Home to Texas

CHAPTER 1

Forward Operating Base Hickock

Northern Afghanistan

Three days earlier

The seven o'clock supper rush was over and the mess hall in the inner compound of the FOB was almost empty, except for two Special Forces guys bent over a map spread across a corner table. KD and Captain Mouton were the only diners, enjoying their first real meal in four days.

Mouton, a battle-hardened veteran on her third tour in Afghanistan, led the base's Female Engagement Team and was KD's next-in-command. Raised in southern Louisiana, Nataleah had clawed her way out of the swamps to earn a track scholarship at LSU. After graduation, not wanting to go back to the bayou country she'd left behind, she had enlisted in the army, which was about as colorblind as any place could be. Her harsh upbringing had prepared her well for the hardships of an active combat zone in inhospitable terrain, but it was her rich Cajun background and quirky sense of humor that got her through the worst days. In the short time KD had been in Afghanistan, she had learned a lot from the captain, especially how to laugh in dismal situations. Like the fruitless and frustrating patrol they had just concluded.

But now, after four days in the field with a Special Forces unit that never seemed to rest, the two women had shed their heavy armor, taken real showers, put on clean ACUs, and hurried to the mess for hot food on an actual plate. It wasn't great, but it sure beat MREs gobbled down in a dust storm.

"Ever eat gator?" Nataleah asked, forking up another bite of chicken.

KD shook her head.

"Tastes like quail, but chewier. Kinda fishy. I prefer nutria."

"What's that?"

"Swamp rat."

Never quite sure when Nataleah was joking, KD kept eating, hoping the captain wasn't going to launch into another of her roadkill recipes. Not knowing when they'd be sent out again, she focused on her meal, eating as much as she could, as fast as she could. She might pay for it later, but at least she'd go to bed with a full stomach.

Although Female Engagement Teams had been officially disbanded several years earlier, there were still remnants in rural, tribal areas of the mountain provinces. Since Afghan women were forbidden to speak to men not of their families, female soldiers were invaluable in bridging that communication gap. Their purpose was to gain the trust of female villagers who might be able to provide intel on insurgent activities in the area, distribute health information and humanitarian supplies, and offer help where needed.

KD enjoyed doing it. Her teammates were tough women. Fully trained and combat-ready, they had to be fit enough to keep up with the SF units to which they were attached, and calm enough to make sound decisions under fire. KD was proud to be a part of it, and thought she was holding up well, despite the harsh conditions. She might be small and wiry compared to most of her team members, but she had great endurance and was able to carry the weaponry, armor, and thirty-five-pound pack as easily and for as many miles as the other women. Still, she was glad to be rid of it after four days of carting it around.

In the distance, the whup whup of rotor blades indicated another helicopter was landing at the helo pad in the outer compound. KD stopped chewing and listened for the boom of mortar rounds or staccato bursts of gunfire. When she heard nothing unusual, she resumed eating.

"Maybe it's supplies," Nataleah said, starting on her pudding. "We run out of toilet paper, you see some real fighting, yeah."

They were low on laundry soap, too. The only clean clothes KD had were the ones on her back. Since they were within the relative security of the inner circle of the FOB, both women wore stripped-down versions of their ACUs-Army Combat Uniforms. Baggy multi-cam-patterned pants tucked into their lace-up boots, and the standard padded, long-sleeved combat shirt, designed to minimize hot spots and chaffing when worn under the tactical vest and armor.

It helped. Most of the time.

They had left their vests, helmets, and rifles in their quarters, although each woman wore a Beretta M9 sidearm in a drop holster attached to her thigh, and carried extra ammo, combat knives, and radios on their belts. And like their SF counterparts, who rarely followed army regs, KD and Nataleah wore ball caps rather than the usual goofy camo patrol caps.

Hardly an outfit a Gunther County debutante from Rough Creek, Texas would have sported, but KD was okay with that. Having been raised in wealth on a sprawling Texas ranch, she was proud to be making her own way rather than relying on the family trust fund and connections.

But she wouldn't mind a manicure now and then. Maybe even a pedicure and facial. Or an overnight trip to a Dallas spa with her three sisters.

