WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) by KEN VANDERPOOL Page A

they were talking with us near Zakhu in the northern part of Duhok province.”
    “Peshmergas?”
    “Yeah, Kurdish fighters. We hooked up with them early that morning. We were investigating information we’d received about Iraqis who were slipping onto the base at night and planting explosives in an attempt to destroy our logistic supply facilities.”
    “Sounds like the Iraqi army liked the Kurds about as much as they liked us,” Chuck said.
    “That’s for sure. Most of the Kurds in northern Iraq have been pro-American for a number of years. They helped us out on several of our missions.”
    “I didn’t realize CID got involved in that kind of assignment,” Chuck said.
    “Well, the overall mission of CID is to investigate serious crime wherever the United States Army has an interest.”
    “That’s a broad mission statement,” Tom said.
    “I guess it is, but this particular task definitely fit. Based on the damage and the satellite images we reviewed in preparation for the mission, this one had to be done.”
    “How bad were you hurt?” Chuck asked.
    “I caught seven pieces of shrapnel that somehow found their way around twenty-five pounds of body armor. They burned like hell, and I lost a lot of blood, but fortunately they hit fleshy areas, and most importantly, missed my femoral artery.”
    “Sorry to be so nosey, but this stuff is interesting. I was never in the military.”
    “It’s okay,” Mike said. “It was exciting at the time.”
    “How did you get away?” Chuck asked.
    “With the four of us and the six Kurds, there was enough firepower to repel the assault and take out the attackers.”
    “Were these Kurds seasoned military?” Chuck asked.
    “Yes. They were all skilled and well-armed. They insisted on traveling back to our base with us after the attack, in case we were hit again. During the return trip, our guys were able to stabilize the two of us who were wounded.”
    “That sounds pretty scary,” Chuck said.
    “I assure you, it’s as close to death as I want to come,” Mike said as he continued to dress.
    “Were the Kurds always so supportive?” Tom asked.
    “I think so, and they still are. I’ve done considerable reading about the Kurdish people since that incident, and gained even more respect for them. They went through a helluva lot even before they suffered under Saddam Hussein.”
    “Interesting,” Tom said. “We have a sizeable population of Kurds here in Nashville.”
    “Yes, that’s true. Our patrol officers have told me that based upon their experiences with the Kurds here, most of them—at least the adults anyway—seem to appreciate being in America and they can’t wait to get their citizenship.”
    “We know a few who are having some violence and drug issues with their teenagers,” Chuck said.
    “None of the ethnic groups, or for that matter white kids,” Tom added, “are exempt from the influence of the gangs.”
    “At least the adults can relate to their past and know they have it a lot better here than in Iraq,” Mike said, grabbing his bag. “Tom, I gotta run. It’s good to see you again.” Mike offered his hand. “Chuck, good luck cleaning up our streets.”
    “We’ll need it, Mike.”
    “Tell Norm hello for me?” Tom said.
    “Will do.” Mike started toward the exit. His cell phone rang.
    “Mike Neal.”
    “Mike, it’s Cheryl.”
    “Hey, good looking.” Mike glanced at his watch. “Are you up early or just now coming in to work?”
    “I had to work a double last night. The ER was chaos.”
    Norm and his wife Cheryl, a seasoned cardiac nurse, became Nashvillians when, in 1998, a cardiologist who had relocated to Nashville, came through on a promise. He offered to double Cheryl’s salary if she would leave Milwaukee and follow him to the premier cardiac facility in the South, Nashville’s Saint Thomas Hospital. Norm and Cheryl agreed on the lucrative change while gazing out their kitchen window at more than three feet of white