Taking Fire

Now, by the time she arrived back at the cave, Khat felt shattered inwardly once more. Only in a very different way. She’d gone through the motions of caring for her horses, watering and feeding them. It was nearly 0200 in the morning. Her hands trembled as she made herself some tea. Just the custom of making it calmed her somewhat.

Only this time, Mike wasn’t here with her.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Khat closed her eyes, waiting for the water to boil. He was larger than life. He was a man. And somehow, he’d slipped into her closed heart. Khat didn’t know how it had happened or why. But it had. The cave seemed sterile without his presence.

As she sat on the sleeping bag, her back against the cave wall, mug in her hand, Khat swallowed hard. Tears were just at the periphery of her eyes, her heart and mind in utter turmoil. Nothing could change. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to change the trajectory of her life because of his one kiss. But Mike’s guttural challenge to her, that he’d find her, that he wouldn’t allow her to walk away as he had this time, scared Khat. And it called to her, a whisper in the halls of her shattered heart.

His kiss had awakened her from a deep sleep of ignoring herself as a woman with a rich palette of emotions, of normal human needs and desires. His mouth had been like a key opening up the treasured awareness of her own body, igniting it into bright, burning life once more. He’d uncaged her yearnings she’d had before this had happened. Before that, she’d always known that someday, she’d meet a man who would hold her heart gently between his hands, respect her, love her. Khat had dreams and hopes. And yes, she’d wanted children by this man and to live happily ever after.

Mouth twisting, Khat stared into the gloom of the other cave in front of where she sat. She had been so young and naive, in her early twenties, so filled with idealistic dreams, hopes and desires. And it had all come to a crashing, violent end when she was twenty-four.

Lifting her gaze to the ceiling, hot tears stung her eyes. Khat was helpless to stop them this time. She’d stopped crying the day her torture began. Tonight, after Mike’s kiss, she cried long and hard. When she doused the light of the lantern, Khat lay on the sleeping bag Mike had used. It gave her comfort, and she could still smell his masculine scent in the fabric. It was as if he were still here.

Closing her eyes, feeling sleep pulling at her, Khat realized that she wanted to see Mike again, too. His kiss had made her aware of just how lonely she really was. The cave was now a symbol of a different sort for her. Before, it had been safety, hiding from her pain. It served as a buffer, an isolation, so that she didn’t have to live again, only exist.

Tears slipped from her eyes, warm and trailing down her face. To acknowledge all of this was too much for Khat to accept. Five years had hardened her resolve; her focus was on her people, not herself. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make. Sometimes, Khat understood, her personal needs, whatever they were, were quietly tucked away for the good of others. And it had to remain that way.

* * *

“SO, WHO THE HELL is she, Mac?” Mike asked Chief John McCutcheon.

He sat in the office with the man who held the daily reins of Delta Platoon. Mike had awakened early the morning after arriving at Camp Bravo, sat with Mac, as they all called him, and told him the entire story.

The chief was forty, had been a SEAL since he was eighteen, was married and had two grown sons. His wife, Pamela, was a schoolteacher in San Diego.

Mac rubbed his black scruffy beard and scowled. He sat with all the notes that Tarik had written down. “Black ops, for sure.” He pulled his laptop over and entered a password to get into the top secret network of SEALs and other agencies, like the CIA, Army Delta operators, Army Special Forces and Marine Force Recons utilized. Pulling up a map of their area, thirty miles between Bravo and the Pakistan border, he clicked on Marine Force Recons. It would show where teams or single operators, who were snipers, were presently located.

For safety reasons, all assets out in the Hindu Kush, no matter what black ops group it was, were updated out of Bagram four times a day. When identified as a friendly, it meant air assets or other black ops groups in the same area would not shoot each other by mistake, thinking they were the enemy. Mac stared at the map, zeroing in on where Tarik had been picked up.

“Come over here,” he said, gesturing for him to pull up a chair and sit next to him. “Look at the area where your team was.” He pointed to the enlarged map.

