Marwa and Jake! Hoda thought of them in that order, and felt a pang of guilt. While she was gone, Jake would bear the whole domestic load. No, that wasn’t true. Her parents would help, she knew. Oh, there was so much to think about, so much to talk over with Jake. And her parents. And her Reserve command. And…
She wanted to cry again. But didn’t. She picked p the phone instead.
“Jake?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“I will be. Bad news, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Of course. I just got called up to active Army duty—in Afghanistan.”
There was silence at the other end. “Jake?”
“Yes.”
“Say something.” He seemed so calm. His reaction was as if… he knew.
“Robinson told me.”
“Robinson told you? He knew?”
“They wanted to make sure he stayed out of the way. They knew we’d try to use his influence. The Army played its big cards this time, Hoda. They’re beefing up the psy-ops and psychological meds teams in-country, trying to save money in rotations. They need all the likes of you they can find. Did they tell you your residency was finishing early?”
“No. No one told me anything.” Well, Hoda thought, at least that was something. She wasn’t due to finish with her psychiatry board for three months. “Are they waiving the boards?”
“I think so,” Jake said.
“What are we going to do?” Hoda said, her voice just a trifle unsteady. She had faced hardship before, but never as the mother of a toddler. The Muslim mother in her made her shaky at the thought of leaving her baby behind.
“We’re going to follow orders,” Jake said. “I’ve deployed before, Hoda. In the Army more than once, and for the agency a hundred times. I’ll walk you through it. And the Army will have plenty of help along the way. Come home and we’ll talk.”
“I’ll be home as quickly as I can. See you.”
She rang off with Jake, and made some phone calls, rearranging her schedule or clearing her calendar in others. Then she called the attending, and told her she would not be in for the rest of the afternoon—and why. The chief doctor was sympathetic, even though she was disappointed at losing one of her most gifted psychoanalysts.
***
Scenes in the departure lounge of the charter flight taking Hoda to Afghanistan all had the heart-rending sameness: couples, many with children, crying and embracing as flight time approached. Hoda and Jake locked eyes for the last time, Hoda holding little Marwa and kissing her constantly. When at last there could be no more reprieves, no more delays, everyone shuffled toward the yawning doors and looked back one last time. Loved ones, Jake Holman among them, waved and bravely held back tears—mostly. Jake succeeded where some did not.
Marwa turned swiftly, abruptly, showed her ID to the attendant, and walked briskly through the doors. Civilian life was behind her.
An hour later as the big jet reached cruising altitude, a male captain approached Hoda in her seat, midway through the cabin.
“Beg pardon, colonel,” he said, using the time-honored diminutive for her lieutenant colonel’s rank, “but the general would appreciate it if you’d join him forward.”
Everyone within hearing knew that meant the three-star who was the ranking passenger on the flight. His section was in the general officer’s “country,” or first-class section of the jumbo jet. And “appreciate” was code for an order: juniors did not refuse “appreciate.” It wasn’t done. But neither could Hoda think of a legitimate reason for the general to summon her—though she could think of one very illegitimate one. She’d have to go.
The general was about to imbibe in a cocktail when she arrived. His face brightened when he saw her, the lust barely concealed in his eyes. “Sit down, colonel,” he said brightly. “Tell me, what takes you to Afghanistan? So pretty a lady!”
Hoda sat facing him, not beside, in the first-class accommodations. Hoda guessed this cocktail was not his first.
“I’m with the Tenth Mountain,” Hoda said crisply. “I’ll be doing psychological warfare, prisoner interrogation, and troop counseling. I’m a psychiatrist.”
“A shrink, eh? Up in the north country? You should be careful up there, colonel. Lots of bad people. I could help you. My command, down south, could use a soldier like you. Yes, ma’am, especially a soldier like you.”
I’ll bet you could, Hoda thought with deep disgust. But she had to be careful. Lieutenant generals were powerful, and it didn’t do to irritate them unnecessarily. She marshaled her thoughts.
