Chapter 40
the Next Morning...
Stepping from the warmth of the cave into the numbing coldness, Derek pulled on his karakuli
, the Afghan "beret" that had been Rahim's gift. He paused to blow clouds of misty breath into his cupped hands, then rubbed them together and slipped on his gloves, as he walked over to join ibn Sikander beside the fire pit.The warlord, finishing the dregs of his tea before the sun rose above the horizon, looked up to smile at his friend. "So you rise early this morning... ready for our ride."
The precept turned towards the pale, watery light of pre-dawn. All night long he had been plagued with doubts... but, now he was certain. "I know you think Nick was taken by truck.... It's logical... what the signs support... but I feel I should follow the other group... the men with horses."
"Why so?" The warlord's voice betrayed surprise. "This makes no sense.... There are no footprints with the horses... at least none that do not belong.... Some are afoot, but they lead the animals.... They have boots.... They walk as they should... with long, firm steps. That group was obviously waiting for the others to come... so they could deliver their prisoners to their leaders... perhaps to the Taliban mullahs... perhaps to Al-Quaida... as well as pick up supplies for distant, mountain camps.... Has your 'Sight' shown you otherwise?"
"No...," Derek confessed. He had to admit to himself that this was a matter of "feeling". He had no reason to doubt the trackers' knowledge, nor their logic.... It made complete sense... and to deny it would be foolish. "I can't explain it," he said, "not even to myself."
"You wish us to abandon our search for the trucks... to follow the horses?" his friend asked, pouring the last of the tea for Derek, then handing him the full cup.
"No...." The precept slowly sank down upon the stone that had served as a bench. He hesitated... pondered this feeling. It could be wrong.... Could he gamble Nick's life on it? "What if we split up?... What if each of us follows one set of tracks?... That way we cover both options."
Ibn Sikander glanced around at his men, some of whom were already mounted. He considered the alternatives.... The route they would have to follow to catch up with the trucks would be hard riding... cross-country... in a land where cross-country meant up and down rugged mountainsides... as fast as possible... often without following defined trails. Derek was not up to such riding.... That was obvious.... He had told the precept that he would leave him behind, if he slowed the chase, but in truth, ibn Sikander knew that he would slow the group himself before he left his friend behind. He also knew Derek well enough to realize that the man would kill himself trying to keep pace. If he followed the caravan, he would be heading back towards the border... towards Pakistan... deeper into Nuristan, where the Taliban's control was thin... closer to safety for a foreigner. It would leave him with his honor... but he could not go alone.
"Very well, Derek Rayne.... Yusuf will go with you.... also Masruq... a strong man... and stubborn... not very bright at times, as I'm sure you've noticed, but there's none better in a fight... and Ali.... He's not seen battle, but rides like the wind... and he knows these mountains.... Should you need a messenger, he'll not fail you... and Hasmit can track for you.... But you will have no one who speaks English.... All know some Arabic... Pashtu... and a smattering of other tongues."
"We'll manage," said Derek.
Ibn Sikander nodded, then shouted his instructions.... Stores were split up; the four men left the rest of the group and joined Derek on his grey pony.
* * *
Minutes later the Rumi-Khan steered his mount towards the small party and spoke to his men in the R'om tongue. "Yusuf... you are young, but you have been an apt pupil.... My friend's life is in your hands."
The young man sat proudly on his horse. He wanted to travel with the lashkar... the war party... to fight a fine battle... to show these others that he was a man, but that was not his destiny.... That lay with this strange foreigner. "Insha'allah," he murmured.
"Khoda hafiz... Derek Rayne... may God protect you." The chieftain then looked at all four tribesmen. "Do not fail me," he told them.
"Thank you for everything... and may God protect you... Zarek ibn Sikander, my friend." Derek reached forward to grasp the man's hand. "Till we meet again... may Allah go with you." Their hands slipped apart as the horses sidestepped and the smaller group turned up the narrow trail to leave their friends behind.
As tracker, Hasmit took the lead position. "Ali!" he called. "Ride with me, boy... and learn." Derek rode next, with Yusuf and Masruq bringing up the rear.
