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And then, her world came to an abrupt halt. A glaring red light began to blink back at her on the console—the forward engine light. Scowling, she flipped it off and on. Red. Damn. That meant either a problem with the engine or a screw-up with the light itself. Nike could do nothing at this point.

“Red Fox One, I have a red light for the forward engine. I can’t go anywhere. Can you contact base to get a helo out here with a couple of mechanics? Until then, I’m grounded. I’ll radio Operations and get further instructions from them. Over.”

“Bad news, Checkerboard One. Stay safe down there. Out.”

Well, it didn’t take long for Nike to get her answers. Major Dallas Klein, who was in ops, answered her.

“Stay where you are. We can’t get a mechanic team out until tomorrow morning. Stick with Captain Jackson and his team. Your load master will remain with the helicopter. In the meantime, go with the A team. We’ll be in touch by radio when we know the time of arrival to your location. Over.”

Great. Nike scowled and responded. “Roger. Over and out.”

Now what? She gestured for Andy to come forward because he had not been privy to what was going on. Shaking her head, Nike felt a sense of dread combined with unexplainable elation. She was stuck here with Jackson, who clearly would be delighted with her company. Double damn.

Jackson walked toward village elders. The knot of men stood watching them. But before he could talk with them, Nike appeared at his shoulder, her face set and disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, anchoring to a halt.

“My helo has engine failure and I’ve got orders to stay the night here with you and your team. My load master will remain with the bird. A mechanic team will be flown out to fix it tomorrow morning.”

She didn’t seem too happy about the news but joy threaded through Gavin. “Engine failure.” He tried to sound disappointed for her. “Sorry about that, Captain Alexander.”

Nike tried to avoid his powerful stare and glanced over at the knot of elders. They were a sour-looking bunch. Every one of them wore a deep, dark scowl of suspicion. She returned her attention to Jackson. “Let’s look at the positives. This engine failure could have happened en route. We’re damned lucky to have landed before the problem.”

“And here I thought you were a doom-and-gloom pessimist.” Jackson grinned and desperately wanted this moment alone with her, but the elders had to be properly greeted.

Nike shook her head and muttered, “Jackson, you’re a piece of work.”

He smiled quickly and then resumed his serious demeanor toward the elders. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“As always, I’ll take anything you say as a positive.”

“Get real,” she gritted between her teeth so that only he could hear her. On either side of them, the team had fanned out, hands on their weapons but trying not to appear threatening to the elders.

“Do me a favor?” Gavin said.

“Depends upon what it is.”

“These elders have strict laws regarding their women. I’ll be speaking to them in Pashto. They may have a problem with you not wearing a hijab, or scarf, on your head. That scarf is a sign of honoring their Moslem beliefs. So, if it comes to pass that someone hands you a scarf, wear it.”

Nike nodded. “No problem.”

“Thanks, I needed that.”

“Judging from their looks, you’re going to need more than a scarf on my head to turn this situation into a positive, honcho.”

Gavin said nothing. Nike took a step back, partly hidden by his tall, lean frame. The elders looked aged, their weathered faces deeply lined. Their skin was tobacco-brown, resembling leather, because of their tough outdoor life. Nike knew the elements at the top of the world in this mountain chain were unforgiving and brutal. Villages along the border had no electricity, no sewers and sometimes little water. These rugged Afghan people eked out a living raising goats and sheep. At this altitude, poppy crops wouldn’t grow because the season was too short. Winter came early and stayed late. Nike had found out through the weather officer at BJS ops that snow started in September and lasted sometimes into June. That was why they couldn’t grow crops and relied heavily on their animals for a food source.

The elders had good reason to be serious-looking, their hands hidden in the sleeves of their woolen robes, chins held high and their dark eyes assessing the A team. These proud and fiercely independent Afghan people had few resources. Beneath their threadbare woolen clothing, Nike saw the thinness of all the elders. There wasn’t a fat one in the group. Their leanness was probably due to the hardships of living in such a rocky, inhospitable place. She felt compassion and respect toward them, not animosity.

Gavin had been given an in-depth briefing on Zor Barawul before arriving at the village. Photos had been taken and the elders were identified in them. He recognized the chief elder, Abbas, who separated himself from the group. He was in his sixties and every inch like his name, which meant “angry lion” in Pashto. They approached each other like two competing football-team captains staring one another down. Tension sizzled in the cold morning air between the two groups of men. Walking forward, Gavin extended his hand to Abbas, who wore a dark brown turban and cloak. The man’s face was as narrow and thinned as a starving lion’s, horizontal lines deeply carved across his broad brow. Gashes slashed down on either side of his pursed lips. Ordinarily, the Afghan custom of greeting was to shake hands and then kiss each other’s cheeks as a sign of friendship.

That wasn’t going to happen here. Gavin fervently hoped that Abbas would at least shake his extended hand. The elder glared at him and then down at his hand. No, that wasn’t going to happen, either. Gavin pressed his right hand over his heart, bowed referentially and murmured, “Salaam-a-laikam.” This meant “peace be with you,” and was a greeting given no matter if the person were Moslem or of some other faith. It was a sign of respect and of the two people meeting on common ground.