excerts from various chapters at the beginning

DATA PAGES

Excerpt from “Valley of the Kasbahs”




This is a work of fiction. The names of anyone who could arrange to have me vetted by the Secret Police, the CIA, or the Happy Homemakers of America have had their names, eye colour, and street addresses changed.


Chapter VII
Visiting some friends in the Ville Nouvelle (the new city), we rounded the corner three blocks away to flag a Petite Taxi and spotted the fattest cat with the biggest balls in all of Fez. You have to understand, all of Fez is overrun with cats, they are everywhere – like the monkeys in India, but much less aggressive I must say. The Prophet liked cats, so…they are on the streets, in the restaurants, haunting the garbage cans on the corners of apartment complexes and in the homes. They stake out territory like their much larger relatives to the south. The Riad has two cats, a mother and her large and tetchy son. They are well fed and it shows; and the mother cat guards her territory with all the attentiveness of a mother lioness. This is prime territory and she knows it. You see the cats on the streets, and in the fish market some doing fairly well, not so well, and some with their ribs sticking out, and the ones at the Central Market in better, but not prime shape. But never have I seen a cat in all of Fez like this chap. There he sat fat and sassy, licking his chops – literally, in the doorway of the live chicken shop. Now, our question was this, did this big orange tom get so sleek eating the eggs that dropped through the cages or was he there to pick off the weakest of the herd? It was a phenomenon, and a portent of the day to come.

We flagged our tiny red taxi from the flock swinging to the east, and as I settled myself in the back seat my gaze met the laughing black eyes of the driver in the rear view mirror, as he said, “Ah, cowboy!”

Oh man, first the taxi driver who waxed ad nauseum about Scotland and football (still a mystery as we are not usually known for our football prowess), now this yokel (cute as he was, and he was) mistakes my very proper, battered, beaten, and broken in, climbing hat for a bloody Stetson! It was a good laugh for everyone as he continued on, nodding and saying, “Oh yes, “Dallas.”” Inwardly I moaned. Bonnie was laughing, the tears rolling down her cheeks. I’ll get her back later. Trust me.

We arrived at Bab Bou Jeloud (the Blue Gate). The gateway into what one must wax eloquent about as to mystery, and winding cobbled streets of stone enclosed within walls that soar five and seven stories above you. The old Medina of Fes is situated in a bowl shaped valley, the river Oued Fes running through the middle of the city. At times the walkways close in so closely that you must walk single file. No street in the Fez Medina is wide enough to permit an automobile of even the most compact size, a few Vespas have made their way in, but the main mode of heavy transport is still by donkey, the occasional mule, and the muscled back bent to weight.

Passing under the arch, the shops at the entrance of the Blue Gate are larger, with hawkers out front to bring you in through the narrow dark twisting hallways – that open suddenly onto a sparkling vastness that soars some six to ten meters overhead with arches leading like catacombs onto some endless underground construction of rooms never-ending and full of exotic treasure – or tourist counterfeit.


Morocco is a land of stunning architecture - the horseshoe arch reaching for the skies, the ribbed vault, the street facade, the square minaret, the great domed space – all steeped in centuries of history and culture, and soaked in deep rich colours of bright reds, a thousand shades of bronze and gold, and all the spectrum of orange, and blues in shades that defy you to name them all. There are feasts for the eyes and soul - intricate designs laid in tile, bright patterned rugs thrown on the sand, hanging on the wall, on the floors of palaces, homes, shops, or decorating a tent; sidewalk cafes crowded with men in robes and varying stages of western dress arguing, discussing, drinking endless cups of coffee or tea; acrid cigarette smoke making your eyes squint and your nose twitch, beautiful women with smoky eyes that hold the secrets their mothers passed to them, the prayer call at four a.m. ringing through the city – a sound of reverence, a wish to live life in the hand of Allah; the noisy bazaars, the great haggling in a polyglot of languages; dust, dust, dust, beautiful horses, spitting camels; the countless number of languages you hear – within a given day! There are skies that go from one side of the horizon to the other until you are dizzy looking up. The sun, the sun, the sun; did I mention the sand? Demanding your attention is the majesty of the desert birds as they ride the thermals coming off the dunes, and the music of the dunes- dunes sing, did you know that? They make musical notes, different deserts create different chords. The chunky food, the delicious flat bread, the air of the desert so dry that just talking works to rob your body of needed moisture, humidity so low that the sweat dries from your body before it has time to run down your face leaving only the salt tracks are only a sample of the experiences to be had. The sea that jealously enfolds the western border, lavishing the shore with bounty, and in times past – the Barbary Pirates stirs the imagination.

The Song Of Scheherazade drifts over this land in an endless replay of history, which is still so alive here. The veil between what was then, and what is now, is thin here. Movement in this part of the world flows like silk, and time nudges you instead of the hard push you feel in the West. The entire country is inundated with romance – mysterious, tempting, and just out of reach.
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Chapter VIII

With Bonnie gone it was back to work for me.

