Bagram had become an island, isolated and self-sufficient, and in the JOC scores of flat-screen monitors pulsed to the steady thrum of generators. From the airfield the howl of jets never stopped; only waned or grew louder, day or night. Beyond the field was wire, berms, troops, and light armor: the Eighty-second Airborne and Tenth Mountain. And beyond that, half in ragtag camos and the rest still in shalwar kameez and pakul hats, the hastily trained cadres of the new Afghanistan Military Force milled or squatted in the velvety, tan dust. By day, tents and flags rippled in the wind. By night, lights glared on concertina and machine-gun posts. Inside the interconnected canvas tunnels the screens and power lights of dozens of computers and transceivers glowed, and the nets whispered on. The smells of dust and coffee and kerosene heaters, lived-in uniforms and jet exhaust, were the smells of battle here. Dan sat slumped, massaging his eye sockets. In front of him a network shifted and danced.
