Chapter One
It was damn hot in the sandbox. In the town of Bamyan, a cluster of mud brick homes huddled together under the merciless sun. Temperatures soared close to ninety degrees, a heat wave for the region, despite the lateness of the afternoon. Jazz’s sunglasses barely filtered the blinding glare off the sand and camel-colored buildings when she and the other members of the FET or Female Engagement Team arrived in the MRAP armored fighting vehicle at dawn.
Her tan MARPATs were dusty with sand. The grit seemed to get into everything. The Bamyan province was designated a mountainous region, but it didn’t feel like one today. In addition to Jazz, her three-woman unit consisted of Mary “Stormer” Phillips and Roxanne “Roxy” Cortez. She’d written to Zach and Logan the other day that she never imagined two women more different than she, yet they’d developed an instant rapport.
Stormer’s mocha-colored skin and Amerasian features combined to make her a stunner. She may have turned down a career as a brilliant runway model, but she made an excellent Marine. Roxy was born in Puerto Rico and descended from Cuban immigrants with a little Russian to give her Latin looks a pair of the most incredible blue eyes.
Jazz took a picture of the three of them and planned to email it the next chance she got. Ten months since she’d enjoyed a rapturous night of fantasy in Las Vegas, she missed Zach and Logan more every day. It might as well have been ten years. She’d managed a weekend escape to Germany. Four days of bliss with Logan spent naked and hot, then another brief three days in Italy, but only Zach made it over for that trip.
Today’s exercise required sitting inside a private classroom at the University of Bamyan. Their audience was a group of Afghani girls whose American counterparts would be trying out for cheerleading at home. These girls and their mothers were as far removed from those experiences as possible. Jazz’s team had been making the rounds throughout the region, inviting women to the university’s slowly restored campus in an effort to engage them with academic possibilities, while learning more about their needs. Stormer led today’s conversation.
Most of the women, even in the larger cities, wouldn’t talk to the U.S. military’s male representatives. The FET relied on the double-X chromosome of its Marines to bridge that cultural barrier. Currently, they experienced a forty percent success rate. They’d invited over a hundred women—forty had shown up.
They’d seen fewer.
“Jazz?” Stormer’s nudge pulled her from her internal musings. Many of the older women wore veils across their faces despite the region’s Buddhist history, thanks to the influence of the Taliban. The younger girls dropped their veils as soon as they had entered the building, but maintained their head scarves or hijab. Unlike their mothers, the teens dressed in brighter, vibrant colors—exotic birds amidst the drab.
“We want to help provide the education you wish to have.” Jazz used Pashtu, the most commonly spoken language in the region. Even those who didn’t speak it fluently understood it. Even with her bad accent.
A couple of the younger girls snickered, the sound so reminiscent of the way a teen should sound, Jazz’s heart ached. An older woman silenced the giggling pair with a stern look, but Jazz simply smiled. “We understand that our ways are not yours. While we can make recommendations based on our studies, we believe in self-determination. We want to know what you as mothers wish for your daughters, and what your daughters wish for themselves. We’ve restored much of the university, and we can help arrange for instructors—female instructors, if you wish—in areas of agriculture, writing, reading, science. Whatever you want to study, we can find a way to make that happen.”
Two or three of the younger girls leaned forward. The motion was nearly imperceptible, but she saw interest glint in their gazes. If they reached only one girl, these missions were considered a success. The mothers kept their expressions neutral, save for one, who glanced at her daughter with regret.
She wanted that for her child. An opportunity Jazz might pursue to keep the dialogue open. The meetings always began with Roxy introducing them, describing their mission, and setting the women at ease. She possessed that motherly quality in addition to being proficient with fifty-caliber guns and a master at hand-to-hand combat. After Roxy, Stormer typically took over to work on the logistics of how such an education benefited the girls.
Jazz was the closer. She read people almost as well as she did inventory reports. She knew which girls to target afterward, and when to gently leverage the pressure in order to help them overcome the innate fear of change. The brutal heel of the Taliban continued to press down on their necks long after the regime was on the run.