With the distance between them and the Rumi-Khan's party increasing, Yusuf's eyes restlessly scanned the route before them... the high places where an ambush could be laid... the flat areas where trip wires might trigger a landmine. Keeping his rifle at the ready, laid across his saddle, he concentrated his every sense on detecting any potential danger... anything that should not be there.
"What's the matter with you, boy?" Masruq teased. "Scared of your own shadow... or of this infidel's shadow... more like."
"He's our responsibility," Yusuf retorted. "I will not allow him to walk into a trap."
Masruq hawked loudly and spat. "You wouldn't recognise a trap if you fell in it.... Why do you think our khan chose me to accompany you. I may not be the son of the sister of his least favorite wife... but I know how to fight... to lead... to protect."
By late afternoon, the last of the sun's light was fading quickly; an early moon rode low in the sky. The small group had reached a rocky plateau where large boulders would offer them the best shelter for miles.
Yusuf called to Hasmit, "We must rest.... This is as good a place as we'll find."
The tracker rose in his stirrups, waved, then turned back to join them. Yusuf urged his horse up to Derek's side and reached for the dangling sleeve of his pushtin. "Tea?... Sleep?... OK?..."
Derek reluctantly nodded. They needed to rest... as did the horses... and the light would soon be gone... and, he confessed to himself, he was about ready to fall off his pony.
"Masruq... you and Ali see to the horses," Yusuf instructed, "then we must pray."
"What?... Am I your stable boy now?" the older man complained.
"As I am your cook.... As I collected horse shit along the way for tonight's fire," Yusuf replied, beginning to unpack their supplies, even as Hasmit set to work building a stone ring.
"So...," Masruq countered, "the work of a woman.... That is fitting for a beardless boy."
Derek could only follow the odd word in this exchange... mostly those based in ancient Greek... but he sensed the growing animosity between Masruq and Yusuf. Why hadn't he continued to expand his knowledge of R'om-vari, as ibn Sikander had done with English? He scolded himself for being so distracted with his worries about Nick... and his fears about his own strength and health... that he had not worked as hard as he should have at reclaiming what little vocabulary he'd once had. It could cost them. Communication was vital in a fighting unit. He searched his memory for any words that might be of use. "I... help," he offered the youngster in hesitant R'om-vari... then rephrased it in Greek, "Boró ná sas voithíso"?
"No... rest...." Yusuf knelt to spread the heavy sheepskins close to the fire. "Tea... soon...," he said, pulling the precept down. "Rest."
"5155848... Corporal Martin Jones," Ginge ground the words out between bleeding lips. Strong arms held him upright and bent his own arms ever more backwards, behind his back. A boot lashed out... connected with his groin... and he couldn't hold back the cry of pain. "51... 5...," he gasped.
"Shut up!..." the one-eyed man screamed in frustration. "Why are you here?... What is your regiment?... Where are the others?..."
Tightly bound, Nick could do nothing but lay on the cold floor and watch through eyes that were nearly swollen shut. As best as he could figure, they had arrived at this place... which seemed to be some sort of large concrete building... two days ago.
At the cave, they had been allowed rest and water, a bowl of rice and a blanket. Their captors had waited. On the first day, they had been joined by five men leading some fifteen to twenty pack animals. The next day, a truck had come. Sacks of rice, blankets, crates of weapons, even something that Nick had recognized as a shoulder-mounted missile launcher, had been transferred to the backs of the mules and horses. Early on the third morning, Nick and Ginge's hands had once more been bound behind their backs. They had expected to be herded out and loaded into the truck or again forced to run. Instead, they had been ordered to kneel on hides that had been spread at their feet. At that moment, Nick had expected a bullet to the back of the skull or a knife across the throat, but they had been slammed down and tightly rolled in the skins, which then had been drenched in water. Afterwards, they had been slung over the backs of the beasts and bound to the wooden pack saddles. Their world had become an upside down, claustrophobic, bouncing hell, and, as the day had worn on, the hides had dried and their leather swaddling had shrunk.
At one point, Ginge's horse had collided with Nick's and in that moment the Brit had the chance to gasp, "Indy!... I can't breathe!... This thing's squeezin' the crap right outta me."
"Hang in there," the SEAL had tried to joke, but it was lost on his comrade.
