by Cindy Gerard
“You forget, I grew up in Colorado. I know about winter. And I know something else that’s far more important: I have never loved anyone the way I love you.”
She believed him. Just as she was starting to believe that she might finally get her happily ever after.
Chapter 20
Afghanistan, October
THE ROOF AT NIGHT HAD become his refuge. The stronger and more complete his memories of his time in captivity became, the more he needed the wide-open sky above him, the absence of walls and bars. The illusion of being free.
And then there was Rabia.
Each night for more than a month, she came to him here. Each night, he lost himself in her soft, giving body, her sweet, tender mouth, and for the moments they were together, he forgot he was a man trapped in a hostile country and hunted by the Taliban. He forgot, even, that he had no idea how he was going to get home. Forgot that he still didn’t know where home was.
The nights had grown cool. She brought blankets with her when she came to him now. They lay wrapped in one tonight, while a sky free of light pollution exploded with magnificent starlight. Her naked flesh warmed him like a furnace, pressed to his side as she slept.
He ran his hand absently up and down her arm, spent in the aftermath of their lovemaking, grounded again in the reality of his situation and the wrongness of what they did together in the night. The futility of it. The cultural and political impossibility of it for her. He knew that being with her this way made him complacent. He had to beef up his physical conditioning routine. He had to somehow overcome the vertigo and blinding headaches and the physical limitations of his bad leg. He had to get away from here and somehow hook up with Coalition troops.
She stirred, and he pulled her closer, tugging the blanket higher over her bare shoulders. The thought of leaving her, however, weighed on him the way the holes in his memory weighed on his psyche. He’d come to care for her. Too much. Too, too much.
She had become his escape. And while he still had difficulty piecing together his past, he had no problem drawing on lessons from a psychology class he must have taken at some point in time. He understood the psychology of dependency. He understood about Stockholm syndrome. Rabia had been both captor and healer. She had been his lifeline—the giver of food, the provider of relief in the form of opiates during the worst of his physical pain. She’d been his savior during withdrawal. And now she was his lover.
Even more than that, he had grown to respect her. The longer they were together, the more they talked. Not only about him but also about her.
He’d discovered that she was a rebel, that she’s risked her life for more than his sake. She’d downplayed her role in the Afghan women’s movement. She didn’t merely belong. She was a leader, responsible for bringing an underground movement out in the open and operating in defiance of the Taliban, who would have them back in chains and stoned for minor infractions of sharia law.
She stirred in her sleep, and again, he pulled her closer, missing her before he’d even left her but knowing that he would leave her. He would leave this woman who had saved him on more levels than he could count.
“Why do you not sleep, Jeffery?”
He should have known. Even in her sleep, she sensed his unrest, and it had awakened her.
“I have to leave, Rabia. You know I have to leave here.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “I know. But you do not have to leave this night.”
She rose up on an elbow then, her long hair falling over her shoulder, her lush breasts bare under the starlight. And he agreed as she moved over him, blanketing him in the warmth and vitality of her body, that no, he did not have to leave her this night.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Rabia rushed into the cooking room and set her small parcel on the table.
“What surprises have you brought home from the market today?”
She spun around, startled to see Jeffery standing in the doorway. She was not yet ready to face him. She had not yet processed the news she had heard at the market. She had not yet decided what to do about it.
“Hey.” He limped over to her, touched his hand to her arm. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and turned back to the fresh vegetables she had purchased. “All is well. You… surprised me. I did not know you were behind me.”
“Well, you know it now. Yet your hands are still shaking. What’s going on?”
She had hoped to delay telling him. If she were truthful with herself, she had hoped to conceal the news completely. But she could not. He had to know.
“There was a runner in the market. I overheard him tell of an American Army patrol near Emarat.”
When she finally met his eyes, she saw both excitement and unbearable hope. “An American patrol? How many? When were they there?”
“He said twenty-five or thirty men. They have been coming through the village every five days for the past three weeks, offering aid, searching for Taliban, making camp overnight before moving on.”
His gaze left her face, and he stared at the far wall. He was in shock, she realized. He was searching, planning, seeking a way to make contact.
“How far is Emarat from here?” he asked abruptly.
“Farther than you can travel on a road heavily patrolled by Taliban.” She did not want him to go. She did not want to lose him.
But she knew what must be done.
“I will go,” she said, swallowing back the pain. “I will make contact.”
He didn’t hesitate. “No. It’s too dangerous.”
“I am Pashtun,” she said defiantly. “This is my country. My land. I am free to travel. They have no reason to suspect me.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if you go, how are you going to make contact without being seen? No, Rabia, it’s too risky. I can’t let you do this for me.”
“And what would you do?” she countered angrily. “You cannot walk that far on your leg. You cannot run. You still have vertigo attacks that make you violently ill and unable to stand. You cannot drive because of it. So how do you plan to get there, let alone make contact? And if you are caught, how long do you think it will take them to connect you back to my father’s house?”
