(circa MMX)

"Love is the flower of life,

and must be plucked where it is found,

and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration."

D. H. Lawrence

Trash. So wrong.

And she knew it. Even her subconscious knew it was wrong. So why was she rolling with it? And why in god's name did it feel so damned right?

The shadows of evil lurking in his eyes were enough to terrorize a demon. And that's all Dahab could see of her captor: his eyes, darker than sin. His face, his head... his entire body were draped in the black robes and Shemagh headdress of a Bedouin bandit.

She knew to call out would be useless. A sandstorm was raging outside his tent, howling like the hounds of Hell. And even so, his band of cutthroats was the only life within a hundred miles of the oasis. Escape was impossible.

Dahab knew the invisible red fiber connecting her to her ultimate destiny could be throttled in this barbarian's fist.

Her only hope was to succumb to his feral desires; offer him ecstasy beyond his fantasies. Perhaps then he would take her as his woman, spare her the unspeakable abuse waiting at the hands of his pack of jackals. Yes: passivity rather than defiance. Perhaps the upper hand this rogue enjoyed could be swayed.

Too late.

The hollow-eyed reaper swatted Dahab across the face, sending her sprawling into a pile of the cushions scattered about the floor of the tent.

She hauled herself onto all fours, flicked her head sideways, tossing back her mane of fiery hair. A trickle of red seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flashed an insolent dare... then, she allowed her lips to swell into a hint of pout. She touched the edge of her lower lip, licked blood from her finger. A charge of excitement thrummed in her lower body.

Dahab saw the corners of her tormentor's eyes crinkle and she knew he was grinning in anticipation. She detected a slight tremor in his hand as he unstrapped his scimitar. He groaned hungrily, spoke for the first time, "Allahu Akbar" –God is great.

The brigand knelt to one knee beside her and seized Dahab's face in his rough hands. She tilted up her chin, offering herself to be kissed. But he simply ogled her with heated, penetrating eyes. And he continued staring at her, examining every aspect of her face. Finally he let one hand drift down her neck, along her shoulder, down, and then under to joggle each breast. Then in one swift movement he flipped Dahab onto her back, at once ripping the tattered rags from her body.

She was naked. Her chest was rising and falling with breaths charged by fear and excitement.

Again he inspected her, intently, completely, touching her lightly with his fingertips here, there... everywhere. She closed her eyes and let her limbs fall loose, demonstrating she was in his thrall.

Three insistent raps on the door of the tent and one of his henchmen calling her name –in English– slammed a halt to the thrall and thrill; it would hafta wait.

Door of the tent? English? Huh?

Dahab opened her eyes. The tent transformed into a nicely appointed bathroom; the howling sandstorm was replaced by the growling jets of her Jacuzzi. And it was no henchman calling her name, it was Jiddah, her roomie.

"I am aware of what you are doing in there," Jiddah sang out, sticking to English. "You know there is no time for that foolishness. Mohammed Khan requested we observe the khariji –foreigners– during the shura –meeting. Their Jeep has arrived. Make haste!"

"Mm-hmm," Dahab sighed and called back in the Pashto language, "I will be ready in  minutes." She cooled her jets, said, "You know you ruined a very elaborate fantasy, Jiddah." She slid her butt forward til her head was under water.

Dahab frequently indulged her fantasies; excused herself based on the long bouts of involuntary celibacy. Luckily, Jiddah was unaware of the content... impossible to excuse that silly trash. Dahab surfaced, sputtering out cheek-fills of air. 

Jiddah was still at the door. She was saying, "You require fewer fantasies and more friends, little one. And I am not referring to Facebook friends. I am meaning flesh-and-blood friends. It is time for you to have a man... a real man. You should depart Afghanistan, find one."

"Do not worry for me, Jiddah. Dahab has chosen her man."

Jiddah flung open the bathroom door and stared at Dahab, wide-eyed. She said, "What do you say? You have a beau? How could I not know? Tell me of this gentleman."

Dahab popped the stopper with her toe, climbed out of the bath. She did not make eye contact with Jiddah. She took a towel from the vanity and buried her head in it, began scrubbing her hair dry.

"Do not torture me," Jiddah beseeched. "Tell me of this secret suitor."

"He is no secret, Jiddah."

