His Woman in Command & Operations: Forbidden

Chapter 3

Jackson walked toward village elders. The knot of men stood watching them. But before he could talk with them, Nike appeared at his shoulder, her face set and disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, anchoring to a halt.

“My helo has engine failure and I’ve got orders to stay the night here with you and your team. My load master will remain with the bird. A mechanic team will be flown out to fix it tomorrow morning.”

She didn’t seem too happy about the news but joy threaded through Gavin. “Engine failure.” He tried to sound disappointed for her. “Sorry about that, Captain Alexander.”

Nike tried to avoid his powerful stare and glanced over at the knot of elders. They were a sour-looking bunch. Every one of them wore a deep, dark scowl of suspicion. She returned her attention to Jackson. “Let’s look at the positives. This engine failure could have happened en route. We’re damned lucky to have landed before the problem.”

“And here I thought you were a doom-and-gloom pessimist.” Jackson grinned and desperately wanted this moment alone with her, but the elders had to be properly greeted.

Nike shook her head and muttered, “Jackson, you’re a piece of work.”

He smiled quickly and then resumed his serious demeanor toward the elders. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“As always, I’ll take anything you say as a positive.”

“Get real,” she gritted between her teeth so that only he could hear her. On either side of them, the team had fanned out, hands on their weapons but trying not to appear threatening to the elders.

“Do me a favor?” Gavin said.

“Depends upon what it is.”

“These elders have strict laws regarding their women. I’ll be speaking to them in Pashto. They may have a problem with you not wearing a hijab, or scarf, on your head. That scarf is a sign of honoring their Muslim beliefs. So, if it comes to pass that someone hands you a scarf, wear it.”

Nike nodded. “No problem.”

“Thanks, I needed that.”

“Judging from their looks, you’re going to need more than a scarf on my head to turn this situation into a positive, honcho.”

Gavin said nothing. Nike took a step back, partly hidden by his tall, lean frame. The elders looked aged, their weathered faces deeply lined. Their skin was tobacco-brown, resembling leather, because of their tough outdoor life. Nike knew the elements at the top of the world in this mountain chain were unforgiving and brutal. Villages along the border had no electricity, no sewers and sometimes little water. These rugged Afghan people eked out a living raising goats and sheep. At this altitude, poppy crops wouldn’t grow because the season was too short. Winter came early and stayed late. Nike had found out through the weather officer at BJS ops that snow started in September and lasted sometimes into June. That was why they couldn’t grow crops and relied heavily on their animals for a food source.

The elders had good reason to be serious-looking, their hands hidden in the sleeves of their woolen robes, chins held high and their dark eyes assessing the A team. These proud and fiercely independent Afghan people had few resources. Beneath their threadbare woolen clothing, Nike saw the thinness of all the elders. There wasn’t a fat one in the group. Their leanness was probably due to the hardships of living in such a rocky, inhospitable place. She felt compassion and respect toward them, not animosity.

Gavin had been given an in-depth briefing on Zor Barawul before arriving at the village. Photos had been taken and the elders were identified in them. He recognized the chief elder, Abbas, who separated himself from the group. He was in his sixties and every inch like his name, which meant “angry lion” in Pashto. They approached each other like two competing football-team captains staring one another down. Tension sizzled in the cold morning air between the two groups of men. Walking forward, Gavin extended his hand to Abbas, who wore a dark brown turban and cloak. The man’s face was as narrow and thinned as a starving lion’s, horizontal lines deeply carved across his broad brow. Gashes slashed down on either side of his pursed lips. Ordinarily, the Afghan custom of greeting was to shake hands and then kiss each other’s cheeks as a sign of friendship.

That wasn’t going to happen here. Gavin fervently hoped that Abbas would at least shake his extended hand. The elder glared at him and then down at his hand. No, that wasn’t going to happen, either. Gavin pressed his right hand over his heart, bowed referentially and murmured, “Salaam-a-laikam.” This meant “peace be with you,” and was a greeting given no matter if the person were Muslim or of some other faith. It was a sign of respect and of the two people meeting on common ground.

