by G. R. Carter
Wasson’s left hand came forward with a flip and his remaining knife tumbled end over end toward the pistol. Not a great chance of hitting and sticking from here, but enough to make the target pitch his body away and to the ground. Wasson sprung again and covered the space to the armed man in one effort. The surviving jihadist had just regained his footing when a bundled force of hardened muscle and bone hit him. OOF! Wasson felt the man’s audible gasp at the impact. Shock filled the stricken cleric’s eyes, on his back with two sets of steely fingers wrapped around his throat. Feeble fists struck at Wasson’s arms, each swing holding a little less force than the one before. No sound came from the scream trying to escape over rotting teeth. The smell of terror mixed with the stench of unwashed bodies, ripened by nights camping in the bush.
After a few seconds, fog clouded over the cleric’s eyes and Wasson watched life slowly drain out until the body beneath him went limp.
Instinct demanded he finish the job, but the adrenaline of the kill gave way to training. Wasson released his grip when satisfied the man was unconscious. He bound the cleric’s hands and feet, then searched his sarong and macawiis for any weapons. A finger sweep of the cleric’s mouth revealed no poison pills; a tactic uncommon among the jihadist group’s leaders, but a precaution Wasson took regardless. His attention turned back to the other two, each lying in a pool of their own blood. Wasson wrenched his knife free, carefully cleaning it on the dead man’s denim trousers. These looked like locals, converts helping their new masters scout the territory they grew up in. Probably just recently made to follow sharia; their beards were still too short for longtime adherents.
There were no trophies tonight, that practice having fallen out of favor after the Ditcher bounties were lifted and the Unified Church insisted on not desecrating corpses. Wasson did pick up one leather-sheathed machete lying near the first man he killed. The stitching on the case was perfect; clearly denoting a prized possession. It was good to take such a thing. Wasson didn’t believe in magic, didn’t even believe in the forest spirits that many of his Tracker brothers mixed into their more mainstream beliefs. But one thing he did believe in was keeping something from a brave enemy he had defeated. This man’s first response had been to fight, not to flee. Wasson would honor that by keeping the blade.
None except the cleric had a gun of any kind. Too bad you can’t trust your own men, apostate. Might have saved your life in the end. He studied their frozen faces for a moment, wondering if they had joined willingly or were threatened and coerced. Either way, he wasn’t sorry.
Satisfied the immediate threats were neutralized, Wasson crouch walked to the edge of the firelight facing out into the dark. He let his night vision return, then made a perimeter search in widening circles, being careful to backtrack occasionally. Content that the area was clear of danger, he reached into a pouch on his buckskin to pull out a baked biscuit of rolled oats and honey. He said a prayer for forgiveness, a prayer of thanksgiving and then a prayer for guidance. Quickly he dropped to his knees, put his face to the dirt with outstretched palms, then back to his knees as he crossed himself. Back up to the balls of his feet and crouch-walking, he headed back to retrieve his prize. It was a long walk back to friendly territory even without the burden of someone half-dead. But it was worth it. His mission had gone perfectly, and with any luck the information gleaned from the captive would help protect his country and his people from the evil that lurked just over the northern horizon. Then he could go home.
*****
“I’ll never talk to you, American ibliisku!” the cleric spit out through a swollen mouth.
Wasson grinned at the bound man, lashed to a tree to keep him from falling over—or running away. He worked up his best backwoods accent; the Americans told him Jihadists were most afraid of those from the hills and hollers of the southland. Wasson knew just how to play into the stereotype.
“First off, I ain’t the devil, you’uns are,” he rasped. “And second, I ain’t American. I’s Shawnee. But I attest, I do like the Americans. And they don’t like you’uns, so that makes me not like you’uns. Cause I’m like that, see?”
“You are all alike! Godless infidels!”
“I ain’t Godless, mister. Just that my God is the real one. And your false idol causes you’uns to kill innocent people and do unholy things to innocent goats,” Wasson grinned again.