*********************
Bubba Jackson was just what you would think from his name, a good ole’ boy from south Alabama. The most harm he had ever done another human being was on the high school football field as a defensive lineman. He was twenty-years-old and had been in the Marine Corp for two years now; he joined up right after high school graduation. He had listened to President Bush talk about the “war on terror” and his granddaddy talk about defeating the Nazis in “the big one” and decided he could make his contribution to keeping his country safe by joining the Marines.

“Bubba why are you doin’ this? You can go to work for Daddy at the mill. He said so. You can work for Daddy and we can get married.”

“Jenny, I ain’t gona take charity from your daddy or anyone else. I can look after myself, and after I get promoted I can look after you too,” said Bubba.

“But...but what if you get killed?” As she looked at him with nothing but love, the tears were falling from her sky blue eyes, and tearing out his heart. “What will I do Bubba? What about me?”

“Jenny I ain’t t gona get myself killed. Why would I do that? I have you to come home to. I love you. You know that.” He took her into his arms. They were a good fit. They had been friends since grammar school, and dating since the beginning of high school. They were perfect for each other. Everyone said so. They were King and Queen of Homecoming last year, went to the same church, and their families all knew each other and got along real good. But he was not taking a job from Jenny’s daddy; he would be under Dan Kennedy’s thumb the rest of his days. Besides in a little quiet place in his heart Bubba wanted to see the world. It was not a popular view where he was from. Man of his background – it was getting above yourself. As the conversation with Jenny played through his mind, he shrugged off the tinge of guilt and concentrated on the present.

He was a corporal now and proud of those stripes. His CO was a man he admired and trusted, and his best friend was his bunkmate. He didn’t want to hurt nobody but these people had needed liberating, and now they needed – well he just wasn’t sure what they needed. The whole damn country was exploding, Bubba figured his job was to follow orders, and leave the thinking to somebody who knew how.

He entered the back of the dark house, pistol out and ready. He heard rifles firing out front and made for the hallway to give support. The bastard jumped him from behind and cut the sling that held his Mossburg 12 gauge. He reached down to his right leg, and pulled his knife from the scabbard. He outweighed his attacker by a good thirty pounds but the bastard had a hammerlock on him, and was trying to stick him. Bubba felt himself starting to black out so he took a bead on the nearest wall and rammed his attacker’s back to the wall. It took three hits before the little guy loosen his grip enough for Bubba to shake him off, and pull the knife from his hand. He could hear the firing out front now had intensified and someone was coming down the stairs from the roof. It couldn’t be one of his patrol, they didn’t have anyone on the roof. Bubba was too far away to reach his gun. He couldn’t let loose of this guy, he had no way to secure him in time. He had to get to his gun and rifle before whoever was coming down those stairs spotted him.

Using every bit of his strength he secured the guy and put his knife to his throat. The tango was looking right into Bubba’s eyes. He didn’t look like a fanatic, he didn’t look angry, he didn’t look like a killer. He was the same age and looked as scared as Bubba felt. The noise from outside and upstairs was closing in, no choice. As he pressed the knife through the guy’s trachea, which was a good deal more difficult than he had imagined, the tango began to kick and cried out softly, “No mister. No mister. Please. Please mister.” Blood sprayed to cover the wall and the front of his uniform. Bubba knew he would hear those words the rest of his life as he pushed the knife through, the words stopped, he dropped the body, and lunged for his rifle.



CHAPTER IX
It had been another three months, almost four since that evening on the beach. Hassan had apparently settled his demons and doubts about seeing me again, as he was calling me every week. I was not so sure; my doubts kept recalling the feel of him pulling away when the sun had risen, and I had an itch in the back of my mind as to what he was doing in Saudi Arabia. It put our differences right up front. How can we get past that? But I had agreed to meet him in Positano in a week for four days. The Amalfi Coast, the sea, shopping – how bad can it be?

Meanwhile, I was waist deep in my new book, and needed to get on with it. My agent tends to get the vapors when a deadline is approaching.

