A/N: This story is a response to a fan fiction reader's suggesting a prompt. I've never attempted this, and it's taking way longer than I'd hoped, so rather than it being a long single chapter story, I'm posting what I have, so she knows I'm not ignoring her. I can't predict the speed of progress on this story, however.

Chapter 1

"Where am I?" she wondered foggily. Trying to recall the events of the previous day, she found only hazy memories of fire, smoke, and the whine of bullets. Cracking one eye open slightly, she took in her surroundings. "I'm in a hospital. . . . ." she thought, before she felt the pinch of a needle, the burn of medicine flooding into her muscle, and faded into sleep once more.

The next time she awoke, her senses were sharper, her perceptions clearer. "My arm is casted. I'm sore everywhere else. What happened?" Keeping her eyes shut, she tried to sort through remembered sensations, sounds, images. "We were in a fire fight. The rebels weren't supposed to penetrate our communications bunker. Then captured. And I found a radio. I remember calling for a chopper. And back up. I guess it came in time."

Unable to recall anything else, she was exhausted from the mental effort and dozed again.

Ooooooooooooooooo

Three months later, Temperance Brennan was seated in her commander's Spartan office. "I regret losing your linguistic talents, Warrant Officer Brennan, but I understand your reluctance to renew your enlistment. That engagement in the Rasht Valley was rough," Col. Haskins said, with the typical wry understatement for which he was known. "Your beguiling the rebels was an inspired diversion, you did the Marine Corps proud! It's too bad they don't give the Medal of Honor for Mata Hari impressions. You lulled them into complacency, and noting the location of their radio to place that call to headquarters, while authenticating yourself without compromising your mission took calm presence of mind. I don't mean to sound sexist, but a man could not have pulled off your brilliant ruse. Making them think you were calling a medical missionary; your brain works so well under pressure; you'd make a hellava general, Ms. Brennan. Maybe you should teach a course in covert tactics at West Point," he mused. "You know more foreign tongues than any specialist we've ever had. Your understanding both the Russian and Tajik saved many lives during that mission. Your fluency in Farsi will be missed around here. You might be called upon to help us again, if the need should ever arise. Would you be willing to consider such temporary assignments?"

"I would think about it, Colonel," Temperance answered resolutely, "but for the foreseeable future, I'm planning to return to college. I had to interrupt my education for lack of funds, but military service handled that problem for me."

"If you hadn't managed to radio for assistance, your whole squad would have been lost. Your communication with headquarters in Italian was a stroke of genius. If you'd spoken in Tajik or Russian, the rebels would have known they were coming."

"Well, it's fortuitous that our team back in Bagram is multi-lingual," Temperance remarked.

Ooooooooooooooooooo

In the intervening decade, Warrant Officer Brennan had become Dr. Temperance Brennan, Ph.D. Her work in forensic anthropology on the African sub-continent brought her fame and accolades from her academic colleagues. Her work identifying genocide victims in Ruwanda, Bosnia, and Serbia was far less well-known, but invaluable to the U.S. military. True to his word, now-General Haskins had only called upon her in dire situations where lesser knowledge had failed.

At night, alone in her bed, Brennan frequently relived the terror of those three days in rebel captivity, when she was separated from her mates and subjected to the whims of the Tajik rebel leaders. So, it should have been no surprise to anyone, some years later, that she understood immediately Special Agent Seeley Booth's reluctance to elaborate on the circumstances under which the metatarsal fractures she noticed on his x-rays had been inflicted. Except that no one knew about Temperance Brennan's similar experiences in a dusty Tajiki prison ten years earlier. She kept that information strictly to herself. During her bedside vigil during Booth's recovery, Brennan mused he was the only person to whom she might ever reveal it.

One more footnote for readers unfamiliar with military protocol, the proper form of address for a warrant officer is 'Mr.' or 'Ms.' and the servicemember's surname, rather than a specific rank title, like 'Corporal' or 'Sergeant.'