“My orders are for Mazzar-i-Sharif, general, if it’s all the same to you. I belong to the Powder Keg.” That last was slang, a reference to the Tenth Mountain’s famous shoulder patch: a powder keg outline with crossed bayonets inside, inscribed overhead with the word “mountain” in an arc. Hoda’s fatigues already displayed it on her shoulder.
“Loyal,” the general said with a crooked smile. “I like that in a woman. Sure you won’t join me? No? Well, I’ll keep my eye on you, Colonel Holman. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
Hoda subdued a shiver, forced as warm a smile as she could, hoping it didn’t look contrived. “May I be excused, general?”
“Yes, I suppose to, colonel. Have a pleasant flight.”
Hoda rose and stepped to the aisle. As she did so, she felt the general’s hand brush the back of her thigh. It was not casual contact. Taking no overt notice, she stepped briskly forward and disappeared from his sight. Her first instinct was to report the contact, but immediately cast it aside; there were no witnesses, and an O-5 took on an 0-9 at her peril.
The charter offered the unthinkable luxury of in-flight WiFi, and Hoda was able to both do work for her residency, which was as predicted winding quickly down, and contact her family. She sent mail to her father, who was a faithful correspondent, and to Jake, who of course responded nearly as soon as she sent it. They continued their conversation, careful (as they had discussed) to remember the mails were public record. Throughout her deployment, the precious luxury of electronic mail would ease the pain in many ways. Of course, holding out as it did the illusion of intimacy, it also created agony of a different sort. But it was far better than nothing.
Kabul was chaotic, but Hoda managed to find the group transferring to a C-130 Hercules transport for Mazzar-i-Sharif, to the north. She would land at the nearby airport, and make the overland trip to the Tenth Mountain base there. She was one of only ten troopers on the flight, the rest of the space reserved for resupply. A young sergeant first class issued her body armor, and carefully advised her in its deployment. He was almost funny in his attempts to be gallant—quite the reverse of the general on the previous plane.
“Thank you, sergeant,” she said when he was done, bathing him with a warm smile. He averted his eyes, face reddening.
“No need to thank me, colonel. It was a privilege.”
Hoda smiled at him again, and wondered if he was typical of the soldiers in Afghanistan. If so, perhaps her fears, and the reports that caused them, were unfounded. Maybe the general was an aberration caused by the arrogance of rank.
Sadly, that was not the case. Not at all.
Hoda took up her duties immediately after reporting to the Tenth Mountain’s medical brigadier. That work load turned into an immediate struggle for survival, helped not at all by either pace or milieu. Clinical and tactical combined to swamp her.
Clinically, there were countless cases of PTSD. It presented in many forms, but the new revisions to the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—kept her moving relentlessly; the caseload was incredible, not least because she was the only full psychiatrist in the division chain of command, as it was under-strength. That was one reason the Army worked so hard to get her.
Added to that, at least before Hoda could put a stop to it, were the soldiers who arranged interviews merely for the sake of being in her proximity. She gradually subdued her physical appea
rance, but as a Muslim Hoda never emphasized her appearance except to Jake. And certainly not in the center of thousands of soldiers, virtually all of whom were male.
And then there were the projects: interviewing Taliban suspects, as well as witnesses to Taliban atrocities, not to mention the occasional drone miscalculation which wounded or killed civilians.
Finally, not to put too fine a point on it, was the whole male-female thing. Inevitably in a camp so populated with hormonal young men, the presence of so beautiful a woman, married or not, lieutenant colonel or not, was just oppressive. Hoda understood, and minimized the disruption. She used the UCMJ—Uniform Code of Military Justice—sparingly, handing out Article 15s here and there. But it would do no good to slay the dragon with a nuclear weapon. Better to live and let live. If she could. At about three months into the deployment, she was no longer sure.
That’s when the Command Sergeant Major stepped in.
One afternoon Hoda was between soldier interviews in her tent office, listening to the heater drone and wishing she could have another video conference with her family like the one she’d had last night, when an extraordinary thing happened. As her next interview subject approached her door, a deep male voice said, “Can you give us a minute, son? I need to speak with Colonel Abdelal.”