Dahab lifted one heel, barre-style, onto the edge of the vanity in order to towel her leg. She continued dreamily, still in Pashto, "My man is reckless, but true. He is fearless, and honest. He is intelligent, but humble. He has bold hands, but a gentle heart." She switched legs, stared pensively into the mirror. "Together we will craft a love, and love-making, that only a mad poet could define."

The two gals stared at one another, allowed that final thought to hang in the air a moment before Jiddah demanded, "Who is this man? He must be a god!"

"I have not met him," Dahab answered, and continued to fasten Jiddah's eyes, but now with an added dash of impertinence as she finished with, "because such a man does not exist; it would take a god."

Flynn Montague squatted onto his haunches, his rear-end resting on the backs of his dusty combat boots. Unlike the hosts of this shura –council meeting– he had never acquired a comfort level for sitting cross-legged. He removed his cap, hung it over one knee. He pushed his sunglasses back into his tightly-cropped black hair.

Samhal Abdali, his friend and brother-in-arms, was seated to Flynn's right, vigilant and wary.

They were in Afghanistan –a thousand miles south of Hopeless, as Samhal was fond of saying. Today they were guests at a shura in the village of Veerona.

Flynn studied the village elders seated opposite on the carpet. Their faces were like dried peach-stones. The man in the center sported what might pass as a smile, although it was most likely a permanent rictus of suspicion. His lateral incisors were MIA; his remaining teeth would look better planted on Boot Hill. Flynn had been in this 'sandbox' for three months and was only beginning to become accustomed to the National Geographic moments that filled each day.

He recited the appropriate greetings for this province –as coached by Samhal– regarding the men openly, hoping they could discern the sincerity and gravity of his intent despite his atrocious accent –Flynn's command of Pashto fell somewhere between nada and nil.

Samhal on the other hand was perfectly fluent; in a few other languages as well, a regular polyglot. He was a well- and self-taught man. He took over, polished the greetings and introductions, translated to Flynn those of the elders, and then continued with an explanation of the purpose of their visit.

Flynn was not comfortable –the heat coupled with leg cramps– he fidgeted. He shifted his weight, re-positioned his elbows across his bent knees. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on the business at hand; a burning tic of unease piqued his right temple. He surreptitiously angled his line of sight over Samhal's shoulder toward the source.

Transfixed.

An Afghan girl, seated beside a woman on a bench in front of one the nearby buildings, was staring at him...or maybe through him?

Eyes, that's all Flynn could see of her. Her orthodox robes –niqab and abaya– concealed all else, from her head all the way down to her dainty ruby slippers.

Those eyes: startling, framed and accentuated dramatically by the thin slash in her black shroud. Eyes, mesmerizing in their contradictions: intense calm, youthful wisdom, inscrutable candor. But what struck Flynn most was their color. Her irises were gold! Not yellow. No, they were deep rich gold, like Prairie wheat under an August sunset.

He wasn't yet aware, but Flynn was destined to remember this moment for the rest of his life, and beyond.

The trance was broken when Samhal, with a hand on Flynn's shoulder, reverted to English, "Monty, the elders have offered assurances," he scoffed, "that they are cultivating no poppy crops beyond quota, and that they have had no contact with the Taliban, whatsoever."

A familiar refrain. This Afghan ditty had already become a tedious tune. Flynn had recently set a personal goal to develop a few virtues, pay down some of his Karmic deficit, maybe take up yoga, realign his chakras. But it was looking like patience might have to be scratched from his list. For this contract to be profitable he needed to make headway, effin'-ASAP. He was all-in, and then some, on this deal.

He and Samhal had driven along acre-upon-acre of poppy fields on the hot dusty trip to Veerona. There was no way in hell this community's production was within the UN-negotiated limit. Sure as shit draws flies these guys were supplying opium to the Taliban.

BlackSky demanded results. Flynn knew he had to get an inside track, STAT. He said, "Sammy, tell them we'll pay a reward. Assure them we're not with the coalition forces, we can arrange protection."

As Samhal relayed that to the elders, Flynn caught the one with tombstone teeth stealing a glance in the direction of the two females seated on the bench. Flynn inclined his head and mopped dusty sweat from his face with the camo Buff draped round his neck... all the while keeping a sharp eye on the woman and the golden-eyed girl.

Got it! Barely perceptible, but unmistakable: Goldie had moved her head side-to-side, ever so slightly, just once... hmm, interesting, Flynn reflected.

