Jericho 3 Page 2

  “Zar ba yi ter lasa kri, my brother, get well soon.”

  Then Banks, Henry and Mahmoud left the isolation ward and walked toward the emergency room followed by Miriam.

  “What was all that bull about their eyes boiling like acid?” Captain Henry said trying to hold back a laugh.

  “Sometimes pictures are worth a thousand of Miriam’s words.”

  “Doctor Banks?”

  “Yes, Dr. Mahmoud.”

  “This tularemia…is it contagious?”

  “Francisella tularensis is very infectious. It’ll knock your socks off. Less than 10 microbes of the bacteria and you’re infected. We haven’t seen any proof that it’s contagious, as in from me to you. But it’s still a Category A bioterrorism agent like the plague and anthrax.”

  “So then it can be transferred from one person to another, Dr. Banks?”

  “Not that we know of. There’s a difference between infectious and contagious. It’s only on the Cat A list because it could be lethal and widespread if it got into the food or water supply. So far, the bad guys haven’t figured out how to make an infectious aerosol for it.”

  Captain Henry stopped in the hallway. He was not entirely satisfied with the major’s reasoning.

  “So three Taliban thugs show up in our hospital with rabbit fever, and we’re going to chalk it up to random happenstance?”

  “To the contrary, I suspect the three of them feasted on some infected and undercooked meat in one of their four-star Hilton caves, captain. But you’re probably correct.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m guessing it was rabbit.”

  Banks, Henry, Mahmoud and Miriam walked into the ER where Banks removed a box of ciprofloxacin and IV kits that had been flown in from Bagram Air Base.

  The radio in the ER crackled to life. Mahmoud answered the call using the handheld microphone as Banks and Henry prepared the medication.

  “That was the checkpoint at Thunder,” Mahmoud said. “The ambulance is bringing in Colonel Sadik’s wife.”

  “Who’s Sadik?” Banks asked as he staged the IVs on a surgical tray.

  “He’s the head of the ANA Commando unit here on Thunder,” Mahmoud said.

  “What’s her problem?”

  “They don’t know. The checkpoint guard said she’s screaming in pain and holding her stomach. Probably a female issue.”

  “Probably so,” Banks said showing a substantial lack of interest. American doctors were in Afghanistan to take care of American soldiers as well as mentor and train Afghan physicians. They were not deployed to treat Afghan civilians.

  “Dr. Banks, you are expert in woman medicine. I am best at colostomy.”

  Henry laughed. “Damn right! A 13-year-old kid comes in here last month with a sore throat…maybe tonsils. Doc Mahmoud got him all fixed up and sent him out the door with a colostomy!”

  “You gave the kid a bag shitter? For a sore throat?” Banks quipped.

  “When I studied at Kabul School of Medicine my teachers showed me how to do colostomies. Now I’m expert.”

  “Well, don’t give Colonel Commando’s wife a bag, or he’s liable to shoot you,” Banks said as the IV tray was fully prepped.

  “Please, I beg you Dr. Banks; please consult with me on this woman. I need training.”

  Banks stopped and rolled his eyes at Mahmoud.

  “Okay, your English is pretty good. Captain, I’ll join Dr. Mahmoud for a ‘woman medicine’ consult. Can you and Miriam take this stuff down to our ‘tularemia trio’ and get them hooked up to the juice tree?”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Captain Henry wheeled the cart down the fluorescent light corridor followed by Miriam 10 steps behind.

  The back doors of the ER flew open as the deep anguished screams of a woman, and lots of Pashtu chatter that made no sense to Banks, echoed throughout the cinder-block ER.

  “You get her vitals,” Banks directed the Afghan physician, “and ask if she’s willing to see an American doctor. Make sure you tell her I’m an American Army gynecologist. I don’t want the Afghan colonel’s wife going all Jihad Jane on me if I show up unannounced to take a peek at her girl parts, okay?”

  Mahmoud nodded and disappeared behind the curtains. He sat down on his rolling stool so that only his well-worn Puma sneakers, dirty pants and the bottom of his lab coat could be seen. Banks could hear Mahmoud talking over the woman’s groans. Both ambulance drivers tried to keep her quiet.

