Fort Apache.

Actually the correct name was Camp Ahmad Quwat. But only about three of its thousands of occupants could correctly pronounce it –those Arabic H's were murder on Westerners– so it had been christened with a more familiar moniker.

It had been appropriately nick-named. Afghanistan was the Wild West of the 21st Century. The coalition forces' compound was plunked in the middle of a hostile desert valley studded with thorn-brush and bordered by jagged mountains; the sole access road: the infamous IED Alley.

The Taliban –farmers by day, terrorists by night– were numerous and bold in this area. They had ambushed several coalition convoys along this route, planting their remotely-detonated, improvised explosive devices and then sitting tight in the surrounding hills, waiting for the low-hanging fruit.

Flynn rattled slowly along the fifteen-mile stretch of this pot-holed, rutted track that connected Veerona with Fort Apache. There wasn't much traffic today other than the ubiquitous Afghan lads –a couple of them one-legged– patrolling for scrap, or sticks for fuel.

Flynn wasn't concerned with ambushes. The Taliban wouldn't waste their effort on one beat-up BlackSky Humvee. Besides, the road itself would likely finish him off. He'd swear that engine parts had shaken loose and dropped off on a few occasions when the poor old Humvee had bottomed out. And the abuse wasn't doing his throbbing head any favors, either.

But despite all the dust, heat, pain and bouncing around, there was one thing that refused to be shaken loose. And that was Flynn's memory of the girl of Veerona. Well, woman actually. Initially he had judged Julie McNeill to be a girl. But with the benefit of their close encounter of the pseudo-erotic kind, he knew she was all woman. He had perceived layers of intelligence and worldliness in the depths of those golden eyes that could not belong to a girl. The scent of her, the touch of her hands on his face, those golden irises; they were tormenting his senses and stirring his soul out here on this stark, god-forsaken moonscape. This mysterious Afghan chick had definitely sniggled her way into a mushy patch of his psyche that Flynn hadn't been aware even existed.

He gave his head a bit of a shake, like a fighter trying to recover from a hard shot, admonished himself, "Stop obsessing about Julie McNeill for chrissake. You've got a better chance of hooking up with Rhianna. This ain't a high-school field trip, Jack. You have serious items on your to-do-or-die list."

Flynn forced himself to mull over those items, yet again.

Top of the list: Oasis, his sixty-foot sailing sloop. He had purchased the beauty eight months ago after he and Samhal had been honorably discharged from the French Foreign Legion. He was still in hock for over a hundred grand on his baby. Civilian life was considerably more expensive than he'd remembered, and he had to clear that effing debt before he could pursue his lifelong dream.

And that's where item two came in: Kurtz... or Colonel Kurtz as he insisted on being addressed. He'd also served in the Legion but was dishonorably discharged a year before Flynn and Samhal had been released. Shortly after being kicked out of the Legion, Kurtz had put together a private security firm: BlackSky. His timing had been spot-on. When the U.S. entered Iraq, Kurtz scored a lucrative contract. And that led to his current gig in Afghanistan. When Kurtz learned through the grapevine that Flynn and Samhal were desperate for cash, he was delighted to offer them positions. Flynn had few options, so here they were.

He and Sammy had sailed Oasis through the Suez Canal and over to Muscat –directly across the Gulf from Afghanistan. He was able to convince his older brother, Ethan, to fly over from Canada to boat-sit for a while. And now that he was committed to BlackSky, Flynn needed to find a way to get that asshole Kurtz to set aside personal animosities and work together as professionals... so far, no good.

Item three: a grand-a-day. To date, Flynn and Samhal had racked up close to ninety-thousand dollars, each. Excellent wages, if you can get 'em. And that was the problem: they couldn't. Kurtz was holding out. Bastard.

On that note, Flynn quit the rumination. If he couldn't budge these three immovable objects he could forget about the rest of the list.

Anyway, Fort Apache was looming large and his tribulation list had done the trick: for the time being the fair Miss Julie McNeill had been safely ensconced into his sub-conscious, and he was psychologically prepared for the irresistible force that was Colonel Kurtz.

"Ah, Captain Montague, come in, come in. Have a seat, man. I'm eager to hear your status report. We have great expectations," Kurtz said in his clipped Afrikaans accent as he returned Flynn's salute.

Kurtz seated himself sideways behind his desk, crossed his legs at the ankles and stretched them out lazily, demonstrating the luxury of arrogance. He mopped perspiration from his bald pate and hawk-boned features, took time to re-shape his elaborate mustache. He said, "I believe you know Bradley and Shaffer, here?" He made a backwards gesture with his head. "Yah, see, they're both majors now." The corner of Kurtz's mouth lifted spitefully and his lizard eyes glinted through their veiled glaze.

