His Woman in Command & Operations: Forbidden: His Woman in Command / Operation: Forbidden

“Thank you, malik sahib. You are more than generous. We hope our stay improves the health of your people.” Gavin could see the hope burning in the old man’s eyes. As an elder, he carried the weighty responsibility for everyone in his village. It wasn’t something Gavin himself would want to carry. Abbas must realize what these gifts would do to help his people. And he knew he was weighing Taliban displeasure over it, too. The Taliban would punish the village for taking the offered supplies and the old man took a surprising risk. With such humanitarian aide, this village might become less fearful of the Taliban and provide information to stop the terrorists from crossing their valley in the future. For now, no one in the villages gave away that information.

Gavin finished off the details of where the boxes would be taken and stored. All his men could speak Pashto. Robles was as fluent as Gavin and that would work in their favor. The other elders took over the management of the boxes while his A team became the muscle to carry the cartons toward the village.

Gavin watched as the elders left, parading the groups of carriers and boxes back into their village like conquering heroes. “Do you know any Pashto?” he asked Nike.

“I have problems with English sometimes and I’m Greek, remember?”

“So, I guess that’s a no.” Grinning, Gavin felt the tension melting off his tense shoulders. Just looking into Nike’s gold eyes made him hungry for her again. Black curls framed her face and Gavin had to stop himself from reaching out and threading his fingers through that dark, shining mass. “Pashto isn’t that difficult. Most villagers don’t speak English. I’ll get one of my other men to help interpret from a distance. You can always go outside the home and talk to him out in the street and he can translate. He won’t be allowed in where there is a female.”

“That sounds like a workable strategy.” She narrowed her eyes on Gavin. “So how did it go with Abbas? He looked like he’d just won the lottery when he read some of the labels on that shipment.”

Gavin laughed a little while keeping alert. Taliban came through this valley all the time, and he knew that with an American A team here, word would get out to their enemy. “The elders’ main concern is the health of their people. We’ve done this type of mission in southern Afghanistan for the last year and it was a great success. The key is in establishing trust with the Afghans.”

Nike nodded and noticed how Jackson remained alert. She was glad the .45 pistol was strapped to her left leg. And wearing a bulletproof vest gave her a strong sense of protection. She hated wearing the chafing vest, but this was Dodge City and bullets could fly at any time. “I thought I saw tears in his eyes. He kept stroking the tops of the boxes that contained the antibiotics. It reminds me of a Greek proverb—Upon touching sand may it turn to gold. Only this time, his gold is the lifesaving drugs for his people.”

Grimly, Gavin agreed and said, “I’m sure he’s seen many of his people die terrible, suffering deaths that could have been avoided if they’d only had antibiotics available to them.”

“Pnigese s’ena koutali nero,” she agreed softly in Greek.

Cocking his head, Gavin said, “What did you just say?”

“You drown in a teaspoon of water. Another one of my Greek sayings I was raised with. It’s the equivalent to your saying that for want of a nail the horse’s shoe is lost, and for want of a shoe the horse is lost, and for want of a horse, the battle is lost.” She held up her finger. “Antibiotics are a small thing, but in his world, they’re huge,” Nike said. “Why was Abbas pointing at me earlier?”

“His wife, Jameela, will bring you a hijab to wear. Just be grateful to her for the gesture. Muslim women always wear the hijab any time they’re outside their home. In Arabic it means covering or concealing.” His mouth pulled into a devilish grin. “The best part is Abbas inviting us to stay at his home. The men and women are always separated. You’ll be on the women’s side of the house and have your own room. You’ll also eat separately, too.”

“That’s a little strict.”

“I agree, but we have to be aware of their religious laws. Afghans see that as a sign of respect. And respect can, we hope, earn us friendship with them.”

Nike said, “Okay, boss, I can do it. Not exactly military issue, but in black ops you have to be flexible.”

“Good. Come on, I see a woman coming toward us. She’s got a red hijab in hand, so that must be Jameela.”

