by Weston Ochse
Hearing movement, Boy Scout spun and saw a dervish squatting next to a wall, his arms around his knees, fear in his eyes as he sobbed. Beside him lay the remains of another man, this one burned and broken in half.
Boy Scout took three quick steps and placed the barrel to the man’s head. He hesitated a moment, then put three rounds into him. He pushed him to the ground, lifted a boot, and brought it down on the detonator the man still held.
A presence suddenly loomed behind him and turned around slowly.
The daeva stared down at him.
Boy Scout lowered his rifle and looked up at the superbeing.
They stood there, frozen, for what seemed like an hour, then the daeva moved on, limping as it left the complex. After a moment of silence, there came a roar, brightness flared from the entrance, then it was gone.
Boy Scout seated the rifle into his shoulder and moved with purpose. By his count there was still one dervish missing and he wanted desperately to find the man, if nothing more than to explain the nature of American munitions and how a 5.56 round could etch an epitaph onto an evil man’s soul.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
IT TURNED OUT that the last dervish was hiding in the same spot Boy Scout had used earlier to hide from the daeva. Weaponless and terrified, he was babbling in both Persian and English about the daeva tearing his friends in half. Boy Scout was prepared to fire when he heard a voice he recognized.
He turned to see his old friend McQueen, slightly worse for wear, standing at the edge of the water, helped by Lore.
Boy Scout slammed the butt of his rifle into the dervish’s face, then ran to the last two members of his TST and embraced them. Together they cried for their fallen friends.
After a few moments, they cleared the cistern of potential danger. Once certain there were no survivors, they took their two fallen comrades into the desert and dug graves for them.
They buried Sarasota Chavez, aka Bully, convoy driver, MMA fighter, TST member, and friend to them all. She’d perhaps had the worst of it, taking care of them when they were in fugue as if she was the mother and they were her babies.
Then they buried Dakota Jimmison, aka Dak, aka Narco, arranger of things, TST member, and a regular pain in the ass.
Throughout the entire solemn process, Boy Scout remembered the scene in the Kenneth Branagh movie, Henry V. After the Battle of Agincourt, the king and his knights took up the bodies of Davy Gam and the others who’d died. During the burials, they sang the old Latin hymn first sung by the Knights Templar, Non nobis, Domine, which meant Not unto us, Lord. The idea was that the English army was happy they’d won the battle and the war, but were solemn in the notion that it hadn’t been up to them and that God had favored the English that day. But to Boy Scout, the song meant much more. It was not only a nod to the bravery and sacrifice given to him by the members of his team, it was also his expression of humility as one who’d survived. He didn’t sing it and he didn’t hum it, but it played in the orchestra of his mind with all the grand fanfare of a major symphony.
As they stood and stared at the two filled graves, Boy Scout knew that the fugue had brought them all closer together. They hadn’t merely done their day-to-day TST tasks. They’d traveled the world in their minds, run from the cops, chased bad buys, beaten up gang members, and even unleashed camels onto a downtown Phoenix highway. That those events never really happened had little bearing on the reality that at the time they’d all believed they had. The memories of those events were as real in their minds as anything they had ever done, and the doing of them bonded them closer than they would have believed. As a result, losing Narco, Criminal, and Bully wasn’t like any other loss he’d experienced in his life… and Boy Scout had lost a lot of men in combat.
When they were done with their own, they went to Faood and helped with his dead. These they didn’t bury; instead, they packed them into the SUVs they’d come in, posing them as if they’d died inside the vehicles. When they were finally done, Boy Scout took Lore and McQueen and they cleaned each other, wiping away the day’s blood and sins. When at last they were dressed and geared up, Boy Scout spoke to them.
“We have a decision to make.”
Both Lore and McQueen stared at him expectantly.
Lore had come through the battle with bruises and a ringing in her ears that wouldn’t quite go away.
McQueen had a three-inch gash across the back of his left shoulder and enough bruising to make his skin blue.
“It’s been more than seven months since we went missing. By now, they’ve found the remains of the general’s vehicle. They won’t have found ours since the dervishes removed the LoJack recovery system. For all we know, we’re wanted men and women.”
The others made no comment.
“What happened here, all of this, can never be discussed. They’d think we’re crazy and probably lock us up, which means this location and unfortunately the location of the bodies of our fallen can never be revealed. As much as it saddens me, this is their final resting place.”
“Cemeteries are for the living, boss,” McQueen said, swallowing hard. “Especially military cemeteries.”
No one spoke for a long minute as they digested that fact.
Then Lore said, “I thought you said we have a decision to make.”
“We do, but I don’t want to ask any more of you than—”
“We’re in,” Lore said excitedly. Then when Boy Scout seemed about to speak, she added, “McQueen and I have already talked about this. If you’re about to say what I think you’re about to say, then yes… hell, yes!”
“There’s only three of us,” Boy Scout said. He’d asked Faood if he’d help, but the man had replied that it was just too much. He was going on Hajj to find himself and to figure out who he needed to be.
