His Woman in Command & Operations: Forbidden: His Woman in Command / Operation: Forbidden. Lindsay McKenna

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СКАЧАТЬ valley then the Taliban won’t attack us. Our Sufi brother and sister constantly travel. We understand they can only visit us twice a year.” She gestured gracefully toward the village. “Captain Alexander, you will come with me, and I will put you to work. Captain Jackson, you may join your men.”

      “Of course,” Gavin said, and he winked over at Nike. “I’ll catch up with you later. And I’ll have Sergeant Robles alerted to your requests. Just relax. It will all work out.”

      Nike wasn’t so sure, but said nothing. She didn’t want this humanitarian mission scuttled because of her lack of medical knowledge. As she walked with Jameela, she said, “Are your duties the same as your husband’s in running this village?” Nike knew little of the Afghan culture and didn’t want to make a gaffe. Better to ask than to assume.

      Jameela nodded. “My duty first is to my husband and our family. After that, I am looked upon to provide leadership to the women of the village in all matters that concern us.”

      “I see,” Nike said. She suddenly had a humorous thought that couldn’t be shared with Jameela. Wearing a bright red scarf, a dark green flight suit and a pistol strapped to her waist, she must look quite a sight! The women of the BJS would laugh until it hurt if they could see her in her new fashion garb. Still, Nike wanted to fit in, and she would allow the course of the day to unfold and teach her. Often, prejudices and misunderstandings from one country or culture to another caused tension and she would not want to create such problems.

      As Nike followed Jameela down the muddy, rutted street, she was struck by the young children playing barefoot on such a cold April morning. The children’s clothes were threadbare with many patches sewn in the fabric. They shouted and danced. Their gazes, however, were inquisitive and they stared openly at Nike. What an odd combination she wore—a man’s trousers with the prescribed headdress of a Muslim woman. Fired with curiosity, the group followed them down the middle of the wide street where mud and stone homes sat close to one another.

      As Nike smiled at the children, she regretted not knowing Pashto. Their eyes were button-bright and shining. Little girls and boys played with one another just as they would in the States or in her homeland of Greece. But then, as she glanced farther up the street, her heart saddened. A little girl of about six years old stood on crutches near a large stone home. The child had only one leg. Nike remembered that damnable land mines covered this country. Most of them had been sown by Russians, but of late, it had been the Taliban, too. Had this child stepped on one? Nike’s heart contracted. There was no doctor here to help her. No painkillers. No antibiotics. How had she survived?

      “Jameela? That little girl over there? Who is she?”

      “My youngest daughter, Atefa. Why do you ask?”

      Gulping, Nike hoped she hadn’t made a fatal mistake by asking. “I…uh…she’s missing one leg. Did she step on a land mine?”

      “Yes, as a four-year-old.” Jameela’s voice lowered with anguish as she pointed outside the village and to the east. “Afghan national soldiers laid land mines everywhere outside our village two years ago. They wanted to stop the Taliban from coming through our valley.” Choked anger was evident in her quiet tone.

      “How did Atefa ever survive such a terrible injury?” Nike asked softly.

      “Allah’s will,” Jameela murmured. “Everyone said she would die, but I did not believe it. Dr. Reza Khan and his sister, Sahar, found her near the road where it happened. They saved her life and brought her to the village in their Jeep. Then, we had Farzana, our wise woman, tend her with the antibiotics the doctor left. Also, Dr. Sahar knows much about herbs and she directed Farzana how to use them.”

      “That’s an amazing story,” Nike said, her voice thick with unshed tears. People like the Sufi medical doctors inspired her. She’d never heard of Sufis or that they were Muslim. Nike decided she was very ignorant of Muslims in general. What if the Sufi doctors hadn’t been on the road driving by when Atefa had been injured? Nike watched as the child hobbled toward them on carved wooden crutches. “She’s so pretty, Jameela. What does her name mean?” Nike wondered.

      “It means compassion in our language. Little did I know when my husband and I chose that name for her that she would, indeed, bring exactly that to our family and village. My husband wants her to go to a school in Pakistan when she’s old enough. He feels Allah has directed this because she was saved by Sufis.”

      Atefa had dark brown, almond-shaped eyes; her black hair was long and drawn into a ponytail at the back of her head. She wore a black woolen dress that hung to her ankle; her foot was bare. To Nike, she looked like a poor street urchin. But then, as she scanned the street, she realized all the children shared in the same impoverished appearance as Atefa. The children were clean, their clothes were washed, their skin was scrubbed clean, their hair combed, but this was a very poor village.

      “Maybe,” Nike told Jameela, briefly touching her arm for a moment, “there is something that might be done to help Atefa before she goes to her school.”

      Chapter 4

      “How are things going?” Gavin asked as Nike finished ensuring her helo was protected for the night. She’d just sent Andy into the village to grab a bite to eat at Abbas’s house before staying with the bird during the coming darkness.

      She turned, surprised by Gavin’s nearness. The man walked as quietly as a cat, never heard until he wanted to be. His cheeks were ruddy in the closing twilight. “Doing okay.” She held up her gloved hands. “Today, I became ‘Dr. Nike’ to the women and children in the village.” She laughed. The look in his narrowed eyes sent her heart skipping beats. She stood with her back against the Chinook, for the metal plates still exuded the warmth of the sun from the April day.

      “Yeah, Robles said you were doing fine. He’s proud that you can give vaccinations. You’re a fast study.”

      Nike grinned. “I had to be! I wasn’t given a choice.”

      The jagged mountain peaks became shadowed as the sun slid below the western horizon.

      “From all accounts, old Abbas seems to be satisfied with our efforts.”

      “Him.” Nike rolled her eyes. “That old man is married to a woman thirty years his junior!”

      “That’s not uncommon out here,” Gavin said. “Wives die in childbirth and there’s no medical help to change the outcome. The man will always marry again.” He grimaced. “And let’s face it, there are many widows around and they need a man in order to survive out here.”

      “Jameela said Abbas has had two other wives before her. Both died in childbirth.” Shaking her head, Nike muttered, “Things were bad in Peru, too. BJS did a lot of flying into the jungle villages to deliver health care when we weren’t chasing druggies. This place is a lot worse.”

      Gavin enjoyed being close to Nike. About six inches separated them and he wished he could close the gap. The best he could do was keep them talking. “These people deserve our help. You look kind of pretty in that red hijab. Do you like wearing it?”

      “No, but I respect their traditions. At least Abbas didn’t demand I climb into one of those burkas.”

      “Indoors, the women wear more casual clothes and no hijab,” Gavin told her. “It’s just when they go out in the community that they put on the burka or hijab.”

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