First to Burn (5 page)

As if bricks had been left out during construction, square openings well over six feet up the wall allowed in dashes of white sunlight. No windows at person height meant no ventilation. The odors of kerosene, pungent food and stale bodies were strong. Amid the glittery dust motes a dozen women surrounded a young girl curled on a woven carpet. A shawl had been draped across the girl’s belly mound. Her patient.

The women turned to stare. Their clothing ranged from embroidered and bespangled fabric on the older women to threadbare tunics and dark scarves hanging loosely on the girls. If elaborate clothing denoted household status, her plainly clad patient ranked at the bottom. Her stomach heaved at the idea that this child—was she even thirteen?—was that old man’s wife. Kneeling within reach of the girl, she murmured an introduction she knew no one understood.

“Ma’am, Dostum requested I translate instead of the interpreter. His youngest wife’s name is Nazdana.” Wulf’s voice penetrated the curtain; she could see his brown socks under its edge. “Dostum would rather an American than an Afghan terp from a different tribe speak to his wife. If you work close to the curtain we won’t need to shout.”

“Fine.” She readied for the exam while women chattered. Her patient’s topaz eyes barely moved. Dark circles and bloodshot whites indicated exhaustion and pain.

“You must be doing something very interesting.” Wulf’s voice had the background rumble of a man stifling laughter.

“Changing from my gear to a sterile jacket.” She slipped the pale blue coat over her standard tan T-shirt.

“That explains it.” His voice conjured the memory of his smile in her office, the smile that had closed the space between them and made the air take weight.

“Explains wha-at?”
Darn girly lilt.
She spread hand sanitizer up her forearms.

“Not repeatable, ma’am.”

She glared at the curtain. He had to be sitting, because now she could see pants fabric in the gap between the cloth and the floor. “If you want to interpret for me, you can’t edit.”

“Your call.” The rising drawl on the end of his statement baited the hook. She knew that, but couldn’t resist.

“Go on.”

“They said it’s no wonder American babies grow so tall if their mothers have such admirably big—”

“Enough.” She’d invited these burning ears. He couldn’t see her chopping gesture through the curtain, but his snort meant he knew he’d scored a point. “Can you ask the women to back away from my instruments?” She’d spread her diagnostic equipment in a row on a sterile sheet, but it was in danger of being contaminated.

The women shifted to give her space after Wulf spoke. She couldn’t understand his words, but his tone matched the reliability of everything else about him.

“Please tell Nazdana this black band will go on her arm. It will tighten but it won’t hurt.”

“Ma’am, use an interpreter by speaking directly to the other person as if I’m not here. I translate what you say to her, then her replies. You don’t talk
to
me, just
through
me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Nazdana’s blood pressure, 160 over 100, displaced her thoughts about the sergeant. The exam result wasn’t good. In fact, it was very bad. To help her patient relax, she slipped the end of the stethoscope under her own shirt and let the girl listen to the steady thumps of her heart. The childlike eyes widened, and Nazdana’s eyebrows rose into her pain-lined forehead.

“Now I need to check your body and the baby with this,” she said. “Does he kick much?”

Wulf translated her question and Nazdana’s reply. “He kicks at night and now I am not sleeping. He is taking all the space inside me and I cannot eat.”

Dark eye circles and rapid heartbeat hinted at anemia, but she couldn’t diagnose that without a blood test. “How often do you eat meat?”

The girl hadn’t seen Wulf and probably couldn’t imagine the warrior and weapons behind the gentle voice. “I am permitted to eat meat the first wife declines. Two days ago she left a piece of goat, but when devils came in my body she would not feed them.”

“Please ask what she means by devils in her body.” Theresa pulled a blue exam robe and a cotton sheet, both sealed in sterile plastic, from her pack. “We can put this robe on you, but I have to see and feel the baby, so your heavy clothing must come off.” Theresa had no idea if women disrobed in front of other women, foreign women, or if that was considered immodest. “I’ll give you privacy.” She turned her back and heard giggles and a quick exchange with Wulf.

“What’d you say that made them laugh?” she asked.

“I told her the robe is what Americans wear in the hospital. She thinks Americans aren’t as rich as she believed if they can’t buy a full robe to visit someone as important as a doctor.”

Within minutes Theresa knew the worst would happen to Nazdana. Wulf’s translation of devils in her body sounded like convulsions. Her hands and lower legs showed distinct edema from fluid retention. Life-threatening eclampsia alone justified treatment at an American hospital, but Theresa pressed again on the hard round part presenting far too high on the girl’s abdomen. “Nazdana, I believe your baby’s bottom and feet are coming first instead of his head.”

Her patient nodded to Wulf’s soothing voice, as if he held her hand through the curtain.

“I would like to take you to the American hospital to have your baby. We might have to do surgery,” she continued. Wulf hadn’t finished interpreting before the girl’s eyes widened and her mouth formed an O. “We would take good care of you and your baby.”