When Gavin placed his hand beneath her elbow, Nike was surprised. She felt a sense of protection emanating from him. It was like a warm blanket surrounding her and she couldn’t protest the nice gesture. The entire village, it seemed, had come out to view the boxes. Indeed, word had traveled fast. Women, men and children stood as the elders marched past them with the A team carrying some of the boxes. There was crackling excitement and expectation in the air.

“Women are pretty well hidden here from the outer world. When they’re inside their homes they don’t have to wear a burka or hijab. And there’s real power among the women. They treat one another like sisters. Even though you may think the women have it bad, they really run the place. They have a lot of power in the household and in the village decisions in general. The women learned a long time ago to stick together as a unit. United they stand and divided they fall. Woman power is strong among the Afghan women and I think you’ll enjoy being a part of it,” Gavin told her conversationally as they walked toward Jameela. The elder’s wife wore a black burka. The black wool robe swathed her from her head to her shoes. A crosshatch opening revealed her cinnamon-colored eyes.

“Don’t expect me to wear one of those things,” Nike warned him with a growl. “All the women are dressed like her. I’m not going to wear a burka. I’ll stay in my uniform.”

“They won’t ask you to don a burka, so don’t worry. Little girls don’t start wearing them until around age seven. Until then, they’ve still got their freedom from the burka.”

Nike grumbled, “I have a really hard time thinking any woman would be happy wearing a burka.”

“Try to be gracious and don’t stir up trouble with Jameela—she’s the chieftain’s wife. There’s an unspoken hierarchy here in these villages. She’s boss of the women and children. Jameela wields a lot of power even though she’s hidden under that burka. Don’t ever underestimate her position and authority. In reality, the women have equal power to any of these men. It may not appear to be like that, but from what I’ve seen, it is.”

“All women are powerful,” Nike reminded him. She felt his hand slip away as they walked to meet the tall, thin woman swathed in the black wool robe.

“No argument from me.” And then Gavin turned slightly, gave her a wink and added teasingly, “Especially you…”

Nike had no time to retort. She felt heat rising in her face. Gavin chuckled with delight. Focusing on Jameela, Nike searched the woman’s spice-brown eyes between the fabric crosshatch. It was Jameela’s only opening into the outside world. Nike felt at odds with the woman, who stood about five foot six inches tall. Only her hands, reddened and work-worn, told Nike of her hard, unrelenting life.

Gavin bowed in respect to Jameela and offered the Islamic greeting to her as they halted about six feet from one another. Jameela whispered softly the return greeting to Gavin and to Nike, who bowed slightly, pressed her hand to heart and said, “Salaam.” She didn’t know what else they said to one another, but at one point, Jameela leaned forward and gave Nike the hijab. She made some gestures indicating she should wrap it around her head.

Nike gave her a friendly smile and put it on. Once the knotted scarf was in place, Jameela’s eyes crinkled as if she were smiling. Perhaps she was grateful to Nike for honoring their customs. Not being able to see another person’s body language or their facial expressions was highly disconcerting. Nike realized in those minutes how much she truly assessed a person through nonverbal means. Jameela remained a mystery to her.

“I speak…English…little…” Jameela said haltingly to Gavin and Nike, opening her hands as if to apologize.

Nike was delighted and grinned. She saw Gavin smile and nod.

“Where did you learn English?” Gavin asked her politely. He knew that Jameela shouldn’t be talking to him. Under the circumstances, he felt it was all right but not something to be done more than once outside her home.

“When I was little, my parents lived in Kabul. I was taught English at a Christian missionary school.” Shrugging her small shoulders beneath the burka, Jameela laughed shyly. “Coming out here, I could not practice it. So, I am very poor at speaking your language, but I will try.”

“Thank you, memsahib,” Gavin told her quickly in Pashto. “My friend, Captain Nike Alexander—” he gestured toward her “—is here to help the women and children. Perhaps you could interpret for her? She does not know Pashto.”

Jameela nodded in deference toward Nike. “Of course, Captain, I would be happy to. Please, apologize to her that I speak broken English?”

Gavin nodded. “Of course, memsahib, but you speak English very well. I know Captain Alexander will be grateful for your English and translation help. Thank you.”

