The pilot noticed the crowd and the helicopter roared toward me. It hovered almost above me, facing the crowd that was advancing. Now there were at least ten men and several women. There were even three or four kids. No one was brave enough to fire at the helicopter with a rifle. That was smart.

Then the door gunner on the Black Hawk opened up with 50-caliber. It sent a line of bullets a dozen feet in front of the crowd. The bullets chewed up anything they touched. Asphalt was destroyed, a wooden telephone pole broke in half.

The crowd froze. The helicopter hovered above me, facing them like a mean guard dog. The gunner fired a few more rounds. Suddenly, the crowd started to scatter.

I looked over my shoulder. The first person I saw in the doorway of the helicopter was Vicki Jensen. She was directing the gunner where to shoot. She also tossed me a safety harness and line.

I looked around, wondering if someone would take a potshot at me. The Black Hawk had done its job. Everyone had fled.

Chapter 49

Chapter 49

I didn’t say anything on the ride back to Bagram. As soon as I sat down after being pulled into the Black Hawk, Vicki leaned over and said, “Are you okay?” When I nodded, she just reached over and held my hand. She did it for the whole flight and it made me feel better.

Once we were off the Black Hawk and walking toward the main administrative building on the airfield at Bagram, she talked to me.

She said, “I’m so sorry I misread what was going on. I believed Jackson when he said they were just going to ship you home.”

“How’d you figure out the truth?”

“Your friend Greg Stout ran into me. He said he heard a rumor about an American prisoner. He didn’t make the connection to you. When I asked him if he’d talked to you or knew you’d been shipped home, he said no, and he’d been trying to call you. I figured out the rest and asked my buddies in the air wing to take me for a ride.”

We walked together in silence after that. I was a mash-up of emotions, from joy at being rescued to anger that men like that could even operate with the military.

A couple of hours later, I was told to report to Non-Metric Solutions’ office. I’d already told my story more than once. I knew there were all kinds of Army investigators in Jalalabad trying to figure out how everything connected.

In the main conference room, my friend DP sat at the table with an Air Force colonel, an Army colonel, and two Army captains. No one seemed happy.

The Army colonel, a stern-looking woman in her mid-forties, said, “Mr. Mitchum, is there anything about your story you wish to change or amend at this time?”