…he spotted her as she came into the station. God she was gorgeous, everything he liked in a woman – tall, small hips, a spectacular ass, nicely rounded on top, and whoa howdy to that mop of curly chestnut hair that topped off the package and fell halfway down her back. She walked like a jungle cat, or an invitation - one that every man who saw her wanted to accept. That woman was a heartbreak waiting to happen. His jeans got tight as he reacted to the sight of her, and he adjusted his, uh, equipment. She’s the enemy bub, he said to himself. But she didn’t look like the enemy; she looked like satin sheets, candlelight, and hot sweaty sex. He imagined running his hands from her ankles up under that tight pencil skirt to her thighs and beyond. No panty line. Hmmmm, that meant a thong. Oh yeah. Then he’d lift that cashmere sweater up over her head, run his hands through that silky hair, and have himself a feast on those bouncing tits, while she wrapped her long, shapely legs around his waist, and made breathy sounds of pleasure. And then - she would pull her Glock and blow his head off most likely; but it just might be worth it. Reality check, she’s an assassin, and a good one. Not on your team Johnny boy. He rubbed the front of his jeans, grimacing. Yep, need to get that under control. It was a good thing he was to hand her off to Kim once she got on the train. He had a meeting in Maryland. Control said his team was getting a new sniper to replace Sam Boots who was laid up after surgery on his leg. Good thing, man, he thought, he had never had such a strong reaction to a woman. Kissing her might be better than breathing. Then he laughed to himself as he thought, Could be my last breath.

Scarlett didn’t see John Steed tailing her, but she knew someone was, she’d had that itchy feeling on the back of her neck since she came into the station. What now? Or who, and why? She’d been deep undercover for the past five years, on assignments in Turkey and areas of North Africa, and she knew her cover identity was secure. As one of the agency’s best snipers, and the only woman, she was uniquely qualified to take out certain tangos that no one else could get close to, but she was tired of working alone. She was on her way to Maryland to be debriefed and glad of it. Some down time would be appreciated. She couldn’t remember the last real vacation she’d had, and sex? Ha! She remembered what it was like enough to know she missed it. A nice uncomplicated affair would be in order.

Oh mercy! Where did that come from? I’m writing a blow ‘em up story here, not sex or romance. I’m a Tom Clancey wantabe, not bloody Christine Feehan! Normally when a character shows up unbidden, it’s a good thing; but that assassin was supposed to be male. And what’s with my reaction? My breasts were full and aching, my nipples so hard I could cut glass, and that was definitive moisture soaking my own black thong! I felt edgy and flushed. O.K. Um huh, I needed a run – hard and fast. Well I needed something hard and fast, and a run was going to have to do it. Whew.

I made my way out of the Oudayas, not as easy or as fast as you would think since I must stop and say hello and exchange handshakes and kisses with all the shop owners and anyone I run into on the street. The posh side of Rabat is called Souissi. Here is where the majority of the embassies are located, the mansions and expensive restaurants, as well as the Mega Mall. Yes indeed, complete with bowling alley and ice skating rink. The only ice skating rink in North Africa – where they have a curling team! My gym, Moving, which also houses the hammam (necessary for life now) I use and a beauty salon, is in Soussi.

There I was, thirty minutes later, on the treadmill and running for all I’m worth – face shiny, with sweat pouring off my chin, getting more and more red in the face, so not-attractive. My trusty and loved iPod blasting away in my ears with Springsteen and Guns ‘n Roses cheering me on. I found myself ogling, I mean really there’s no other name for it, the handsome chap on my left who was also running hell bent for leather (too many John Wayne movies). Looking out to the front, I noticed that cute guy I had noted earlier at the weights, who has a way about him, a handsome thing as well, who was on the floor now, snapping out pushups as easily as handing out business cards, with the sweat glistening off his taut biceps and his flat abdomen; then the young trainer started doing his “I’m a real athlete” stretches, right in front of my treadmill. Up and down, up and down he goes, stretching those inner thighs. The upshot here is that I was having sexual fantasies about strangers, and grinning like a fool! My only hope was that they either thought I was really enjoying my music tracks or I’m simply nutty, which is a concern of mine as it might be true. As I found myself percolating testosterone and endorphins, I’m thinking that sex in Italy might be a really good idea.

“If the eye does not see it, the heart does not suffer.” Moroccan proverb

One of the greatest inventions of the twentieth, or was it the twenty-first century is the IPod. I hate to exercise. I hate it. I don’t like getting all sweaty. I don’t like having my hair a mess, and my makeup fading away in the red flush of my face once my heart rate is up. I think an exercise program should consist of sex for cardiovascular, lifting glasses filled with champagne for upper arms, walks along the Seine in three inch heels for legs, and bending over to put on sexy underwear for lower body. But noooo, you have to run, lift, and sweat. Ug. But I do it, oh yes I do. Vanity is a powerful motivator. I’m sorry, but the health benefits are just a side effect for me no matter what I say to other people. I am however inordinately fond of that endorphins surge I get beginning about fifteen minutes into a hard run. I have solved many a conundrum while in that state – I get more ideas and resolutions for my writing at that time than any other. The music blaring in my ears at high volume from the IPod makes the pain and the time wonderful tolerable. A little Bonnie Rait, some Bruce Springsteen, Creedence Clearwater, a touch of Elvis, add Guns ‘n Roses with Big Maybelle, Black Eyed Peas, Christina Aguilera, the Eagles and I’m good to go.