Jameela bowed her head slightly, her long hands clasped in front of her. Nike could have sworn the Afghan woman blushed, but it was hard to tell with the burka like a wall between them.

“You are the first Americans to come here,” Jameela told Gavin in a softened tone. “There are Sufi twin brother and sister medical doctors, Reza and Sahar Khan, who visit us once every six months. The Sufis are heart-centered and they help us greatly. The Khan twins travel from the northern border of Afghanistan and follow it all the way to the south helping the villages along the way. Then, they turn around in their Jeep and come back north to do it all over again. We bless them. The Sufis are a branch of Islam who are dedicated to compassionate love toward all, no matter what their beliefs.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the Sufis’ nature,” Gavin told her in Pashto. “I’m also aware that the Taliban hate them. The Sufis practice peace at all costs and the Taliban has been known to kill them.”

Jameela nodded sadly. “That is so, Captain Jackson. But Doctors Reza and Sahar Khan are welcomed by all our villages along the border, regardless. We greet them and bring them into our villages on two white horses. We place flower wreaths around their necks and sing their praises. That is our custom of honoring their courage to care for us regardless of the personal danger they place themselves in. They have saved many of our people over the years.”

“I’ve heard the Khans mentioned by other villagers,” Gavin said. “I hope one day to meet them. They’re heroic people and give the Sufis a good name around the world for their courage and generosity.”

Jameela hesitated and then said, “My husband is afraid Americans coming here will invite another Taliban attack upon us. Surely you know this?”

Nodding, Gavin said gently, “I understand that. We hope to win his trust over time, memsahib. And my team will be in your valley here to protect you from the Taliban. Our mission is to show that the American people are generous and care, especially for those who are sick.”

Jameela looked toward the sky. “Allah be praised, Captain. You have no idea the prayers I have said daily to Him, asking for more help. If you stay in our valley then the Taliban won’t attack us. Our Sufi brother and sister constantly travel. We understand they can only visit us twice a year.” She gestured gracefully toward the village. “Captain Alexander, you will come with me, and I will put you to work. Captain Jackson, you may join your men.”

“Of course,” Gavin said, and he winked over at Nike. “I’ll catch up with you later. And I’ll have Sergeant Robles alerted to your requests. Just relax. It will all work out.”

Nike wasn’t so sure, but said nothing. She didn’t want this humanitarian mission scuttled because of her lack of medical knowledge. As she walked with Jameela, she said, “Are your duties the same as your husband’s in running this village?” Nike knew little of the Afghan culture and didn’t want to make a gaffe. Better to ask than to assume.

Jameela nodded. “My duty first is to my husband and our family. After that, I am looked upon to provide leadership to the women of the village in all matters that concern us.”

“I see,” Nike said. She suddenly had a humorous thought that couldn’t be shared with Jameela. Wearing a bright red scarf, a dark green flight suit and a pistol strapped to her waist, she must look quite a sight! The women of the BJS would laugh until it hurt if they could see her in her new fashion garb. Still, Nike wanted to fit in, and she would allow the course of the day to unfold and teach her. Often, prejudices and misunderstandings from one country or culture to another caused tension and she would not want to create such problems.

As Nike followed Jameela down the muddy, rutted street, she was struck by the young children playing barefoot on such a cold April morning. The children’s clothes were threadbare with many patches sewn in the fabric. They shouted and danced. Their gazes, however, were inquisitive and they stared openly at Nike. What an odd combination she wore—a man’s trousers with the prescribed headdress of a Muslim woman. Fired with curiosity, the group followed them down the middle of the wide street where mud and stone homes sat close to one another.

As Nike smiled at the children, she regretted not knowing Pashto. Their eyes were button-bright and shining. Little girls and boys played with one another just as they would in the States or in her homeland of Greece. But then, as she glanced farther up the street, her heart saddened. A little girl of about six years old stood on crutches near a large stone home. The child had only one leg. Nike remembered that damnable land mines covered this country. Most of them had been sown by Russians, but of late, it had been the Taliban, too. Had this child stepped on one? Nike’s heart contracted. There was no doctor here to help her. No painkillers. No antibiotics. How had she survived?

“Jameela? That little girl over there? Who is she?”