Operation: Forbidden Page 8

  “Oh,” Emma said, relieved, “that’s good news.”

  “Here,” he said, handing her the book, “this is a gift for you. I realize it’s not military protocol, but I would like to share my world with you a little bit. Take it. We’ll go to the chow hall and get some chai and wait until the clouds lift.” He picked up his helmet bag.

  Emma looked down at the book. She nearly dropped it. It was a paperback called Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved. Stunned, she looked up at Khalid.

  “How did you know?” she croaked, confused as she held the book. How could he know about her torrid dream of this morning? Was it all over the internet? Nike had known too. Now, Khalid, of all things! Emma stood there feeling stupid for a moment. She stared at the cover. It showed several men in tall, red, Turkish caps wearing white clothing and whirling around in long skirts. Because of her one-year saturation into Pashto, Emma realized these were Sufi whirling dervishes. They would whirl around and around to music and it allowed them to go into a mystical trance to connect with the Beloved, a direct connection with God.

  “Know what?” Khalid asked, confused, as he walked at her side. Emma’s brow wrinkled. There was shock in her green eyes. She kept turning the book over and over, as if it were too hot to handle. Khalid wondered if he’d overstepped her personal bounds again. Was giving her a book such a crime in the military’s mindset? After all, they were both captains, of equal rank. He saw no reason to think a book was too personal a gift. But, judging from the rush of redness to Emma’s cheeks, the way she tucked her lower lip between her teeth, maybe it was.

  Gripping the book, Emma muttered, “Oh, nothing. I’m still waking up.” She hoped the excuse would sail with Khalid. It did. The worry dissolved from his handsome features. And then, abruptly, she said, “Thank you. This was a very nice gift.” They were love poems! Inwardly, Emma felt as if Khalid could see straight through her, to her heart, and was fully aware of the throbbing ache that still lingered in her lower body. His eyes at times made her think he truly had paranormal abilities. Had his intuition whispered to bring her a book of love poems because, somehow, he knew how she felt? Emma always felt out of step in Khalid’s presence. He thrilled her, mesmerized her, made her want him in every way possible. And he was off-limits to her for a damned good reason. Emma wasn’t ready to toss her wounded heart into any relationship yet.

  “Ah, yes. Well, a good, bracing cup of delicious chai will cure your sleepiness,” Khalid chuckled. They made their way through muddy ruts, leaping over puddles and walking around the larger ones.

  Emma glanced at her watch. It was barely 0800. The chow hall would be packed, the noise high and it was the last place she wanted to be. Right now, she felt terribly vulnerable. Was it the dream? Or something more? Emma swore she still felt every touch of Khalid, her skin still retaining memory of it. “Sounds good,” she managed, her voice sounding strangled even to her.

  To her relief, Khalid found an empty table in a far corner. She sat down with the book on the table and watched him thread through the men and women to get to where the Afghan widow sold the chai. Khalid had such grace. He walked with pride and almost always had a smile lurking at the corners of his sensual mouth. Fumbling with the book, Emma finally opened it. She began to read some of the poems. Instantly, heat nettled her cheeks and she slapped the book shut and pushed it away, as if would incriminate her. The memory of that very real dream was still too close, too evocative. Reading Rumi’s poems was like fanning the fires of her desire once more.

  Emma shook her head. Somehow, and God only knew how, she had to erase Khalid from her body and her yearning heart. But how? Emma couldn’t blame Khalid for how her body was behaving. Did he know that casual smile of his just made her ache to grab him and haul him into her bed? Emma was sure he’d be shocked by her very brazen instincts. Khalid was gentleman, a throwback to another century where a man smoothly courted a woman with flowers, gifts, looks and compliments without ever touching her.

  Sighing, she rubbed her face with her hands. What made her situation worse was that Emma wanted to be in Khalid’s world. It was more than just sex. The mystery of the man himself compelled her. Not that he hid any aspect of himself, but her curiosity went much deeper. If Emma was honest with herself, she wanted to hear every thought Khalid had. What were his growing-up years like? How was he able to adjust to American life? What adventures had he had in the U.S. Army while learning how to fly the Apache? And how could a Sufi be a warrior? There was so much Emma wanted to know. And it was all personal. She spotted Khalid coming back, moving as quietly as fog around groups of people coming and going from the chow hall. In his hands, Khalid held two cups of chai.