The tombstone guy replied to Samhal. There was no need for Sammy to translate; Flynn had become familiar with the Pashto word for "No". He turned purposefully and stared boldly into the eyes of Goldie. Implacable. Although, it was possible those two gilded beauties had narrowed –not quite so round and large as they had been. And he'd be damned if he didn't imagine cheeky defiant lips concealed behind that veil. Hmph.

Then those golden eyes burst wide open and the girl leapt forward, one arm fully outstretched.

All at once: Flynn perceived movement to his left; heard someone yell, "Allahu Akbar"; he dropped to his right, evading the attack and brunt of the blow; and he sensed Sammy, an explosive blur behind him. Flynn rolled and was on his feet instantly, knees flexed, 9mm Browning cocked and unlocked.

Too late.

Samhal Abdali already had a knee in the assassin's chest, a knife pressed to his throat. The razor edge of the blade glinted bright red.

A melee broke out. Tombstone and the other elders leaped forward, jabbering and gesticulating, trying to pull Samhal off the man.

A crowd of villagers materialized instantly, joining the fray, blocking Flynn's line of fire. But he had already holstered his sidearm –deadly force was unnecessary, the crowd was mostly women and children.

Flynn gave his head a shake. Pink and baby-blue stars were floating dizzily in his peripheries. He snatched up his cap and shades and jostled unsteadily through the ruckus, made his way to Samhal.

Samhal was standing now, holding the lad –a young teenager– by the scruff of the neck with one hand and the would-be murder weapon –a crude hatchet– with the other. Samhal's knife was sheathed. A woman –likely the assailant's mother– was trying to wrest the boy from Samhal's grasp while he engaged in strident exchanges with Tombstone and anybody else who felt so inclined.

"Sammy, Sammy," Flynn yelled above the din, "let the little bugger loose. Let him go with his mom."

"Captain Monty, we should make an example of this most miserable wretch. Let me at least lop off a couple of souvenirs," he motioned with the hatchet below the lad's waist. "He'll not soon forget Samhal Abdali and Captain Montague."

"C'mon, Sammy, your ugly mug and that sick blade of yours will be his nightmare for weeks to come. Let him loose, it'll buy us some good faith."

"Good faith! Aw, Monty, you grow soft with age. Forget your foolish 'Karmic deficit'. In Allah's name I wish you had never read that cursed book." With that, Samhal pushed the boy disdainfully and his mother herded him away to safety.

"Julie, that soldier is harmed. You must bring him to our house and see to his wound," Jiddah said as she watched anxiously from the window.

Ever the guardian, Jiddah had seized Julie at the first sign of a disturbance and hustled her away from the village square and into their home. Otherwise Julie would have been in the middle of it. The young woman detested violence but she had no fear and no compunction when it came to standing up to the enemy, whoever that may be from one week to the next. They had observed the action from inside. Now, both women were visibly relieved, seeing things had not escalated beyond the brief scuffle.

Julie replied in Pashto, "I will not help one of them. Those men are not soldiers, Jiddah. They are hired guns, mercenaries. If they had harmed Saddiq I would have helped them all right," she narrowed her eyes and brandished a tight fist, "helped them across The Styx, straight into Hades!" She sighed in frustration, most of her steam blown, said, "And, Jiddah, my name is Dahab; I am no longer Julie. And could you speak Pashto, please?"

"Your mama –may Allah protect her soul– desired I speak English with you. I learn, you maintain, remember? So, Juliet McNeill, I will continue to speak English. And to respect your mama, you should as well.

"Now go to the soldier, bring him in, his head bleeds." Jiddah made a tsk sound in disapproval, "That foolish Saddiq is fortunate the soldier spared his life."

"I will not," Julie said. She crossed her arms resolutely. She hated to oppose Jiddah, she was everything to her, both friend and closest thing to family, since the murder of Julie's parents. But aiding the enemy, and the worst kind at that, a mercenary, was everything her father had stood against. She unfolded her arms and scratched at her nose.

Julie marched to the other side of the room and plunked herself at the café-sized table where they took their meals. She grabbed a dog-eared magazine from the wall shelf and pretended to read. Jiddah regarded her for a moment, gave a mutter of frustration as she replaced her veil, and then hurried out the door.

Oh, here we go, thought Julie. Jiddah had been aptly named –it was grandmother in Arabic. Though she was Julie's senior by only a few years, she acted like a grandmother, to everybody. In her mind a human being in need had no race, religion, gender... no labels. But to Julie those men outside had a label all right: Enemy. They were a direct threat to Veerona, and her.

