(Wrath-02)-Darkness of This World (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  Sam took a step back and sucked a deep breath. He pressed his lips and looked around, then slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he answered. “That was out of line. I was venting on you, Bono, and there is no excuse for that.”

  The leader watched him closely. “Apology accepted,” he said, but his voice still firm. “And I made the right decision,” he continued. “We did the right thing. This isn’t an op. It’s a rescue mission only. We could have gone after the APC, but they were already pulling away. What were we going to do, chase them all the way to Tehran? And we did do some good here, we interrupted their work. More importantly, we followed orders. Now come on, get a grip, we don’t have much time. Let’s do what we can, then beat cheeks out of Dodge. We’re still in enemy territory, in the middle of a freakin’ foreign country, let’s not forget that.”

  Sam moved his automatic rifle to his other hand. “Roger,” he answered. And though his eyes still burned with rage, it was directed at the carnage around him, not at his friend. He slipped his hand down the butt of his rifle, bringing the short-barreled machine gun to his chest. “And the boy we are looking for? What do we do there?”

  The captain worked the wad of gum in his mouth, a stony look on his face. “Any suggestions?” he wondered.

  Sam hunched his shoulders around him. “It’s possible he might still be alive.”

  “Yeah. Possible. Not likely from the looks of it, but possible perhaps. But who is he, where is he? I doubt we’ll ever find out. We don’t have the men or the time to sort this thing out.”

  Sam snorted in disgust. “Freakin’ mess,” he said.

  The captain nodded gloomily, then cocked his head to the hill. “Your squad is almost finished sweeping up there,” he said. “Have them talk to the people. Find out what you can. I’ve got Alpha squad working the other homes near the square. Let’s get an estimate on the damage, then get out of here. I’ll give you five minutes, then I want your squad in the helicopters so we can get in the air.”

  Sam pressed his jaw. “Aye, aye,” he said.

  “Five minutes,” the captain warned him as he walked away. “Not one second more. I want your squad ready when the helicopter blades roll.”

  • • •

  Sam jogged to the burned-out homes on the hill. The smoke hung low in the trees, heavy and still, like a deep gray and black blanket that had nowhere to go. The air was deadly still and the thick smoke burned his dry eyes.

  His squad had done everything they could to clean up the mess. The medics had treated a few of the wounded, but the Iranian attackers had been good, if not kind. They were efficient with their weapons and almost all of their targets had been killed. The children proved an easy target, for their bodies were fragile and they didn’t fight back.

  Sam jogged to his waiting squad, who stood grim-faced and angry, their eyes dull with rage. The shock was universal. None of them were prepared to see such a thing.

  “OK,” Sam said, turning to his Farsi interpreter. “Anything to report?”

  The sergeant tucked an unlit cigarette between his lips. “The stories are pretty consistent,” he said. “Four APCs moved into the village sometime late this afternoon, probably not more than an hour, maybe an hour and half, before we got here. They asked for Rassa Pahlavi—that’s his house over there.” The interpreter nodded to a small cinder block and mud house to his right. “The Iranians were looking for someone, a young woman and a child.” He stopped and cleared his throat, knowing the Iranians had beat them to the target and then continued. “When Pahlavi didn’t help them, the soldiers freaked out. This is where it ended, with what you see here.”

  Sam wet his lips, then turned and surveyed the area. All the villagers had retreated into what remained of their homes. They were as terrified of the U.S. soldiers as they were of the Iranians assassins. “Did you notice?” he asked the sergeant while motioning to the remains of the village below.

  The interpreter hesitated. “Yeah,” he replied.

  “All of their targets were children. All of them boys.”

  The other soldier was silent. It was painfully obvious.

  “Which meant,” Sam continued, “that they didn’t find who they were after.”

  The interpreter swallowed. “So they made a sweeping generalization. All the male children must die.”

  Sam shook his head. “A rather harsh method to accomplish their mission.”