Neither Lore nor McQueen said a word.
“We’ll be outnumbered, probably ten to one.”
Still, they remained silent.
“This is not a suicide mission. I’m not planning on any of you dying, but the reality is that at least one of us isn’t going to make it.”
Still not a word.
“When we get there, I’m going to free the daeva they’re keeping.”
Lore glanced at McQueen and fidgeted. She hadn’t been expecting that, but she said nothing.
“Then, when it’s all said and done, we’re going to go home.”
“We can tell them we were captured by the Taliban,” Lore said. “You, and especially McQueen, look as if you’ve been starved to death. I probably do, too.”
“Then we saw our chance and fought our way free,” McQueen added.
“We’ll have a lot of time to work on our story after the battle,” Boy Scout said. “We’ll have to be on foot when they find us to make it look realistic.”
“How far do you think we’re away from friendly forces?” McQueen asked.
“I figure fifty kilometers east and we could hit FOB Mitchum in Kunduz Province. Or we could go sixty kilometers west and hit Mez. It’s a German base, but there are some US forces there.”
“I’d rather go east,” Lore said.
“Me as well,” McQueen said. “Special Forces have a presence at FOB Mitchum. If it was them who found us, I could sell our story better.”
“Then east it is,” Boy Scout said, grinning slightly. Although FOB Mitchum was named after an Army private who’d died there, he couldn’t help thinking of the classic movie Night of the Hunter starring Robert Mitchum. The actor had played the serial killing Reverend Harry Powell with the letters L-O-V-E tattooed on his right hand and H-A-T-E tattooed on his left. The movie was a classic, but that’s not why Boy Scout thought about it. It came as a warning and he’d come to wish he’d heeded it.
“And to think that friendly forces were so close all this time,” Lore said. “You know, it’s a shame we couldn’t just call this in.” Then she hastily added, “I know. This is far bigger than anything. Can you imagine if the CIA got their hands on a daeva?”
Boy Scout nodded. “What’s going on here is biblical. For all I know it was foretold in Revelations. Not that I’m a diehard believer or anything, but now that I know that these daeva are real and now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen, I’m far slower to discount the possibility of a belief being true.”
“True word,” McQueen said, nodding.
“Something is going on outside of our reality that can affect ours, and as much as I love the red, white, and blue, I’m not certain it’s something that we need to be messing with.”
“Are you comfortable with Rumi messing with it?” Lore asked.
“No, I’m not. But as much as I hate his method, I think his intentions are good. Plus, I can’t do anything about him unless I go back in and that’s nothing I intend on doing ever again.”
Lore laughed hollowly.
“What? Am I missing something?”
“Know what Narco would say about that? Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“That was so Narco,” McQueen said.
They remained silent for a full minute as they each replayed Narco, Bully, and Criminal memories. The good times. The bad times. The fugue times. All of it.
“What about our prisoner?” McQueen asked.
“Faood’s going to let him go.”
Both Lore and McQueen seemed to consider dissenting, but thought better of it.
“What’s left for us to do?” Lore asked.
“Gather our gear and dee mao,” Boy Scout said. “The dervishes are going to come investigate the area. We’ll be gone and they’ll have no reason to believe we’re going to come for them. My guess is it’s going to put them in an uproar. They probably believe we’ll go to the first friendly forces we can find, spill our guts, then have a whole Marine division descending upon Kholm. If we’re lucky, they’ll be preparing to move operations and we can catch them in the middle of it.”
“They might even have a Jump TOC set up,” McQueen said, meaning a temporary tactical command center prepositioned in the place that they intend on going. “It would be better if we were already there and waiting. Then we could attack them on our terms.”
“I’ll have to discuss with Faood what their standing operating procedure is. If we have the opportunity to do that, then I think it’s something we should do. Good thinking, McQueen.”
“Spoken like the Special Forces badass he always was,” Lore said with a grin.
McQueen’s face reddened.
“You guys get the gear together and I’ll find Faood.”
Lore and McQueen both acknowledged his command and set to it.
Boy Scout went into the fifth cistern and found Faood, who was sitting with the captured dervish. They’d removed both of the daeva and left them out in the desert to be recovered by their own kind.
Faood said a quick word, then joined Boy Scout.
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum,” Faood said, a hand over his heart.
The words meant “Peace be with you,” and Boy Scout responded, “There’s not much chance of that, but waʿalaykumu s-salām to you.”
Faood nodded solemnly. “You ready to leave?”
“Fairly soon.”
“You still going to attack?”
“That’s our plan.”
“Is there any way I can talk you out of it?”
Boy Scout raised an eyebrow and glanced over to where the other dervish sat. He thought it had all been settled. He’d thought Faood understood. “Why would you do that?”
“They are my people. I do not want to see them dead.”
“You did a pretty good job killing in here,” Boy Scout said.
“That is not the same. They were attacking us. I was defending myself.”
“Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.”
Faood wrinkled his brow for a moment, then said, “I think I understand that. Yes, what you say is true. But that’s not the reason you want to fight. You are not defending anything. What you want, you will never be able to have.”
