Выбрать главу

The men trooped back into the aircraft to find that the loadmaster was already loosening the strap-downs. They helped him with the job, then the half dozen chosen for the vehicles pushed them down the loading ramp and out onto the parking area. With that done, they returned to help with the rest of the unloading.

Lieutenants Bill Brannigan and Jim Cruiser watched as the work moved into high gear. Now the Vespa rode up sputtering and coughing. The rider got off and walked up to the officers. He was a short, skinny kid in bad need of a haircut and shave, and he wore a blue T-shirt with a wordy announcement in yellow letters that stated:

IF GOD MADE ANYTHING BETTER THAN PUSSY HE KEPT IT FOR HIMSELF

He wore shorts obviously made by cutting off the legs of a pair of BDU trousers, and his bare feet were shoved into a pair of leather sandals. A round Afghan puhtee cap, tipped like a beret, topped off his garb. Cruiser frowned at the youngster's appearance. Who the hell are you?

I'm Randy Tooley, he cheerfully replied. You guys must be the SEALs, huh?

Yeah, Cruiser said. What do you do around here, er, Randy?

I run the airfield, Randy replied. I make sure all incoming aircraft get to the proper place here at Shelor. That goes for the cargo and personnel that's brung in. There's all sorts of operations using the facilities. Ever'body's got their own place. This here hangar belongs to you. Put your equipment anyplace you want to.

Brannigan chuckled. Are you in the military?

Yeah. I sure am, Randy said. I'm in the Air Force.

Which country's? Cruiser inquired with a look of puzzlement.

The United States, o' course, Randy replied. I'm a senior airman.

That's an E-Four, is it not, Randy? Cruiser asked.

Randy grinned. The last time I seen my pay form it was.

Cruiser said, Now, I'm a lieutenant junior grade in the Navy. That's the same as a first lieutenant in the Air Force. And my commanding officer here is a lieutenant in the Navy. He ranks with a captain in the Air Force.

No shit? Randy remarked.

No shit, Cruiser said pleasantly. And I believe it is the practice of all America's armed forces that enlisted personnel utilize the titles 'sir' and 'ma'am' when addressing commissioned officers. And salutes are required when reporting to one.

Let me tell you something, Randy said. I got a lot of work to do here. I put in maybe sixteen to eighteen hours a day. And I ain't had any time off for six weeks. I see that everything runs smoothly for the comings, goings, shipments, unloading, and all that shit. I also got to arrange for quarters. An Air Force colonel is the overall commander here. He likes the way I do things 'cause I see that his headaches are kept to a minimum. If you don't like the way I look, speak, or act, you go talk to Colonel Watkins.

By God! Cruiser sputtered, you listen up-

Brannigan cut off Cruiser by grabbing his arm. He smiled at the senior airman. We understand, and we appreciate what you're doing, Randy. Let's just let it go at that.

Sure, Randy said with a smile. I was told there was eighteen of you and that you don't require separate accommodations for the officers. You'll be in Barracks Two just behind the control tower. The chow hall is a couple of buildings down from there. It's easy to see because of the all the Afghans hanging around the garbage cans.

Great, Brannigan said. Anything else we should know?

Well, Randy replied, a half-dozen DPVs arrived about a week ago that's supposed to be for you. I already had 'em put in your hangar.

Thanks, Brannigan said. We've just brought three more with us. Where do we top 'em off?

Sorry, Randy said. I don't have a single drop of fuel for you guys. And I can't recall any incoming manifests that list any. I can get you a storage area, chow, and a place to sleep, but that's about all for today.

Cruiser glanced over at the bundles and crates being off-loaded by the SEALs. Isn't this a hell of a note? We have ammo, MREs, and even extra clothes. But no goddamn fuel.

Shit happens, Randy remarked. But if I can help, let me know.

Okay, Randy, Brannigan said. Thanks.

Right, Randy said. Well, I got another flight coming in and an Army Special Forces team has to turn in their barracks in about an hour. Them guys aren't really into spit and polish, so I got to make sure the place is left decent for my next tenants. See you later. He went to his Vespa, leaped aboard, and sputtered away.

Cruiser frowned. That little bastard needs some discipline.

His discipline is the homegrown variety driven by personal pride, Brannigan said. He does an excellent job because he wants to and he won't let anything else interfere with his performance. He sighed. Well! I better get Gomez on the Shadowfire and find out about this fuel glitch.

.

UNREO CAMP

WHEN Penny Brubaker first signed on with the United Nations Relief and Education Organization, she was naive, eager, and dedicated to the group's mission of aiding Third World people to improve their lives. UNREO had multiple programs of medical examinations and treatment, instruction in sanitation and hygiene, and provided logistical aid to supplement or replace archaic procedures in the recipients' lifestyles and environments.

Unfortunately, Penny, a strikingly beautiful young lady from a background of wealth and privilege, had very little understanding of her fellow Americans, much less these unfortunate people she wanted to help. And now, after two years, Penny had become a jaded young woman. Her first clash with cruel reality occurred when her team first arrived in Afghanistan to help the people who had lived under the autocratic rule of a cruel Pashtun warlord for several years. The bad guy's reign came to an end when his private army was defeated by a platoon of U.S. Navy SEALs. During his power days, he had kidnapped some young girls and women from a subordinate clan and forced them into prostitution for the pleasure of his mujahideen. When the SEALs liberated the sex slaves, they were warned they could not return the females to their homes. According to Islamic traditions, the women had disgraced their families even though they had been forced to endure almost continual sexual abuse over a long period of time. Their male relatives, rather than taking them back, were planning on murdering them in a ritual known as honor killings. It was only with help from the SEALs that an escape could be organized for the doomed women. They were flown away in a UN transport aircraft to safety while the Navy men held the male kin back through the liberal and violent application of punches, kicks, and intense pummeling.

Now Penny was still in Afghanistan, working in yet another rural area as she and her colleagues attempted to enlighten the tribal people to improve their lives. But ignorance, apathy, and distrust stymied the programs. When medical examinations were made, the women were not allowed to be seen undressed by the male physicians. A Pashtun man would bring in his wife, then describe the symptoms to the doctors in a vague, confusing manner through an interpreter. All that could be done by the doctors was to make an educated guess on the nature of the illness, then pass out the medicine and hope the doses would be given in a timely and proper manner. Children suffered from illnesses that had disappeared from the civilized world generations before. Yet even when told there was a cure for the ailments, the illiterate parents, constrained by their religious beliefs, hardly ever responded to those offers of help. The foreigners who had come among them were infidels, damned to an eternity in hell by Allah and not to be trusted.