A faint breeze fluttered the shabby grey curtain covering the window behind Kurtz, but not enough to displace the fug in the room; the vinegar-scent of perspiration hung heavy in the air. The coalition brass had allotted BlackSky meager accommodations: one broom-closet-sized office –sans air conditioning. There was no love lost between private security firms and regular armed forces... especially in this case.

Flynn removed his cap and sat down. He grudgingly acknowledged the two brown-nosed monkeys standing at ease in opposite corners behind Kurtz.

Bradley and Shaffer: new guys in Afghanistan but Flynn recognized them from his time in Iraq, back when he was serving with the Special Forces. They had been private contractors with some other security firm at the time. They were one step up from criminal, two steps down from Neanderthal. C'est la guerre, Flynn thought, it's not like I signed up with the Girl Guides.

"Captain," Kurtz exclaimed, "what happened to your head, man? Did you bump it on your elevated opinion of yourself?" He chortled at his bon mot. The monkeys joined in. Kurtz waved a hand and shook his head, ostensibly trying to erase the glee from his face. "You must excuse me, Captain, it's my wild sense of humor, eh; it refuses to be tamed. Please, tell me, what goodies have you and Tonto found in the southern province? Arms? Opium?"

"His name is Samhal, Samhal Abdali, Colonel," Flynn replied –he could feel his jugular bulging.

"Yah, yah, Abdali, of course," Kurtz dismissed it with a flip of his hand. "Another innocent joke, Captain. You really must work on your sense of humor, man. Now, brief me on your results."

Flynn breathed in deeply, counting to himself, and then began. He outlined what they had done in the previous two weeks, village by village, explaining the mistrust and subterfuge encountered at every turn. He voiced his frustration at the UN's rules of engagement –BlackSky had no right-of-search to any Afghanistan private property. He ended by telling Kurtz he had set up camp outside of Veerona and was planning to investigate further.

Kurtz had taken a cigar from a box on his desk and prepared it for smoking while Flynn reported. Now, he took a few puffs and then eyed the heater-end critically while he let the smoke drift from his mouth. He removed a particle of tobacco from his tongue with thumb and forefinger and flicked it to the floor.

He leaned forward in his chair, thick forearms on the desk. His face hardened, his eyes were a window on a Heart of Darkness, and when he spoke, the affected levity of earlier had evaporated, "The bottom line: You've accomplished bugger all; another two weeks flushed down the shitter. Results, Montague, not excuses. The coalition forces are already negotiating an exit strategy." He shook his head. "With all your commendations from the Legion I was expecting a helluva lot more out of you, soldier. A blind squirrel can find his nuts; you've found nothing!"

"We're on to something in Veerona, Kurtz. Gimme a few weeks and I'm certain we'll get results."

It was grinding hard on Flynn to kowtow to this megalomaniac but everything depended on it. If he blew up now and rammed that cigar down Kurtz's throat there was no way they'd get their three months' back pay; they'd be left with zip... less than zip, diddly-zip.

"Days, Montague, not weeks. I want action on this." Kurtz jabbed an index finger at Flynn. "Big action. Remember, your contract contains productivity clauses. You produce measurable results or you get SFA. You must locate and secure substantial opium and or arms stashes before BlackSky is obliged to provide any remuneration."

"Yes, you've made me well aware of that, Colonel. I should've read the fine print," Flynn mumbled.

"That would have been wise, Captain. But I have good news, as well." Kurtz stuck his pinky into his bushy ear –the hair from his head had evidently been redeployed to his brows and into his nose and ears– and thrashed it about. He withdrew his finger and examined the end as he continued, "While you and Toto have been licking your balls out there in Kansas, we've obtained reliable intel indicating those Veerona kaffirs are in contact with some raggedy-arsed group holed up in the hills somewhere. You will find out what they're up to. Got that, Captain?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"You got it... sir," Kurtz corrected him, showing some teeth. Shaffer, the monkey that actually resembled an underfed hyena, made eye contact with Flynn and grinned.

"I got it... sir." Flynn stood, near choking on the humble pie. He replaced his cap, saluted and turned to leave.

"Captain Montague," Kurtz said. Flynn turned back. "Do not report here out of uniform again."

Flynn gave him a questioning look. Kurtz flicked his camo neck Buff. Flynn made a motion toward his own neck then remembered: Julie McNeill had taken his Buff. He said, biting off each word distinctly, "Yes, sir."

"And FYI, Captain. The coalition fuckers have chosen to restrict our access in Fort Apache. BlackSky no longer has privileges to the armory, internet café or the mess hall. And they're not servicing our vehicles any longer, either. So, you scrounge some MRE rations, fuel up that shit-box Humvee, and get your arse back out there."

Flynn put on his sunglasses, snugged them onto his nose using his middle finger. He turned and marched out the door, risking a further goad by slinging it shut behind him.

Colonel Kurtz sucked three puffs out of the soggy end of his cigar. He blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling and then declared, "Once they've served our purpose, I'm going to hang that cocky bastard and his kaffir sidekick out to dry." The monkeys tittered.