Jericho 3 (5 page)

“Seems a bit late for snow.”

“Sir, it’s been warm and comfortable here in Bagram. Chilly at night. But mid-March can bring some heavy snows in the Khyber Pass and Hindu Kush region.”

“How long have you been in theatre, soldier?”

“Nine months, 17 days, and – judging by the clock – 11 hours and 13 minutes, sir.”

Camp laughed.

“I assume that’s your best guess?”

“No, sir. That’s what my donut girl says.” The sergeant turned his computer monitor around so that Camp could see the countdown clock that featured a scantily clad pin-up who took more clothing off as “in country” time counted down. The “donut girl” was an animated PowerPoint clock that helped thousands of soldiers endure multiple deployments.

“Khyber Pass…so you’re pretty familiar with the terrain around here?”

“Yes, sir, but only as it pertains to flights. FOB Lightning is pretty damn close to Pakistan and the North Waziristan region. The Taliban should be heading back down from their caves after the winter.”

“How far?”

“Sir?”

“How many miles from Lightning to Pakistan?”

“Fifty miles top, sir, right up the Tochi Pass, unless you prefer to take the Silk Road.”

“Pesh Habor,” Camp said to himself.

“Sir?”

“It was called Pesh Habor in the Bible. Khyber is both a Hebrew word and a Pashtu word. Means fort. Darius the First, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, the Israelites, Arabs and even the Russians; they all tried to conquer this place.”

“And now the Americans?” asked the sergeant with eyebrows raised.

“We don’t make the policy, staff sergeant, that’s for the geniuses in Washington. We just enforce it.”

“Roger that, sir, you’re all set. We’ll call the flight about 1330 hours, so you’ve got about 90 minutes to blow.”

Camp took his bag and walked across the street to the USO hoping to find a computer so he could let Raines know he had arrived safely, albeit 14 long hours later.

Datta Khel, Miran Shah District

North Waziristan, Pakistan

M
ajor Banks was rolled up like a mummy in the back of a small pick-up truck. His mouth was still covered with duct tape. His eyes felt swollen. His left cheek was throbbing, probably beaten during episodes of consciousness. His hands were still tied behind his back.

The three-vehicle convoy made its way out of Miran Shah and into the distant but neighboring village of Datta Khel. Finally stopping outside a sheet metal house, partially constructed of rocks and mud, they saw smoke pouring out of the fire stack.

Four men grabbed him and hoisted his rolled body over their heads. He heard the voices of several people inside, but nothing was said in English.

They placed him on a long table, maybe a bed. He was face down.  The ropes that cinched the Afghan floor rug together were untied and he was rolled out of the rug in two or three swift pulls. The quick spin sent his body to the mud floor where his forehead and nose hit first. Blood poured from his nose.

Three men pulled him up to his feet then slammed him down in a chair. His eyes started to adjust to the light, as he squinted to shield himself from the bright open fire in the pit against the back wall.

The leader barked out some command and one of the men ripped the duct tape away from his mouth, which quickly filled with the unmistakable taste of blood from what was probably a broken nose.

“
Hawale karna!
”

One of his captors pulled out a knife, a Pesh-kabz, and held it in front of his eyes. With a wicked smile, he turned him around and cut the plastic ties that bound his hands together. He pulled his hands forward and rubbed them as he tried to loosen his shoulder joints.

His feet were still bound. Another man handed him a cloth and pointed to his nose. He applied pressure with the cloth and tilted his head back, never taking his eyes off the Pesh-kabz.

His eyes looked past the knife where he saw another bed. Someone was in it. The body was covered with a long, black burka, hijab and black face veil.

A man approached from the back of the room. He had a smile and a bounce to his step.

“Major Banks…you’re a doctor, no?”

Banks said nothing.

“A female doctor, a gynecologist, no?”

Banks said nothing.

“My name is Kazi. I attended university in Alabama. Have you heard of Auburn?”

Banks stared at him, pinching his nose, blinking without showing fear though frightened to the core.

“I must apologize for my friends, no? They treated you harshly. But we need help. When we heard that someone like you was so close, well, we couldn’t wait to meet you.”

