the logistics office. When he stepped inside, he found a lieutenant junior grade and a yeoman sorting through requisitions. Carey dropped Brannigan's message in front of the officer. Operation Rolling Thunder has nine DPVs sitting at Shelor Field without a drop of gasoline for them.
The lieutenant looked over at the yeoman. Check that out, Densmore.
Aye, sir. The yeoman went to a box marked suspense and pulled out a set of forms. The requisition for fuel, gasoline, unleaded in ten fifty-gallon drums, hasn't been filled yet. This includes fifty gallons of motor oil as well.
Goddamn it! Carey cursed. When did you send it in? An hour ago?
No, sir, Yeoman Densmore answered. It's been at Station Bravo for a couple of weeks now.
Then why hasn't it been filled?
The lieutenant answered, It's a matter of priority, sir. Operation Rolling Thunder is way down the list. The operations in Iraq have first call; then a half-dozen missions in Afghanistan come next. Rolling Thunder is at the bottom.
Priorities be damned! Carey protested. Rolling Thunder was officially alerted on four April. That was three days ago.
I'm sorry, sir, the lieutenant said. I don't set the schedules. He was used to complaints and screwups, considering them as normal as breathing, eating, and sleeping. I suppose operations and logistics just aren't on the same page. He shrugged. The best I can tell you is that Rolling Thunder will get that requisition within ten days or so.
What about their chow? Carey demanded to know. Are the poor bastards going to starve to death?
Under the present SOP, the staff at Shelor Field handles that since the guys involved are billeted there.
Yeoman Densmore interrupted. Even if the mess situation gets screwed up, Rolling Thunder has two weeks' worth of MREs.
Yeah, okay, Carey said, irritated. He left the supply office and returned to the commo center. When he walked in, he shook his head to show Berringer it was useless. He grabbed a message pad and scribbled a word on it. After ripping out the page, he carried it over to the nearest RTO and dropped it in front of her. Transmit this to Operation Rolling Thunder.
Aye, sir. The young woman quickly tapped out the transmission. It contained but one word:
SNAFU.
.
UNREO CAMP
SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN
1100 HOURS
DR. Pierre Bouchier was the chief of the UN mission stationed in that area of Afghanistan. Now, after a frustrating morning of nonattendance at all the scheduled classes, he had called his entire staff to a meeting outside his tent. Most had brought camp chairs with them, while others were content with either standing or sitting in the sand. Even a casual observer could have noted that their collective morale was low.
The Belgian MD gazed sadly at the people he supervised in the humanitarian effort. I know you all feel the same frustration I do. But I ask you to 'keep the faith' as les americaines say. I suppose our assignment with Warlord Khamami's people spoiled us with its ease and success.
One of the nurses, a young Spanish woman, spoke up loudly. That was because those American soldiers were there.
They weren't soldiers, Penny Brubaker interjected. They were Navy SEALs.
An Italian dentist laughed. You should know, signorina. One of them was your sweetheart.
He still is, Penny remarked, while thinking, I hope he still is.
I think we all remember those particular Americans, Dr. Bouchier said. And I admit it is true that their presence helped us. Especially when one takes into consideration they had defeated the warlord's bandits.
They helped those poor girls too, Penny reminded him. The ones that were sex slaves.
And I am most grateful for that, Dr. Bouchier said. They saved a dozen lives that memorable day. He lit a cigarette. But now we have the problem of having to make what we offer in aid appear helpful and attractive to the people of this village on this day and at this time. Frankly, I am unable to figure out exactly what we must do. Surely, some of you ladies have ideas since you're the ones in the closest contact with the native women.
Before any of the females could respond, a shout was heard in the near distance. They all turned to see one of their Afghan security guards gesturing wildly and pointing out into the desert. A quick look showed a cloud of sand swirling near the horizon. After a minute or so, it was obvious it was coming closer. They all stood up, the apprehension on their faces evident by tightened jaws and instinctive frowns of concern.
It appears we have visitors, Dr. Bouchier said.
I hear motors, someone announced.
A French surgeon cursed. Merde! It must be some sacres americaines!
Everybody be calm, Dr. Bouchier urged them. He glared at the Frenchman. If they are Americans, we can be grateful. They will have candy for the children. That will bring everybody out from the village and maybe ease the tension here. Perhaps a little levity is what is needed.
Everyone walked around the tent to watch the approaching visitors. As they drew closer and appeared plainer in the desert haze, the UN people could see that three vehicles made up the group. Look! They are tanks! a young Polish X-ray technician cried.
No seas pandeja, a Spanish medical orderly scoffed. They are armored cars. See? They have tires, not tracks.
Five minutes later, a trio of EE-3s pulled up to a stop. Nine men wearing desert camouflage uniforms and Arab keffiyehs rapidly and efficiently appeared from hatches in the tops of the vehicles. They jumped to the ground and one took the lead, striding toward the UN crowd with the others respectfully following. Dr. Bouchier stepped forward to greet the visitors. He noticed the lead man wore the three-pip insignia of a British captain.
How do you do, Monsieur le Capitaine? he greeted. I am Dr. Pierre Bouchier, the chief of this UN mission.
The man stopped. Good morning, sir. I am Captain Arsalaan Sikes of the Army of Jihad Abadi.
Bouchier, alarmed by the word jihad, looked closely at the man. He spoke in an English accent and, except for the headgear, looked like a typical Brit with brown hair and blue eyes. But he conducted himself as if he were an Arab officer. I fear I am confused, Monsieur le Capitaine.
Sikes suddenly turned and barked orders in Arabic. Six of his men immediately trotted toward the Pashtun village, and he turned his attention back to Bouchier. You are in territory controlled by the Jihad Abadi. And I want to know what you're about, yeah?
We are a relief mission, Monsieur le Capitaine, Bouchier explained. We offer these people medical care and instruction in sanitation.
You'll put a halt to your operation straightaway, Sikes said. Do not have no further contact with the Pashtuns here. Me men are already in the village warning them buggers that they ain't to have nothing to do with foreigners. And that means you, mate!
But we are here under an agreement between the United Nations and the Afghan government, Bouchier protested.
Such agreements don't mean nothing, Sikes said. You got three days, yeah? He checked his watch. It's getting close to noon, so I'll be back here on the tenth. And this place better be bare and empty. Got it? You'll be bluddy sorry if you and these people are still hanging about.
The half-dozen men he had sent into the village now reappeared. On his command, they reboarded the armored cars.
Bouchier's people crowded around him. What are you going to do, Docteur? the French surgeon asked anxiously.
I'm going to contact the UN office in Kabul and ask them how we are to respond to the threat, Bouchier said. He shook his head. I cannot believe what just happened. We are in the middle of a most frustrating situation when an Englishman dressed like an Arab officer appears out of nowhere and orders us to cease our operations and depart.
Out in the desert, Captain Arsalaan Sikes led his three vehicles back to join the rest of his armored car
