.
AL-SARAYA CASTLE
1420 HOURS LOCAL
WHEN Warlord Hassan Khamami took in the late Ayyub Durtami's people, he also became the master of the farming village Heranbe in the dead warlord's fiefdom. This added several more fields to his opium poppy enterprise.
Now Khamami and Ahmet Kharani were holding an important meeting in the throne room. The two men were deep into the process of planning out the next harvest program of the valuable crop. Production estimates had to be made, schedules designed for transport to the clandestine shipping center, and the next year's prices established. All this was done without paperwork. In an environment where most of the people were illiterate, it would have been impractical to establish complicated administrative procedures. The centuries-old custom of handshakes and committing to memory all arrangements of how the business would be conducted worked out fine in those Afghanistan mountains. A side benefit of the primitive system was that it was impossible for the authorities to trace these clandestine goings-on. A computer system had yet to be devised that could penetrate men's minds to read their thoughts and intentions.
The work was interrupted when the captain of the guard rapped on the door and stepped into the throne room. He bowed deeply to the warlord. 'Amir, please forgive this interruption. The American commander and a UN man are outside. The American insists on seeing you now.'
'Send them in,' Khamami said. He looked over at Kharani. 'I wonder what demands he has now.'
'Let us remember what his honor Aburrani cautioned us about, Amir,' Kharani said. 'We must keep the opium farming a secret at all costs:'
Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan strode in boldly with the interpreter behind him. When he stopped, the interpreter stepped to the front and made the expected polite greetings and inquiries into the warlord's health.
Khamami was impatient. 'What does this foreigner want with me?'
The interpreter turned to Brannigan and spoke. Brannigan uttered a discourse in English, his voice stern and authoritative. When he finished, the interpreter spoke again to the warlord, diplomatically leaving out certain expletives and impolite references as he had learned to do in his UN training. 'Amir,' he began, 'this gentleman has heard that there are Dharyan women still being held under your authority. This grieves the gentleman much and he wishes for them to be returned to their kinsmen:'
'What women is he talking about?' Khamami asked. 'The ones in the brothel, Amir.'
'Them? Why does he bother with those harlots?' Khamami asked. 'They are disgraced and soiled beyond redemption. Many men have known them. They have no future but to remain as they are until the day they die. It would be kinder for them.'
The interpreter had expected that response. 'Nevertheless, Amir, the gentleman begs for their release.'
Khamami looked up into Brannigan's angry face, then swung his eyes back to the interpreter. 'It doesn't sound to me like he's begging.' Then he shrugged. 'Certainly! If he wants them sent to their families, so be it.'
'They are to go to the UN doctor first,' the interpreter said. 'Tell the American his request will be granted within the hour,' Khamami said.
The interpreter bowed and spoke aside to Brannigan. 'He obeys your command, sir. The women will be taken to Dr. Bouchier immediately.'
Brannigan gave the warlord a curt nod, then turned and strode out, with the UN man scurrying after him.
.
UN CLINIC
2000 HOURS LOCAL
TWELVE of the sex slaves, rather than eighteen, were delivered to Dr. Pierre Bouchier. The explanation was that six of the eighteen had died during the time they served the lusts of the mujahideen.
Even the first cursory examinations the doctor gave the women indicated they were in poor health. They had all been in their teens when taken into captivity and had endured a long period of cruelty. Although they were fed reasonably well to keep their physical appearances acceptable, the repeated rapes had caused them all serious internal medical problems. The human vagina was not designed for repeated entrances on a nightly basis. It was impossible to gauge their exact psychological conditions, but it was obvious most of the women were candidates for long periods of treatment in mental health centers.
Dr. Bouchier sent a note over to Lieutenant Brannigan informing him that the women were in no shape to be returned to their families yet. They would have to first be airlifted to the UN medical facilities in Kabul for badly needed hospitalization.
Chapter 22
THE SEAL BIVOUAC
5 SEPTEMBER
0750 HOURS LOCAL
IT was almost time for the forenoon watch to relieve the morning watch, and Mike Assad glanced anxiously over at the tent area to see if his relief, Dave Leibowitz, was in sight. After a few minutes Mike could see the figure of his buddy ambling toward the sentry post.
Mike checked his watch as Dave walked up. 'It's about time.'
'I'm early,' Mike said, shifting the CAR-15 on his shoulder. 'If I wasn't such a good friend, I'd have waited until right at oh-eight-hundred to take over the watch.' He grinned and thought a moment. 'Maybe I'll do exactly that.' He stepped backward several paces.
'Have mercy!' Mike jokingly beseeched him. 'I'm exhausted from long hours of keeping my shipmates from harm.'
'Oh, all right, you poor bastard,' Dave said with a wink. 'You're relieved.'
'What's been going on since I came out here?'
'Not much,' Dave said. 'They found out that the warlord had put a bunch of them slave women in a whorehouse somewhere in that wooden castle.'
'No shit?'
'No shit,' Dave responded. 'They weren't volunteer whores either. The poor girls were in their teens and had been forced to work there. I guess they were raped every night. They're gonna send them back to their families after the doctor is done treating them.'
'They can't do that!' Mike exclaimed, suddenly serious. 'Sure they can,' Dave said.
'I got to go see the Skipper.' Mike took off running toward the CP.
'What the hell's the matter with you?' Dave yelled after him.
Mike didn't answer as he rushed back to the platoon bivouac. When he reached the Skipper's tent, he went directly inside. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan, drinking a cup of coffee, looked up at the interruption to his morning routine. 'What are you all worked up about?'
'Dave told me that a bunch of those slave girls had been sent over to the UN doctor for treatment,' Mike said.
'Yeah,' Brannigan said. 'They'd been forced into prostitution. As soon as they're fixed up, they'll go back to their families.'
'They'll kill 'em, sir!'
'Who will kill them?' Brannigan asked.
`The men in their families,' Mike exclaimed. 'They disgraced their kin by what they did. Their dads and brothers are obligated to murder them. It's called honor killing.'
'Are you sure about that?'
'Yes, sir,' Mike said. 'There was this family from Syria living in my neighborhood back in Michigan that had just immigrated to America. One of their daughters fell in love with a Christian kid in our school. The two ran off and eloped. The family had already arranged for her to marry some guy back in Syria. It was bad enough she disobeyed them about the marriage, but she'd also fallen love with a non-Muslim, and that was a double dishonor for the family. So her father and his oldest son were going to murder the girl when she and her husband came back. I guess the girl figured the old rules didn't apply in America.'