So there I was, slugging away on the treadmill in the last ten minutes of my run, when I looked into the mirrors in front of me and saw behind me, leaning one hip against the door, with his arms crossed on his chest, and an appraising half-grin on his face – the sheik himself. Ali, the bad boy from Riyadh. What was he doing here? Where was Hassan? I continued to run. I was not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had thrown me, but my mind was running a mile a minute and not with pleasant thoughts.

Just as Ali started in through the door, Hassan came up behind him and pulled him back. I saw them talk and gesture at each other angrily for a minute, Ali took one more look inside at me, said something to Hassan that made Hassan’s face close down and look very dangerous – then Ali walked away. I had a bad feeling about this.

Hassan came inside to stand in front of me, resting his arms on the front panel of the treadmill. I kept running. “What is he doing here?” I ask, taking the earphones out and laying the IPod in the pocket of the small shelf at the front of the treadmill.

“I am sorry. I had no idea he would come up here. I was supposed to meet him in Positano this morning but I was called to another meeting and had to cancel. I told him I would call him back.”

“What’s going on here Hassan? What are you really doing in Saudi Arabia? Why are you having meetings on holiday, and what makes that bastard think he can stand and watch me like a hungry tiger?” I was getting angry. I kept running hoping it would be of assistance in controlling my temper. I knew there was more to this; I could feel it, and I didn’t like what I was feeling.

“Obviously there are things I haven’t told you, but I didn’t know you did I? I should think with your background you would understand that,” he said giving me a look that said he knew something I was not going to be happy about.

He could not know about my past. The people who know about me can be counted on my hand, and the others are all dead. So what was he talking about? I stopped the track from moving. “What. Are. You. Talking about?” I was not about to give anything away. He was fishing, he didn’t know anything.

“You know I work for the King. You know that means I work in the government, and I have to assume, knowing you, that you have figured out I’m not in the agriculture department,” he said raising one eyebrow. “I work in the Department of the Secret Police, the Direction de surveillance de Territoires.” He ignored my sharp intake of breath and continued. “It wasn’t a choice. It was an appointment that my father and my father-in-law secured for me, and that the King offered me personally. I couldn’t turn it down.” He reached for my hand but I pulled it away and took the towel hanging on the rail to wipe my face, thinking about the Moroccan Secret Police and just what involvement there could mean. Was the meeting in the park that day as innocent as I had believed? Did he even have a son? Was this some kind of set up? I didn’t have a good feeling. I looked at his face, into his eyes and saw the fear move behind his steady gaze – that I would not listen, that I would not trust him, believe him? His emotions were spilling over and I was swamped with his fear and the fact that he was hiding something more.

“All right, let’s have it. What are you doing now?” I stood facing him, the front on the treadmill separating us, refusing to touch him.

“I can’t tell you.”

Quick as a flash I threw the towel at him and turned to walk out. I was thinking how I could get back to Morocco as quick as possible and do a little checking of my own. He was around the treadmill and standing on the track in front of me before I could descend, blocking me with his body. God he was fast. “Get out of my way. You lied to me, and whatever you think you know about my past, you’re wrong.” I tried to push around him but he held my arms firmly and backed me into the front stand of the treadmill.

“I did not lie to you. I did not tell you everything, but I did not lie.” He dropped one hand from my arm to rub it across his forehead. “I had to run a security check on you. If I had not done it, someone else would have the moment they found out we are involved – and we are involved. It’s not so much what I found out, as what I did not find. Your background is just a bit too clean and boring to be real.” He looked into my eyes like he expected me to tell him why. That was not going to happen.

“Just how many people have you shared this little tid bit of information with?” I was gritting my teeth and trying to control my anger. I felt betrayed. Not for one moment had I thought he was a danger. I was out of practice obviously.

“Catherine be reasonable. You are a foreigner living in Morocco. You are British, but you carry an American passport. You are a writer and you have a blog that originates in Morocco. Of course there is a file on you. You would know that, you would expect it.” He reached for my face and I batted his hand away. I wanted to stay mad. I didn’t want to look into those dark chocolate eyes and get lost. I couldn’t let him kiss me or I knew I was in trouble.

“What do you think is going on? I am a writer Hassan. Like many people before 9/11, I had duel citizenship; afterwards it was simpler to choose one. It’s that simple. Nothing nefarious, and my past is just that boring.”

“I don’t believe you.” He put his arm around me to block my exit. “And I don’t care. I don’t think you are here to harm Morocco in any way, and Morocco is what I care about. I am not some fundamentalist trying to expel the infidels from all Muslim lands or destroy the country of America. My job is to guard the welfare of Morocco.”

“I will ask you again, what are you really doing in Saudi Arabia, and what is that asshole Ali doing here?” I pushed his arms off me and stood toe-to-toe demanding an answer.

“I can’t tell you.”