Mike came over, turned the chair around, sat down, his arms across the top of it. The doctor had put an old-fashioned plaster cast on his lower left arm. It was a nuisance. Looking at where Mac placed his finger, he scowled. “That’s the area,” he muttered. He saw no red dot that indicated a friendly operator in the area. “Why the hell wouldn’t she be marked as a friendly?”

“Could be deep ops, but still, someone has to know her whereabouts.”

“Can you try typing in Boulder and Archangel? See if you get a hit?”

Mac moved to another program and typed in “Boulder.” Nothing came up. He typed in “Archangel.” Immediately, a box with big red letters said “Access Denied.” Below it was a request for a password, which Mac didn’t know. “I can’t get any more intel on this code name.”

Staring at the box, Tarik cursed softly. “What about a work-around? Go to the Marine Force Recon network?”

Mac nodded and moved over to it. He typed in “Archangel.” The same box appeared again. “Look, you have to get a ride to Bagram today because the doctor said that arm has to be given an MRI.” Mac studied him. “Why don’t you get over to SEAL HQ? They’ve got intelligence officers over there. Talk to them. See if you can find out anything on this woman.”

Growling, Mike stood up. “Yeah, I’ll do it. Thanks, Mac.”

Tarik walked out of the small office and headed down the passageway to the big room where the SEALs gathered. A number of his team was there, drinking coffee and talking to the other men. He frowned and left the building, going to his tent to get his kit, his rifle and then head over to Ops.

The morning sky was pale, the sun barely edging the mountains surrounding the forward operating base. It was cold even in June at eight thousand feet. He broke into a trot to warm up. His mind, and if he was honest, his heart, were never far from Khat. Kissing her had been the most right thing in his world, and Mike didn’t regret it.

As he kitted up, hauled the ruck onto his right shoulder, clipping his M-4 rifle onto the harness across his chest, images of Khat filled his thoughts. Mike was glad to have the time to do some serious investigation to try and find out more about her. He knew the SEALs had a staff of men and women who did nothing but intel. As soon as he got done going through the medical gauntlet, he’d get over to the SEAL HQ. It was the main go-to place for anything black-ops-wise going on in this country.

* * *

LIEUTENANT ADDISON SINCLAIRE sat listening to Mike Tarik’s tale of rescue. She had a small office at SEAL HQ. Writing down the specifics, she saw the stubborn glint in the petty officer’s eyes when he told her he wanted to know who this black ops woman was. Mike sat with her at her desk. She had a large PC screen, easy to see and read.

Mike liked Addison the moment he met her. She was a petite blonde with sharp-looking blue eyes. Like the rest of SEAL HQ, she was a navy intel officer and wore SEAL cammies. Sinclaire was part of an eight-thousand-person force who supported the two thousand SEALs who took the fight to the enemy. He had a cup of coffee nearby as he watched her take the information and start her hunt.

“Hmm,” Addy said, “getting nothing on this gal. I’m going over to the Marine Corps net.”

Mike watched her hit “Access Denied” on everything. Frustrated, he said, “What about tapping into personnel files? Try her first name? See if something pops up?”

“Good idea,” the intel officer murmured, switching screens. “C-A-T?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing. What about Cathy or Cathleen? It’s probably a shortening of her original name.”

Nodding, Mike watched her type them in. A number of Cathleens came up, but every lead showed a woman marine, her MOS or skill, her rate or rank and none of them were presently deployed to Afghanistan.

“Your gal is very secretive,” Addy muttered. Her blond brows dipped as she thought about it. “Okay, let’s go another direction. She wore a hog’s tooth. Only snipers who actually graduate from marine sniper school are given one.” She brought up the names of Marine Corps sniper graduates for the past ten years. Gaze moving slowly down the list, she said, “Hmm, here’s a Shinwari, K. Listed here as having graduated seven years ago.” She tapped the screen. Turning to Mike, she said, “You did say she referred to the villages of that area as ‘her people,’ right?”

“Right.”

“Well,” Addy said, thinking about it, “the Shinwari tribe is four hundred thousand strong. And Afghan names are not like English names. They would all use ‘Shinwari’ as their last name because it denotes their tribe.”