The captive nearly burst in rage, struggling against the knotted ropes, straining to get at him. Wasson hadn’t laid a hand on him yet except to carry him almost five miles before stopping. A quick backtrack assured him they weren’t being followed, allowing the luxury of a quick drink and a rest of his legs. He could have gone further, but the Caliphate cleric hadn’t stopped thrashing since regaining consciousness. Wasson had determined to give him a couple more chances at cooperating before resorting to plan B.
He wasn’t tormenting the cleric just for fun; it was a technique the Red Hawks taught him. More than physical, the jihadists could be twisted into knots with words. The clerics thought they were superior in all ways to their followers, and especially those they considered infidels. Insults worked better than sweet talk, as authority-types weren’t challenged in the Caliphate. Clerics would talk all day just to prove superior intellect, behavior akin to a child in the middle of a tantrum.
Wasson reached up and slapped the cleric across the face. Not hard enough to cause damage, but hard enough to hurt. He watched the man’s eyes refocus on him, full of hatred but finally back in this world. Wasson glared back at him, matching the intensity. “Listen, goat-lover. If ya ever wanna get back to the hell you’re creatin’ up north, you’ll not fight me.”
“Liar! You’ll never let me go. I will face Allah with a clear mind!”
“Nah, think it through. There’s war a-comin’, we all know that. People get captured in war, so we’ll be needin’ something to trade back and forth. Figure a big-time cleric like you’ll probably be worth several of ours. Unless maybe you’uns kill all your captives?”
“That would be the best thing for them, to die and go to hell! I’ll kill them myself if I get away from you. Along with all your family!”
“Mosta my family is already dead, goat man. Killed by savages like you’uns. Call themselves different things, but you all still the same. Afraid of your own shadow, know ya be kilt by people like me if you face me man to man. So’s ya run around killin’ innocents and claimin’ your God told ya ta do it. Yeah, goat man, I know all about you’uns.”
“I swear by Allah, you will rot in hell for all eternity!”
“That your magic talkin’? Cause I didn’t think Allah let you have that kinda control over the souls of other folk. ‘Less’n case you claimin’ to be God your own self?” Wasson asked.
The cleric glared this time without responding. Finally a deep sigh. “You are twisting my words, Christian. I know your tactics. We know everything about your people, in fact. Do you not think we have infiltrated your ranks already?”
Wasson took a moment to process the words. The cleric’s English was second- or third- generation in quality, but still had the heavy accent of his ancestry. Their two distinct dialects were based on the same language, but determining true meanings took some thought. A plan came to his mind.
“Ya talkin’ ‘bout those boys you snuck into the American units? Shootfire, they already turned back ta our side, begged mercy for the goat-bangin’ they did while under you’uns tent, which was granted, of course. Reckon everyone makes a few sins in life.”
The cleric huffed and looked away. “Their taqiyya is complete. You will never root them out without killing every refugee who has made their way into your lands.”
“Naw, goat man. We just show’em naked pictures of beautiful women. If they cringe, we know they’s goat lovers. Then we make’m kiss a Cross. If’n they cringe at that…well, then we know for sure they want to meet their 72 virgins right away.”
“You are a disgusting swine, Christian. Your faith is as emp
ty as your homelands,” the cleric replied calmly, fighting with all his might not to react to Wasson’s insults.
Without warning, Wasson struck the man’s face again. Before the cleric could look back, Wasson’s face was an inch away, eyes wide—the whites of the eyeballs glowing in stark contrast to his still blacked-out face. “Listen, you murderous liar. We know who you really are, and it ain’t nothin’ holy. So don’t even try. All you high-and-mighties know your cult is a sham just like we do. You ain’t no better than the magic men you claim to hate. Parlor tricks might work on the weak and hungry, but now you facin’ the big time, boy.”
Wasson gave a growling grin. “The Founders got meaner men than you, folk who believe in what they got and who they is. You gonna lose twenty Jijis for every Red Hawk you kill. I reckon that’s bad for both sides, but I guaran-dum-tee you gonna get yours before the end of it.”