Static crackled on Nataleah's radio. A voice said, "Captain, you back? This is MP Specialist Rogers at Com."

Frowning, Mouton unhooked the radio from her belt. "Yeah, I'm back. And this better be good, Rogers, or your ass is grass and I'm the lawn mower."

"There's two women at the inner gate looking for you. One's in ACUs, but unarmed. Says she's your Afghan interpreter. The other is local. At least, I think she's a woman. Hard to tell under all those clothes. Seems upset. The dog didn't detect explosives, but the women won't come inside the gate."

"On my way." With a weary sigh, Nataleah hooked the radio back to her belt. "Probably another complaint about a guy beating on a woman. Assholes."

"Shouldn't that be a job for the army MPs?" If the captain was called away, KD would have to go, too. No woman left the inner compound alone.

"It would be, if the complaint was on one of ours." Mouton pushed back her chair and stood.

KD stood, too. "You don't think it's on us?"

"Better not be. Our guys know better than to interfere in local issues."

Local issues, KD thought in disgust. Like the beatings of women, honor killings, abuse of children. She hated that part of her job.

As they walked across the mess hall, the SF guys, ever-vigilant, studied them for a moment, then went back to their map.

"Then if it's local," KD went on to Nataleah as they stepped outside, "shouldn't the ANP take care of it?" There was a sizable contingent of the Afghan National Police stationed in the outer ring of the FOB. Usually, they handled village or tribal issues. KD didn't want to suit up and go out again. She just wanted an uninterrupted night's sleep on a real cot.

"Unless the complaint is on one of them."

"On the ANP?" KD hadn't noticed any issues between the Afghan police and army personnel. But then, she'd only been in Afghanistan a short while.

Mouton nodded. "If it's local, and we report it to the ANP, they just tattle to the husband or father or brother or fifth cousin twice removed, and the woman gets beat up worse. Happens a lot. It's a fucked-up system, and not kind to women."

KD studied the stern profile of the woman beside her. "Yet you keep coming back. Why?" KD wasn't sure she wanted another tour in Afghanistan after this one ended. As a cultural support team member, she would be stationed here for a year. But after that, she wouldn't mind rounding out her service rŽsumŽ elsewhere. Like most other West Point graduates, she dreamed of ending her career in the Pentagon with a chest full of metals and laurel leaves on her cap.

"Like my daddy say when our pirogue get caught in a fast-moving current," Mouton said in answer to KD's question. "'Trow out de anc.' 'Anc got no twine on it,' I tell him. He say, 'Trow it out anyway. Might do some good.' That's all we can do here, Lieutenant. Keep tossing out the anc and hope someday it'll do some good."

KD didn't know what to think of that. Not all of the captain's colorful stories were easily understood, especially when told in a Cajun accent.

Gravel crunched under their boots as they left the mess and followed the bright lights toward the inner gate. Since it was early spring, the breeze sweeping down from the mountains was still cool and not too dry. But in two months, they'd be sweating under their gear and choking on dust. A lot like northwest Texas.

But tonight, it was cool and quiet except for the moan of wind gusts along the eaves of the concrete buildings and the flap of canvas on the soft-sided structures. Occasionally a scrap of tune, low laughter, or voices drifted past, but mostly everything was tucked in for the night.

Hickock had once been a Soviet stronghold, well fortified and almost medieval in appearance with its concrete watchtowers and sturdy fencing. Like most FOBs, it was built in two concentric circles, each fenced and gated.

The outer circle contained a helicopter pad, a munitions and fuel depot, vehicle parking, barracks for the Afghan National Police, and a local bazaar that sold trinkets, questionable dried meats, local wares, and a variety of illicit drugs such as hashish, valium, uppers, downers, pain meds, cocaine, and anything derived from the poppy. Afghanistan produced over 80 percent of the world's heroin.

The inner circle contained living quarters for American soldiers and contractors, various offices and meeting areas, the mess hall, a small detention center connected to the MP barracks, a communications center, and a medical facility. Any unauthorized person coming through the inner gate was thoroughly checked for firearms and explosives before being escorted by two heavily armed soldiers to their stated destination. The local translator, or terp, for their team, Samira, often came through the inner gate, but she was never armed and had to be escorted, as well. That she hadn't requested entrance but had asked for the captain, instead, was curious to KD.