  Emma felt as if she were sitting on a volcano about to erupt. As Khalid handed her the chai and sat down opposite her, Emma did all she could to ignore her attraction.

  “The chai will help you wake up,” he observed wryly, lifting his cup in toast.

  His teasing eased her anxiety. “Salud,” she muttered, clinking the rim of his cup.

  Khalid sat with his elbows on the table. “Have you looked at Rumi’s book yet?”

  “No,” Emma lied. She didn’t want to get on the topic of love with him. That would be like holding a grenade with the pin released from it. “These are whirling dervishes on the cover, aren’t they?” Emma hoped this safe conversation would steer him away from the main topic of the book.

  “Ah yes, the young men who spend years learning how to turn in a circle, remain grounded and yet, open their hearts to Allah.” Khalid smiled. “They are the role models for the rest of us. I have seen some twirl for an hour or more without stopping.”

  Emma drank her chai, relieved the conversation was on religion and not her. “That’s an amazing feat in and of itself. I couldn’t twirl in a circle for probably more than thirty seconds before losing my balance and falling down.”

  Chuckling, Khalid said, “At one time, I begged my father to send me to a Sufi learning center. From childhood on I had seen the whirling dervishes at the festivals. They were magical! I remember standing in front of my father, his hands on my shoulders, and my eyes were huge as they whirled past us like tornados.”

  Emma sipped more of her chai. “I can just see you as a little kid: all eyes. That would be an incredible thing to experience.” Emma recalled the magic carpet and genies of the Arabian Nights, and felt those myths were still alive—between them, for whatever reason. The magic seemed to leap to life every time they talked to one another. And now, she’d dropped their conversation to the personal level. Groaning inwardly, she felt trapped.

  Khalid drowned in Emma’s warm forest-green gaze. “Yes, I fell in love with the mystical segment of our Sufi way of life. My father gently turned me away from becoming a dervish.”

  “Do you regret that?”

  “No. In reality, my father saw I was not ready for such schooling. I was a very adventurous boy given to taking risks and boldly exploring where few ever went.” His smile increased. “He knew my love of flying. I thought as a child I could fly in the invisible ethers that the whirling dervishes flew on. My father was far more practical. He harnessed my love of flying with military service with the U.S. Army. I hadn’t thought of that path, but it felt like the right one for me.” He pointed his index finger upward. “When I’m flying, I feel like the dervishes, held in the invisible mystical hands of the universe. There’s nothing quite like it.”

  “I agree,” Emma said. “The sky takes away all my fears, worries and anxieties about the future.”

  “Hmm, perhaps we’re both eagles of the Kush, eh?” he teased.

  Emma laughed, and the words flew out of her mouth, “Oh no, you’re a snow leopard! No doubt about that.” And then, she gulped, set her mug down and realized her gaffe. Amusement glimmered in Khalid’s expression.

  “Indeed. You see me as a beautiful and rare snow leopard?”

  Emma froze. No matter what she’d say, she would incriminate herself. Damn! Her heart sank into
her boots. What had she just done? Was she so exhausted that she was unable to erect her defenses, keep the conversation strictly focused on their mission?

  Khalid leaned forward, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “I often wondered how you really saw me, Captain Emma Cantrell. Snow leopards are perhaps the most beautiful and rarest of cats in the world. There are only a handful who live in the Kush. I was fortunate enough to see one, once. His coat was of soft gray-white with spots of brown that matched the mountain slope. He blended in so well that at first I did not spot him. But my friend, who was a biologist, did. I watched that cat move from one side of the rocky, unstable slope to the other. He had such feline grace, such quiet power and authority, all I could do was stare with admiration at him.” Khalid sat up and gave her a dazzling smile. “So, you see me as a snow leopard. What a wonderful compliment. Thank you!” There was no question; his heart was opening to Emma.

