The Worth of Souls

by T. Martin O’Neil

  Next it was off to the rendezvous with Slim. In their minds, they were already counting and spending the $15 Grand.

  Lumelyn Estagoy

  The small hamlet of Lauag just outside of Paete, Luzon, Philippines, was so quiet. Seems like nothing ever happened here. Nine-year-old Lumelyn walked through the jungle palm trees toward the village store. She could have done this in her sleep, she’d done it so many times before.

  Her mother sent her to get some rice wrappers. She was going to make lumpia and didn’t want to make the wrappers herself. For Lumelyn, this was only the best food treat ever.

  The store owner helped her with her purchase and watched as she skipped off down the path toward her home. Two other sets of eyes watched as she skipped along. Both men were Muslim pirates from the island of Mindanao. They watched her closely. She would be perfect, the right height, shape and face that their leader wanted.

  That leader had been promised by the Imam that if they raided the infidel villages north and brought him young girls, they would be rewarded from on high as was Mohammad the Prophet. Daafi and Jabar also took that reward seriously. Anything the Imam said surely came from Allah. They believed it fervently.

  They gauged their position on the path so that as she came through a large stand of broad-leafed banana plants, she would be out of sight of the road or any houses. Quietly they waited and watched. Daafi stepped out and smiled at Lumelyn. “It is a beautiful day for a walk in the jungle,” he started the conversation. He talked soothingly so as not to frighten her.

  As she started to reply, her mouth poised to speak, Jabar came from behind her and quickly clasped his left hand around her mouth. She tried to scream, but Jabar’s hand held her mouth firmly. She tried to bite him and here she struck pay-dirt. He recoiled from the pain of the bite. Blood quickly flowed from the injury.

  Lumelyn tried to get a deep enough breath to scream, but Daafi was too quick and clamped his dirty left hand on her mouth. She tasted the filth. She wanted to throw up and gagged despite her will not to.

  Daafi observed the Koran strictly and was right-handed. That meant his left hand was used for cleaning himself and smelled like it too. Washing hands didn’t rate a very high priority in the man’s mind. Certainly, cleanliness was not next to godliness.

  Lumelyn struggled and kicked, but her bare feet could not match the strength of the two men. Blood dripping down his arm, Jabar clasped her legs tightly and lifted her up. They withdrew a length of cord from their pocket. Quickly they tied her ankles and then her hands. A filthy rag was stuffed in her mouth and held in place with another bandanna type rag. The taste of Daafi’s hand and the filth of the rag almost involuntarily expelled the rag as she retched.

  Their dual outrigger pump boat lay beached well up on the shore, almost to the jungle. The large fishing net in the middle of the boat would easily cover the girl once they left the lagoon. They would appear to just be two fishermen with a large net heading out to continue their success. Lumelyn’s struggles would only appear to confirm a successful catch.

  Jabar quietly directed Lumelyn to shut up or they would cut her up and make shark bait of her. Still struggling, she seemed to ignore him until he slapped her hard. So hard in fact that she saw stars and became disoriented. Not sure if she blacked out or not, she lay still while they threw her into their boat. The damp, smelly net was thrown on top of her and the boat pushed into the water.

  The two men paddled steadily and strongly. Past the small surf line, they relaxed their strokes to the steady even pace of experienced fishermen. In their minds, they each felt inner pride in the blessings of Allah. Certainly, their blessings from the Imam would keep them blessed forever, or until he needed more little girls.

  Guzal Karimov

  Yangiyul is a small village southwest of Tashkent, the capital city of Uzbekistan. Not many even know where Uzbekistan is much less that there are Jews living there in this chiefly Muslim province of the Soviet Union. The Soviet presence there was a driving force for Guzal’s family to seek permission to go to Israel. It also drew ridicule from the local Muslim youth. Guzal was forever wanting to leave.

  It wasn’t just the name-calling that bothered her, but the hateful things written on the outer courtyard wall of their small tan masonry home. The Soviet soldiers rarely took an interest in the Jewish girls other than to give them cat calls and mock their dress code.

  Guzal was a very beautiful young girl of twelve. She went to bed one night only to awaken the following morning, it seemed, with the flowering form of a young lady. She felt so embarrassed and struggled to confide in her mother about the strange pains and feelings. She had two girlfriends, but they did not live close to her home. They too were going through those very same changes.

  Guzal attended a very small Jewish school about 2 kilometers from her home. She and her brothers normally walked together the six days a week of school. More for protection than company, they usually stayed on the main streets.

  One Friday, her brothers decided to take a different way home. Guzal knew that if she accompanied them, they would probably all get into trouble since they had disobeyed their parents. It was late in the afternoon and the other two girls in Guzal’s clique were talking about how warm the days were getting and what the new clothing styles were going to be. Only a few of their friends were filling out and so most of the conversation still had the simple thoughts and joys of pre-teen girls. The topic turned to boys as was on every young girl’s mind.

  Guzal was so wrapped up in talking that she didn’t realize what time it was. Her family was a traditional Jewish family and since the Shabbat was coming on, she needed to get home. The warm sun was a bit lower in the sky as she walked toward her home. About half-way there, she stopped to admire a flowering bush in the garden of a house she passed every day. The beauty was incredible. A woman looking out her window beckoned her into the courtyard. She could not resist.