And around the corner came the Commanding General of the entire Tenth Mountain Division. The two-star gently motioned Hoda back to her seat, for she had catapulted out of it like a jack-in-the-box at his sight.
“Colonel Abdelal. I understand it is not proper to offer one’s hand to a Muslim lady.”
Despite her best effort, Hoda felt herself blush. She offered her hand. “I’m an Army officer, sir,” she said evenly, meeting his gaze.
The general did not take her hand. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her guest chair. She gestured back. Behind the general, the division Command Sergeant Major, or CSM, stepped in. A grizzled veteran dating back almost to Vietnam, and due to retire at the end of this tour, he was the ranking enlisted man in Tenth Mountain. By design, his post made him directly responsible to the division commander and no one else. Officer and enlisted alike treated him with profound respect, and toyed with him at their peril.
“Please forgive the intrusion,” the general said. “Everything okay on the home front, I trust?”
“As well as can be expected, sir,” Hoda answered honestly. It didn’t do to hedge with a general. They were generals for a reason, even if some were less than gentlemen.
“The CSM has brought to my attention the fine work you’ve been doing, colonel. I congratulate you. You’ve brought much-needed support to the command.” The CSM was not in her chain of command; he was an independent source of internal intelligence for the general, an ambassador at large without portfolio. Still, this was a highly unusual interlude, not least because the general had come to visit Hoda. It was early always junior-to-senior.
“Thank you, general.”
The general cleared his throat. “He’s also brought to my attention that you deal daily with the environment here. Specifically, being an attractive female in a world of horny men.”
Hoda almost smiled—Alhamdulillah, she did not!—at the general using that adjective.
“Yessir,” Hoda said simply.
“I understand you were Special Forces.”
“Yessir.”
“And graduated fifth in your class from the Ranger School. That true?”
“It’s true, general.”
“Special Forces mix with the indigenous population as part of their mission. We have some attached to this command. As part of that, they are authorized to dress, at least in part, in indigenous civilian attire.”
“Yessir?”
“As of this moment, Colonel Abdelal, you are authorized to wear all or part of whatever civilian attire does not obscure your military insignia or affiliation. Am I understood?”
“I—Yessir,” Hoda said.
“Good. Any further trouble along the lines of horny men”—that straightforward word again—“gets reported directly to me, or the CSM.”
“Yessir.”
“I think that should do it.” He stood. “Keep up the good work.” They exchanged salutes and the general was gone. The CSM lingered, a twinkle in his eye. Then he, too, saluted and vanished.
So the colonel had to hunt up a local hijab. And a camouflage abaya, or smock.
***
Back in Massachusetts, Jake read Hoda’s long e-mail about the general with great delight. It was an extraordinary tribute, one bordering on sketchy leadership: if the general intervened in one case, why not others? But the whole thing was pretty hushed, Jake gathered, in the first place; and the commanding general was just that. In command.
Jake and Marwa were living with Hoda’s parents. That way, Maryam could help with Marwa, in whom she took intense delight, and Jake could telecommute to work very effectively, thanks to technology.
Marwa was growing like a weed. Walking on her own now, she had more than one tooth in, and was almost ready to say her first intelligible words. It was Jake, alone for her parents, who both saw the wonder and dealt with the frustration of that first arriving tooth. More than once, and more than twice, he was grateful for Maryam’s counsel. Not only that, but Maryam enlisted the aid of some judiciously-chosen friends—Arab woman friends—to “just drop by for a visit.” Together the women, as is said of the US Senate, “advised and consented,” keeping Jake from frustration and distraction and mistakes.
When the weather was good, Jake made a little playground behind the Hassans’ house. Disdaining a store-bought affair, he laid down rubber mulch made from ground-up, recycled tires and crafted with his own hands a jungle gym from steel plumbing drain pipe, a slide of aluminum-lined wood, and a ground-level gymnastic beam. Like a little simian, Marwa took to it right away, Alhamdulillah. She ran endlessly around the back yard, little legs losing fat and gaining muscle.