Banks struggled to swallow.

“
Pani!
” Kazi yelled as one of the other captors ran over with a cup of water.

Banks looked into the dirty cup. The water was discolored and foul. He pulled it to his lips and took a swallow.

“What?” Banks managed to cough out a word.

“I’m listening, Doctor Banks.”

“What did you study?” Banks asked, hoping to establish a bond with his abductor that might lead to the preservation of his own life.

A large smile broke over Kazi’s face.

“Microbiology.”

“Are you a doctor?” Banks asked as he finished the water.

The smile left Kazi’s face.

“The woman…over there…she is very important to us. She needs surgery.”

“If she’s so important to you, then why is her mouth covered with tape?”

“You can’t see her mouth, Dr. Banks.”

“And I can’t hear her either. You folks seem to like your duct tape.”

Kazi looked back at the woman then down at the mud floor.

“What kind of surgery, Kazi?” Banks finally asked.

Kazi got up and walked over to the table near the woman’s bed. He picked up two small implant devices and caressed them as though he was holding bags of precious diamonds.

“Female surgery, Dr. Banks, female surgery.”

FOB Shank

Regional Command – East, Afghanistan

C
amp finally made it to the front of the line at Forward Operating Base Shank’s MILAIR counter. Shank was a large and sprawling base in Regional Command – East and one of the only bases other than Bagram that had a runway long enough for large military aircraft like the C-17.

“Ma’am, this is getting older than dirt.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Campbell, but I have no control over Mother Nature.”

“I understand that, Sergeant Delaney, but seven days in temporary billeting, sharing a bunk room with 14 Air Force individual augmentees gaming on their PlayStations until 0200 is about more than I can handle. Anything going out today?”

“Back to Bagram, yes…over the pass to Lightning…no.”

“Ma’am, the Deputy Commander of ISAF is –“

“Captain Campbell, even if Pope Benedict wants you at Lightning, I can’t do anything about it if the birds aren’t flying. I’m sorry, sir; I know it’s frustrating.”

“No, what’s frustrating is that you make me get out of my rack, pack my gear and my roll, put my full kit on, hump a click down the road and check in here every morning at 0500, so you can tell me the same damn thing.
That’s
what’s frustrating.”

An older man, African-American with a receding hairline and dressed in civilian tactical 5.11 khakis, overheard the conversation from his vinyl seat in the waiting room. He was reading an old, well-worn and heavily circulated copy of Stars and Stripes.

“You headed to FOB Lightning too, captain?” he asked.

Camp turned and saw the slight man still scanning through the old newspaper.

“Theoretically,” Camp said turning his attention back to Sergeant Delaney.

“A ground convoy came in late last night from Bagram. They’re leaving at 1500 today for Paktya Province, passing right through Lightning,” the man said.

Camp stepped out of line.

“They got room?”

“They’ve always got room. I’m already on the convoy but thought I’d see if anything was going up and over instead of going ground through the pass.”

“How do I get on the manifest? Where do we muster?”

“Muster is at the truck lot right behind your barracks, Captain Campbell.”

Camp dropped his head and raised his eyebrows.

“Do we know each other?”

“Not yet. But Jim Ferguson described you as a confident, border-line arrogant at times, Navy Captain with good looks. I mean, how many of you can there be?”

Camp smiled. “You work for the general?”

“And with you, apparently,” the man said as he stood up. “Billy Finn, Special Agent, FBI, retired agent that is, now Schedule A civilian for this tour.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Billy. Did Ferguson send you to rescue me from FOB Shank?”

“Actually, I was on a bird that got diverted here last night. I was supposed to meet up with you at Lightning, but then again you were supposed to be there seven days ago.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been in transit from Bagram for more than a week. The weather just doesn’t want to cooperate. What did you do for the bureau?

“Organized crime rings, worked in the Manhattan field office for 17 years, Montreal for a dozen before that.”

“Organized crime? So, I guess that means our kidnapping at Lightning wasn’t the work of the Taliban?”

Finn smiled and gathered up his pack and kit. A well-worn Glock 22 was holstered on his hip.