  “But effective,” the sergeant muttered in a cynical voice. “You’ve got to give them that. When it comes to the mission, these guys are a dedicated bunch.”

  Sam wiped his face in frustration, then turned back to his men. “This Pahlavi,” he asked. “Any information on him?”

  The interpreter nodded toward a smoldering tree. “That’s him over there,” he answered. “They burned him alive.”

  Sam took a step to the right and his shoulders slumped as he looked at the smoking tree. The lower branches had been scorched, all of the leaves burned to ash. The corpse lay in a heap at the base of the tree “Anything else?” he demanded as he looked away.

  “No, Sam, that’s all.”

  “All right then, let’s go. There’s nothing more we can do and the Honcho wants to get out of here. Move to the helicopter. Let’s get out of this hell.”

  “Roger,” the soldiers muttered. They all wanted to leave. There was too much death, too much darkness, too much destruction and despair. And it seemed to be for nothing. None of it made any sense! His team gathered their gear and moved down the hill in a run. Sam watched them go, standing alone atop the hill.

  A slight wind picked up, blowing up from the valley and lifting the smoke to the tops of the trees, bending it over the branches like the long, misty fingers of an enormous, dark hand. Sam turned his face to the breeze, hoping the wind would remove the stain from his memory and the smell of smoke from his clothes. He closed his eyes and listened, feeling the breeze on his face and the weight of his gear pressing against his shoulders and chest. The radio receiver beeped in his ear as the other squads announced they were ready to go. He pulled out the earpiece and let it hang at his neck. He needed a moment of silence, a moment of prayer.

  He bowed his head slowly. “Dear God,” he began, then paused for a time. He wanted to say something, and he felt that he should, but try as he might, he didn’t know what to say.

  He didn’t feel like praying. He felt like kicking someone’s head in.

  He paused, then finally mumbled the only thing he could think of. “Please help them,” he muttered, then lifted his head.

  Turning, he started to walk down the muddy road. He had only walked twenty paces when something spoke in his mind. He tried to dismiss it, but the feeling remained. He paused, then peered back at the smoldering tree.

  She crawled from the high grass on the other side of the road. She was young, wet, and muddy, with long hair and a tan dress. She moved toward the body at the base of the tree, and knelt beside it, holding her hands over her mouth. Watching her, he saw her shoulders heaving and heard her muffled cries.

  “Go to her,” an unseen voice seemed to say. “She is your little sister and she needs your help.”

  Sam stared in frustration. “But what could I do?” he thought in desperation to himself.

  The voice didn’t answer and Sam didn’t move. The sound of the helicopter blades began to beat from behind him as the pilots spun the rotors up to operating speed. He turned to the landing zone to see that his squad had loaded up in the helicopters and were ready to go. He heard his name being called through the tiny radio earpiece that hung at his neck. “Captain Brighton,” his team leader called him. “Sam, let’s go!”

  He eyed the helicopters, then glanced back at the girl who wept by herself in the mud.

  “Go to her,” the voice repeated.

  The helicopter blades spun, ready to lift in the air. Bono moved to the side of the lead helicopter and stared up at Sam. The leader motioned to his radio and pointed to him. Sam slipped in the e
arpiece and heard the captain’s voice. “Sam, come on, man, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Please, Sam,” the voice pled. “I can’t do this alone!”

  Bono’s voice broadcast again into his earpiece. “Let’s get out of here, Sam! Come on, man, let’s go!”

  Sam reached for the transmit button. “Stand by,” he said.

  “What are you doing up there, Sam?”

  “Stand by!” Sam replied.

  He turned away from the helicopters and looked at the girl near the tree. She kept her head bowed and her hand at her mouth. Sam took ten steps toward her and she finally looked up, her eyes wide with fear. She started to back up, pushing herself through the mud and Sam lifted his hands, holding them away from his body in a gesture of peace. She cowered, her head low, almost bowing to him.