Boy Scout sighed, already tired of the sermon he knew was going to come. “And what is that, Faood?”
“You want revenge. Let me tell you, my friend, you will go there and you will kill, and if you survive, your friends are still going to be dead. All of the killing in the world is not going to bring them back. You still will have lost seven months of your life. All of the killing in the world won’t undo that. Revenge is hollow. Tell me, what will this give you that you don’t already have?”
Boy Scout didn’t even hesitate. “Satisfaction,” he said.
Faood stared at him for a moment, then said, “Killing dervishes you don’t even know will satisfy you? Killing men who have nothing to do with you will satisfy you? Why? Because they are dervish? Then you might as well kill me.” He tore open the collar of his shirt and pointed to his chest. “Here. Shoot me here.”
Boy Scout grabbed Faood’s collar and tugged it back in place. “Stop the drama, Faood. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Me? Embarrassing myself? No sir, it is you who are embarrassing yourself.”
“Because I want revenge?”
“Because you are acting like Taliban. You are acting like Al-Qaeda. You have a blood oath to kill dervish because dervish kill your people. You tell me, Mr. Boy Scout, how this is different.”
Boy Scout stared at Faood, wanting to punch him square in the face. “It’s different.”
“How?”
Boy Scout shook his head. “I don’t know. It just is.”
Then he turned and trudged out of the cistern complex.
Lore and McQueen were geared up and waiting for him.
“Come on,” Boy Scout said. “Let’s go.”
“What about Faood?” Lore asked. “Did he tell you what we needed to know?”
“He said some things,” Boy Scout said.
“Were they helpful?” Lore asked.
Boy Scout got behind the wheel and slammed his door. “Hardly.”
Chapter Forty
Kholm
THEY SHOULDN’T HAVE waited until night. When they got to the palace, it was empty. There were signs of an attack. Scorch marks, the kind that might come from a daeva, marred the side of the once pristine white palace. A Land Cruiser lay on its side, nothing more than a burned hulk, the metal cold. There were no bodies. There were no weapons. The place looked as if it had been deserted for some time.
Boy Scout realized that he’d never really been to the palace at all. The only time he’d come here he’d been in a fugue specially designed by Faood. Had the dervishes even been here at all? Was the burned out vehicle and damage to the building from a battle long ago? He kicked a paper cup that the wind was tickling and watched it fly a few feet away and land near a shoe.
Was he in a fugue now? He never should have gone to talk to Faood alone. When it had been evident Boy Scout wasn’t going to be denied his revenge, did Faood fugue him? Then why were the others here? Were they in the fugue or a construct? God, but it was so confusing.
They returned to their Land Cruiser and drove back to the cistern complex. All evidence of occupation had been removed. The SUVs and the bodies were gone. The dead daeva were removed. There was no Faood, but there were bullet holes everywhere. The roof above the primary cistern was still caved in from the fight with the daeva, just as Boy Scout remembered. That, at least, led him to believe that he was in reality. But could he be sure? Would he ever be sure?
Lore and McQueen were as confused as he was. He could see fear in their eyes. To doubt whether you were really you or whether you were really present was a magnificent invention of the dervishes. To make reality itself recalcitrant was genius.
With nothing else to do, they headed east to FOB Mitchum. Without the dervishes to attack, they might as well take advantage of the road and drive right up to the FOB. They’d say that they were kept in the cistern. Without the dervishes and without the daeva it was just an old historical place where water bubbled up from the ground. Investiga
tors would come and see evidence of the firefight. It would work.
They’d gone about thirty miles, Lore leaning forward between the two front seats, talking candidly, their excitement building, their ideas about what they were going to do, drink, and eat bubbling forth. They promised that they’d meet again when they got back in the world, which always meant America, if they got separated because of the investigation. They talked about all of this and more and were beginning to feel as if they’d finally escaped the horror of the last seven months when they hit the mine. The explosion wrapped a titanic hand around the SUV and slammed it onto the other side of the road. Lore’s scream was the only sound Boy Scout heard in the silence after the boom.
Then his mind was filled with words made famous by Cormac McCarthy. The booming voice of James Earl Jones proclaimed, It makes no difference what men think of war. War endures. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god.
Then all sound returned with the force of a private Armageddon.
Machine gun fire raked the undercarriage of the SUV.
Someone was screaming his name.
Lore had gone through the windshield and was laying on the ground several feet away, unmoving.
Something was pulling at him. Jerking him. Boy Scout turned to see McQueen, his face bloodied from a broken nose, yanking on him.
Boy Scout fumbled with his seatbelt but his hand was slick with his own blood. The airbags had deployed. His face felt like it had hit a wall and throbbed. He fumbled twice more, then found the release.
McQueen pulled him through the space where the windshield had once been, then reached in and grabbed Boy Scout’s rifle. He shoved it at Boy Scout, who looked at it as if it was about to bite him. Then his senses returned and he snatched it and checked to see if it was in working order.
“Where are they?” he shouted.