Jake read to her every night, at first not allowing anyone else; but soon Dr. Hassan was afforded that privilege, to which he took with relish. And both grandparents saw to it Marwa was exposed to Arabic, which of course Jake could not.
Jake had no overseas assignments. He was always there. True to his word, John Robinson held Jake close to home for what they both referred to, half in jest and deferring to a movie title, as “The Year of Living Dangerously.” Jake watched Marwa cross the days off a special calendar, in a ritual they both enjoyed.
Except that it brought the pangs of grief to Jake which made him writhe in agony. Each night, after duaa, he got into a cold bed, alone and depressed. Body and soul pined for his missing half.
***
“Morning, colonel,” the duty sergeant said through Hoda’s wooden tent door one day about six months through her deployment. “They want you to stand-to at the helipad. Briefing in ten minutes in the briefing room.”
Such antics were commonplace in this Wonderland of War. She blessed the foresight that found her uncomfortable at night, sleeping in her fatigues all standing without boots. Wudu, fajr, socks and boots. Quick-quick-quick, it would never do to to give the men the slightest opportunity to wait for a woman. A quick equipment inventory, don her hijab, and she was off.
In the briefing room, a dozen troopers circled a sand table, where a single pool of light shone down on a physical model. It was mostly flat, but there was some defilade—rolling terrain—to one side. On the flat terrain, concentric circles showed what was obviously the barbed wire edge of a Special Forces camp.
“This will be quick, people,” said an Army captain after he got everyone’s attention. “We land here, in and out for the bird, and then deliver the payload here”—he gestured toward Hoda—“inside the wire. We wait while the colonel interviews the subjects, call for pickup, and run home. Simple, easy. Physical security only.” Except, everyone knew but didn’t say, nothing was assuredly simple or easy in Afghanistan.
The captain caught her eye. “Ma’am, forgive the
short notice. This intel is white-hot, and division wants it acted on.”
“I understand,” Hoda said, returning his salute. “What’s it about?”
“Reports are the Taliban raped two local women because their husbands were suspected of working with us. They want you out there on the quick to interview. Were they raped? What’s the damage? That sort of thing.”
Only a man would put it that way, Hoda thought: were-they-raped-what’s-the-damage? Bloodless. As though assessing bomb damage. Hoda saved her breath. It wouldn’t do any good.
“Good to go?” the captain asked.
“Good to go.”
“Do you want a weapon?”
“I have sidearms.” Plural, but the captain didn’t remark on it.
“If you’re fine with that, let’s go.”
Everyone trundled to the CH-47 Chinook helicopter, belting in while its engines whined. Soon they were racing low over the ground, zig-zagging to avoid potential small-arms fire and rocket-propelled grenades. The RPG had killed as many Americans in Afghanistan as any other weapon except the roadside bomb, and most of those casualties were in Chinooks; it was a big, tempting target. In little more than 45 air minutes, they saw the Special Forces camp below, circled twice, and settled in for a landing on the pad, about 150 yards from the camp’s main gate.
And as they settled, not far above the ground, the world flew irrefutably into chaos.
Two small explosions rocked the helicopter, and it crashed to the ground, collapsing its landing gear. Thwip-thwip-thwip bullets stitched through the hull, ricocheting around inside. Men were hit. Hoda, seated near the rear ramp, saw it yawn open. Instinctively she unbuckled and dived for it, sprinting down its surface and diving in defilade about 50 feet away. Turning, she was just in time to see five men cut down behind as a machine gun zeroed on the ramp; she had been just in time.
Mortars and machine guns inside the camp wire answered, and soon their air was a rattle and bang of weapons. Empty brass cartridges flew, smoke and cries were everywhere.
Hoda looked around, first at her front, and then side and behind. The threat seemed to be all forward, and she had protection from the defilade, the rising ground before her. Her eye for defilade hadn’t deserted her, obtained at the Ranger School. That same source afforded her some immunity from the noise and chaos around her, as practice firefights were common training.
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