* * *
Their captors had seemed to take special joy in slapping the horses on their rumps and laughing as they had bucked and trotted away. It had been a game that had been played several times a day and each time had continued until both men had dry heaved themselves into unconsciousness. If their captors had been bored enough, Nick and Ginge had been doused with freezing water and the game had begun again... and their cocoon had shrunk even more.
That night they had been left to hang across the horses' backs. Despite the warmth that a herd of over twenty animals produced as they huddled against the wind and cold, Nick had never, in his entire life, known such misery as that longest night of his life.
The next day, to heighten their amusement, a variation of the game had been developed. The ropes that had bound them tightly to the pack saddles, held them in rhythm with the horses' movements, had been loosened. The one-eyed man, who was allowing his bored men their entertainment, had grasped Nick's hair and pulled his head up. "You won't fall off," he explained, "but... you'll enjoy a wilder, more 'hair raising' ride." Still, throughout the day's cruel games, as his head had slipped lower and lower, his breath had been pounded from him at his horse's every step, and his face had been lashed and battered by brush and sharp weeds, Nick had prayed that night would not come.
Late in the afternoon they had arrived at this place, where the more serious games had begun.
"What was your mission!" the one-eyed man shouted. "You will be delivered to a Sharia court at Tora Bora in a few days... before winter sets in. There you will be tried for genocide... the mass murder of the poor faithful of Ma'azar. Your very just trial will be taped. The tape will be delivered to al Jazeera, to show the world what atrocities the American/Zionist infidels are capable of... capable even of destroying thousands of their own people.... Then you will be executed.
"I have been patient... I have allowed my men their fun in hopes that you would understand your predicament... but make no mistake... I will have your information," the man growled through clenched teeth. "My honor depends upon this." He then spoke to the two men holding the Brit, who dragged the young soldier backwards and slammed him down into a chair.
Ginge spat out a thick clot of blood. Through half-closed eyes he made out the dark, broad shoulders of the man standing over him. He fell back on his training.... Look straight ahead.... Make no eye contact... no matter what.... Concentrate on something... anything.... Think of that.... Ignore the pain.... Ignore the bastard.... Hurried conversation between his captors gave him a moment to collect himself, to prepare for the next onslaught.
Suddenly, his head was yanked back and his mouth forced open. He felt cold metal upon his tongue, then intense pain that seemed to bore into his very soul. He tried to struggle, but was held fast by strong hands and a foot driven into his groin. He tried to scream, but the scream came as a strangled, eternal shriek, until he gagged on his own blood.
"Now... Corporal Jones," said the one-eyed man, "you will tell me what I want to know, or you will not have a tooth left in your head... nor a fingernail on your hands... then we will move on to more interesting parts."
* * *
Nick knew he had to do something. Ginge was on the edge. He couldn't take much more. Maybe it was time to end it. A goddamned show trial, he thought... for mass murder. There won't be a shot at the head guy.... We wouldn't have the strength anyway. It had been a pipe dream. "Hey... you... you one-eyed son-of-a-bitch!" he mumbled through swollen lips. "I'll tell you something...."
The man Ginge had jokingly christened "Nelson" nodded to his companions, who walked over and dragged Nick into the center of the room, where they dropped him.
"What will you tell me, infidel?... Mr. Petty Officer Boyle.... How many were you?... Where are the others?"
"Go fuck yourself, asshole!" Nick growled, then cried out in pain as a boot drove into his face.
"Maybe... Yankee... I will fuck you."
Nick hawked and spat upward at the man with as much venom as he could muster. Jesus, the SEAL thought, this is it. I'm gonna die here... and I don't even fuckin' know why.
His captor swiped angrily at his face and spoke rapidly to the others. Nick was hauled to his feet by the ropes that bound his arms. White hot agony shot through his shoulders. The big man stepped closer... his face inches from Nick's. A sharp blow smashed into Nick's stomach, another to his right kidney. As his body buckled forward, a fist delivered a smashing upper cut to the jaw. A vicious kick then landed on the SEAL's unhealed ankle, drawing an agonized cry from him. Nick struggled to breathe, panting as blood ran down the back of his throat and streamed from his nose.