  The lady was extremely kind and offered her a cool yogurt-type drink. While hot tea was the normal fare for the culture, this treat was saved only for special occasions. Her warning feelings were quickly set aside. She felt strangely comfortable with this woman. As they continued to talk, she started to feel a bit sleepy. She started to rise explaining that she needed to get home. Her legs seemed to give out and all she could remember was the room spinning and the light fading.

  When the woman’s son arrived home, Guzal was placed in his arms. Her hands and feet were bound with packing tape. Her mouth was taped as well. She then was injected with a tiny bit of morphine to keep the induced sleep from stopping any time soon. Her limp, bound body was placed on a blanket in the trunk of her son’s car. The rest of the blanket was rolled over her.

  Next stop, Tashkent.

  Narain Singh

  Narain Singh was born in the embattled northern India foothills of the Himalayan Mountains. He was from a devout Sikh family. His father was a a local leader, a Sardar, and family patriarch renowned for his firm stand on Sikh independence. He lived in the village of Mandi.

  When he was 10 years old, he accompanied his father on a mission to Rampur on the mighty Sutlej River. Here they were to meet with other Sikh leaders from many villages and towns attempting again to obtain their independence from India. To say the meetings were inconclusive is an understatement. The largest contending thought was how they were to seek their goal.

  Narain’s father wanted to get a hot war started again. Others wanted a more moderate, peaceful approach. Discussions led to arguments which led to threats and screaming fist fights. Despite his warrior-like father, Narain wanted the shouting to stop. He adjourned himself to the quiet outside of the basement where the leaders argued.

  Two spies from the Delhi-based government watched the boy. They’d been informed of the meeting and had been ordered to observe. Around 10:00 pm, one of the two engaged Narain in small talk. “It is kind of late for a young man to be out in the streets alone.”

  “I’m a man!” Narain replied.
“I can go where and when I wish.”

  “Of course, of course,” the man replied confidently but quietly. “You probably will also tell me that you did not like the noise of the meeting in the basement over there.” He nodded but kept his eyes on Narain.

  Narain confidently and even boldly replied, “I am a man and I chose not to yell and fight with those men.”

  “You are wise beyond your years,” came the reply. The man moved ever so slowly as he spoke so that the youth would turn away from the dark alley where his companion was. When he was confident his friend could grab the youth, he stopped. “What is your name?” he queried.

  “I am called Narain Singh,” he boastfully replied.

  “Well, Narain Singh, I wish you to come with me.”

  The companion quickly swept forward and gagged the boy at the same time pinned his arms to his sides. The first man grabbed his feet and held his ankles together. Quickly they moved back into the alley. They tied him with his own belt and bound him with his turban, causing his long, black hair to flow down to his shoulders. His kangha or wooden hair comb, dropped to the ground.

  Taking his curved kirpan knife they moved the struggling boy down the alley and toward a small van. They thrust him into the van and drove away. It would be a long trip to Delhi but the black market for young boys and girls paid well. It meant that despite a lot of wasted time in Rampur, they could get more than enough to buy things normally reserved for the wealthy and thus pay for their time.

  Lis Chu Naomi

  The streets of Hong Kong were already turned on lighting the lower streets of Victoria Peak. Chu headed home from a friend’s home and looked forward to the warm soup her mother would have. It was dusk and she knew she was a little late, but not that much. She and her girlfriends had let time slip away as they talked of boys and clothes. She was 13 and in her mind a very mature 13. After all, she reasoned, my mother was married when she was only 15 and she, Chu, was almost home anyway.

  The lights of a car with its high beams came around the corner and her eyes did not adjust quickly enough. The car screeched to a halt. She felt the rough hands clamp around her head and stifle the scream in her throat. The hands smelled of fish and were calloused. The body odor was oppressive. Whoever these men were, they needed to learn about bathing.

  A rag with a bitter smelling liquid was forced against her nose. She could not breathe. She fought and kicked and tried to scream. She had to inhale. It only took a breath and she stopped her struggle. Everything went black.

  The man threw her into the back seat. Then he threw a packing blanket over her. His experience clearly demontrated years of abducting children. She would be unconscious for at least two hours, plenty of time to get her to Aberdeen and the waiting boat. Once on the boat he knew she’d be tied hand and foot. He had no worries.

  His only concern now was to get paid and get rid of the cargo of three young female children. This last one was a gift from the gods and totally a target of opportunity; one placed in their path by karma.

  Chapter 2

  Back Into the Fire

  An Tho, South Vietnam

  LT Kevin S. Marks sat on the edge of his cot. He’d been able to return to SEAL Team 1, Det. B in An Tho, South Vietnam. He was having a significant emotional let-down, but it felt like he could now address the future with men he knew and trusted.

  Recently, he’d been forced to face long-distance situations and decisions he really didn’t want to. Dealing with the mood swings and emotional roller coaster of his wife, Charlene, while deployed was more than he felt he could do half-way around the world.