She skipped to the window to take a boo. She could see Jiddah speaking with the injured man. Julie watched Jiddah raise her hand gently to his forehead. The man swiped his own hand across the area and looked at his palm, gave a shrug.

Wanker, Julie thought derisively. They're all the same: brazen bravado, all body, no brains. She could see Jiddah had convinced this one to accompany her back to the house.

Hmph, Julie told herself as she watched him approach, this guy with his movie-star good looks is definitely no ordinary soldier. Black ball-cap, sport shades, tight black tee, camo pants and neck Buff: the uniform of a BlackSky soldier of fortune, the worst kind of invader; killing and looting without so much as a pretense of moral justification; it's all about the money for them.

And this one was way over-the-top. No flak jacket and armed with only a pistol. The ego has landed, Julie mused with a contemptuous smirk. His life is probably one scene after another filled with violence, coarse language and gratuitous sex.

She replaced her veil, scurried back to the table and sat with her back to the door, wondering why it felt like somebody had released a charm of hummingbirds in her chest.

Nice digs, Flynn noted to himself.

The interior of the place was astounding. Its drab mud-exterior walls had suggested a dark hovel. Far from it. Large bright open spaces decorated with sandalwood furniture, fat cushions, mosaic-tiled floors and Moroccan carpets.

Flynn had observed the village was connected to the grid that had been reconstructed by the coalition engineers, but he wasn't expecting kitchen appliances, AC and Internet access? W-T-F? he spelled to himself, Veerona has fared damn well despite being smack in the middle of a war zone.

"Please, Captain Montague, follow me," Jiddah said. "I will take you to the lavatory facilities. Your wound must be cleaned and dressed. Here is Julie McNeill. She has training. She will make you fit like a fiddle."

The girl turned abruptly; like a wild horse she flashed those startling eyes at Flynn. His heart thumped out SOS palpitations.

She redirected an admonishing stare at Jiddah and a declaration in Pashto, "I am not going to help this hired killer, Jiddah. He can bleed to death for all I care... so long as he does not leave a mess on our floor." She turned her head and angrily scratched at her nose through her veil.

The girl's abaya was light-weight linen. Her current pose had her breasts threatening to burst clean through the material. And Flynn couldn't help noticing: In all likelihood –and against all odds– it appeared nothing came between Julie McNeill and those flimsy robes. He began to receive SOS signals from a different organ.

"Correct, Juliet," Jiddah answered evenly in English, "the bandages and washcloths are in the linen closet. I will direct Captain Montague to the lavatory; you gather your things.

"Captain, do not bother with your boots," she added when Flynn bent to remove them.

Jiddah was one of those impossible people... inexplicably impossible to refuse. Julie McNeill drummed a few beats with her fingers on the table but then issued a theatrical sigh and proceeded to the linen closet.

The bathroom complemented the main living-area decor. It was large, ceramic-tiled, had a soaker tub and walk-in shower, all modern and sparkling clean. Jiddah gestured and Flynn seated himself in a chair facing a vanity mirror. He felt big, and dirty. He said, "I'm sorry to be troubling you, ma'am, there's really no need. Besides, I don't think your roommate appreciates the intrusion."

"Do not mind Julie, Captain. She can be... high-spirited, but Julie is a good girl. Your wound requires attention. I will go hurry her." She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder before leaving.

Nice lady, Flynn thought. Her soft brown eyes were filled with warmth and grace. He had no idea what she looked like but her pleasant manner and caring soul were beautiful. And her English was excellent. The other one, Julie, evidently understood English to a certain degree. But couldn't speak it? Julie McNeill? Flynn wondered what in hell the deal was here. And how come a couple of Afghan females were inviting a male stranger into their home? It was all bizarre. He decided to learn more; these two could maybe provide more help than just a bandage.

Flynn leaned forward and examined his wound. Jiddah was probably right, it was worse than it felt. That little bastard had deposited a three-inch gash across the left side of his forehead along the hairline, and it was plenty deep. Flynn removed his Buff and began wiping away the crud and blood.

"Nəu".

There it was again: 'No' in Pashto. Only this time it was not issued in the guttural voice of Tombstone. This time it was velvet smooth, like a tropical breeze. Flynn turned and was practically eye-to-eye with Julie McNeill. Again he became transfixed by those ineffable beauties seductively framed by the slit of her niqab.

She set down her things. In a gesture of disgust she plucked the Buff from his hand using the tips of her thumb and forefinger and lobbed it into the corner.