Wulf said, “I think we can convince Dostum because he’s desperate for a living son, but a woman can’t go alone.” Conversation flurried between him, Nazdana and the older women. “They want to send the first wife’s youngest—a daughter named Meena—no, he’s a son—ahh.”

She could
hear
Wulf’s understanding nod. “Maybe you can share the revelation?”

“Meena is Dostum’s favorite daughter and attended school two years ago. When his last son died fighting Taliban last summer, they changed Meena into a boy. Now he’s Mir.”

“What?”

“Many patriarchal cultures do it. Cut their hair, dress them like a boy, change their name. Then Dostum has a son for prestige and the women have someone to run errands. Win-win, as long as no one outside the clan knows.”

“Is it a win for her?”

“Which would you rather be? Meena, married at eleven, or Mir, outside playing soccer?”

“Point made.” As a kid she would’ve traded her dolls for a soccer ball, but thankfully in New Jersey she hadn’t had to. She bit her lip. “I need to call for permission to transport.” She’d urge Colonel Loughrey to push the request, but air evacuations of civilians had strict eligibility rules. The army didn’t have the resources to become every Afghan’s ambulance.

“Negative. The team will take her down in a stretcher and boogie out.”

“Sergeant, you
know
the regulations.” Air evacuations didn’t happen as easily as a buzz cut. They had to follow protocols. “We can’t fly a local civilian without preapproval.”

“Captain, you
don’t
know Special Forces.”

She pictured him shaking his head.

“We never ask permission.”

Chapter Four

Knowing that the addition of a patient and a kid would completely change the Black Hawk seating, Wulf hadn’t expected to be close to Theresa on this trip. Shortsighted, because of course she’d sit on the deck next to Nazdana’s stretcher, and he’d have to be ready to interpret. He held out a spare communication headset. Its cord dangled inches short of brushing Nazdana, who lay between them.

As soon as Theresa replaced her helmet with the noise-canceling headphones, she twisted the plug in the air.
Where’s it go
, her eyes asked. The brown depths revealed her thoughts to him as clearly as if she’d spoken. He could tell when she focused exclusively on her patient because her eyes turned sharp and narrow, the same expression Cruz had during emergency ordnance disposal. Other times, like on the ride here, he’d catch her with her eyelids lowered and her lips parted, and he knew she shared his thoughts about more personal activities. Being able to read her eyes was dangerous enough; if she read his, he was finished.

He pointed at a commo jack on the side of the bird above Nazdana’s legs. Between them, the girl was strapped to a stretcher, which in turn was latched into tie-downs recessed in the floor. Theresa had fitted Nazdana with an oxygen mask connected to an inboard tank. It decreased the girl’s wheezing, but she remained pale and sweaty.

“Nice.” Theresa’s voice came through the headphones clearly. “Think the gear’s interfering with the portable EKG monitor? It was reading the fetal heartbeat fine when I attached the belt in the women’s quarters, but now the readings are wacked.” She tapped the instrument in her hand. Wires from it went under the neck of Nazdana’s robes. “Maybe the belt I used slipped while the guys carried her.” She laid her free hand on the girl’s stomach, patting lightly, as if feeling for something.

Her fingers looked small and slender compared to his, or to the hands of the men he worked with. Even her touch looked lighter, gentler. He wished...he crushed that thought faster than a tick. With his teammates, he’d made a family, the closest he’d had in centuries. They welcomed him into their homes, trusted him and never asked questions he couldn’t answer. Pulling his weight as part of the team gave him a purpose every morning. Eventually, inevitably, he’d have to start over, but he wanted to hold on to this band of brothers for as long as possible. Although Theresa’s hand might look delicate, experience told him that a woman’s fingers had the strength to rip apart his security.

“The belt’s in place,” she said, “so what could—”

He’d never seen her eyebrows drawn so hard together over her nose.

“Holy crap.” Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “I get it. Two fetal heartbeats. That’s why the readings keep changing.”

It took a moment, but then he understood.
Twins.
Nazdana’s face blended with his memories of Zenobia’s dark hair and pain-hollowed eyes when she’d fought to deliver her twins, the babies he’d vowed to raise as his own. Despite the years, fear gored his gut as sharp and deep as a bull’s horn. He didn’t know this pregnant girl, but he couldn’t watch anyone suffer like that. Hand shaking at the edge of his vision, he thumbed on his mike.

Theresa bent closer to her patient, as if trying to hear over the rotors and engines.

“Captain,” he spoke into his mouthpiece. “Request you pick up the pace ASAP. Uhh—”

Nazdana’s eyes rolled until only the whites showed. One side of her mouth twitched repeatedly.

“Seizure.” Theresa scrambled in her ruck and pulled out a sealed bag of intravenous tubing and syringes. “Get her sleeve off.” Her command was loud enough to carry to him.