  The woman stopped groaning after Mahmoud finished speaking. There was a pause.

  “Sha!” the woman moaned.

  Still seated, Mahmoud pushed his rolling stool across the tiled floor and beyond the curtain’s edge.

  “Dr. Banks, the woman said okay.”

  With stethoscope around his neck, Banks walked up and inside the crowded exam room. The ambulance drivers looked at him, covered their hearts, and smiled. The woman was still writhing in pain, though much quieter. Banks practiced the entire Pashtu lexicon he had committed to memory.

  “As salam aleikum. Ze la Amerika. Doctor Banks.”

  The drivers put their hands to their hearts again then quickly back to the arms of the patient who needed some restraint.

  “Aya ta pe…po-he-gy Englesi?” Banks asked.

  The woman shook her head no.

  Mahmoud stayed seated on his stool while Banks put the stethoscope’s acoustic buds into his ears and reached out slowly toward the woman’s neck. The stainless steel chest piece had a pink breast cancer bow on the top side as well as pink single-lumen tubing up to the splitter connection.

  Banks was watching the woman as she stopped groaning. Her face softened and her eyes fixated on the pink bow, just as violent pain raced through his skull and the major’s lights went out.

  The Ford Ranger’s tire iron crashed against the back of Banks’ head as Dr. Mahmoud watched his mentor fall face-first onto the now silent and very healthy woman.

  One of the ambulance drivers pulled Banks up so the woman could get off the gurney. Mahmoud pulled out a vial and syringe. He pressed the needle into the vial and pulled the plunger back. A fine mist filled the air before he inserted the hypodermic needle into the bare arm of Major Banks. Mahmoud injected Banks with a full dose of ketamine that he had taken out of the meds cabinet earlier in the morning. Ketamine was the sedation drug of choice in Afghanistan and Mahmoud reasoned the hallucinations from the drug might not be as frightening as the reality Banks would soon face.

  The other ambulance attendant wheeled in a second gurney from the Ford Ranger as the now fully-recovered woman and the other driver wheeled Banks out into the waiting ambulance. Mahmoud got into the new bed.

  The driver bound Dr. Mahmoud’s upper and lower torso with leather restraint straps.

  “Zar ba yi ter lasa kri,” the driver whispered to Mahmoud as he pulled off a six-inch strip of duct tape.

  “I will if you don’t cut me too deep,” Mahmoud said as he laid back and closed his eyes.

  The driver pulled a fresh scalpel out of its sterile surgical paper and gently tilted Mahmoud’s head back as though he was a barber preparing for a straight-edge shave. The incision was four inches long but only deep enough to trickle blood. The bloody scalpel was left on Mahmoud’s chest.

  The ER doors closed and the engine of the Ford Ranger ambulance disappeared into background noise long before a distant siren was ever heard.

  Mahmoud smiled as he considered the checkpoint guards. They wouldn’t have the courage to check on “the Commando Colonel’s wife” – supposedly the important “patient” in the ambulance – as she was driven through the main checkpoint gates of FOB Thunder, home to the 203rd Corps of the Afghan National Army and riding in a new Ford Ranger ambulance, bought and paid for by American taxpayers.

  Mahmoud heard the approaching footsteps of Captain Henry and Miriam returning down the long fluorescent-lit corridor from the isolation ward. It was time to act terrified.

  * * *

  PART ONE<
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  * * *

  1

  * * *

  Section 60

  The band leader stepped out in precision carrying a silver sword tucked in a ram-rod straight right arm that glistened against his dress blues. Behind him and off to the left the flag bearer carried the unit’s colors followed by the conductor with baton grasped tightly.

  The music from the United States Army Band echoed and consumed the fog that hovered over Arlington, partially masking the view of the Lincoln Memorial across the Potomac.

  It wasn’t just a band. It was Pershing’s Own.

  Five rows of four marched with the fidelity of one as though they played for angels. Three trombones next to a French horn in the first row, then two saxophones, another French horn and a clarinet. There was a trumpet, two more clarinets and another trumpet in the third. Trumpets only in the fourth row followed by a bass drum, trumpet, tuba and snare drum in the fifth.