Excitement thrummed through Tarik as he stared at the entry on the computer. “Maybe that’s her? And her first name is a K, not a C. Her first name has to be Afghan, then, not an American name.”

“Let me see if this will let me find out more. There’s an asterisk by her name, and I don’t know what that means.” She clicked on the name.

“Damn,” Mike growled. The box “Access Denied” came up. Again. Frustration ate at him like acid.

“Yeah, she’s really protected.” Addy twisted her lips in thought. “Okay, we think we have the correct name on this operator. We have Marine Force Recon snipers all over Afghanistan. They’re small in number, like our SEAL snipers, out there operating alone for weeks or months at a time, tagging the bad guys and usually going after high value targets.” She tapped her chin. “Let’s see if they’ll let me into the whereabouts of marine snipers along the border.”

Mike saw a map pop up, the same one Mac had accessed earlier. This time, the intel officer typed in Shinwari, K. The box “Access Denied” appeared.

Mouth thinning, Mike stared at the screen.

“You said she was a medic of some sort?” Addy asked.

“Yes, she is. She said she was a paramedic. But it could be a lie to throw me off her trail, too.”

“Maybe an Army 18 Delta combat corpsman,” she said, “but I’m not aware they’re allowing women to take that eighteen-month course.” She went to the army website and to the 18 Delta area. Typing in the name, nothing came up. Dead end. “Okay, let’s take another angle on this, Tarik. You said you saw scars on her back, right?”

“Yes.”

“How old do you think they were?”

He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. The scars are white, not pink. Pink would denote they happened in the past year or so.”

“Okay, so let’s play ‘what if,’ here. What if she was here in Afghanistan? A covert asset? Posing as someone else? She got caught by the bad guys? Tortured? And she survived it. But if that was so, she’d have been taken here, to Bagram hospital for treatment. Right? Or, if bad enough, sent to Landstuhl Medical Center in Germany.”

Mike shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. She could have been whipped because the scars were long and deep across her back.” He didn’t tell the intel officer he’d seen Khat naked. He wanted to protect her, not expose her to the world in that way. Or maybe he was just plain damned protective of her.

“Okay, off to Bagram’s database on patients.” She typed in the name. Her brows lifted. “Ah, a hit!” She traced her finger across the screen.

Mike leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. There, five years ago, was a Shinwari, K., admitted to the hospital.

“Let’s pull up her medical record.”

He cursed softly. The box “Access Denied” glared back at them.

“She is deeper than deep,” Sinclaire muttered, frowning and studying the screen.

Mike twisted a look up at the officer. “What does that mean to you, then?”

“That she’s working a special black ops. Probably straight out of the E ring of the Pentagon. She’s a ‘need to know basis’ only. In other words, Tarik, if you didn’t directly work with her, you’d never know she existed.” She shrugged. “You just got lucky and intersected with her. Right time, right place. But you’re like two ships passing in the night, and one doesn’t overlap with the other insofar as information goes.” She tapped the screen. “They’re really protecting her.”

Rubbing his chin, he muttered, “Okay, so let’s take it another direction. On the second night when she rode in, she had a packhorse with medical supplies. I saw them, and they’re all from the US. She was dressed in male Afghan clothes. She was wearing a blue-and-white-checked shemagh around her neck and shoulders. She’d gone somewhere. Where? And I know she’s a medic of some sort. If she’s got supplies with her, then she’s got to be going into a village. Giving people medical aid, maybe?”

“Yup, good lead. That blue-and-white shemagh she was wearing is indicative of the Shinwari tribe. Every tribe has different colors. Maybe she’s connected with an NGO? Nongovernmental organization? A charity that’s working here in this country?” Addison brought up the list of NGOs and then typed the name into the database of people associated with each charity.

“Zip,” Mike muttered.

“Yep. But we’re not done. If she’s giving medical aid to Shinwari villages, then there has to be a record of it somewhere. She’s using US supplies, and those are tracked. You said she gave you morphine, right? For your broken arm?”

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