Son of Afghanistan Digital Book Tasting

Prologue

2002

The morning heat already clung to the air like a heavy wool blanket as Corporal Jack Ramos leaned over a battered folding table inside the operations tent at Forward Operating Base Salerno. A laminated map of the Khost Province was spread out in front of him, weighed down by a coffee mug, a stray ammo magazine, and a half-eaten protein bar.

His squad, a rough collection of Marines and Army attachments, lounged around the tent. Helmets sat loose on the floor, rifles rested against the walls, and a few of the guys were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. The mood was easy, almost lazy — just another routine patrol, another walk in the dirt.

Ramos tapped the map twice with his pen, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright, listen up, ladies,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Today’s big adventure is another scenic tour of beautiful downtown Spera. No red carpets, no paparazzi, and — fingers crossed — no fireworks.”

A few of the guys chuckled. Private First Class Dawson, the baby of the group with a mess of blonde hair under his helmet, raised his hand like a kid in school.

“Sir, any chance the locals throw in free chai this time? Last time they gave us water that tasted like it came out of a donkey trough.”

“Negative, Dawson,” Ramos said, pretending to consult his notes. “Today’s menu is strictly donkey trough. Hydrate accordingly.”

More laughs. Even Sergeant Hernandez, who normally wore a permanent scowl, cracked a grin.

Ramos straightened up and pointed at the map again, the pen tracing a path along the main road through Spera.

“We’ll move out in two squads — Alpha and Bravo. Bravo takes the southern route through the bazaar. Alpha — that’s us — will skirt the northern edge, swing by that busted water pump the engineers flagged last week.”

He paused and looked around the tent, making sure he still had their attention.

“Rules of engagement stay the same. Eyes open, heads on a swivel. We are not expecting any contact, but we treat every patrol like it’s live until we’re back behind these walls. Anyone sees something funky — you speak up. Don’t be a hero.”

Sergeant Hernandez chimed in from the corner.

“Copy that. No one plays John Wayne today.”

“Exactly,” Ramos nodded. “We’re in and out. Back in time for lunch and more MREs that taste like salted sand.”

A round of mock groans filled the tent. Dawson leaned back in his chair.

“Man, I heard Alpha Company over at Bagram got a shipment of real pizza last week. Why do they get all the luck?”

“Because the Army hates us,” Specialist Tran deadpanned from the other side of the tent.

Ramos let the laughter settle before clapping his hands together.

“Alright, mount up in twenty. Final gear check in fifteen. Let’s make this quick and painless.”

The squad started moving, gathering their gear with the lazy urgency of men who didn’t expect trouble but knew better than to slack off completely. Ramos stayed behind for a moment, staring down at the map, a little knot of unease tightening in his gut.

It was probably nothing.

Probably just another boring patrol.

Still, he tapped the laminated surface once more for luck before grabbing his rifle and stepping out into the bright Afghan morning.

The sun was already climbing higher by the time the squad loaded up into the dusty green MRAPs lined up outside the ops tent. Their heavy doors slammed shut with metallic thuds, each echoing through the compound like warning bells no one paid much attention to anymore.

Ramos climbed into the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, tossing his rifle into the rack before pulling his seatbelt tight with a practiced yank. He adjusted his helmet, flipping his visor down just as Sergeant Hernandez slid behind the wheel, grumbling under his breath about the heat.

“AC’s busted again,” Hernandez said, banging the dashboard like that might magically fix it.

“Good thing we love the weather here,” Ramos replied with a smirk. “Sweat builds character.”

In the back, Dawson, Tran, and Specialist Keller were settling in, helmets bobbing as the MRAP’s heavy engine rumbled to life.

“You sure this thing’s not gonna die on us halfway there?” Keller asked, patting the armored wall beside him.

“Faith, Keller,” Tran said dryly. “Faith and duct tape.”

The convoy of three MRAPs rolled out of FOB Salerno, rumbling past the Hesco barriers and guard towers. The gates creaked open, and the Afghan countryside yawned wide in front of them — dry hills, scraggly trees, dust clouds chasing the horizon.

Inside the cab, the radio crackled with chatter from the other vehicles.

“Bravo One to Alpha One — race you there,” came the voice of Sergeant Price from the second MRAP, his tone playful.

“Copy that, Bravo One,” Ramos said, smiling as he keyed the mic. “Winner gets first pick of the hot chow… if there’s anything edible left.”

More laughter across the net.