  US Navy Captain “Camp” Campbell searched the souls lying in neatly measured rows of eternal rest, looking for heroes that might raise their heads and salute from their perches in heaven as yet another fallen soldier from a distant hell was brought home.

  Six rows of two riflemen each followed like clockwork, white gloves pressed against freshly-oiled gunstock. The color guard trailed the rifle party and was anchored with riflemen on both sides, an Army flag bearer marched center left with stars and stripes center right.

  The chaplain walked quietly behind the color guard, taking his place in a ceremony he had conducted twice that morning with five more yet to come.

  Six fully tacked white Percherons led the 3rd US Infantry, 1st Battalion “Caisson Platoon” as the flag-draped casket, secured by two leather straps, rolled in step. The four old wooden wheels rotated bicep-high on the casket party, four on each side of the procession.

  Eileen walked directly behind Jane. She was the older sister. She had always stayed a few steps behind Jane just to make sure she was okay even when they were children. Now Eileen could only wonder what her little sister was doing, who she was talking with, or if Jane was finally settled and just watching her own funeral in restful silence. Eileen’s chin was up as she walked with purpose, never taking her eye off the flag that covered her little sister’s war-torn body.

  Camp angled his right arm in as Eileen’s arm joined his tightly. Had Jane’s Blackhawk not crashed in Iraq, Camp and Jane would have been married by now. Instead, Camp prayed that God would forgive him for supporting Eileen’s decision to pull Jane’s life support five days earlier. For nearly 20 months after the helicopter crash in the deserts of Iraq, Jane slept in a persistent vegetative state until all hope was gone.

  US Army Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines bowed her left arm in as Eileen’s other arm hooked in tightly. Raines feared she might feel out of place, that she shouldn’t feel so close to Jane, and that perhaps she should not have feelings for Camp. But her thoughts grew clear and singular as the procession rolled down a small road, past World War I vintage oak trees and came to a halt in the most recent of hallowed grounds.

  This was Section 60, Arlington National Cemetery.

  The rest of the mourners left their cars on the road and gathered around the simple canopy where Eileen, Camp and Leslie took seats in the first row. Camp’s parents, Sea Bee and Ruth, sat stoically in the second row to bid farewell to the daughter-in-law they never had. Eileen and Jane had lost their parents years before. No other extended family members had the resources to travel to Washington, DC from Muleshoe, Texas. It would be a 20-minute funeral service for a war hero who died more than a year before she was ever pronounced dead.

  The first of three volleys from the seven-soldier rifle party pierced the solemn Arlington air with a penetrating jolt. The other two volleys were anticipated. A solitary bugler blew a solemn Taps from a crest on a nearby hillside, surrounded on three sides by simple white head stones.

  The chaplain preached his sermon and held his Bible open though he never looked down for the words he already knew. The sermon was sincere, but the repetition of the words was ingrained and seared into his memory.

  The flag from Jane’s casket was folded with elegant tradition and accuracy. Three spent shell casings from the rifle party were discreetly placed into the folds of the flag.

  Standing two rows deep, Brigadier General Jim Ferguson swallowed back a tear as the flag bearer moved closer to Eileen. Ferguson had been Jane’s commanding officer in Iraq. He was Colonel Ferguson back then, when Captain Jane Manning flew MEDEVAC missions into the Balad Trauma Center as Navy Commander “Camp” Campbell, SEAL turned trauma surgeon, brought most of them back to life in a tent hospital during endless 20-hour shifts.

  Eileen raised her eyes with the intensity of a battle-hardened ER nurse, a career she had embraced for many years, as the flag-bearer approached.

  “Ma’am, on behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation.”

  Mourners filed past Jane’s casket, some pausing to remember, some reaching out to touch her for the last time.

  When all had left the gravesite they paused at their cars to watch one solitary sailor who stood isolated, guarding Jane’s casket while standing at attention.