She leaned in close and examined the injury. She gently took his head in both hands and had him tilt toward the light. She took a cloth and went to the sink, her diaphanous abaya rustling softly about her legs.

Flynn eyed her reflection in the mirror. The bright bathroom lights framed her figure.

Uh-huh, he confirmed to himself, odds be damned, nothing but unfettered female under that costume. God, that hurts. He wagered this manner of treatment likely qualified as torture under the Geneva Convention.

She returned with the cloth, hot and moist.

Julie positioned herself on Flynn's right. She turned his head toward her, reaching round with her left hand. He noticed she had particularly long eyelashes; they meshed when she blinked. She began rubbing the open wound briskly with the washcloth.

That snapped Flynn out of his sweet reverie. He sucked in a breath, but stifled it. She was rough on the gash but she knew her stuff, it had to be thoroughly cleansed. And as far as Flynn was concerned she could do this... all... day... long.

Her face was so close to his that he could feel her breath through the thin silk veil. She smelled of fresh apricots. And though he eased back in the chair as much as a gentleman would, he couldn't avoid her breast squishing into his shoulder. Oh well. C'est la guerre, and the wages thereof, he rationalized.

She rinsed the cloth in cold water and applied pressure while tenderly cradling his head in her other hand.

Flynn decided the timing was right. He peeped under her arm and made eye contact with her reflection. He said, enunciating each word precisely, "Miss... Julie? My... name... is... Flynn. Flynn... Montague. You... understand... English?"

"Nəu, Dahab." She hardened her eyes.

Okay, maybe the timing wasn't right. He had caught the 'No' part, and the irritated look.

This young lady definitely had some kind of issue with him, or maybe the English language? Whatever the case, he felt a one-sided conversation was better than none, he'd need to distract himself somehow. Her friggin' eyes, extremely disconcerting, were consuming his thoughts, had him wondering what secrets were hidden behind them. And, he couldn't help envisioning what was so immodestly hidden beneath all that black linen. It reminded Flynn that it had been months since he and Samhal had had any R-and-R, or, whatever.

"In any case," he went on, at first the words sticking in his throat like chunks of gravel, "I want to thank you for the hospitality, Miss. I know it's a hassle, and an imposition, me being associated with BlackSky. I've seen the horror this conflict has caused." He made certain that sincerity was evident in his voice and in his slate-grey eyes. "But trust me, I'm not out to harm anybody in Veerona, or this entire country for that matter. My job is to help choke-off the flood of opium pouring out of this region. Then, I'm putting a whole lotta' gone between me and Dodge."

Flynn paused and tried to gauge a reaction. But all he perceived was a shade of disdain darkening the girl's eyes. Though he couldn't be sure, because this Afghan chick was harder to read than a rain-soaked newspaper.

Julie removed the washcloth and it appeared she had staunched the bleeding. She inspected the laceration, gave a resigned sigh and took a couple things from the medical kit.

The wound required stitches. Otherwise there was a good chance of infection, especially considering this guy's apparent living conditions. And even without infection he'd be left with a nasty scar if it was left to heal on its own. Not that she gave a poop about Captain Flynn Montague, or his appearance. Nevertheless, since she had conceded to treat him in the first place, Julie considered it a responsibility to do it correctly. But that did not include granting him the courtesy of pleasant conversation.

She held a package of swaged suture needles in front of Flynn's face. She lifted her eyebrows and gave him a questioning shrug. She had no anesthetics, this was going to hurt.

He grinned wryly, nodded and said, "I'm in your hands, Florence. Stitch 'er up."

So what, Julie told herself. So Flynn Montague has a down and sexy voice that would be brilliant doing TV ads for pickup trucks. Big deal. That doesn't make him any less of a barbarian. She broke eye-contact, and forced her attention back to the job at hand.

Julie flushed the cut with a saline solution then applied an antibacterial liquid. She held the needle clasp in her right hand and tweezers in the other. She retrieved one of the arc-shaped needles from the package.

The needles were surgically sharp. But human skin is surprisingly resistant. Flynn Montague's was like saddle leather. Julie had to apply appreciable force to penetrate down through one side of the wound and then up through the other. She saw the Captain grip and squeeze his thighs, his forearm muscles and tendons writhing pythons beneath his darkly-tanned skin. His eyebrows tightened but he uttered not a sound.