“Depends. No one knows where the Taliban ends and the Haqqani network or Pakistani intelligence begins out here. Afghanistan is the wild, wild west Captain Campbell, the wild, wild west.”

“Well, if I’m going to be stuck with your sorry ass for a few days you might as well call me Camp.”

National Interagency Biodefense Center

BSL-4 Facility

Fort Detrick, Maryland

R
aines walked up the sidewalk to an unusual looking four or five-story brick and glass building. By design, the building was somewhat ambiguous in appearance and its size was unclear. The checkpoint guard reviewed her orders, verified her credentials and gave her the map. The $105 million facility certainly didn’t look like anything else she had ever worked in before.

The atrium was enormous, and sunlight filled the room through expansive glass windows and skylights. Deep leather chairs and couches filled the space where scientists, military veterinarians and infectious disease experts lounged and discussed their work. Raines knew all about Fort Detrick but this was her first tour to actually work in the facility.

She stopped momentarily as her eyes gazed at the ceiling and absorbed the craftsmanship of the building.

“Lieutenant Colonel Raines?”

“Yes, sir,” she managed to say somewhat startled.

“The guard desk called and said you had arrived. I’m Doctor Groenwald,” he said with a faint Dutch accent.

“Yes, Dr. Groenwald, it is a real honor and pleasure to finally meet you, sir. You are a legend in the fields of infectious disease. I hardly think I’m qualified to assist your research work, but I am so honored to be here.”

“Nonsense. I’ve read your folio, and it is I who should be honored to meet the one who uncovered the Malak al-Maut.”

“Yes, well, that was quite an adventure. We were very fortunate only to be dealing with the Black Plague. An Ebola-Plague hybrid would have been catastrophic.”

“Indeed. Well, let’s get a coffee, and I’ll give you the tour and show you where your office will be.”

The atrium coffee bar was buzzing with activity and a line seven deep stood waiting for a caffeine concoction or a freshly baked pastry.

“Well, we have slightly more than 11,000 square feet here. This is an IRF. The atrium looks pretty, but I can assure you that she’s built like a submarine.”

“I’ve never worked in an Integrated Research Facility like this before. How many agencies are under the same roof?”

“The IRF basically holds three agencies. From NIH, we have the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Disease. And, of course, we rolled the Army’s Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases into this facility as well as the National Biodefense Analysis and Countermeasures Center; Homeland Security, Department of Defense and the National Institutes of Health, all under one roof. Ah, pick your poison, colonel.”

“Sir?”

“Your coffee…pick your poison.”

“Sorry, a tall skinny latte, ma’am.”

“And I’ll take a
grande
mocha, double shot, please,” Groenwald ordered and narrated in the same breath, “so this is the crown jewel of the nation’s biodefense research program, Colonel Raines. Every day we try to understand, treat and hopefully prevent any number of infectious, immunologic, and allergic diseases that threaten hundreds of millions of people worldwide.”

“What did you do during the president’s ban on animal research? Did you shut down?”

The barista handed them their drinks, and Groenwald left a $5 bill on the counter as they walked away.

“What ban?” Groenwald said with a sly smile on his face.

“Roger that!”

“So in a nutshell, we’re trying to develop new and improved diagnostics, treatments, and vaccines for diseases caused by naturally occurring infectious agents as well as microbes that may be intentionally released into a civilian population.”

“Very impressive, Dr. Groenwald; I can’t wait to get started.”

“Colonel, please forgive me, but I’m required to give you a very basic briefing. I’d have to do this even if you were the Secretary of Defense.”

“I completely understand.”

Groenwald led her over to some open seats.

“We have all levels of biosafety level laboratory suites in this facility. In the BSL-1, we generally do
not
deal with agents typically associated with disease in healthy people. In the BSL-2 labs, we are dealing with agents associated with human disease. You’ll see biohazard signs, and you need to take extra precaution with sharps as most of your work done in a BSL-2 will be done on a bench top. In the BSL-3 labs, we’ll be working with agents associated with human disease caused by contamination through the air, or aerosol. These diseases have serious, sometimes lethal, consequences.”