Chapter 2

I looked at Jamilah trying to get a sense of her feelings. Her voice didn’t convey any emotion that I could discern. That bothered me because Jamilah seemed less conservative than the other women and I was hoping to make her an ally.

“What was decided?” I asked.

“The war took Al Hassan from us and left us alone to eke out an existence from the land. Then just three days after our Iddah (period of time a widow must wait before she can remarry. Four months and ten days, unless she is pregnant) you fall from the sky. It is Masha Allah (God’s will) that brought you here. Allah brought you here to work the land for us so that we and our children don’t end up the concubines of some warlord.”

I couldn’t help my mouth dropping open in shock, of all the things I expected her to say, them deciding I was going to be their slave laborer was not on the list.

Pappy Jimenez cautiously eased his C-130 into a looping left-hand orbit over the smoldering wreckage on the desert below. He was flying at ten thousand feet, so individual pieces of wreckage were unidentifiable.

“Sentry three-three, this is Cowboy four-seven-two, I have visual confirmation of a crash site at the coordinates you gave me. There is no ground activity near the crash that I can see but I can’t risk flying low enough to make out fine details. I have enough fuel to loiter here for another hour, over.”

Vickie closed her eyes for a moment as her worst fears were confirmed, and then her training and professionalism kicked in.

“Roger Cowboy. Saber two-six and two-seven are thirty minutes out. When they are on station proceed with your mission.”

As soon as Vickie was off the radio with Pappy a Special Operations CSAR (Combat Search and Rescue) team was departing from a secret location less than a hundred miles from the crash site. While Victoria Salvatore was coordinating air traffic the CSAR team joined up with the A-10s from Kuwait. The CSAR was composed of a pair of special ops Blackhawk helicopters, a pair of Apache gunships and a MH53M Pavelow IV, a modified Jolly Green Giant helicopter operated by the Air Force Special Operations. The plan was for the Blackhawks to drop off the Special Forces troops while the Apaches and A-10s provided any close air support needed. The MH 53 would loiter above and extract the SF team and the downed pilots when the team found them.

The A-10s flew into the area of the crash site first. The lead pilot made a low level feint into the area and immediately drew fire from the ZSU-23s. The Apaches who had been laying in wait behind a small hill popped up and engaged the ZSUs with Hellfire missiles. Fifteen minutes later the Special Forces team was on the ground being vectored to the first transponder by Lieutenant Salvatore aboard the AWACS. Within an hour they found a transponder and Captain Costas’s body. Of Captain Nicholas Pappas’ plane or the captain himself, they found not a trace.

Fifty-five miles to the southeast, Nick’s shot up A-10 rested at the bottom of a hundred foot deep ancient water carved canyon, almost completely hidden by a rock outcropping.

I was still trying to digest Jamilah’s pronouncement when Basheera entered my cell with a big pair of scissors. Without saying a word she proceeded to cut my flight suit away from my body.

“We must get rid of this uniform that identifies you as an infidel. Later, when you are able to work, we will give you some of Hassan’s clothes. I think with a beard you will be able to pass for an Arab for the same reason we feared you were a Jew,” Jamilah said matter of factly.

Basheera made short work of the flight suit: she also removed my boots and socks, hell, she even took my wristwatch before she and Jamilah exited the room. I was now reclining on the thin mattress wearing nothing but my boxer-briefs, alone in the dark once again. I stopped fighting sleep then, determined to rest, heal up and escape. My last conscious thought was of Vickie and the relationship that was just beginning to blossom between us.

I don’t know how long I was asleep before the opening of the door awoke me. Jamilah entered the room carrying a candle and a pitcher of water. Behind her was a young woman I’d never seen before carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of something that smelled delicious. The girl was very pretty but walked with a pronounced foot-dragging limp. Jamilah introduced the girl as her daughter, Adara.

“Adara speaks some English and wants to learn more, in turn, she will help you with your Arabic.”

I nodded and said hello to Adara. Like every teenage girl in the world she blushed and giggled when I talked to her. Jamilah handed me the cup and byscooting back and sitting against the wall, I was able to drink. The same approach worked for eating, as there was just enough chain to move my hands up and down about fifteen inches. The food bowl contained Kabsa (lamb and rice stew) and pita bread that tasted as good as anything I’d ever eaten. I demolished the food in the bowl as I chatted with Jamilah and her daughter. Truth be told, I enjoyed the company after hours alone in the dark cell. I also took an instant liking to Jamilah and Adara. They were both smart and lively.

As soon as I finished my second cup of water the urine I had been holding at least eight hours demanded I set it free.

