Killing Ground

“I’m sorry, sir,” the soldier said. “It’s out of my hands.”

“I’m begging you!” Pradhan pleaded. “This means everything to me!”

The soldier turned from the Afghan and glanced at the Humvee’s driver, who offered only a faint shrug. A second recruit riding in the back of the vehicle shook his head with a look of resignation. The soldier looked back at Pradhan and was about to say something when he checked himself and instead reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

“This Mehrab Shah,” he said. “Whereabouts on the base does he work?”

“Mail and shipping,” Pradhan said, tears welling in his eyes. “He does maintenance and deliveries. Please! You have to help me!”

The soldier keyed the walkie-talkie. As he raised it to his ear and waited for a response, he told the distraught Afghan, “Let me see what I can do.”

AS HE RETURNED to his workstation following his nap break, Akira Tokaido shook his long wet hair, inadvertently flecking Aaron Kurtzman with a few wayward droplets.

“My dog used to do that,” the cybercrew leader quipped.

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