaos that was thrown in their path.
That is why Sam and his fellow Deltas had found themselves tasked to stay in the country after the raid in Iran. In doing so, they accepted many of the same counter-terrorism operations they had started doing more than ten years before. The only difference now was that they were severely outnumbered. Only the Deltas and a few Army Rangers went out on operational missions, the vast majority of the other U.S. forces being committed to doing nothing more than protecting the 10,000 civilians who worked for the U.S. government inside the Green Zone, which made it a losing proposition. Homegrown insurgents were gaining strength once again, and they were not alone. As the dead bodies testified, there were also imports from other nations who were determined to keep the Iraqis down.
Sam knew that, at the end of the day, it all came down to this: Did the Iraqis want their liberty as much as those who hated freedom wanted to keep it from them?
* * *
The horizon turned quickly to a silvery hue from the dust and smoke that hung in the air. Sam, sitting on the right-hand door of the first helicopter, dropped to the tarmac the moment his pilot brought the helicopter to a stop. He was dirty and tired, maybe more than any of his men, for he had spent almost six hours in a crouching position, hidden in a dark ditch, covering their movements as they crawled and shot their way through the old storage compound. The black camouflage on his face was smeared with perspiration. Combat was work, the hardest work in the world, and the cool night temperatures in Iraq weren’t enough to have kept him from sweating like a pig.
Dropping from the HH-60’s open door, Sam led his team away from the helicopters, and then circled his fingers, telling them to gather around him. The eleven-man squad assembled as he took off his helmet and pulled out the foam earplugs he had stuffed in his ears. A few of the other soldiers, the more experienced ones, took off their helmets to pull out their earplugs as well. The inside of the Blackhawks averaged one hundred twenty decibels, and Sam didn’t intend to lose his hearing—not from flying, anyway. Maybe from shooting his M4; maybe from firing off RPGs, or maybe from being too close to incoming artillery shells, but certainly not from sitting like a sardine in the back of a very noisy flying machine.
As the men gathered around him, the helicopters lifted and turned toward the refueling area, flying away from the well-organized tents and portable buildings of Camp Freedom.
Sam waited until the sound of the helicopter rotors and turbine engines had faded away, and then turned to his men. “It was a good night,” he said, congratulating his team. “We killed a bunch of bad guys and didn’t lose anyone. Thirteen to zero. Not a bad soccer score. More, though, it was important for us to take the safety of the compound away from them. But listen now, we’ve got another mission tonight. Brief at 2200. Get some sleep and be ready. We’ll rally for team dinner at 2100. The cook promised steak and potatoes. That will give you something to dream about. Now go get some rest.”
He paused, his men standing with stooped shoulders around him. “Any questions?” he concluded. The group was silent, tired but happy, and very ready for sleep. “All right. Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll see you tonight.”
Sam stuck out his hand, and his team gathered in a tight circle, placing their dirty hands upon his. “Wolfman!” they cried together, yelling their unit’s call sign, then turned and split up, heading for the enlisted hooches and tents. Showers and chow could wait; they were too exhausted now. In five minutes, most of them would be asleep on their cots, their weapons carefully secured but their faces still dirty, some gloves still on their hands, their flak vests on the floor. Two hours from now, a few would wake and head for the showers—a base-camp luxury that had to be taken advantage of—get something to eat, then hit the sack again. But most would sleep straight through until late afternoon, when the sun started dipping and the temperature started to fall.
Sam watched his men separate, wiping a stream of black sweat from his eyes, then turned to follow, head low, helmet under his arm, weapon slung across his shoulder, his flak vest open at the chest. The sun was just half an orb above the horizon, but it seemed he could already feel its heat. Amazing how quickly the desert transformed from cold night to hot day.
Sam had walked only ten steps when he saw his commander moving toward him with a deliberate stride. The major looked determined and stared directly at him. For a moment Sam pretended not to see him; he was tired, irritated and he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t like the major. The two rarely saw eye to eye.
Then the image of the murdered children in the Iranian village flashed again through his mind. How many reports and affidavits had he been required to fill out, detailing the gruesome attack at Agha Jari Deh? He suspected his major had another report or statement for him to sign. He turned away and kept walking.
The thought of the massacre churned the juices in his gut. He thought of it too often. He wanted to leave it behind. He wanted to never think of it again. But everything around him seemed to remind him somehow: a small hand, a buddy’s letter from his son, a local young girl in her white dress standing on a street corner and staring at him—too many things brought back the dark memory. And the continual rehashing of the mission, what went right, what went wrong, who were the killers, why had they done what they did, it all amounted to nothing but dark memories. He was growing more bitter at having to rehash it again and again.
He thought of the girl, her dark eyes and long hair, exquisitely beautiful, even in her grief. He thought of her reaching out to her father, a charred corpse. He wanted to forget her, wipe the memory away. But he knew that he wouldn’t. It was the price he would pay. All soldiers paid a price for their service by the thoughts that remained in their heads. A few of the memories were good. Some were evil, dark and painful. They had to live with them all. That was just the way it was.
But this one . . . this one was different from anything before. Why couldn’t he keep her out of his mind?
Sam glanced at his commander, and then lowered his eyes.
“Brighton,” the major called out, and Sam reluctantly turned to face him. The major, long and lanky, a West Point graduate, walked quickly toward him, an uncomfortable look on his face.
“What’s up, boss?” Sam asked after saluting wearily.
“You got a telephone call,” the major answered after returning the salute.
Sam looked surprised. “I hope it’s not your little sister again,” he said dryly. “I’ve told her a thousand times not to call me at work.”
The major didn’t smile. His little sister, the new Miss Virginia, had become a hot topic among the men in his squad, and he was growing a little we
ary of their constant jokes. “In your dreams, Sammy boy,” he slapped Sam on the back, “and over my dead body. Now come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You have a phone call. Quick. He’s been holding.”
The two men started to walk. “Who is it?” Sam asked, though he suspected that he already knew.
“The White House,” the major answered.
Sam shook his head. His dad on the phone.
His father, an Air Force two-star general, was on special assignment from the Pentagon to the National Security Staff. He worked at the White House, directly for the president, acting as special counsel on National Security affairs. It was one of the most coveted jobs in the military, but Sam also knew that the weight of the assignment was crushing him down. His father had aged fifteen years in the past twenty-four months, the pressure squeezing the life out of him like the juice from an orange.
His mind raced, trying to think of a reason that his father might call. Would he call with good news? Probably not. His gut tightened up.
The major quickened his step toward the Operations Center. “Pick it up,” he said. “He’s been on hold for five minutes already.” Sam recognized the strain in the major’s voice. He had grown familiar with the sound, and he doubled his pace. But his boss deferred to him, walking at his side instead of leading the way. Sam knew it was unnerving to the major whenever the White House called. Truth was, it was unnerving to the regiment and battalion commanders as well—it was unnerving to everyone from the chief of staff down. But there was nothing he could do about it. His father was who he was. Sam didn’t say anything as the major walked nervously at his side.
Although he had never talked about his father, never so much as mentioned his name, it was impossible for the men in his unit not to know, and Sam knew how stressful it was for the major to have the son of a two-star general in his command, the son of the special counsel to the president, no less. At best case it was a zero sum game for the major: Everything went perfectly, Sam stayed healthy, and no one said anything. But if Sam got wounded or killed, or the unit didn’t perform in an exceptional way, who would answer the hard questions that would come slamming down? Who was going to call the White House to tell the old man? Because of this, Sam knew the major would happily ship him out, send the source of his problems to the next unit down the line. And Sam understood it. He would have felt the same way.
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