“Jamilah, I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows at me and I knew what her question was. I mimicked peeing with my forefinger and a hissing noise. My pantomime cracked Adara up. Jamilah shushed her and sent her out of the room. When she brought over the chamber pot I tried to convince Jamilah to release one of my hands so I could take care of things myself. She refused, telling me that Basheera had the keys and would make any decisions like that. I sighed and closed my eyes as her surprisingly soft hand fished my dick out of my underwear. It took me a few seconds to overcome my suddenly shy bladder then with a sigh I let loose. Jamilah’s giggle sounded exactly like her daughter’s as she felt me pulse in her hand as if my penis was a fire hose. She held me cradled in her hand even after I’d finished voiding my bladder.

“You member is very large Neek,” she said. “Fatima says your Arabic name should be ‘Sayyid Nuhayd’.”

“Sayyid Nuhayd? Ana mush fahim (I don’t understand),’ I replied.

“Mister Big,” she giggled.

I couldn’t help but blush at what she said as well as the response my dick was having to her light caresses. I was guessing that old Abu Bakr wasn’t very well endowed if she thought my slightly larger than average unit was that big.

“Will you ask Basheera if one of my hands can be freed?” I persisted.

“Why, you do not like this?’ she asked in a hurt sounding voice.

I was careful where I tread because I counted on staying in her good graces. I needed to gain all the women’s trust and even their affection if I wanted my freedom any time soon.

“I like it very much, but you will not be here all the time. What do I do in the middle of the night?”

Jamilah saw my point and said she’d mention it to Basheera. She tucked me back into my shorts, went to the door and called for Adara to reenter. We chatted for a couple of minutes as they collected the water and dishes. I had them both giggling again when I told them they looked as if they were college student sisters instead of mother and daughter. After they departed I lay there thinking about how, regardless of culture, at the core people were just people. Jamilah and Adara were normal healthy women craving some interaction with a male who appreciated them. I was determined to grow that feeling with them. After all, it wasn’t exactly a punishment to be around two pretty and intelligent women.

Basheera Al Hassan quickly completed shaving her faraj (vagina), finished her evening bath and redressed. As is customary among Arabic females, she and all the women in the household were meticulous about their personal hygiene, and shaving the pubic hair was part of that cleanliness. Basheera was a handsome woman, although modesty and responsibility kept her from acknowledging the fact. At thirty-eight, she was the oldest of the wives and the family matriarch. As such, she felt deeply responsible for the welfare of the other women and their children. That concern was the reason for her hard edged behavior. She had despaired of keeping the family together, because without Al Hassan, they were unable to run the farm properly. That’s why the arrival of the infidel pilot was truly an answer to her prayers.

Basheera was also a very smart woman. She knew that it would be very difficult to keep the mallah captive, yet he was critical to their survival. She had to find a way to keep him or they were all doomed. As she brushed her long black hair a plan started developing in her mind. The plan would require sacrifices on her part, but she was a strong woman and times were desperate.

I had no sooner arranged myself in a comfortable position on the straw ticked mattress than the door opened and in walked Fatima, the fourth widow, (the one I had yet to meet) and Adara. Fatima was carrying a bucket of steaming water, the other wife had a bucket also, and Adara had some folded towels in her hands. Fatima gave me that sweet smile of hers.

“Marhaba, Neek, Shonak? (Hello, Nick, how are you?).”

I returned her smile as she used the slang word for how are you, I replied with my favorite Arab expression. “Marhaba, Fatima, Safiya Dafiya: (everything is fine (literally means: sunny and warm)). I turned to the unidentified wife. “Ismy Nuhayd Nick. Ma ismok?” I gave Fatima a sidelong glance as I told the girl my name was Big Nick and asked hers. To my delight Fatima’s eyes became saucer sized and she blushed furiously. “Ismy Tahani,’ the girl said, eyes downcast. Finally, I looked at Adara. “Hello, Adara, my beautiful desert flower.”

Adara looked at me thunderstruck as she processed what I said. I could tell by Adara’s blush that Fatima asked her what I had said. As she slowly translated, Fatima gave me a surprised look then gestured to the buckets.

“Thank you, Neek, that was a very nice thing to say to an ugly lame girl,” Adara said. “Now it is time for your bath. We do not sleep unclean in this house.”

I protested long and loud about not needing anyone to bathe me. Adara dutifully translated my objections to Fatima who completely ignored them. Fatima soaped up a roughly woven terry cloth rag and gently began washing me. She started with my head and worked her way down. Tahani dipped another cloth in the clean water and rinsed behind Fatima. Lastly, Adara toweled me dry. They had it down to assembly line precision. Thankfully, Fatima skipped over my underwear and gently washed my legs. As tender as her touch was, I still moaned in pain as she bent my left ankle. She took the rinse rag from Tahani and rinsed my legs herself.