Jericho 3 Read Online Free PDF Page B

weight and put Camp on the manifest.
    “Seems a bit late for snow.”
    “Sir, it’s been warm and comfortable here in Bagram. Chilly at night. But mid-March can bring some heavy snows in the Khyber Pass and Hindu Kush region.”
    “How long have you been in theatre, soldier?”
    “Nine months, 17 days, and – judging by the clock – 11 hours and 13 minutes, sir.”
    Camp laughed.
    “I assume that’s your best guess?”
    “No, sir. That’s what my donut girl says.” The sergeant turned his computer monitor around so that Camp could see the countdown clock that featured a scantily clad pin-up who took more clothing off as “in country” time counted down. The “donut girl” was an animated PowerPoint clock that helped thousands of soldiers endure multiple deployments.
    “Khyber Pass…so you’re pretty familiar with the terrain around here?”
    “Yes, sir, but only as it pertains to flights. FOB Lightning is pretty damn close to Pakistan and the North Waziristan region. The Taliban should be heading back down from their caves after the winter.”
    “How far?”
    “Sir?”
    “How many miles from Lightning to Pakistan?”
    “Fifty miles top, sir, right up the Tochi Pass, unless you prefer to take the Silk Road.”
    “Pesh Habor,” Camp said to himself.
    “Sir?”
    “It was called Pesh Habor in the Bible. Khyber is both a Hebrew word and a Pashtu word. Means fort. Darius the First, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, the Israelites, Arabs and even the Russians; they all tried to conquer this place.”
    “And now the Americans?” asked the sergeant with eyebrows raised.
    “We don’t make the policy, staff sergeant, that’s for the geniuses in Washington. We just enforce it.”
    “Roger that, sir, you’re all set. We’ll call the flight about 1330 hours, so you’ve got about 90 minutes to blow.”
    Camp took his bag and walked across the street to the USO hoping to find a computer so he could let Raines know he had arrived safely, albeit 14 long hours later.
    Datta Khel, Miran Shah District
    North Waziristan, Pakistan
    M ajor Banks was rolled up like a mummy in the back of a small pick-up truck. His mouth was still covered with duct tape. His eyes felt swollen. His left cheek was throbbing, probably beaten during episodes of consciousness. His hands were still tied behind his back.
    The three-vehicle convoy made its way out of Miran Shah and into the distant but neighboring village of Datta Khel. Finally stopping outside a sheet metal house, partially constructed of rocks and mud, they saw smoke pouring out of the fire stack.
    Four men grabbed him and hoisted his rolled body over their heads. He heard the voices of several people inside, but nothing was said in English.
    They placed him on a long table, maybe a bed. He was face down.  The ropes that cinched the Afghan floor rug together were untied and he was rolled out of the rug in two or three swift pulls. The quick spin sent his body to the mud floor where his forehead and nose hit first. Blood poured from his nose.
    Three men pulled him up to his feet then slammed him down in a chair. His eyes started to adjust to the light, as he squinted to shield himself from the bright open fire in the pit against the back wall.
    The leader barked out some command and one of the men ripped the duct tape away from his mouth, which quickly filled with the unmistakable taste of blood from what was probably a broken nose.
    “ Hawale karna! ”
    One of his captors pulled out a knife, a Pesh-kabz, and held it in front of his eyes. With a wicked smile, he turned him around and cut the plastic ties that bound his hands together. He pulled his hands forward and rubbed them as he tried to loosen his shoulder joints.
    His feet were still bound. Another man handed him a cloth and pointed to his nose. He applied pressure with the cloth and tilted his head back, never taking his eyes off the Pesh-kabz.
    His eyes looked past the knife where he saw another bed. Someone