  Chapter 7

  When they landed at Zor Barawul, the April showers had eased up. It was almost noon when Emma powered down the CH-47 and shut off the engines. The village was a hub of activity. Two days earlier, it had been under attack by the Taliban. Now two A-teams were present. One was stationed on an outpost that overlooked the valley where Zor Barawul sat. The other team lived in the village itself.

  It seemed nothing could dampen Khalid’s spirits. He unhooked the jack from his helmet, pulled it off his head and seemed utterly unaffected by the violence that surrounded them. Emma marveled at that, but she figured, as her hands flew over the controls, that his Sufi perspective gave him that sense of protection.

  The rains of April made the village a sea of mud. Warm in her thick nylon jacket and glad to be wearing it, Emma heard the ramp grinding down. On this particular flight, they had brought a dentist and a dental hygienist from Bagram. Emma wasn’t happy about keeping the CH-47 on the ground all day, considering the recent attacks. Too often, if a bird stayed on the ground, the Taliban would sneak up and lob mortars at it. However, they’d be staying to help out and, near sunset, they’d fly the army dental team back to Bagram.

  Turning in her seat, Emma stood up and saw her load master, Sgt. Steve Bailey unhooking his harness. The twenty-two-year old blond was tall and gangly. When Khalid walked back to help him organize the boxes to be offloaded, she thought they looked like brothers body-wise. As always, Emma remained alert and on guard. She swept her gaze around the area where the helo was sitting. It was parked on the tip of the hill. There was a fifty-foot diameter landing area. The rocky slopes dropped off steeply to a valley a thousand feet below them.

  Khalid eased between the cargo boxes. They were battened down with sturdy netting and nylon straps that kept the boxes from flying all over while they were in the air. He saw Abbas, a tall older village leader with a deeply lined, narrow face waiting for him near the ramp. He wore a dark-gold wool turban, a gray robe and wool cloak over his proud shoulders. His black and gray beard was neatly trimmed, his eyebrows straight and thick across his dark-brown eyes.

  Emma smiled to herself as Abbas shook Khalid’s hand, pumping it up and down. The leader then leaned forward and kissed the pilot on each cheek. This was a common Afghan custom and a sign of friendship. She heard Khalid murmur, “As-salaam alaikum.”

  Abbas returned the warm greeting with “Wa alaikum as-salaam wa rahmatu Allah,” in return. That meant “And to you be peace together with God’s mercy.”

  Emma liked the sincere greeting. Khalid had already prepped her for the important people who ran this village. At Abbas’s side was his wife, Jameela. She was dressed in a black burka, only her cinnamon-brown eyes looking out through the cross-hatched material. Jameela had been college-educated in Pakistan and spoke fluent English. At her side was Ateefa, their daughter.

  Emma felt her heart contract with pain at the sight of the five-year-old girl with a prosthesis on her right leg. Her black hair was clean, brushed and hung around her small shoulders. There were shoes on her feet. Emma knew most children in these border villages went barefoot all year long, even in the harsh, icy winters and cold, rainy springtime. Today, as she pulled the green scarf from the thigh pocket on her flight suit, Emma smiled to herself. A gaggle of wide-eyed, curious children of all ages peeked around the adults huddled near the last mud hut at the end of the village. They too had shoes. Not only that, they were dressed warmly in clothes that had been donated by Americans. Emma knew a lot had been done for this village and the people were grateful.

  Placing the scarf around her head, Emma walked down the ramp. The A-team helped bring the boxes out of the cargo hold of the helo. Several wooden pallets had been set up by Bailey where the boxes would be placed. That way, the boxes remained dry and protected from the mud. There was an air of excitement, as if a festival were in progress. The U.S. Army dental team, consisting of two men, forged ahead of Emma. They would give their greetings to Abbas and then get on with their work. A dental hut had long ago been set up and they came in monthly to help the villagers.

  Emma waited to present herself to Abbas. When she was next, she murmured the same greeting, her hand pressed to her heart and giving Abbas a slight bow, a sign of respect. He’d never met her before and official salutations were a must.