And then I saw it. I looked, really looked, into his eyes. It was there; this was a man with an intimate knowledge of violence. What was wrong with me? How could I not have seen this? Shit. Shit. Shit! That was what came from giving into emotion, or I could admit to myself, that’s what came of eight years of abstinence. How blind could I be?

“Where did you train?” I ask, gritting my teeth until my jaw quivered.

He looked at me and sighed; his shoulders slumped a bit in defeat as he said, “The King sent me to Paris, to work with Direction Generale de la Securite’ Exterieure before I took up my post.”

“The French intelligence agency. And?”

“And Quantico.”

“Get out of my way,” I said feeling the anger through the tears that were threatening to break through. I’m done with that life. I’m out. How can it haunt me now? Damn. “Get. Out. Of. My. Fucking. Way.”

“No. You aren’t leaving without hearing me out. We are going to talk and we are going to work this out. You are not leaving me,” as he spoke he grabbed me in his arms and turned my face up to his. “You are not leaving me.” His kiss was hard and desperate. I tasted anger and passion tinged with fear.

I struggled and tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. I stomped his instep with my foot, and lifted my leg to ram my knee in his groin. He sidestepped my leg, and increased the strength of his hold on me, never moving his lips from mine. I kicked his shin, and managed to pull out of his embrace, and back far enough to ball my fist and throw a solid right hook at his jaw. I felt it connect and my knuckles felt like they had hit cement. He started with surprise and put his hand to his jaw to rub it. “Nice punch. Where did you train?”

“Get away from me you stupid fuck! What are you, twelve? You think this is some goddamn James Bond movie? What do you think will happen when the Moroccan Secret Police find out about your relationship with me? I have an American passport. I’m an infidel. You bastard! You should have told me. Hell, you should have never approached me. You were suspicious of my background check? Then why continue? What do you want from me? What is this really about? Did you set that meeting up on purpose to find out why I’m in Morocco?” I was so furious, and so scared that I had to clinch my fist to keep from hitting him again. I couldn’t stop shivering. I could not look at him, but I couldn’t block the smell of him. He smelled so – like surf on a wild beach, like sex on a sultry night. Shit! Shit. Shit! Hitting him seemed the only option.


I pulled my arm back again, and he grabbed my fist in his hand and pulled my arm to my side. “Stop it. Stop it now.” If you won’t talk to me then I have to think of some other way to get through to you.” He held my arms firmly at my sides and trapped my legs between his so that I couldn’t kick him. There was no give in him anywhere. How had I thought he was some sweet romantic without any connection to the life I had left behind? Because I wanted him to be, that’s how. I knew it.

He bent his head to mine and when I turned my face away, he took his free arm and grasped my chin in his hand and turned my face to his. His eyes looked saddened, but the danger was still there. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“You are always looking for reasons to leave me.” He pressed his lips gently to mine, and feathered soft kisses over my lips and my face. When he came back to my lips, I opened for him, my anger slipping away from me in the fire of desire.

I began to pace – it’s what I do. After fifty or so turns about the room I knew I needed to hit something – Ken always said I had more testosterone than was good for me. I slipped on my shorts and a tee shirt with my trainers; fortunately I had brought two pair, and headed for the gym where I had seen a punching bag hanging in the corner.

Fortunately for my knuckles I found wraps next to the bag. After wrapping my hands, I laid into the bag with all the frustration and anger the day had brought. Why, oh why did I seem to always attract men who killed and were in danger every day of their lives of being killed? More to the point, what did it say about me that these were the only men I was attracted to in any sort of way – physical or emotional? Could I not get the hots for an accountant? That would be good. Or the chap who owns Sak’s? What was I going to do? What could I do? I was going to walk away. I could not do this again. I had nothing left to give. My emotions were locked up good and tight and that is where they were going to stay.

The past played through my mind for the billon-th time as I slammed my fists into the bag.

