Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

“I’m going to need a story and some photos ASAP. This is going to be released to the Afghans only. Do NOT send it up the chain for approval. This is not for Coalition Forces. Afghan eyes only!” Camp yelled.

“Sir?”

“That’s a direct order, captain.”

“Roger, sir, I have some great photos. Do you want me to run back to the PAO shop now?”

“Negative. Write your story here from the ER computer. But there’ll be a few more photos to take.”

Billy Finn came running down the corridor with two Explosive Ordnance Disposal soldiers from the 753rd National Guard unit out of West Virginia.

“Holy shit!” Finn said as he rounded the corner into the ER where Miriam was being treated and Camp managed the disaster wearing a burned uniform.

“Dawkins come here,” Camp said as he pulled Finn, the two EOD soldiers and the Public Affairs Officer against the wall opposite of where Miriam was being treated. “I need an explosion outside the front door of the hospital. Big, but not ridiculous.”

“Sir, is this authorized?” asked one of the EOD technicians.

“I’m your authorization, sergeant. Dawkins, I need you to get a photograph of the blast.”

“Photograph, my ass, all of Thunder and Lightning will go ape-shit, Camp. What the hell are you thinking?” Finn asked.

“Miriam was sent to blow this place up. For all they know she will, and she’ll be dead. Give them what they want. If we can keep Miriam alive, we might be able to find Banks.”

“Sir, what about damage to the building?” the EOD sergeant asked.

“Put the brick far enough out that it soils the wall and blows out a few windows. Finn, move everyone into the operating room and away from the front and the glass.”

“Camp, what about the Afghan soldiers and locals out there?”

“Don’t worry about them, Finn, they still think this is all a drill.”

“What about the story, captain?” Dawkins asked as she prepared her story.

“Suicide bomber detonates at the Paktya Regional Hospital today, killing an undisclosed number of Afghan soldiers, locals from Gardez and some American military personnel. Tell them no one has claimed responsibility for the bombing. Tell me about the local media here, Dawkins.”

“Well, sir, Radio Television Afghanistan has terrestrial TV and a long-reach radio signal. Al Aribya is here as is Al Jezeera. Not much in the way of print.”

“Good. Get the story over to the Afghan PAO and have him distribute with photos immediately. I want this on their TV news and radio within an hour. Don’t let anyone else beat you with the story, Dawkins. Finn, I need 10 minutes before detonation.”

Finn and Dawkins ran down the corridor as the EODs followed behind. Finn cleared out the front lobby and moved everyone over to the operating room.

“Captain Henry, we need to get Miriam loaded into an MRAP and over to the clinic on Lightning,” Camp yelled as chaos in the ER became more intense.

“Roger that, we should be ready in 30 minutes,” Henry said as he applied loose bandages to the new incision on Miriam’s right arm.

“We don’t have 30, gotta be now. No ambulance, sirens, or lights, and no urgency as we move through the checkpoint.”

“Roger.”

“They’re going to have plenty of fireworks to respond to in a few minutes.” Camp walked out the back door of the ER to look for a Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle he could borrow for a quick ride.

FOB Lightning — XO’s B-Hut

Paktya Province, Afghanistan

Colonel Kierkendahl paced back and forth in front of his desk as Camp, Finn and PAO Dawkins sat around his conference table.

“You walk onto my base and start blowing up Afghan hospitals like you’re Dustin Hoffman or something. Who the hell do you think you are, Campbell?”

“I wasn’t the would-be suicide bomber, colonel. That was the interpreter your boys cleared, vetted, housed and fed for the last four years,” Camp said with obvious contempt.

“We’ve got all of the Afghans on Thunder in full code red, Lightning is on lockdown, and I’m stuck here with the mission creep producers of Wag the Afghan Dog. What am I supposed to do now?”

“I’d wait it out, professor. Never know what snake might crawl out of the hole on his belly to claim responsibility,” Finn replied with a not-so-subtle jab at the Minnesota National Guardsman and his day job at Gustavus Adolphus College.

Dawkins’ cell phone rang.

“Got it. Thank you,” she said as she ended the call. “RTA just ran the story. Photos are up on TV, and Al Arabiya and Al Jazeera are running it shortly.”

“Running what?” Kierkendahl demanded as he pounded his desk.

“Suicide bomber detonates at the Paktya Regional Hospital, undisclosed number of Afghan soldiers, locals and American military killed,” Dawkins said as she recited some of her copy.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough of this wild, wild west crap from you two. I want you off my FOB first light tomorrow.”

Finn and Camp looked at each other and smiled.

“Oh how we’d love that, colonel,” Finn said sarcastically, “but no can do.”

The colonel’s desk phone started to ring.

“Colonel Kierkendahl… yes, yes good afternoon General Ferguson… yes, sir… they’re in my office right now… so you’ve been briefed?… yes sir, but do you realize what these two have… come again, sir?… Roger that, sir.”

Kierkendahl hung up the phone and sat down in the chair behind his desk and swiveled around so that his back faced the others. He sat silently for several seconds then exhaled loudly.

“Let me know what you need. My assets are at your disposal.”

Dawkins looked over at Camp and Finn with astonishment as Camp stood.

“What about Miriam the Terp?” Camp asked Colonel Kierkendahl.

“You mean the one RTA is reporting as dead? You saved her life then killed her off for the entire world to see. Looks like she’s your problem now, Captain Campbell. Dismissed.”

National Interagency Biodefense Center

BSL-4 Facility

Fort Detrick, Maryland

A crowd of 14 protesters with signs and posters were gathered outside the main gate to Fort Detrick as Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines pulled her Jeep Wrangler into the checkpoint queue. The Jeep window was already down so Raines could hand her credentials to security when a protester started shouting at her.

“Rot in hell, lady, you animal killer!”

Raines never looked at the young man who was hurling the venomous insults.

“Here we go again,” she complained quietly as her nails tapped the steering wheel.

Dr. Groenwald was doctoring up his grande mocha with a double shot of espresso at the atrium coffee bar in the Integrated Research Facility when Raines walked up.

“Good morning, Colonel Raines. I would have gotten you a tall skinny if I knew you were here already.”

“Who sent the greeting committee?” Raines asked as she got in line.

“Pardon me?

“The animal rights protesters at the gate… is today PETA day?”

Groenwald put the plastic lid back on his cup after three more packets of raw brown sugar and stood in line next to Raines.

“No, they’re not just the domestic protesters du jour this time. Seems like we have an international operation today,” Groenwald said with a lowered voice.

“International?”

“This crew is from SHAC, kissing cousins to the hooligans in London.”

“The SHAC Seven are out of jail now, right? Is this part of the same old crusade?” asked Raines.

“Not really. Shall we sit?” Groenwald motioned to an empty couch. “Looks like some of the peaceful groups are trying to recruit a bit of the fringe in order to add some bite to their bark. Another 15 are over at Aberdeen Proving Grounds this morning as well. The British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection has gone to great lengths to ramp up their intelligence gathering, especially on the issue of transporting research animals. They’ve even blogged about a top secret shipment we received last month. Animal Aid is now making in-roads in the states, even mounting a campaign against the American Cancer Society and the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer folks. Worse than that, the public believes what they tell them.”