  ADM Donophan, Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet (CINCPACFLT), did his best to allay concerns with the usual platitudes. Marks was talent he didn’t want to lose. In his own mind, he needed to fulfill his duties as a recruiter also. He’d taken a shine to the young LT and had been rewarded with stellar results. Kevin was the real thing. He’d done more to help the Navy and while it sounded somewhat trite, mankind, than virtually anyone he’d ever met. From drugs to human trafficking, Kevin had personally saved countless lives with his innate ability to plan and direct those plans with the Navy’s elite Special Warfare operatives. The SEALS had also taken to him and drew him into their world.

  ADM Donophan pressed the services of the Force chaplain, CAPT Robert Knowles. Hopefully, the chaplain would help and do his best to keep the young LT from leaving the service. He recognized and knew he had to keep Kevin’s spirits up. There were some significant issues still pending in Southeast Asia and this young man was the key to the successful fulfillment of those issues. Yes, he could start with another man, but the time associated with bringing another person up to speed only portended a potential disaster. The rest of the story was that there were very few young men as remarkable as LT Marks.

  “Imperial Hammer” was the Top-Secret operation that had the most serious needs right now, and since LT Marks was already ‘read-in’ and operational, it was significant that he complete crucial planning parts of the operation in a timely manner. This was extremely important for the betterment of Marks’ chosen career and for his personal piece of mind.

  CAPT Knowles also recognized from the concern of the Admiral, that his responsibility in keeping this young man was serious. He didn’t really understand why, but the voice inflections and body language of the Admiral gave no doubt what the Chaplain’s duty was. Chaplains are not as often a critical tool in the military except for death notifications, last rights and counseling. This time a specific mission was his; to keep a live person from making a serious mistake with his life. He left word for Marks to see him prior to returning to Southeast Asia.

  LT Marks saw “the summons” when he returned from updating his personal data at the Personnel Department. He was unaware that checking out with the chaplain was part of going back “in-theater.” Still he complied and went directly down to the Chaplain’s office.

  Marks, the tan 210-lb, 6’2” sandy-haired, blue-eyed young officer, entered the Chaplain’s office and was met by the First-Class Petty Officer. Showing up as rapidly as he did, Chaplain Knowles seemed surprised. This was something usually that required multiple requests. Perhaps this young officer was, as the Admiral said, an exceptional case. Motioning him into his personal office, Chaplain Knowles closed the door.

  Choosing his words carefully, the chaplain began, “I understand from the Admiral that you are considering resigning from the service.”

  “Yes, Sir. It seems my family currently needs me more than the Navy.”

  “Really, what prompted this?”

  “Sir, my wife has not been able to cope with the long absences and my time away from the family. She no longer wants to provide the promised support she initially agreed to. She is now insisting that I leave the service. It also appears that she is involved with illicit prescription drugs.”

  “Has she sought counseling? There are some very effective programs having great impact to service members and their families.”

  “No sir, she refuses to go. She seems to feel all the counselors want to do is go counter to her wants and needs.”

  “I understand. Often, I see this same drama played out among separated and deployed families. You are not alone. You’ve no doubt heard that ‘early outs’ are being given to most who request it. Unfortunately, this is with officers who are in less demanding positions. Why do you feel this is in the best interest of you and your family now?”

  The question hit Marks squarely. Deep inside he knew he was making a difference; a difference in the lives of countless men, women and most of all children. His father and his grandfather, both Admirals now retired, once made differences in the lives of many others. Was he any less of a man than they were? Their families came through it alright. Sure, it was hard on Marks’ mom and dad. But, they made it. He and Marilyn, his sister, grew closer. Perhaps he was blowing everything out of proportion.

  “Sir, could I think on this a while longer? Perhaps when I return from the
War Zone I’ll revisit the idea.”

  The chaplain smiled and reassured Kevin that he might just find a different answer after sleeping on it. Then, since he knew Marks was deeply religious, he added, “And pray and ask God what you should do.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Marks was reminded of his own words of counsel given to other friends and associates. He’d do that very thing.

  “Imperial Hammer” was the code name for a heavily classified counter-narcotics operations in the Golden Triangle; the areas of northeastern Burma, western Laos, extreme northern Thailand and southern China. Most of these operations centered on the clandestine inserting of small transmitters into the fully processed heroin – pure China white.

  The transmitters were about the size of a child’s fat crayon and contained a long-life battery, a transmitting beacon set to a specific frequency and a casing to protect it from both the elements and the corrosive nature of the product it was planted in. The whole thing was placed into the ready-to-ship “bale” so it could be followed to its destination.

  Instead of following the huge number of human mules, boats and vehicles carrying the product, the individual bale was tracked. This was accomplished using U.S. ships, aircraft, shore sites and even satellites referred to as ‘National Assets.’ The key to success with this operation was instead of having a boat or aircraft followed, the far easier way to find the material was to follow the product itself. Once the material was tracked, the end-user was apprehended, questioned and hopefully jailed. This way, the distribution link could be found and stopped.

  Crucial to finishing the operation was the removal of the transmitter before it was discovered. This depended on teams at the police department designated to do just that. As a result, when the court case and evidence was reviewed, it only appeared that the police got lucky catching the bad guys.