It was hot, hot like when taking off your skin would feel a relief. Hot like opening the door to a baking oven would be a cool breeze. Sweat was trapped inside the laced up hiking boots so that my toes were squishing with each step and when I stopped it felt like my feet would swell and pop out through the seams of the boots. My feet were burning. My chest was lashed down inside the flak vest, which was velcroed over the long sleeved shirt that was keeping my lily-white skin from producing blisters the size of bananas up and down my arms. My waist-length hair, braided and stuffed inside my Indiana-Jones-style hat, matted down with sweat and dirt, was now the consistency of super glue. The sky offered no relief, the sun was so bright at midday the vast expanse was no longer blue but white.
As we headed uphill, again, I could see the backs of Jeff, David, John, and Karim like stair steps going up to the next ridge. They looked like mounds of moving dirt or rock. All my pretty Navy boys dirtied up for Afghanistan- no dress whites here. As far as that went, none of us had I.D. of any sort since we weren’t officially there.
Behind me, Ken, Chris, Michael, Jefferson, and Jack were spread out along the track like loose pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Those would be extremely well armed pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. They bristled with weapons like lethal hedgehogs. They all carried the HG-3 rifle, the weapon of choice for SEAL teams, due in equal parts to its versatility, dependability, and lethal delivery of firepower. In addition Ken, who more resembled a walking armory than a neighborly hedgehog, never left home without his Ithaca-37 shotgun; used in Viet Nam as riot guns with 18-inch barrels or trench guns with 20-inch barrels, they had wood stocks and forearms and parkerized metal parts. The -37 had plenty of firepower in a small package, with a disconnector mode that allowed one trigger pull to discharge a full magazine as fast as the forearm can be cycled. He swore that weapon had more tricks than Houdini at his best. Jeff, on point, carried the long barreled version of the -37, and gave solemn oath he could knock sand fleas off the ravines of the Hindu Kush by sheer speed of fire. He was also carrying his new M24 Sniper Weapon System. Let’s not go into the list of claims he was making about what he could do with that new weapon. I mean you couldn’t actually see the top of Everest from where we were.
Each of the team carried the Browning M 1935 pistol, the same sidearm favored by the British SAS, and known for its high capacity “zig-zag” magazine – very useful in a firefight. The chaps were, in addition, armed with an assortment of knives, grenades, and I am sure Karim had an AIM 92 stinger slung on his back. I could say this with some certainty as I had seen David packing the launcher under his supervision. We were headed deep into the Hindu Kush to evac out some of our local intelligence sources who had been compromised. They were in danger and we owed them. The information they had provided had aided us on several missions and saved our lives on a couple. We owed them.
The plan was for the covert SEAL team to get in, gather our people, and take them out to Pakistan by way of the Khyber Pass. Now let me think, just how many times had things gone according to plan? They needed me to interpret, and I knew the terrain better than anyone else on the team.
The dirt on my face was so thick I could have as easily peeled it off as wash it, with runnels of sweat running down from my eyebrows and temples and dripping off my chin. I could feel the dirt in my ears every time I turned my head or when the wind blew directly at me. The dirt up my nose was caked and kept blocking my nostrils, really very attractive. I had to keep blowing my nose on the kerchief I had stuffed in my sleeve just to keep even. I think the worst was the dirt in my teeth, it got in my back teeth and I just couldn’t seem to rinse it out no matter how much water I ran through there. There was a constant gritty taste in my mouth like chewing on sand. There was not a bodily crack or crevice that had not been invaded by the gritty, ground-rock, smell of shit, dirt. I was all one-color head to foot - dirt
My feet felt as though I had been hiking barefoot through broken glass, and then had taken a walk over hot coals. Sharp rocks, round rocks, wet rocks, flat rocks, boulders, pebbles, muddy rocks, rocks shot through with pink marble sparking in the sun, and rocks that shifted without warning under my feet or hands as I grabbed for support. The soles of my feet and the palms of my hands were so bruised that flexing them was painful. I had reached for a handhold earlier that day and grabbed a thorny plant just on the outcropping. As I couldn’t let go lest I slide sixty-two meters off the side of the ridge, the bloody thing bit right through my palm-gloves and tore the cuticles on the nail beds of my right hand. The thorns had left some kind of stinging agent in my skin so it felt as though they were still in there.

“Hold up Sparky. Let me look at that.” Ken came up behind me and took the injured hand, removing the glove to have a look. “Next stream we come to, you stick that hand in the water until it’s numb.”

“Yes lover, I mean Commander,” I said reaching up to bring his face down from his 6’3” height to mine for a deep kiss.

“You know,” I said, wincing as I pulled my right glove back into position, “we could’ve cut three days off this bloody trudge through the third stage of Dante’s Hell if you had let me speak to the Elder in that last village. Instead I have to get everything second-hand. After days of listening to nothing but the fucking Tower of Babel - every villager speaking his own bloody dialect from the Pakistan border into the Kush - we finally find someone who speaks an understandable dialect of Pashto, and you won’t let me talk to him! Why else bring me on this pleasure hike?”