  Camp had given his heart to Jane in Iraq. He had slept on the floor by her bed in Gettysburg on and off for nearly 20 months, as she lay silently. Now he was forced to say good-bye.

  Camp rendered a final salute. He removed his lid and knelt next to her one last time. He smiled as he remembered getting down on his knee in scrubs, proposing to Jane between surgeries and her flight missions. She had laughed at his chivalry while all of the nurses, medics and recovering soldiers applauded in the recovery bay.

  There were no jewelry stores in Iraq and no time to shop in the Haji mart. So he used a black Sharpie and drew a ring around her finger and asked the love of his life to spend the rest of her life with him.

  And she did.

  “Fair winds and following seas, Captain Jane,” he said as tears trickled down his cheeks. “And long may your big jibs draw.” The seafarer’s prayer and blessing gave Camp little comfort, but he hoped it would release Jane to take her rightful place in both Arlington and in heaven.

  Camp kissed her casket and caressed her face through the wood one last time.

  General Ferguson was offering his condolences to Eileen when Camp walked up. Raines walked over and grabbed Camp’s hand.

  “Are you okay, sailor?” Raines whispered.

  Camp looked over into her eyes and lit up her heart with a reassuring smile. “Jane’s finally home…she’s at peace.” He was torn by a million emotions but relieved that Leslie Raines was at his side.

  “Sir, I suppose you have attended far too many funerals at Arlington,” Eileen said as General Ferguson walked up to extend his condolences.

  “Yes, young soldiers like Jane are the most difficult. When I was a boy, my father was the attending veterinarian for the Old Guard. I saw far too many funerals here, young boys who came home from Vietnam one last time. I practically grew up on Fort Myer. For 15 years, my dad took care of Black Jack.”

  “Black Jack was a presidential celebrity,” said Camp as he joined the conversation.

  “Indeed he was. A Morgan-American quarter horse, he was the rider-less horse that carried turned in boots for almost 30 years. I never cried so hard as when Black Jack died in 1976. He almost made it to his 30th birthday.”

  “General, we’re having a reception for Jane out in Gettysburg tomorrow afternoon. I hope you’ll join us,” said Eileen.

  “I wish I could. I really wanted to see your infamous ‘research lab.’ But I fear duty calls. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs needs to see me, something about a tularemia outbreak.”

  “Rabbit fever?” asked Eileen.

  The general seemed surprised.

  �
�Eileen’s an old ICU nurse, general; she knows her diseases,” said Raines.

  “Well, I hope this is just a disease.”

  Camp moved closer to General Ferguson. If the chairman was involved, serious issues were at stake.

  “In Afghanistan, sir?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, the battalion surgeon on a FOB in RC-East reported three Afghan patients with tularemia this week. One case of tularemia gets you a phone call, two requires a meeting. But three…that’s a damn convention full of generals. So, my sincere regrets for tomorrow, Eileen, but duty calls.”

  Ferguson held Eileen’s hand for a passing second, and then he and his coffee-pouring majors got into their car for the quick ride back to the Pentagon.

  “Junior, your father and I are going to stay at Lightner Farms tonight so we’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Okay, mom. Pops, you good to drive?” Camp asked with a wry smile.

  “I haven’t started drinking yet, boy, but I plan to.”

  Raines stepped forward and took Ruth’s arm. “I’ll walk you over to your car.”

  As Raines, Ruth and Sea Bee headed toward the Campbell’s old Ford Galaxy, Eileen turned to Camp.

  “You were Jane’s knight in shining armor, sailor. She loved you, and she loved that you loved her. This was the right thing to do, Camp. It was time to let her go.”

  Eileen and Camp embraced as the sounds of Pershing’s Own kicked in on a distant hill for the next funeral.

  Raines tucked Ruth into the passenger seat and made sure she was all buckled up. Sea Bee opened the driver’s door then stopped. He held his car keys in his open hands but just stared at them. He was confused. He looked at the keys, then the car, and then back down at the keys. He was lost.

  “Seabury Campbell…just what in God’s name are doing?” Ruth nagged at her husband. She was half teasing but half perturbed.

  He didn’t respond. Sea Bee’s old hands started to tremble.