He watched the man walk away... reach for the copper kettle that rested upon a small stove... turn... and walk slowly back. A cruel smile crossed his face. "Maybe, dog," he hissed. "We'll 'fix' you.... You won't be able to fuck ever again. You'll become the bitch for every dog in town." He tipped the kettle and slowly poured the steaming water over Nick's thigh. Nick struggled to bite back a scream, but as the boiling water drew ever closer to his groin, he screamed and screamed again.
"Zarmat!..." a voice called a warning. An angry squabble broke out in Arabic. Finally, the one-eyed man, shrugged, shook the nearly empty kettle, then sauntered over to fill a cup with the little that remained. Setting the pot aside, he returned to face the SEAL. Grasping Nick's beard, he twisted his face upwards. "I will not let you die... yet. I will have the information I want, before I must deliver you to our brothers.... Soon... Yankee... soon.... There is no more time for games.... You will know real pain.... Pain so great that you will beg your Satan himself to allow you to burn in his hell for all eternity rather than endure this."
Derek struggled against the sheepskin covers which seemed to smother him. His exhausted sleep was plagued with memories and chimeras... pain and anguish... the stench of death... a tiny, nameless girl's empty eyes... the indescribable look in the eyes of Jasmine Williams as West's knife had sliced away her nose and then her breasts.... The wretched despair of Trevor Watson flooded into his body and mind as West brutalized the man and raped him to death. West's face became Nick's face, as hands that bore a SEAL's ring closed the iron mask over Derek's face.... Once more he struggled against panic as the sound of a hammer on metal seemed to pound his brain to jelly... and the hiss and heat of the acetylene torch seared away all hope.... Once more his head became a giant, leaden monstrosity that his terror told him would be his forever. Once more, he looked out through the tiny slits that became his world, fought for the tiniest crumb, wallowed naked in his own filth... filth that he couldn't even see.
Nick's face became another, then another, then another. Once more rats crawled upon his body. Their whiskers tickled; their teeth slashed. He felt them penetrate... then felt the brutal, gentle touch of something else.... He felt himself lovingly fondled, caressed in a way that forced his enslaved body to respond. He fought for breath inside the prison of that iron abomination, even as a horrible ecstasy filled his soul with terror. A cold knife tenderly brushed his manhood; white-hot pain scorched his soul as flesh was sliced away. Then, again and again, agony rammed upward. He battled to free himself from the wildness of his mind. "No!" he cried, even as his mind replayed every vision that it had seen and could not prevent. His universe was filled with a million screams as flames spewed forth from tall spires that spun themselves into the portal and that gaping, fiery abyss swallowed the world. Hell-fire erupted from his groin and he felt his body vaporize to nothingness, while all the anguish of the cosmos remained.
"Tea!" said a panicked voice. "Tea!... Bekhor!... Eat now!"
Derek shot awake. Sitting up, he ran shaky hands through his long, greasy hair, hung his head, and breathed deeply. He looked up as Yusuf slipped his coat around his shoulders and offered a cup of hot tea. Looking into the young man's eyes, he could see fear there. With his free hand, he pulled his coat close and shivered. "I'm OK," he reassured the youngster. "Shoo-krah," he said in Arabic. "Thank you."
But was he OK? Had the night been swallowed by mere nightmares, given birth by memories, fears, and exhaustion... or... as Cross had so dramatically suggested, could his madness return? What if he was consumed by the flashbacks and insane delusions of his own mind... here in the vastness of the Hindu Kush? Derek shook his head; he tried to shake off the fears, but the very real, physical pain remained... searing upwards through his body. "This too shall pass," he murmured, but in his heart he knew it never would... not in a thousand lifetimes. "God... help me."
Turning his mind elsewhere, he looked at his watch. The green numbers shone "4 AM". He sipped at the tea, then gratefully accepted the bowl Yusuf gently offered. The young man was developing a "mother hen" complex.... He had insisted that the Afghans take turns watching through the night. The older men had not welcomed it, and Derek's own offer to take a turn had been rejected out of hand.
Now, he could hear the young man haranguing the others for their slow
response to morning prayer. Derek smiled wearily and rubbed a still shaky hand
across his whiskered jaw. Instead of feeling an alienation, he found himself
feeling a closeness to his warden. Yusuf reminded him of Nick... before some of the
rough edges had been worn off. It was yet another precious life he could be risking.
"Be safe," he murmured in echo of the prayers. "Insha'allah."
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