Scowling, Abbas touched his chest where his heart lay and murmured, “Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah,” in return. That meant “And to you be peace together with God’s mercy.”

Gavin could see that Abbas was surprised by his sincere and knowledgeable greeting. His scowl eased and his voice became less gruff. “We told your emissary last week, Captain Jackson, that we did not want you to come to our village. The Kabul government has always ignored us. There is no reason you should be here at their invitation. If the Taliban finds out we are dealing with the Americans, they will come back here and kill more of my people. We are a tribe and as such, do not recognize the government as having any power or control over our lives,” Abbas said in Pashto, his arms remaining tightly wrapped against his chest.

Halting, Gavin allowed his hand to drop back to his side. “Sahibji,” he began in Pashto, “we do not come as representatives of the Kabul government. I realize you do not acknowledge them. The American people have donated all of this—” he turned and swept his hand toward the stacked boxes “—as respect for your tribe. Americans believe in peace and when they found out that your children needed help, they sent these boxes of medicine to you.” Gavin kept his voice sincere. “There is also food and blankets for your people, if you will accept their heartfelt generosity.”

Gavin knew that Afghan people, when given a sincere gift, would never forget the heart-centered gesture and would be friends for life with the givers. They were a remarkable warrior class who judged others on their loyalty and honor. They held an ancient set of codes based upon Islamic belief and here, in these mountains, the villagers practiced these morals and values to this day. That was one of the reasons the Russians had never been able to break the spirit of these proud people. The more they tried to destroy the Afghan tribal culture, the more stubborn the people became. Gavin felt General Chapman’s operation to win the hearts and minds of these people, one village at a time along the border, was much wiser and more humane. Gavin knew the Afghans would respond to honest gifts given from the heart, for they, above all, were a heart-centered people.

Abbas’s thick black-and-gray brows lifted slightly as he looked longingly toward the boxes. Then, his mouth curled as he swung his gaze back to the captain. “And for this you want what?”

Shrugging, Gavin said, “The opportunity to earn your friendship over time. Judge us on a daily basis and allow us to earn your respect.” He knew that the Afghan people were a proud people and that they were slow to give their trust. It was earned by deeds alone—not by any words, but actions.

“I have families who are sick and ailing,” Abbas said abruptly. “Even if there is medicine, there is no doctor. So what good is all of this?”

Gavin turned to his medic, Staff Sergeant Neal Robles. “This is Sergeant Robles. He is my paramedic and one level below a medical doctor. We have brought him to help your people. We are here on a strictly humanitarian mission. We are not here to cause stress or fighting.”

Grunting, Abbas lifted his chin a little higher. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. Looking over at the paramedic, he demanded, “And this man can do what?”

“He can give vaccinations to all your children. Many Afghan children die unnecessarily of diseases and our vaccinations can stop that. He can examine a male and treat him accordingly. We have brought antibiotics, as well.”

At that, Abbas’s brows lifted in surprise. Hope flared in his narrowed eyes.

Gavin saw his response. Abbas knew antibiotics were as valuable a commodity as opium made from the poppy fields of southern Afghanistan. The elder understood, thankfully, that antibiotics could save a life. But in this remote village, there was no way to get them nor was there the help of a doctor to dispense the lifesaving drug. Gavin was sure that Abbas had seen any number of children, men and women die of ailments that could have been stopped and turned around by antibiotics. “Sergeant Robles will train a man and a woman whom you suggest to use the antibiotics that we will supply to you. Your village will always have them on hand from now on.” Gavin could see the surprise and then the gratefulness in the man’s narrowed dark eyes.

Abbas heard the elders of the village whispering excitedly over the officer’s last statement. Turning, he saw them eagerly nod over receiving such a gift. His tribe had suffered severely for years beneath the Kabul government, the Russians and now, the Taliban. Drilling a look into the captain, Abbas growled, “My people have died without the help of our own government. They do not care whether we exist. If not for a Sufi brother and sister who are medical doctors who visit our village twice a year, many more would have died.” He jammed a long, thin index finger down at the hard brown earth where he stood.