She could read his frustration and sense of helplessness through his eyes. She understood that his disabilities made him feel like less of a man. She knew it pained him to be so ruled by his injuries.
Several long, tension-filled moments passed before he looked back at her. “How can I let you go?”
She knew then that he understood she was his only hope.
“We will develop a plan together. We will make certain it is safe.” She touched a hand to his arm. “You will go home soon.”
He searched her eyes for an eternity, then drew her tightly against him. “If I could stay, I would. I would stay with you.”
She buried her face in his chest and pinched her eyes against the threat of tears. “I know this. I know this very well.”
Just as she knew this was the beginning of good-bye.
THE NEXT MORNING, his chest tightly knotted, he watched Rabia drive away from the cave where she had first hidden him. They had agreed that he couldn't stay in the house alone. There would be too much opportunity for a chance encounter with one of the villagers—or a return visit from the Taliban.
So here he was, where it all began, hiding in a cave like a coward. An even bigger coward for sending her to save him.
He had bedding, food, and water enough to last him several days.
Several days alone.
The panic knotted in his chest shamed him. Rabia had been his lifeline. There was not a day in his memory that she had not been in his life.
Now she was in danger because of him.
He ducked into the cave, olfactory memories of the month he’d spent here calling forward reminders of pain and opiate hazes and the shackle around his leg. Of Rabia coming to him every day.
Now she was gone.
If all went well, she would so
on be back, and he would be gone from here.
The thought of leaving her drilled a hole in his heart.
And he was left feeling more alone than he’d thought humanly possible.
“WHAT IS YOUR business on this road?”
Rabia had expected the Taliban patrol to stop them. For that reason, she was covered in her burqa. Four fighters manned the checkpoint. Two approached the car.
Her father rolled down the rear window of her older-model Toyota and addressed them. “I am Wakdar Kahn Kakar, malik of the village of Salawat. I am traveling to Emarat to consult with the malik there.”
“Why does this woman drive?”
“This woman is my daughter. I am an old man. I have no sons. I am in need of her to drive me where I wish to go.”
The fighter walked around to the driver’s side. Rabia had hidden her hands in her lap to avoid breaking Taliban law. She kept her head down.
“Show your hands,” the fighter ordered.
She waited for her father’s consent. “Show your hands, daughter, so that they will know you are not a man in hiding.”
She did as she was told, apparently to their satisfaction, then quickly covered her hands again.
“Give me the keys.”
She did as he said, then waited while the guard opened the trunk and checked their luggage.
Finally, he returned the keys and motioned her to drive forward.
Grateful for once for the confining burqa that concealed how nervous she was, she started the car and drove on.
They encountered many more checkpoints on the three-hour trip, each one as nerve-wracking as the other, before finally reaching Emarat right before the noontime meal.
While they were not expected, they were welcomed with great generosity, as was the Pashtun custom.
Because her father was eager for the American askar to leave, he had consented to participate in the plan she and Jeffery had carefully worked out. Once inside the Emarat malik’s house, they would dine and socialize with the family, who would be eager to share news of the region. As soon as Rabia found out when the American patrol was due back through, she would attempt to make contact.
She didn’t have to wait long. The patrol was due the next day.
DRESSED AS A boy, her hair pulled up on top of her head and tucked under a cap, Rabia sneaked out of the house, careful not to wake the other women sleeping in the room with her. Heart pounding, she double-checked her pocket for the letter Jeffery had written and the blood and hair samples he had insisted she take.
“Since I can’t go myself,” he had said, handing her a knife, “they will need physical evidence as proof that I’m alive. The letter won’t be enough.”
The village was small, no more than three thousand people. It did not take her long to reach the outskirts of town, where the Americans were said to be camping. The land was flat here. Tonight a thick layer of clouds covered a sky that was usually lit with stars. She was glad for the absence of light, which made it easier for her to slip through the village undetected.
For long moments, she stood at the town’s edge and searched the terrain beyond. It took only moments for her eyes to acclimate and spot the shadows of several tents about a quarter of a mile away.
On a deep breath, she stepped out of the concealment of a row of dwellings and started walking through the dark toward the encampment. With each step, she prayed that there would not be Taliban fighters hiding in the dark. And as she grew closer and could make out the silhouette of an American soldier carrying a rifle, she prayed to Allah that he would not shoot her before she had an opportunity to tell them about Jeffery.
Chapter 21
PRIVATE FIRST CLASS DANNY GLEASON hated freaking night watch. Fact was, he hated everything about everything that had to do with the U.S. freaking Army. He was nineteen years old. He’d joined up because it was either that or get sent to juvie for a little run-in with the Georgia State Police. Hell, he’d just been having some fun. He hadn’t known that asshole Dale Feckers was going to boost some beer from an all-night liquor store on the other side of the state line and expect him to be his wheel man.
