Suddenly, over a rugged hill still smouldering from recent blasts from the flamethrower walks a ragged, stooped man. Exhaustion is in his every step, and his body seems barely held up by his obviously defeated spirit.

From his tattered clothing we can tell that he is the enemy, a member of the Taliban we so recently and so soundly defeated. Our rifles are at the ready as he stumbles toward our camp. What harm he could do in this state, no one could say, but out of habit and well-deserved caution, we watch and are ready to back up our suspicions with action at the first sign of aggression.

But there is none. His face as he looks around the circle of triumphant women and the men who love them is beseeching and full of agony.

"Our women," he croaks. "A terrible epidemic seems to be sweeping through our people and our women and children are sick unto death. We know, by their absence from our lives, how precious they were to us, how they *were* our lives, and we beg you now to come and help us care for them.

"Can you find it in your hearts to give us your assistance, for we now know, and they surely know, that it is a woman's touch that made us strong, and it is a woman's touch that will heal them?"

Commander Kat stood looking at him for a moment, then her eyes swept the ragtag circle of warrior women surrounding her.

"Well," she said ....