As they neared the grim-looking tower by the inner gate, an MP pointed to where Samira and the local woman were waiting.

"I am sorry to get you out again," Samira said as they walked up. "This is Azyan." She nodded to the woman beside her, draped head to toe in black cloth except for the open area around her eyes. Samira wore a hijab, or scarf around her head, but didn't cover her face. "Azyan's son, Tajamul, was taken from her home. She wants him back."

"Taken by who?" Nataleah asked.

"Captain Asef Farid."

"The commander of the ANP unit?"

Samira nodded.

"You fucking with me?"

"No, ma'am."

Mouton looked at KD. They'd both been briefed about Asef Farid. Volatile, cruel, violent, and also the son of a powerful local poppy grower and suspected Taliban sympathizer, Khalil Farid, a vengeful bastard if there ever was one. The villagers were terrified of him. "Shit." The captain turned back to Samira. "Can't she just go get him?"

"She tried. Farid hit her. Many times." At a nod from Samira, Azyan pulled aside her scarf to show a split lip and a bruised cheek. She pushed up her sleeve to show more bruises. When she started to lift her hem, Mouton waved her to stop.

"I get it. The guy's an asshole. But it's a local matter. We can't interfere."

The Afghan women looked at each other then back to Nataleah.

"Lutfan," Azyan whispered in Dari, the language spoken by most of the villagers. It was one of the two-dozen words and phrases KD knew. Please.

A long pause, then Nataleah asked, "Why did Farid take the boy? He is a boy, right? Not a grown man?"

Samira and Azyan spoke for a moment, then Samira said to the captain, "Taj has eight years. Farid is using him for jensiyat. Sex."

"Shit."

KD was horrified. Pederasty had always been a problem in Afghanistan. When the Taliban was in power, they had forbidden it. But now that their control had slipped, the practice was growing in popularity again, especially in rural and mountainous areas among powerful tribal leaders and the Afghan police. They even had a term for it. Bacha bazi. Boy play.

At the mandatory cultural briefing KD had attended when she'd first arrived, she was told to look the other way, since bacha bazi was considered a local cultural issue. The Afghan Minister of Interior Affairs, who oversaw the ANP, had attempted to crack down on the abusive practice, but because of bribery and the villagers' fears of police retaliation, charges were never brought. Afghanistan was one of the most corrupt nations in the world, and KD often wondered if the place was worth all the blood and treasure lost trying to bring it out of the dark ages.

"I can talk to him," Mouton finally agreed. "But that's all. I can't force him to give up the boy. Make sure Azyan understands that."

Samira translated, then nodded to Nataleah. "She understands."

Mouton told her to take the woman close to the ANP barracks and wait while she found a couple of SF guys to go with them. "If we get the boy out, she and her son should disappear for a while," she warned Samira. "There could be payback."

After the two Afghan women left, the captain and KD headed back to the women's barracks in the inner FOB. "We really doing this?" KD asked, worried about the look-the-other-way directive.

"I got to try. Somebody's got to stand up for the kid. But you shouldn't go with me. No use fucking up your career, too."

"You're not going without me, ma'am," KD said firmly.

Nataleah gave her a small but grateful smile. "Okay, but keep your mouth shut. You're just there to witness. We don't want to look like we're hunting for trouble, so we won't suit up, either."

Outside the female barracks, she stopped. "No rifles or armor. Just our sidearms and Kevlar vests. And headscarves, instead of helmets. No use showing disrespect even if he is an asshole. Get my vest and scarf, too, while I round up a couple of bored SF guys to go with us."

"Yes, ma'am."

Minutes later, in hijabs and vests, KD and Captain Mouton walked through the inner gate again, this time trailed by two Special Forces soldiers in full combat gear. KD hadn't been on patrol with either of them, but she'd seen them around. They seemed like okay guys.

As they passed the ANP quarters, Samira stepped out of an alley. "Farid's hut is two past the barracks," she said in a low voice. "Down there, on the right."

Mouton looked where Samira pointed, then back at the ANP barracks. They were standing halfway between the two on a dark, deserted street.