“The United States of America is trying to change that,” Gavin told him in a persuasive tone. “We are here on a mission of mercy.” He walked toward the boxes, printed in English and Pashto. “Come and see. This is not the Kabul government nor my government. This is from the American people who do not like to see anyone’s children die. Look at the gifts from my people to your villagers. There is clothing, blankets, food and medicine. All we ask is to be able to distribute it and have our medic help those who ask for medical attention.”

Abbas walked commandingly over to the bounty, his lean shoulders squared, head held at a proud angle. He reached out with long brown hands and placed them on the tops of several of the cardboard boxes. Walking around the fifty cartons, he stopped, read the Pashto lettering on one and then moved on. The rest of the elders came to his side at his gesture. Gavin watched the group of men carefully read each label and check out the gifts.

Gavin turned and to Nike spoke quietly, “Listen, I need a favor. There are women here who need medical attention. Abbas isn’t about to let Robles touch any Muslim female since it’s against their religion. Can I volunteer you to help him?”

“But I don’t have any medical training,” Nike whispered.

“Doesn’t matter. Robles will teach you the basics.”

She saw the pleading in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anyone with my lack of experience.”

“Don’t worry, that won’t happen.”

Abbas strode over and gave Gavin a brusque nod of acceptance. “Allah is good. The gifts are indeed welcome, Captain Jackson. Shukria, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, malik sahib,” Gavin murmured, touching his heart and bowing his head respectfully to the elder.

Mouth quirking, Abbas looked directly at Nike and jabbed a finger toward her. “And this is the woman who will help Dr. Robles?”

Gavin didn’t want to correct the elder. To do so would be a sign of disrespect. Besides, it would humiliate Abbas in front of the others and he had no wish to destroy what little trust he had just forged between them. “Yes, sir. Captain Nike Alexander will assist Dr. Robles, if you wish. With your permission, she will care for the women and girls of your village.”

“I wish it to be so,” Abbas said in a gruff tone. “My wife, Jameela, will bring her a hijab to wear over her head. She must respect Islam.” He folded his arms across his narrow chest. “You are welcome to remain here and help my people, Captain Jackson. We are a peaceful tribe of sheep- and goat-herders. I will have my second-in-command, Brasheer, help you.” He eyed Nike. “This woman is not allowed among your men. She will remain at our home. My wife will give her a room and she will remain in the company of women and children only.”

“Of course,” Gavin murmured, and he explained that Nike would be a transiting visitor because the helo was down. “You are most gracious,” he told Abbas, giving him a slight bow of acknowledgment. “We would like to stay as long as you need medical help.”

“I approve. Captain, you shall honor me by being my guest at every meal. We will prepare a room in our house for you. Your men will be housed at the other homes, fed, and given a place to sleep.”

“Thank you, malik sahib. You are more than generous. We hope our stay improves the health of your people.” Gavin could see the hope burning in the old man’s eyes. As an elder, he carried the weighty responsibility for everyone in his village. It wasn’t something Gavin himself would want to carry. Abbas must realize what these gifts would do to help his people. And he knew he was weighing Taliban displeasure over it, too. The Taliban would punish the village for taking the offered supplies and the old man took a surprising risk. With such humanitarian aide, this village might become less fearful of the Taliban and provide information to stop the terrorists from crossing their valley in the future. For now, no one in the villages gave away that information.

Gavin finished off the details of where the boxes would be taken and stored. All his men could speak Pashto. Robles was as fluent as Gavin and that would work in their favor. The other elders took over the management of the boxes while his A team became the muscle to carry the cartons toward the village.

Gavin watched as the elders left, parading the groups of carriers and boxes back into their village like conquering heroes. “Do you know any Pashto?” he asked Nike.