Ken leaned up against the side of the mountain, adjusting his pack as a back cushion, stretching out his long legs and crossing his ankles, then offered me his canteen. “You mean other than the screaming, foot stomping, and threats you made to pull rank back in Paris? And just what do you think would’ve happened if that village elder had figured out you’re a woman, and I use the term loosely.” he said, softening the words with a grin. “I personally don’t want to level a village of friendlies over a cul-tu-ral nu-an-ce. We did just fine with you whispering in my ear, which I rather enjoyed.”
“I beg your fucking pardon. Look at me! I’m lashed down and covered up so that I look like a dirty stick with a gun. And I wasn’t pulling rank. I was merely pointing out, you-need-me. I’m the one who’s been coordinating Intel with MI-5 and the NSA for this Team for the past four years. Face it, sailor, without me you would have been at the mercy of Military Intelligence - and I use the term as an oxymoron. Besides, you Navy boys get all disoriented once you’re out of line-of-sight with the water. Who would get you home if not me?”
“Smartass. With that prissy accent and colorful vernacular, you sound like a Jane Austen character on SEAL hell week. Drink up and hit the trail.” he said patting me on my bum.
This was the third week on this track; ducking enemy patrols, tribal bandits, and bad weather. Food just was not worth the effort; everything tasted like dirt, and smelled like shit or day old vomit. The only thing that tasted good was water. Ah water - nectar, ambrosia, heaven in a canteen! Even warm with the acrid taste of the purification tablets it was delicious. I felt parched from the inside out. The heat, all the gear we had to wear, the constant glare from the sun off the rocks, the relentless climbing, the altitude, all conspired to drain every drop of moisture from me. I was luckier than the men as I had spent much of my childhood on the other side of these mountains, my body could accommodate the local parasites, and I could safely drink from the icy mountain streams. Whenever we happened on one, I would lower my entire face into the water and take it in through my pores.
“Hit the deck! Hit the deck! Bogies at two o’clock. Hit the deck!”
All the air exploded out of my lungs as Ken landed all 240 of his well-muscled pounds, enhanced with a seventy-pound pack, squarely atop me. When I finally could inhale, I got a mouthful of dirt and blood from where my lip was now bleeding. All I could see was the square foot of dirt an inch in front of my face, and I thought I would never be able to breathe properly again. The noise was deafening, and it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. I had no bloody idea where the “bad guys” were or where our guys were. My world had been reduced to trying to exhale and inhale without aspirating half of Afghanistan into my lungs; for me the enemy was suffocation.
There’s really nothing quite like the sound of gunfire in close proximity, like having someone repeatedly clap bricks over your ears. It isn’t so much about the sound after someone tosses the first grenade within thirty-five feet or so; your hearing is reduced to a loud buzzing noise and the disorientation is the problem. Ken was shouting to someone, but I could not make it out and then he was dragging me. I tried to stand up, to help, and he pushed me down again.
“Get down baby. The fire is coming from that ridge.” He was pointing up and to the right of our position, but all I could see was the glare of the sun off the rocks.
I had hit my head on a rock. As I was lifting my left hand up to my head, Ken shoved me over up against the boulder we were heading toward for cover. It was so loud, there was gunfire coming it seemed from everywhere. I couldn’t maneuver the strap to get my pack off; my hand was so sore from the thorns I had grabbed earlier. I was pulling and tugging at the buckle, but Ken was pulling on my shoulders, shaking me.
“Look at me. Look at me. Can you hear me?”
I grabbed his arm. I was trying to say, “Yes.” I was trying to be calm and help, but all I could do was taste dirt and blood. I settled for nodding my head like a puppet while spitting mud and blood to clear my mouth. All my teeth felt loose.
Ken kept talking and grabbing the straps of my pack and pulling it down as he pulled my arms out, shoving me further into the crevice in the boulder. “I have to go help Jefferson. He’s pinned down. You’re all right here.”
He pushed me in to where I was pinioned in the crack of the boulder and shoved my pack in front of me. He took his HK G-3 rifle and tossed it over his left shoulder on the strap. He took his Ithaca 37 shotgun, his baby, and pushed it toward me. “Take this, you know how to use it. Brace it on the rock behind you.”
He took my face in his hands, held me steady, looking directly into my eyes, and took all the time that ever existed to shout slowly, “You’ll be fine. I’m just going right over there and get Jefferson. I’ll be right back.” He pointed so I could see the circle of rocks where Jefferson was caught in a hail of bullets coming from the ridge. Then he turned me slightly to the left, so I could see the position of the others. “You can see me from here. You stay put, you hear me? I love you. Stay put!”

And he smiled, his blinding white teeth flashing against his dark skin, and he kissed me on my filthy, bloody, forehead. I calmed right down. I knew that voice, I trusted that voice, and I had been listening to that voice since I was fourteen. I could do anything as long as he was there. He was my life, and I loved him more than breathing.
“No, you take the 37.” I said pulling my pistol from my leg holster. “I have my Browning. I can’t take the recoil from that damn monster.”
Now I was grinning, how nuts is that? People were shooting at us, throwing grenades at us, and somewhere off that ridge to the west a RPG-18 portable anti-tank rocket launcher was lobbing shots that were blowing up boulders the size of my bedroom at home into pebbles the size of dimes, but there was nowhere in the world I wanted to be other than with Ken, my husband – he was my love, he was my life.
SEAL Team-A made the phrase “best of the best” redundant. Ken, who had helped form the original Teams in the 1960’s, had been commissioned by an order from a joint committee of five from the Pentagon and the NSA, to form a secret and highly specialized SEAL team that would work outside the Navy-Pentagon network. They would carry out covert missions combating what was becoming a worldwide war with terrorism -by infiltration, assassination, the obtaining of intelligence, and whatever presented itself as needed doing in the evolving situation. Those missions were to be dictated by a group whose identity was buried deep within the bowels of the NSA. There would be no reports to Senate committees or reviews by the Intelligence bureaucracy. Seal Team A was setup to run, then cut loose from the line of review, the budget on automatic renewal, buried within a tangle of dead-ends and redirections to subcommittees within the NSA and the Pentagon. There was no trail leading back to the origins of the Team, no paperwork on current activities.
All members of the Team had deep cover identities, and were on detached duty for various United States embassies throughout the world. Their records had been wiped clean and consequently the men as they actually lived did not exist on paper. Because of my unique connection with the NSA, I didn’t exist either; it was a perfect match. I was assigned as the unit’s Intel officer, and when needed – medic.

