Chapter 6 (Pt 3)
Somewhere in Afghanistan
A slight breeze swept over the desert, pulling at the red tongues of flames that engulfed the wreckage of a military aircraft. A group of five Afghani men, armed with knives and rifles, lingered for a moment in front of the fire, perusing the wreckage. No words were exchanged, as the men turned around and headed toward an odd-looking form that lay a few feet away. Upon closer inspection, the form turned out to be a prone figure of a man, who lay face down on the dust-covered road, half-hidden under the white mass of a parachute. One of the men reached down, cutting the parachute straps off the unconscious man's flight jacket. Gathering up the material, he handed it to another, bending down again to look more closely at the pilot. Nudging him none too gently with a tip of his boot, the Afghani flipped the man over on his back, kicking him again and again, until he saw the man's eyelids flutter.
The darkness receded slowly, giving way to throbbing pain in every part of his body that culminated with a splitting, nausea-inducing headache. Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. gingerly opened his eyes to find himself looking up at five bearded faces, five rifles trained on him. An older man, perhaps a leader, said something to him in a language Harm couldn't understand. He attempted to relay as much, and the man nodded, making a gesture for him to get up. Not seeing that he had much choice, the naval officer made an earnest attempt to comply, but his feet gave out under him, and he fell back with a groan. The man grabbed a hold of his arm, pulling him roughly to his feet -- a move that made Harm give a sharp cry of pain. Ignoring his cry, the man took out a piece of rope and tied together the wrists of his new prisoner.
"Walk," he said, pointing ahead.
"You speak English?"
"I am more educated that you think!" the Afghani spat out.
"That's not what I --"
"Walk!" Harm's apology was interrupted by a forceful shove in the back, and it was all he could do to stay upright.
Their journey went on in silence. Harm dragged himself forward, flanked from all sides by his trigger-happy captors.
His breath was shallow and ragged, sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes; his body was objecting to his every move. Fighting the feelings of dizziness and nausea, he kept his gaze on the back of the man in front of him, noting with eerie fascination as that back swam in and out of focus.
Finally, his legs refused to obey him any longer, and he sagged heavily onto the ground, shutting his eyes against the spinning landscape.
"Up!" he heard, the voice muffled by the loud ringing in his ears.
"I ... can't ..." he breathed out, praying that they would just leave him out here to die. He felt someone grab his wrists, and he risked opening his eyes to find a piece of rope about a foot long attached to his makeshift handcuffs. Wordlessly, the Afghani took the loose end of the rope in his hand and resumed his walk, motioning for his companions to do the same.
Unable to stand on his own any longer, Harm watched helplessly as the rope tightened, pulling him sharply forward. He yelped, as his body fell forward, impacting hard with the rough surface. The man pulling him did not even flinch, and Harm inhaled sharply, biting his lower lip to prevent himself from crying out any more, as his body was dragged along the rough dusty road.