The MRAPs bounced along the rough dirt roads, kicking up massive trails of dust behind them. Occasionally, Ramos would catch glimpses of small villages tucked into the hills, little knots of mud-brick homes and fields stitched with struggling green.

“Hey, Corporal,” Dawson called from the back. “You ever think about what you’re gonna do when you get out? I’m thinking… beach bar in Florida. Flip-flops, cold beer. No body armor.”

Ramos glanced over his shoulder.

“Sounds nice. You got the money for that dream, Private?”

“Not yet,” Dawson said, grinning. “But I’m gonna marry rich.”

“You better hope she’s blind and doesn’t mind the smell,” Hernandez said without missing a beat.

The road curved south, and the ridgelines closed in a little tighter. Ramos scanned the hills automatically, his mind half on the terrain, half on the casual banter behind him.

No one really expected trouble today.

It was supposed to be quiet.

Just another routine patrol through Spera.

But even as he chuckled at another wisecrack from the backseat, that same tight knot from earlier twisted just a little harder in Ramos’ gut.

He shifted in his seat, the MRAP rattling over a deep rut in the road and tried to shake it off.

The convoy slowed as they approached the edge of Spera, the small village clustered at the base of a rocky hillside. Children darted between low stone walls, dusty sheep wandered across the narrow roads, and the air was thick with the smell of wood smoke and livestock.

Hernandez eased the MRAP to a halt just outside the village’s main thoroughfare. The other two vehicles pulled in behind them in a loose staggered formation, engines idling low like patient beasts.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” Ramos said, unbuckling and grabbing his rifle. “You know the drill. Standard two-by-two formation. Stay frosty, stay polite.”

“Roger that,” Keller said, already checking the radio strapped to his vest.

The doors of the MRAPs swung open with heavy groans, and the squad spilled out into the sunlight, boots crunching against the dry dirt. Without a word, they fanned out into their familiar pattern — two columns, spaced just right for visibility and cover, weapons low but ready.

It was automatic by now, like muscle memory.

Ramos took point on the left side, Tran sliding into position opposite him. Behind them, Keller and Dawson filled the gaps, scanning rooftops and alleys out of pure instinct. The rest of the platoon broke into similar formations behind them, their discipline smooth, almost lazy.

A few villagers glanced up from their morning routines — old men sitting cross-legged in front of shops, women carrying baskets of goods on their heads. Most barely spared them a second look. They were used to the Americans passing through.

“Man, it’s like we’re part of the scenery now,” Dawson muttered under his breath, adjusting his sunglasses.

“Good,” Ramos said quietly. “Means nobody’s nervous.”

They moved deeper into the village, following the narrow street that cut through its center. The same broken-down pickup truck sat in front of the same tiny tea shop, the same old man chewing on a toothpick under the faded awning. A goat trotted lazily across the path, forcing Keller to sidestep it with a grunt.

“Watch out, Special Forces,” Tran teased him. “Goat’s got a mean look.”

“Ha, ha,” Keller replied dryly, giving the animal a wide berth.

The squad kept moving, eyes sharp but posture relaxed. It was easy to slip into the rhythm of it — steady steps, slow turns at intersections, scanning windows and doorways without really thinking about it.

In the distance, Ramos spotted the small plaza where they usually paused to hand out water bottles and basic supplies, a goodwill gesture the villagers had come to expect.

He keyed his mic.

“First hold point coming up. Standard setup. Keller, Dawson, you’re on security. Hernandez, get the goodwill packs ready.”

“Roger that,” came the replies, crisp and casual.

Ramos glanced up at the clear blue sky, the heat pressing down like a heavy hand, and for a moment he let himself believe it really would be just another boring patrol.

He should’ve known better.

The squad was only a few dozen meters from the plaza when the first shout pierced the heavy morning air.

A sharp, desperate cry — a woman’s voice.

Ramos froze mid-step, his head snapping toward the noise. Down a narrow side street to their right, a figure burst into view — a young woman, sprinting barefoot, her long shawl flapping wildly behind her. Hot on her heels were three men, shouting in Pashto, brandishing thick wooden clubs above their heads.

“The hell—?” Dawson muttered, raising his rifle instinctively but keeping it pointed down.

The villagers nearby didn’t react — they simply lowered their eyes or turned their backs, pretending not to see.

Ramos clicked his mic. “Eyes on! Right side, one female, three male aggressors. No obvious firearms.”

Keller, already shifting his stance, said under his breath, “Looks like a public beating about to happen.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s none of our business,” Ramos said firmly.

The woman stumbled, catching herself just before she hit the dirt. The lead man swung his club in a brutal arc, just missing her shoulder.