The girl’s body went rigid as Theresa ripped open an alcohol pad.

He sliced the bunched fabric away from Nazdana’s arm, but she didn’t move.

“Repeat request?” The pilot’s voice spoke in his earphones.

“Her mouth—put something in—next stage’s biting—” Theresa had the needle against Nazdana’s inner elbow.

“Twins,” he told the cockpit. Nothing except metal and useless plastic bags in reach. No wood or leather. “Hit some stick!” He stuck his left first finger in Nazdana’s mouth.

“Will comply,” the pilot replied.

Immediately the engine roared and the Black Hawk’s nose pitched forward, the massive power surge echoing the adrenaline and panic rising from his stomach as he watched Nazdana’s left arm flail. Theresa dodged, and the girl’s hand only clipped her shoulder, but she didn’t have the IV started yet. With his free hand, Wulf reached over Nazdana’s thrashing torso and pinned her upper arm. She had the strength of a writhing cobra, but Theresa was able to seize her forearm and insert a needle parallel to the girl’s skin. In his peripheral vision, he saw Kahananui kneel beside him to restrain Nazdana’s legs. He focused on the flash of red blood flowing backward into the catheter.
Almost there.
In seconds Theresa had the needle removed and tubing attached, as smoothly as if the girl wasn’t having an inflight seizure.

Then Nazdana clenched her teeth so hard on his finger, he closed his eyes to conceal the pain while he braced her tongue flat to keep her airway open. He couldn’t let Theresa notice, but damn, the girl could bite like Odin’s wolves.

He counted past one hundred before her jaw loosened and she collapsed into a semblance of regular body tension. Through slitted eyes he saw Theresa sag as if she’d let out a long-held breath, but if he released his, he might groan. His finger fucking
hurt.

“Can someone radio to Caddie for operating room prep?” Theresa spoke into her mike. “Tell them we have an emergency C-section with possible eclampsia complications and potential multiple births en route. We need a full receiving team at the landing zone.”

After Theresa’s request went out over the air, Kahananui elbowed Wulf’s right side and slipped a clean degreasing rag under the edge of the stretcher. Now Wulf had to figure out how to retrieve his finger.

“What miracle drug was that?” The Hawaiian leaned toward Theresa, plopping his massive shoulder in front of Wulf and jostling him closer to Nazdana’s head. “I like to know about the good stuff in case we have to treat Afghans in the field.”

“Magnesium sulfate and hydralazine.” Voice strong and calm over the headset, Theresa sounded like she did this every day, not like delivering babies midflight was the scariest shit in the world. “The combo is a safe anticonvulsant and muscle relaxant for pregnant women. I found them in supply because they’re also hypertension drugs.”

They discussed side effects and dosages as if Kahananui played a television doctor, which allowed Wulf to slip his finger out of Nazdana’s mouth and wipe the pink froth off her chin. A flap of skin hung from his finger like a bloody lip, exposing nubs of bone where the girl’s teeth had dug the deepest. Blood dripped into his palm and between his fingers. It looked worse than it felt. Barely. He stuck his rag-wrapped hand into his pocket and prayed Theresa wouldn’t notice.

“She’s breathing on her own, good sign, but we need a CT scan to figure out if she’s in a coma or just knocked out by the drugs.”

Coma
. Zenobia had slipped into that dark world after three days of bleeding and never emerged. Never opened her eyes or spoke to him or held the tiny boys during their brief hours. Theresa wouldn’t let that happen to Nazdana. She wouldn’t.

Theresa adjusted her patient’s oxygen mask and then carefully opened the girl’s mouth.

Wulf stiffened at the sight of Nazdana’s bloody teeth.

She used a tongue depressor to separate Nazdana’s jaws and examine her tongue. “She didn’t bite herself, so...” She pointed the red-stained stick at him. “Show me your finger.”

He shook his head. “She didn’t bite through.” Despite his finger itching like a dozen hairy caterpillars all circled the same spot, he couldn’t be sure the healing had finished.

The helicopter’s forward motion stopped. Over his headphones, the pilot and air traffic control rushed through landing protocols. A minute or two of obfuscation and he’d be clear.

“If she broke the skin, you could get an infection. You might need stitches.”

“She didn’t break the skin.”
Please let that be the truth by now.

“Let me be the judge.” Theresa dropped the stick and reached for him. “Your left hand.”

If he satisfied her that nothing was the matter, this could end and she wouldn’t chase him down or demand follow-up. He had to show her, had to hope he’d given himself enough time.

With the bloody rag abandoned in his pocket, two red half-moons, one on top of his finger, one underneath, were the only signs of Nazdana’s bite. As he watched, the marks faded to pink and then disappeared.