To ensure the most exact approximation of the wound, thereby reducing scarring, Julie was using an interrupted instead of running stitch. That meant she must 'pop-off' and tie the suture for each stitch. It inflicted additional excruciating pain but it couldn't be avoided.

Perspiration beaded across Flynn's brow and on the bridge of his nose. Julie's elemental instincts had her admiring his high level of pain tolerance, and empathizing with him in his silent agony.

She also couldn't help noticing the outline of his upper lip. It was formed perfectly in the shape of an archer's bow... awfully appealing, under different circumstances.

The wound required nine stitches. More than once Julie felt herself wanting to tell Flynn how terribly sorry she was. But she suppressed the impulse, reminding herself this man was the impenitent enemy; he deserved a bunch more than just a little pain.

When the suturing was finally complete, Julie applied some antibiotic ointment, covered her work with light bandaging then gave Flynn's shoulder a couple of pats to indicate she was finished. His shoulder was as firm as tire rubber. In spite of herself Julie had to pull in an extra measure of oxygen. She couldn't deny Flynn Montague represented a prime example of the human male species... physically, at least.

"Well that wasn't entirely pleasant," Flynn quipped in an obvious understatement as he rose from the chair. "It does kinda' make you feel alive though. But not something you'd wanna take up as a hobby, eh?" He offered her a disarming smile.

Julie averted her eyes and tried to exhibit no reaction. Though in those 'different circumstances' –completely different circumstances – she had to admit she could be exceedingly attracted to this guy, in an animal kind of way, and her reaction would be unmistakable. As it was, she made a point of ignoring him, began gathering her things.

He said, "Anyway, whether you understand me or not, I want to thank you for this, it's much appreciated. I hope I get the chance to return the favor someday."

She kept her back to him, rolled her eyes, thinking his 'return the favor' line was so cliché... so sleazy. Julie reckoned she had Captain Montague's number: He was the kind of guy that expects a girl to fall on her bed with her knees in the air, then he comes and goes before the sheets have warmed. Well, Greek god or no, he had another think coming if he thought she was going to join the long laid line. Away from her Jacuzzi jets, Julie was convinced she had complete control of her libido.

Flynn Montague gave a shrug, turned and departed.

Outside, the heat was obscene after the luxury of air-conditioning, hot enough to melt your molars. Flynn's head began to throb. He delicately donned his cap and shades. He saw Samhal and Jiddah chatting beside the Humvee.

"Ah, Boss," Samhal called out, "it appears you have undergone royal treatment. Did you opt for the full spa package or only the facial?"

Flynn waved off the jibes but Samhal was merciless, "Please do not be shy, Monty. If you wish to stay for the pedicure, Sammy will be out here under the most pitiless sun, guarding our precious interests, do not concern yourself with my discomfort."

"Yeah sure, Sammy, you're cracking me up," Flynn replied as he approached. Then, as he came up to them he addressed Jiddah, "Thank you so much, Jiddah." He gingerly doffed his cap. "And, uh, please pass along my thanks to Miss McNeill. Your kindness is a rare gem in these times."

"It is nothing, Captain. We may not be in the same boat, but we are together in the same storm."

"Speaking of togetherness, Monty," Samhal broke in, his words tumbling out in a flurry, "Jiddah has most graciously invited us to stay for dinner. I told her, alack and alas, we are expected at Fort Apache. But it made me think, a most favorable option: I remain here, you contend with our friend Colonel Kurtz; I hike back to our campsite later tonight." Samhal offered up one of his famous wide-mouth smiles –he loved showing off his set of pure white teeth. His fine teeth and his command of English were his pride and joy.

Flynn's initial impulse was to nix Samhal's obvious gold-bricking scheme. Besides, he didn't relish dealing with Kurtz on his own. But then he thought: Hmm, this could work out well. Maybe Sammy's fluency in Pashto will pay off yet again; maybe he can get the scoop on these two mystery gals, the source of their special status and influence. Who knows, they may be the inside track.

"Okay, Sammy, Roger that," Flynn said. "You're right, there's no need for both of us to go. I'll catch ya later back at the ranch." He climbed into the sagging Humvee and after a few attempts and some choice words was able to fire it up.

He backed into the cloud of blue-black diesel exhaust, tipped his cap then trundled off in the direction of Fort Apache.

Colonel-effing-Kurtz, Flynn thought ruefully. Yeah, this'll be a bucket of laughs. 'Bout as fun as having your goddamned eyelids sewn shut.