  Sam took another step forward and she slowly raised her head. She looked at him and his heart seemed to wrench in his chest. She was so young and beautiful; vulnerable as a piece of ash in the wind. Her eyes were brimming with tears, which left a small trail on her cheeks.

  Sam caught a sudden breath. The feeling so strong it was like a kick in the chest. “I know you,” he said.

  She watched him intently, then cocked her head. Her face softened and she quickly wiped a rolling tear from her cheek. Sam saw the pain and desperation and he felt his heart wrench again. He felt breathless and hollow, his chest growing tight.

  He moved to her slowly and she backed up in the grass. She kept her eyes low, too terrified to look at his face. Sam stopped a few paces from her, then knelt down at her side.

  He shot a quick look over his shoulder. His boss and two soldiers had come up the road and were watching in silence from twenty paces away. They didn’t move toward him, letting him talk to the girl.

  Sam moved a few inches toward Azadeh. “I’m sorry,” he said. He spoke slowly in English, hoping she would understand.

  She forced herself to stop weeping and lifted her eyes.

  And Sam saw it, a flicker of recognition, as if she knew him too!

  He gestured to the charred body. “Your father?” he asked, locking her eyes with his.

  She nodded in despair, then turned away from the tree.

  “Where is your mother?” he asked her.

  She only stared back.

  “Mother?” he repeated.

  Azadeh shook her head.

  “You are . . . alone?”

  “Now . . . I am.”

  Sam leaned slowly toward her and reached for her hand. “Look at me,” he told her.

  Azadeh kept her head low and Sam lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “Khorramshahr,” he asked her. “Do you know where I mean?”

  She backed away from him slowly, her face uncertain with fear.

  “A refugee camp,” Sam repeated, pointing with one hand to the north. “Khorramshahr,” he repeated. “Go there. They will help you.”

  Although she nodded slowly, Sam could see she did not understand.

  “Khorramshahr!” he repeated. “If you can make your way there . . . .”

  “Sam,” Brighton heard his friend’s voice. Bono had moved to his side and he placed his hands on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, we have to leave. Come on, man, let’s go.” He pulled on Sam’s shoulder, then put a hand under his arm, lifting him up and pulling him toward the road.

  “Khorramshahr!” Sam repeated. “I will have someone waiting, they will be looking for you.”

  Azadeh backed away in fear, moving away from the other officer who was pulling on Sam’s arm. Sam reached for her desperately as he was pulled to the road.

  “Khorramshahr,” he called, but she disappeared in the grass.

  • • •

  Forty seconds later, the helicopters took to the air, flying over the village to keep away from the rising mountain peaks to the east. Sam sat at the open door in his helicopter, his feet hanging over the side. And though they flew directly over the village, the smoke was too thick to see if she was still there.

  SIXTEEN

  Azadeh remained hidden in the grass until long after the sounds of the helicopters had faded away. By then it was dark and the smoke had cleared from the air, though the sky overhead was still obscured by high clouds. The night turned cold. Her muddy clothes clung to her skin and she started to shiver. Forcing herself to her feet, she walked in a daze toward her gutted house. Their furniture, their dishes, their books and their clothes, everything they owned had been tossed through the windows and the broken front door. She peered at the scattered belongings, then passed into her home, her teeth chattering from the cold and despair.

  She walked to her bedroom, her eyes adjusting to the light, and looked around desperately, feeling a sudden sense of panic. Her room was in tatters, her mattress and clothes on the floor, but under the broken dresser she saw the golden headband. She picked it up quickly and shoved it deep into her pocket, then fell on the mattress and buried her head in her arms.

  She was alone. Completely alone. She had no mother, no father, no family, no friends. Even the house wasn’t hers, a woman couldn’t own property, so the house would be taken and sold, and she would left on the street.

  “Father,” she whispered in her crushing despair. “I want to come with you. I want to be with mother. How can I survive by myself?”