He breathed heavily for effect and continued. “Now here goes, your final offer. Ya gonna walk real polite in fronta me a few steps from here to the river. Ya come with me gentle, ya live. Ya cause a problem, I got orders to keep slicin’ ya til ya bleed out here in the middle’a nowhere. Your family will never know what happened to ya. No burial, cause then I’m gonna burn your body.”
The cleric tensed involuntarily. Wasson grinned again and continued. “Oh that’s right, holy man, I’m gonna hang ya upside down and burn ya. How you reckon Allah gonna feel ‘bout that?”
The cleric wilted. “You will probably do that to me anyway. Even after I’ve told you what I know,” he replied dejectedly. His rage had subsided, replaced by the solemn realization that he was captured by someone just as devout, or crazy, as himself. Someone willing to be out here in the wilderness all alone, living just for this very situation.
“Already told ya, that ain’t my mission. And the Red Hawks don’t kill folk just for bein’. Shootfire, even got some folk similar to your faith livin’ ‘mongst’em just fine. Fightin’ for the Founder and everything. Except they don’t go runnin’ around rapin’ and cuttin’ heads off. Just good hard-workin’ folk tryin’ to raise a family. Bet the Founder would let ya set up shop yourself if’n ya help ’em. Might get one of those farms they set up for folk in the western territory, ya know, the ones with the tall towers? Come on, holy man, whatta ya say we try to live one more day? Don’t need be any more blood spilt here,” Wasson said sincerely. He really did hope the man would come along peacefully; killing was a necessary part of his business, not a part he relished.
The cleric simply nodded and Wasson carefully untied the rope holding him to the tree. He helped the man up, still keeping his arms bound behind his back. As their eyes met, the Tracker finally saw what he had been waiting for. No longer were the dark brown eyes filled with spite. A new emotion had flooded in: a terror of the unknown.
Fortress Oglesby
Senachwine Province
Just South of the Illinois River
“Mr. Hussein, wake up, please. Mr. Hussein! We need to talk.”
“My name…my name…is not Hussein.”
“I don’t understand, that’s what you told me your name was yesterday. According to my records, you’ve committed some of the worst atrocities on the frontier, and that’s saying something. I’ve already told you my name, been completely honest with you. Now are you Sheikh Ali Mohamed Hussein or not?”
“American ibliisku! I told you already. My name is Aden Dhere. I am from New Mecca.”
Aden heard a sigh from behind his chair. He noticed for the first time in two days his arms weren’t bound behind him. Instinctively, he rubbed his wrists, wiping off the feeling of captivity.
“Why did it take you that long to tell us your name? Was it really that difficult?” the voice asked.
A tall man in a gray overcoat stepped around to face Aden. His broad-brimmed hat held the symbol of the Red Hawk, bright-colored against the drab leather background. The tall man smiled warmly and sat in a folding chair a couple of feet away.
“You haven’t let me sleep since you brought me here,” Aden mumbled. “I thought you Christians were supposed to love your enemies.”
A chuckle came with the reply. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Dhere. I guess we’re a little different than the Christians you read about. Probably a lot different than the ones you’ve been butchering up north, too.” The Red Hawk leaned back now in his chair and stared at Aden, studying him with calculating green eyes. “Mr. Dhere, my name is Robert Culper. My job with the Republic is to find out why folks like yours are trying to kill folks like mine. Can you understand my interest in that?”
Aden stared back, emotionless and silent.
Culper continued. “I’m sure you can, I know you’ve spent a good deal of energy trying to figure out where our strengths are. For sure I know you’re never going to let us live in peace. So I spend every waking moment of my own life looking for clues as to what your Caliphate is going to do next.” Culper leaned over, closer to Aden now even though there were no guards present. “You many not acknowledge it to me, but you know I’ll do anything to get that information. Anything, Aden. As to how I go about it? Well, I guess that’s an account I’ll have to settle with the Almighty when the time comes. I’ll just have to plead my case that I kept his true believers alive a little longer by killing your kind.”
