The weaker tribes would cower in their crumbling houses even when helicopters flew directly overhead. But the powerful tribes — the ones who were anti-Soviet, anti-British, anti-American, hostile to anyone and everyone — those tribes would actually open fire on helicopters.
Huddled inside the chopper might have looked comfortable, but in reality they were sitting ducks. Sometimes they had no choice but to abandon the helicopters entirely and fight on the ground.
In the hail of gunfire, even suppressing her abilities, Daisy's enhanced attributes were impossible to ignore. Unlike the agents who favored handguns, she could handle any weapon thrown at her.
More often than not, she alone could pin down an entire swath of enemies. Command of the squad naturally fell to her, even though Rhodey technically remained in charge.
A month and a half into Afghanistan, the initial novelty had been ground to dust. They'd fought more than a dozen engagements — large and small. The locals refused to negotiate; they just opened fire, and the team had no choice but to return it.
Between her tactical command and her personal combat prowess, Daisy had earned the respect of everyone — not just her own agents, but the soldiers too.
Fifty people had set out a month and a half ago. They'd killed a significant number of local militants. Their own side had sustained only four minor injuries, zero fatalities. But they hadn't found so much as a single hair from Tony Stark's head.
This left Daisy frustrated. Rhodey, who'd willingly ceded command out of concern for his friend's life, felt even worse.
Daisy tossed aside the empty M4, drew her sidearm, and dropped the last hostile. Then she started issuing orders.
"Jimmy, get that tribal elder and ask how far it is to the next settlement."
"Allen, inventory our ammunition."
"Colonel Rhodes, contact the Global Hawk. I need terrain data for a fifty-li radius around our position." That was roughly twenty-five kilometers (15.5 miles).
Tasks assigned, she headed off to wash up without ceremony. Sand, blood, and gunpowder — none of it smelled pleasant. The female soldiers and agents followed close behind.
A specially outfitted RV served as their mobile shower unit. Thanks to Daisy's commanding authority, nobody objected. The women on the team always got to take advantage of these breaks.
It wasn't a private bathroom, of course — they were on a military march, and she couldn't afford to be that special. Ten women shared one shower; that was how it worked.
Field conditions didn't offer much in the way of luxury. Among the women, Mockingbird — Bobbi Morse, the former gymnastics champion — had the most athletic build. The rest were soldiers through and through, lean and practical.
Daisy, on the other hand, stood out. Her skin remained inexplicably flawless despite weeks in the desert. The female soldiers had initially been envious, even made some snide remarks, but they'd gotten used to it over time.
After all, their commanding officer was also a millionaire who regularly dealt with presidential candidates and billionaires. They were ordinary citizens. When the gap was that wide, there wasn't much point in comparing.
"How is your skin still this good?" Bobbi poked Daisy's arm and ran a hand across her back. Despite the brutal desert environment, Daisy's skin was still smooth and luminous. It genuinely baffled her.
Daisy deflected with "good genes," earning an exasperated eye-roll.
"You're in great shape too, you know," Daisy said, steering the conversation elsewhere. She genuinely had no skincare secrets to share — you could leave her in 40°C (104°F) heat for a full day and her skin would barely be affected. Changing the subject was all she could do.
The other women jumped into the conversation with enthusiasm, and the shower turned into a lively debate about fitness, athletics, and body types. Bobbi, ever loyal to her former profession, started setting the record straight with facts and research.
Daisy listened for a moment, then finished up quickly, changed, and got back to work.
Taking command of U.S. soldiers had initially been awkward — S.H.I.E.L.D. was a covert organization, and her Level Seven credentials didn't carry weight here. After weighing all the practical complications, she'd called Fury.
After negotiations between several parties — including a few words from the President himself — she'd been given the honorary rank of Air Force major. Not subject to standard deployment orders, no salary, no benefits.
Still several grades below Rhodey's colonel, but already higher than Captain America's old rank of captain.
"Ma'am, here's the terrain map of the surrounding area."
"Ma'am, here's the map of the major factions in the area that the tribal elder provided."
"Ma'am—"
Soldiers streamed in with reports. In the U.S. military, subordinates addressed their superiors as "sir" or "ma'am." Daisy had found it amusing at first, but she'd gotten used to it.
"Jimmy, go ask the elder what this word means — how would you say it in English?" She pointed at something on a hand-drawn map and sent the young soldier off.
Afghanistan's linguistic landscape was a nightmare. Two villages separated by a single mountain could speak languages from entirely different families. Fortunately, American forces had been operating in Afghanistan since 2001 — six years now — and many tribal elders had picked up at least some English.
The young man named Jimmy hailed from Tennessee, a born-and-bred farmer. His biggest dream was to go home, work his land, marry a girl, have a few kids, and live happily ever after.
When his commanding officer gave the order, he didn't hesitate. He dragged out the tribal elder — who'd fought them tooth and nail earlier but now had legs like wet noodles — and hauled him over.
Daisy didn't speak a word of Pashto, and she had no intention of learning. But she was confident these elders knew some English. She pointed at a spot on the map. "How do you say this in English?"
The elder hesitated. Jimmy flicked off the safety on his pistol and leveled it at the old man's head.
The elder's rotund belly quivered with fear. Maintaining that kind of girth during wartime in Afghanistan was practically a miracle.
He stared at the map, wracking his brain for the English pronunciation. "Konami? Korami! Yes, should be Korami..."
After confirming twice, it was indeed Korami — less than fifteen kilometers (about 9 miles) from their current position.
Daisy had been searching for this town called "Korami" since they'd first arrived in Afghanistan. She remembered it as Ten Rings territory. Find the town, and Stark should be somewhere nearby.
But the linguistic chaos in this country made everything harder. Without any standardized spelling system, this "Korami" was already the third similar-sounding name she'd encountered.
Better to check every lead than miss the right one. She rallied the team, cross-referenced the maps, and left the wounded behind to guard the helicopters. The remaining forty-five personnel loaded into three tactical vehicles and headed southwest.