. As I looked into his eyes, I grinned back at him.
He had never let me down, he had never let anything bad happen to me, and he was indestructible. I could do whatever he told me to do.
“Go. Go. I’m good.” I pushed him away and shoved the Ithaca at him. He bent his head to mine and left me with a gentle kiss.
I saw the blast, or do I remember the blast? I just don’t know, I can never get that clear in my mind’s eye. There was glare coming off the top of the rocks where Jefferson and Ken had taken cover.
I shoved my pack out of the way scraping my hip pulling myself out of the niche in the boulder, and then I ran flat out to the enclave of rocks. It looked like some kid bent on graffiti had taken buckets of bright red paint and thrown them up against the rocks. How could there be so much blood?
It was the longest still moment I ever can remember. There was gunfire. I remember hearing it, but from far away. Nothing was moving, the air was still. I could hear the air flowing in and out of my chest. I saw a Honey Buzzard flying over just in my line-of-sight. I was thinking how nice to see someone from home, they breed in Northern Scotland, and then migrate through Africa on their seasonal passage. What was he doing 4000 meters up in the Hindu Kush? He was flying so slowly, the pattern on his under wing looked like an Aztec rendering, and he made that piping sound peculiar to the breed.

And bam! A wave of now rolled over me, like spinning in an out of control car and then all of a sudden it stops. I was there in present time. I could hear the guys, behind me now, shouting. I could feel the weight of my gun in my hand hanging at my side, I could still hear sporadic gunfire, and then the smell enveloped me. It sucked me in; it filled my nose, my mouth, my ears, my stomach twisted, my colon tightened, and my skin was coated with it - burnt flesh, cooked blood. It wasn’t an odor that entered just my nose. It came in through all my senses.
I saw it. It was red, black, pulsating, yellow, and brown, seeping into the dirt. It was torn flesh, and Jefferson’s head and neck flayed open like something in one of those butcher’s display cases in the meat district in New York City. The blood bright red as it touched the air, black as it seeped into the dirt. There was so much red.
Their eyes were open. You know in the movies, the eyes are closed, but both Jefferson and Ken had their eyes wide open - like they saw the claymore at the last minute and thought they could make it out.

I heard it. It screamed in anguish, loss and pain.

I touched it. It was hot as it pulsed through my fingers, and then ice cold as it stopped moving at all. My gun fell from my hand with a thud to the dirt, and I fell to my knees. I tried to stop the blood gushing, pulsing, and then seeping from the hole in Ken’s stomach. I pushed on it with my hands. I was afraid to look at his face. I just kept talking to him, like he had talked to me that time when I was sixteen, and he took me climbing and I cut my leg. I was so scared of all the blood. His face was a dusky blue when they pulled my hands away, and the blood had partially dried and stuck to me and to Ken. It cracked and crackled when I scrapped it off.
I tasted it. It tasted like metal forced hard into my mouth, like a sharp mercury taste that clenches your gut, gags you, and causes your stomach to retch and rebel. Like Christmas morning turned to murder.
The smell was shit, and blood on fire, and death. There was no taking it in, resolving it into components of an experience and sorting it out. It was a hot iron shoved into my brain. The event exploded and branded itself whole into my senses. And he was gone, gone from my bed, gone from my life. Gone. I was alone, because the next shot fired went into my abdomen and through my womb killing our three-month-old son who I didn’t know I was carrying.

I didn’t dare love anyone that much again. I couldn’t take the loss. I almost died from the pain then, as my heart and my soul were torn out of my body. Every day was a walk through hell. I lay in bed for weeks and felt myself bleeding through my skin. I walked around in the world, bleeding. He was my life. I lost him. I lost our son. It was better to be alone than to ever, ever, feel that much pain again. I would not survive it. I would not fall in love with another man. I would not need him. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. That small quiet voice in the back of my head whispered, you could if it were the right man.

I hit the bag until my knuckles were bleeding and I couldn’t see for the tears. I sat on the floor and cried until there was nothing left.