  Abbas thrust his hand out to her. “Salaam,” Emma said, as he shook her hand, warmth dancing in his dark eyes. He then leaned down and brushed a kiss on each of her cheeks. His beard tickled her. She returned the greeting and then stepped back. Her ability to speak Pashto to him made his eyes light up with surprise.

  “Ah, you speak our language, Captain. That is an unexpected gift.”

  Emma smiled. “I’m working with Captain Shaheen and his sister Kinah for the next six months. He asked for someone who could speak Pashto. It makes it easier on everyone.”

  Abbas looked over at his wife. “Indeed, it does. Please, this is my beloved wife, Jameela. She will take you to our home where you will share a cup of hot chai with her. As I understand it, the desks for the children’s school have arrived today. Perhaps you two can decide where they need to be set up? I will have my men take them out of the boxes and assemble them.”

  Emma nodded. “As you like, my lord. I’m here to serve.” She saw the old man’s expression soften and seemed grateful for their presence. Khalid had told her that Abbas was highly educated and had a degree in biology. He’d received university training in Pakistan and returned to the village of his birth. He had been responsible for breeding better animals, improving sheep’s fleece and his progressive leadership had influenced a number of other border villages. The man was courageous in Emma’s eyes. He had fought against the Taliban, but had caved to their demands when his people’s lives were threatened. Now, with over a year’s worth of U.S. Army protection and help, this village has flourished.

  Jameela stepped forward and shook Emma’s hand. “Welcome, Captain Cantrell. I’m so thrilled you are here with us. I am Jameela.”

  Smiling, Emma shook her hand. They traded kisses on the cheeks. Jameela brought her daughter forward. “And this is Ateefa, our youngest. Her leg was destroyed by a mine when she was three years old. Last year, thanks to Captain Gavin Jackson, a prosthesis was made for Ateefa. And look at her today! She has thrown her crutches away and can run and race with all her friends.”

  Emma crouched down and took Ateefa’s small hand. The little girl was beautiful, with large black eyes and a sweet smile. “How do you do, Ateefa? I’m glad you have a leg to run around on now. How are you getting along with it?”

  “Fine, soldier lady,” Ateefa said shyly, putting her fingers in her mouth.

  Emma chuckled. “You have a beautiful daughter.”

  Abbas touched his wife’s shoulder. “Beautiful children from my beautiful wife. Go, Jameela. Take our guest and allow her to warm up in our house.”

  “Of course, my dearest husband,” Jameela said. She held out her hand to Emma. “Come. This is an exciting day for all of us. The children have been longing to see their new desks.
After some chai, I’ll take you over to the house we have chosen to become our school for our children.”

  The excitement was palpable as Emma walked at Jameela’s side. Ateefa and several other young children raced ahead. The main street had deep ruts created by the donkeys who pulled the carts. It seemed everyone was out to greet them. Emma felt her heart lift. This is what life was really about: helping those who had less than she did. She followed Jameela to a beautiful two-story stone building with a red wooden door. It was the only home that had two stories. All the rest were made of adobe mud bricks, or, for those who could afford it, built from stone.

  Looking over her shoulder, Emma noticed Khalid with a heavy box balanced on one shoulder, leading the A-team down the street with their own boxes of desks. A number of children across the street stood at the opened door of what would become their school. They were like excited little puppies wriggling around, giggling, excitement shining in their faces. Emma smiled. It was a great day for Zor Barawul. Still, she felt tense. She sensed that the Taliban was nearby monitoring them and this sent a chill up Emma’s spine as she entered the warm home.

  Asad Malik watched the activity at Zor Barawul through a set of Russian binoculars. The beat-up set had served him well over the years. He’d killed a Russian officer with his pistol and divested him of anything of value, including his binoculars. It reminded Malik of their victory over the Russians who had tried to tame the wild Afghan people. They hadn’t succeeded, and if he had anything to do with it, the Americans and the U.N. would leave with their tails tucked between their legs, too.