“Contact front! Move!” Ramos barked.

Without waiting for a formal order, the squad pivoted as one, their formation rippling like a well-oiled machine. Tran and Dawson peeled right to cover the narrow mouth of the alley, while Keller and Hernandez spread out to create a perimeter, blocking any interference from onlookers.

Ramos stepped forward, rifle ready but still angled low — a clear show of force without escalating things immediately. “HEY!” he shouted, voice cutting through the commotion. “Stop!”

The three men skidded to a halt, startled. One of them turned and barked something harsh in Pashto, pointing at the woman.

Ramos raised a hand, palm outward.

“Back off. Now.”

The woman, panting hard, darted behind Ramos, clutching the back of his vest like a lifeline. Her dark eyes were wide with terror.

“Sir?” Keller called from his flank, tense. “We got movement — curious eyes gathering.”

Ramos nodded without looking. “Hold your sectors. I’ll handle this.”

The tallest of the three men took a step forward, club still raised, shouting furiously. Ramos caught a few words — dishonor, punishment, family.

Tran, from the corner of his mouth:

“Sounds like an honor beating, Sir.”

“I figured,” Ramos muttered back grimly.

The villagers were starting to cluster at the edges of the plaza, forming a wide, uncertain circle. Ramos could feel the weight of their stares — silent, expectant, waiting to see what the Americans would do.

Ramos squared his shoulders and took another step forward, cutting the distance between him and the aggressors. He kept his voice calm but loud enough to carry.

“This woman is under our protection now. Back away and there won’t be any trouble.”

The lead man snarled something guttural, something Ramos didn’t catch — but the posture was universal: defiance.

The three raised their clubs again, this time edging forward with more purpose.

Keller shifted his weight, his rifle subtly rising.
“Say the word, boss.”

Ramos narrowed his eyes, every muscle coiling for a fight — “Tran, get up here!” Ramos barked without taking his eyes off the three angry men.

Tran hustled over, lowering his rifle but keeping his other hand near his sidearm. He stood close to the woman, speaking in low, careful Pashto. She rattled off a stream of words, her voice trembling but steady enough to be understood.

Tran frowned deeply as he translated, keeping his voice just loud enough for Ramos to hear.

“She says… they’re her uncles and brother. They claim she dishonored the family by getting pregnant. They are gonna kill her to ‘restore honor.’”

Ramos felt his stomach twist in disgust.

The lead man shouted something again — sharp, accusing. His grip on the club tightened.

“Yeah, screw that,” Ramos muttered. He clicked his radio. “Hernandez, run back to the MRAPs. Bring ’em here now. Double time.”

“Roger that!” Hernandez barked back.

Turning back to the squad, Ramos raised his voice just enough for his team to hear but not provoke the growing crowd. “Form up. Watch the perimeter. We’re pulling out, we’re taking her with us.”

The squad tightened up instantly, weapons at low ready, eyes scanning the villagers closing in at the edges of the street. Tension crackled in the air.

Tran gently guided the young woman behind Ramos, shielding her with his body. “She’s scared but she’s willing to come,” he said.

“Good,” Ramos grunted.

In the distance, the low, familiar rumble of engines broke the heavy silence. A moment later, the two MRAPs came screeching into view, tires kicking up clouds of dust. Hernandez leaned out the side window, waving frantically.

“Mount up!” Ramos shouted.

The squad moved as one. Dawson and Keller jogged backward toward the vehicles, covering the retreat, while Tran practically lifted the young woman into the back of the nearest MRAP. Ramos kept his rifle up until the last second, locking eyes with the furious men still frozen in the alley, their clubs twitching in their fists.

“You wanna try me?” Ramos growled under his breath.

None of them moved.

Satisfied, Ramos backed into the MRAP and slammed the door behind him. The heavy vehicle lurched forward immediately, engines roaring as the convoy peeled away from Spera.

Inside the rattling MRAP, Ramos finally let out a breath and turned to the young woman. She was huddled in a corner seat, staring at him with wide, cautious eyes.

He offered her a small, tired smile.

“You’re safe now,” he said, his voice softer. “What’s your name?”

The young woman hesitated for a moment, then spoke in accented but clear English.

“Afsoon.”

Ramos nodded, memorizing it. “Afsoon,” he repeated, locking eyes with her. “You’re gonna be okay.”

As the MRAPs sped toward the distant safety of Forward Operating Base Salerno, the dust of Spera swallowed the angry shouts fading behind them.