“You might save them for one more day, Christian. But eventually the Caliphate will enforce sharia throughout the entire world. Your farms will be first, but not last,” Aden replied defiantly.
“When? It’s been years since we stopped you. Your fearsome Saracen scared to cross the river? Rather pick on innocent farmers instead of facing us?” Culper asked calmly.
“Idiot. It takes time to prepare for such an operation. You would know that if you had one ounce of military skill.”
“Sure, it takes some time. But years? Sounds to me like you’ve been waiting to raise up a bunch of new teenagers stupid enough to stop the first bullets. Probably just send them in waves and wait for us to run out of ammo. Think it will be that easy, huh?
Aden shook his head. “You Christians always try to deceive. The truth is presented in front of your face, and you twist everything around. I praise Allah the day will come soon that you are on your knees begging for forgiveness!”
“Won’t happen here, Aden. You’re in the strongest fortress on the northern frontier. Your teenagers will break against our walls like glass. Eventually you wannabe warlord types will be all that’s left. Shouldn’t be too hard to mop you up.”
“You think you can control the entire border? What, with some rickety old planes and trucks? You’ll never know what hit you until it’s too late.” Aden felt woozy again, and a little nauseous. His mouth was drier than he had ever experienced before.
Culper produced a small plastic glass of water without request; Aden resisted the temptation with a shake of his head. “Oldest trick in the book, Christian. Do me a favor, I do you a favor, eh?”
“Hardly. You were just giving such great insight I didn’t want a dry mouth to stop you. Listen, Aden, you’ve already told me enough to mark you as a khiyaamo. Do you really think they’ll ever believe you told me nothing? Everyone in this fortress knows you’re here. They’ll tell their friends, who will tell their friends. You did say you’ve got spies everywhere, right? The Imam himself probably knows you’re here by now. Tell me again what the Caliphate does to khiyaamo?” Culper asked.
“I am no traitor!” Aden tried to lunge at his tormentor, but instead found himself falling backwards until the concrete floor met his back. He felt a pop of bone in his shoulder and blurry stars filled his vision. A heavy weight pinned him down. As his vision cleared, Culper’s face appeared above.
“That wasn’t polite, Aden. I thought we were having a conversation. Why do you Caliphate clerics always want to settle arguments with violence? Almost like you don’t really believe what you say you do.”
“We’re going to crush you, infidel swine! You won’t even know it unti
l it is too late! You Red Hawk idol worshippers think you are always outsmarting us, but just wait! Very soon you will be alone and surrounded, cut off from everyone, and then we will see who begs who for mercy!” Aden shouted, hyperventilating with rage and frustration.
Without warning, Culper sprung back up to his feet in one catlike motion. Aden lay panting, trying to catch his breath through the pain of his head and shoulder.
Culper looked down, satisfied look on his face. “Thank you, Aden. You’ve given us a good place to start. Listen, if you would be so kind as to write some things down for me, I’ll be happy to provide you a Koran and let you know the direction to New Mecca so you can make your prayers.”
Aden tried not to look shocked, but his senses were a mess. “I—I—I didn’t tell you anything,” he stammered. “You are tricking me again.”
“On the contrary. You just told me when and where the Caliphate is going to strike. I figure the least I can do for you is let you worship again. How long has it been for you? I’m sure you’d like to make your prayers, right?” Culper asked. “No? Okay well I need to go. If you change your mind, let one of the guards know. I’ll see what I can do.”
Confusion blurred Aden’s mind, he couldn’t remember giving any information like that. The mind tricks were defeating him. No infidel had dared challenge him since the lights had gone out. But these Red Hawks were so confident. Like they were in no way afraid of the Caliphate or the mighty Saracen poised to wipe them out. Perhaps we haven’t been told the whole truth? Aden wondered. Maybe the Americans and their Red Hawk allies aren’t as weak as the Mahdi claimed.
His duty warred with a sense of self-preservation. I cannot waver. Allah sees all! He was a holy warrior, a mighty soldier of the Mahdi himself!