  In that black moment, Azadeh felt all the pains of her world: the aloneness of her breaking heart, Satan’s evil laughter as he cackled in her ear. She felt the agony of spirit as she remembered the past; the happy days with her father, the warm home, the warm bread, and the sadness of knowing that it was all gone. She felt a crushing doubt and deep anguish as Satan and his angels laughed at her.

  Did any of it matter? Was there any sense in the world? Was there any good, any love, any devotion at all? Her father had spoken of hope, he had used the word faith, but none of it mattered, for it all was gone. None of it made any difference. None of it was real.

  The only thing that was real was the darkness and the tattered remains of her home. The only thing that mattered was that she was alone.

  “Please, Father,” she whispered, “please don’t leave me here by myself.”

  She wept in the darkness for a very long time. “I did everything you’ve asked me. I have tried to be good. But now you have left me. So tell me now, Father, what am I supposed to do?”

  Then Azadeh rolled to her knees and started to pray, a universal reaction to what she had been through, a human reaction, not Muslim, not Christian, but something deeper, more permanent than the religions of the world, a reaction from her spirit that hovered within.

  “Great Allah,” she prayed as she pushed herself to her knees. But that was as far she went, as far as her teachings could take her. She didn’t know what to say or how to ask any more. “Dear Allah . . . dear Allah . . .” she repeated again.

  Then her mind started drifting, thinking of her father again, the best example of love she had ever known in her life. But she didn’t think of his burning or how he had died: she thought of his living and how she wanted to see him again, she thought of her longing to look in his eyes, to feel his arms round her and see his kind smile. But mostly she thought of the words he would say. He had a way of making her feel better, of making her feel strong, like life was worth living and everything would be okay.

  “You were always proud of me, Father,” she cried to herself. “You made me feel better. Can you comfort me now?”

  • • •

  Rassa Ali Pahlavi knelt beside his daughter at the side of her bed. He stroked her face lightly, feeling the softness of her cheek. And though he looked at her sadly, the hurt in his own eyes had passed, the pains of the mortal world could not touch him any more. The world didn’t hurt him, he had completed his mission and passed his great test. “I am proud of you, Azadeh,” he whispered in her ear. “You are strong, you will make it, and God will be at your side.”

  He stroked her face gently, then looked up at the sky. “I love you, Azadeh,�
� he repeated. “And we will be waiting, watching and caring for you.” He stroked her cheek lightly, then gently kissed her brow.

  It was time that he left, at least for a short while. Sashajan was waiting. And there was other work he had to do.

  • • •

  Azadeh felt a soft touch on her temple and she opened her eyes. And though she didn’t see her father, she knew that he was near. Then an unseen voice whispered to her, “Your father still lives. He still loves you. He cannot stay with you, but I can, and I will comfort you now.”

  Then she felt a warm, soft and gentle blanket falling over her soul. It was. It wrapped completely around her, from her head to her feet, and kept the piercing arrows of Satan from touching her heart.

  She slipped away into sleep, where a deep comfort waited. She slept peacefully through the night, dreaming of a better world.

  SEVENTEEN

  Dhahran, Saudi Arabia

  Prince Al-Rahman, now the oldest prince in Saudi Arabia, sat in the center of his office, an opulent and oval-shaped room with gold-plated walls, mural ceilings and diamonds imbedded in the molding around the windows and floors. His desk was huge. Three computers and a row of telephones were positioned to his left. An one hundred forty-inch flat screen television was tuned to CNN, was built into a wooden console to his right. A wall of tall windows, twenty feet high, looked out on the expanse of desert to the east. The sun beat through the windows, forcing the air conditioner to run constantly.

  Prince Al-Rahman noted his reflection in the glass. Although he was middle-aged, he was still strikingly good-looking and well manicured. He was also as cold, hard and evil as any man in the world. More, far more, he was the future king, patriarch of the world’s great family, a great empire builder like the sultans before. He knew that he was chosen. That was obvious to him now. His father didn’t believe him, nor did all of his kin. But he had proven them wrong. And he would prove it again.

  • • •