Theresa raised her hand to grab his, but left the connection incomplete. She stared between his fingers and the blood-speckled tongue depressor lying on Nazdana. Her expression revealed confusion, but their wheels touched ground before she could shape a question.

Thank Thor, her patient came first.

* * *

In the week since the hospital interpreter had rushed between him and Theresa at the flight line, Wulf had deliberately avoided the doctor. Kahananui had waited outside the operating room to report to the team about Nazdana’s successful delivery. Other team members popped in to visit the patients during the day, but Wulf timed his visits for after Theresa left. At nearly six pounds each, the twin boys could already wrap their walnut-size fists around his fingers. Last night, when he’d stroked one’s spiky black hair, identical to the downy heads of the babies he carried in his heart, envy had almost driven him from the room. He’d abandoned his mercenary life, surrounded himself with honorable men, made the right choices, but even an illiterate opium grower had something he never would. In the centuries since his brother and he had realized what their healing abilities had taken away and he’d lost Zenobia, he’d avoided children. Now the curiosity of Mir, the kid who was into everything, and the near-adoption of the twins by his team had snuck past his walls and knocked, no, pounded, on a hollow space under his ribs.

Part of him had a crazy urge to fill the void with more than memories. The rest of him panicked and gulped dinner if Theresa entered the chow hall. Left the gym if he saw her ponytail on the treadmill. Did an about-face if he heard her laugh. Ran from the opportunity to screw up his life. Because he
was
the lonely horndog that Kahananui often accused him of being, vigilance was becoming a full-time occupation.

Today he made it to the team’s ready room without seeing Theresa, with space to wonder why Deavers had beeped him during lunch. His commander had a guest Wulf recognized, a Night Stalker named Morgan from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. He must have been visiting from Bagram Airfield in Kabul, because Wulf didn’t recall an air-mobile mission on tap.

The helicopter pilot’s mouth bisected his face like a slash. “Chief flew two medevac tours in Vietnam.” The aviator continued speaking as if he hadn’t noticed Wulf. “Thirty years flying the governor for State Patrol, wildfires with the Guard, two tours in Iraq, before he volunteered for this sandbox. He taught me more about flying in two days than I got in six weeks at Rucker.” He thrust his head and shoulders forward. “Chief John Mitchell did
not
shoot his own leg cleaning his weapon!”

Wulf had met Chief Mitchell enough times to agree with the captain’s assessment. Chief had been the guy you put in charge of loading the lifeboats, the guy played by Clint Eastwood. Not a Snuffy who made a mistake like shooting himself in the femoral.

After introducing Wulf to the pilot, Deavers launched into an explanation. “This month Morgan and Chief Mitchell returned shipping containers to Bagram from outposts here—” Deavers tapped their wall map, “—here and here. Should’ve been empties swapped for resupply, but they registered six hundred kilos over listed empty weight.” His commander’s coiled stillness broadcast clearly. Higher headquarters assigned ninety-five percent of the team’s missions: hostage extraction, training ops with the Afghans, target surveillance or neutralization. Five percent of the time the team set its own agenda, unrecorded missions of their choosing. Deavers especially liked to make the world right when he had the chance to go off the record.

Now Morgan had brought them a five-percenter.

“Chief didn’t like jerks screwing with our loads. He wanted to
know
.” Eyes red-rimmed, the pilot stared at Wulf. “That last day, we landed the conex hard. Busted a corner. On purpose.” He covered his face with his hands and rocked forward, elbows on his knees. “I walked off—my son was suspended and my wife needed to talk— God, I should’ve stayed.”

Deavers looked from the other captain to Wulf. “Chief Mitchell was checking the container the last time he was seen alive. Morgan noticed the flight-line manager running over.”

The hairs on Wulf’s neck turned into bristles. “What’d the guy say happened?”

“Never did.” The pilot spoke to the floor. “He left that night. Black and Swan charter. Hour after I found Chief in his hut. By the time I went hunting for him, he was wheels up. B & S claimed he had a family emergency.”

“Bag of Shit.” One of many names for the contractors who pretended to be above the law.

Deavers nodded. “Morgan wants us to ride shotgun on container deliveries and pickups to figure out what’s inside. Nothing written. No records.”

Ride-alongs sounded like a perfect excuse to get out of Caddie and away from the soft-skinned, sweet-smelling problem that had him running laps every night at oh-dark-thirty, hunting for exhaustion.

“The team will open the can, get our answers and close it up, good as new,” Deavers promised the pilot.

“Or we could open it and blow it.” Wulf made his own suggestion. Cruz and Kahananui enjoyed testing explosives. “Fake an RPG hit.”

“Whoa—” The pilot’s voice cracked, and he swallowed. “Not my definition of fun. No rocket-propelled grenades near my Black Hawk. No exploding sling loads.”

“The Big Kahuna’s the best. He’d direct the blast away from your bird. You probably wouldn’t even notice.”