Page 21 of What is Lost

“Ah,” he said, slipping her a wink, “but think of the possibilities if I’m ever onJeopardy.”

“I’ll try to restrain my imagination. Finish the story about the Russian Scouts.”

“There’s not lots to tell. Nu, they played. Too American a game, I guess. I mean, I waslousyat soccer. Anyway, being ambidextrous, I showed guys how to pitch?—”

“Wait, you’re ambidextrous? I’ve never seen you use anything but your right...” Then her face cleared, and she snapped her fingers. “Wait, allthose nights on-call, when you were practicing one-handed knots?—”

“I practiced with both hands.” He nodded. “I like my right more than my left. Just more dexterous, but I can use both, and I had a pretty mean sidearm. Less chance of hurting your shoulder that way, and it’s great for off-speed breaking stuff. Keeps the batter always guessing. These days, it’s all about fastballs and home runs. No one knows how to play slow ball...” He stopped at the expression on her face. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Not really. But I think you missed your calling.”

He shook his head. “No offense intended to players, but I met a couple guys in the minors, andallthey’re interested in is playing ball. Anyway, the Russian kidslovedthe game. That’s how I learned some Russian, too. Like up, down, right, left.”

“Seriously?” Roni slid him a dubious look. “What’supin Russian?”

He thought a second.“Vverkh.”He pronounced itvee-year-ch.“It’s easier, actually, if you’re Jewish like me, because thekhis pronounced pretty much the same as thechet. Like inl’chaim.”

“Anddown?”

“Vniz,”he said, pronouncing itv’NEES.“Accent’s on the second syllable. But don’t ask me anything complicated. I can read a bit, but Russian’s a tough language.”

“I’m still impressed. What other surprises lurk in your Boy Scout past?”

“There might be some grandmothers still around whom I escorted across the street. I’m sure there must be a grateful cat I rescued—” He stopped talking, the rest evaporating on his tongue as he heard a new sound: a powerful guttural whirr.

In the air.Over Roni’s shoulder, he saw other soldiers, heads tipped, turning slow circles as they searched the sky for that low rumble.An engine.“Roni, do you?—”

“Yeah.” Her eyes were wide, jade pools. “I think?—”

“Me, too.”Please be what I think you are.“Roni, you hear that, right?”

“Yeah.” She let out a shaky laugh as soldiers jogged past, all looking almost stupidly joyful—and then held out her hand. “Come on. Comeon!”

He let her drag him, laughing, all the way to the tarmac—and why not? They were saved, weren’t they?

He made it twenty feet before realizing just how wrong they all were.

STAMPEDE

AUGUST 2021

Other than on the tarmac,there were civilians everywhere. Most were men: perched on and inside half-retracted gangways, mashed cheek by jowl on dead grass, hunkered in meager slants of shade thrown by the terminal and the few parked civilian planes empty of cargo and personnel. Deserted passenger jets, their cabin doors open against the heat, were jammed with those who’d monkeyed landing gear and crammed through hatches. Even more men perched on the jets’ large tires or simply sprawled in lozenges of shade thrown by the planes’ wings.

Everyone watched the gray and ungainly C17 transport drop lower and lower, the rumble of its engines growing so loud, it was as if someone had taken a giant eggbeater to the air.

“I count fourteen Marines.” Roni lifted her chinto point at a line of armed men along this near side of the runway. “That’s not enough. These civilians stampede...”

And it will not be pretty.The Marines would be overrun as civilians swarmed the plane. Even the additional soldiers with whom they were standing wouldn’t be enough.Need at least two more squads.He didn’t have a radio; he was a doctor, for crying out loud. Turning on his heel, he threw a desperate look left and right. There had to besomeonewho could get word to Command and?—

“Hey.” When Roni turned, he pointed to a series of hangars on the right and at the end of the airport’s single runway. Two Humvees were parked at the hangar’s open bay. Clustered round were a quartet of men, all in virtually identical garb: cammies, black-and-whiteshemaghsknotted around their necks, wraparounds hiding their eyes. Football Sunday scruff over their jaws and neck. “You recognize those guys?”

“Yeah, from the transport. They got off at Doha.”

“And now they’re here,” he said as another man, whippet-lean and clad in NATO-issue cammies, emerged from the hangar. The transport’s engine noise had swelled to a loudwhirr,and he leaned to talk into her ear. “Same guy who met them, the one you pegged as CIA. What are they doing here?”

“Probably grabbing assets to get out of country.”Roni blotted sweat from her upper lip with the back of a hand. “I swear to God I know that tall guy with dark hair. Just can’t place…”

Another Humvee screamed across the runway from the military side, swung around, and jerked to a halt in front of the same hangar. Two men unfolded from the front seat. The driver, an Afghan, was a big brooding guy with a broad chest, tree trunks for thighs, and thick arms: the kind of man who could pull a plow by himself. Hopping out of the Humvee, he kept his head on a continuous swivel. His hands never left the rifle strapped to his chest.

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