Some friend he’d been. And now, because of Feckers, Danny was in Af-freakin’-ghanistan, eating sand and watching his back for fear some Tali-freakin’-ban jihadists decided they wanted to kill themselves an American infidel.
They could have this country. And Uncle Sam could have his Army. He had twenty-three months left on his hitch, then he was out of here. Back home to some sweet Georgia peach who would think he was some kind of a hero because he’d worn a uniform and toted a gun.
He didn’t say a thing about that to any of these other yahoos in his unit. Hell, they were all gung-ho, God-and-country soldiers. The kind of men people back home looked up to. The kind who made him feel like maybe he had something missing inside him because he couldn’t swallow that line of patriotic BS. There was one in every crowd, right? In this crowd, he was the one.
He stubbed his cigarette out in the dirt and resumed his walk of the camp perimeter. He had another hour, then Winters would relieve him. Talk about gung-ho. Winters was Captain freakin’ America wearing sergeant’s stripes.
He yawned heavily, then stopped short when he saw a shadow move in the darkness about twenty yards away.
Heart slamming, he shouldered his weapon so fast he hit himself in the jaw with the rifle butt. “Who’s out there?”
“I am not armed.”
What the hell? That sounded like a woman. Yeah, and everyone knew Afghan women liked to hide bombs in their big tent dresses—or in this case, those baggy pajama pants.
“Show yourself. Hands in the air,” Danny barked, exactly as he’d been instructed.
A figure materialized out of the dark. With his free hand, he found his Maglite and switched it on, shining it directly in her face.
Now he wasn’t so sure. Was it a woman or a boy?
“May I please speak to the soldier in charge?”
Definitely a woman. Who spoke English. “No, you may not. Get down on the ground. Face in the dirt. Now! Keep them hands above your head when you’re down there.”
Satisfied that she couldn’t do him any damage and with his rifle still trained on her, he clumsily pressed the button on his shoulder mike. “Lieutenant Court, PFC Gleason. I’ve got a situation on the perimeter, sir. Need assistance quadrant seven ASAP. Sir,” he added for good measure.
He’d never had occasion to speak directly to the lieutenant, let alone wake him up in the middle of the night. He hoped to hell he hadn’t committed some major freaking infraction, but damn, this was big.
After a brief silence, Court responded, sounding pissed. “Say again.”
“An Afghan woman approached the perimeter, sir. Says she wants to talk to the man in charge. Request instructions on how to proceed, sir.”
Court replied that he would dispatch two men to assist and after completing a full body search to bring her to his tent.
“Roger that.”
Danny heaved a deep breath, glad there was help on the way. The woman hadn’t moved. And damn, he was glad for that. He didn’t want to shoot her. But he would, he told himself, if she even looked as if she was going to blow herself up and take him with him. He’d shoot her dead. He wasn’t dying on account of some Afghan, no, sir.
And as he stood there waiting for reinforcements, it occurred to him that he’d just acted like a real soldier. That, in fact, he might be a real freaking soldier. For the first time since he’d enlisted, it struck him that maybe he understood what all this gung-ho crap was about.
LIEUTENANT ALEX COURT was accustomed to interaction with the local Afghan population, specifically the Pashtun. He was not accustomed to being approached in the middle of the night by a woman dressed as a boy and telling a story like this woman had told him.
“Why didn’t he come himself?” he asked, after she’d told him a wild story about a Special Forces soldier who had been held captive by the ISI for over three ye
ars but had escaped during a prisoner exchange with the Taliban.
It made no sense at all. ISI? Seriously? Still, he listened because she was here for a reason, and he could possibly find out what it was.
“He is unwell,” the woman said. “I believe his leg was once broken and never set. Walking is difficult. He has also had head injuries. This has caused him problems with memory, headaches, and vertigo. He is unable to travel alone, and it is unsafe to attempt to transport him with the many Taliban checkpoints on the roads. The Taliban are actively searching for him. They have already searched our house once.”
“Why didn’t they find him?”
“He was hidden under the floor.”
If this was a story, it was a well-crafted and imaginative one.
He could not get a good read on her. She was soft-spoken and intelligent. And her English was perfect, which was a point of interest to him.
“You’re educated.”
“At my father’s insistence. My father has also aided in harboring this man. We wish to help him connect with the U.S. military so that he can return home.”
This was absolutely bizarre. Court wasn’t aware of any MIA troops in Afghanistan. And the U.S. presence in the Kandahar Province specifically had been minimal.
“You’ll understand if I’m not convinced. This is a pretty wild story.”
Almost as an afterthought, she reached into the pocket of her loose trousers.
“Stop right there,” he commanded, drawing his pistol.
She held her hands up. “I wish only to give you a letter he has written. May I?”
Because his men had searched her, he nodded.
“The letter provides Jeffery’s full name, rank, and serial number, his unit, battalion—more. He also explains how he was captured and when. Also, there is a recent blood sample and live hair follicles. His fingerprint is also on the letter.” She handed it to him.
