Sunrise: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Ten

by Chris Stewart

  Omar stared at him, his mouth open. He wanted to take the village leader by the clothes and shake him. He wanted to smash him in the face. He wanted to scream and curse him. He wanted him to see! This child is our future, the future of our world. Everything you hold dear and holy is hanging in the wind. He is the only hope of a future kingdom in Saudi Arabia not based on insanity and rage. The Americans won’t let Abdullah survive inside his kingdom. They will come for him. Yes, he has wounded them, but the Americans are still alive. They’ll retaliate. They’ll surely kill us. This child is our only hope!

  Fighting the rage inside him, Omar didn’t say anything. Glaring at the village leader, he thought for several moments, his heart beating in his chest. But as he looked at him, seeing the fearful expression on his face, he realized the leader wasn’t going to change his mind.

  Omar glanced down at the boy who was standing at his side, then put his hand on his shoulder and guided him away. Turning, they started walking up the winding trail that led back into the mountains. Forty steps ahead of them, the trees grew thick. Beyond the first grove of evergreens, the trail dropped twenty meters toward a mountain stream. On the other side of the gushing water, the trail climbed out of the streambed and quickly disappeared in a thick forest of pine and mountain oak.

  Looking behind him, Omar felt a sense of anxiety. Too long in the open. Too long to be seen. He felt a web of fear running through him and he fought the sudden urge to run.

  The village leader stood beside his hut and watched them go, his eyes sad, his lips pulled into a frown.

  Omar caught his eye in a final farewell, then took the child’s hand and pulled him closer. “We must hurry!” he declared.

  *******

  Above him, hidden in the rocks and low shrubs, the king’s sniper spoke into the radio transmitter attached to his lapel. “Target is exiting the area,” he announced urgently.

  The radio buzzed in his ear. “Confirm the target is leaving the immediate location.”

  “Affirmative. Target is moving back up toward the mountains.”

  He heard a vicious curse, as angry and foul as anything his language had to offer. “You must not let them reach the mountains,” his commander said. “We’ve been looking for them for weeks now. If they make it to the mountains, we’ll never find them. We can’t operate up there!”

  The sniper simply waited. There was nothing more for him to say.

  “Is the escort staying with the target?” the voice in his radio demanded.

  “Yes, the fat one is staying with the boy.”

  “Do whatever it takes to stop them. We’re still seven minutes away.”

  “I can’t stop them without killing him.”

  “Do whatever you must to stop the fat one, but leave the boy alive. You know our instructions. We must save him for the king!”

  *******

  Looking ahead, Omar saw the trail descend suddenly, winding through a series of short switchbacks toward the rushing stream. He was close enough now that he could feel the moist air kicked up from the water gushing over the boulders in the stream. In fifteen meters they’d start descending, dropping out from sight.

  He felt the urge to run again. Something was screaming inside his head, the words almost forming in his mind.

  *******

  “Go!” Neil Brighton told him, whispering urgently into the mortal’s ears. “Go Omar. Run now! Your life’s in danger. There is danger for the child!”

  Saint Michael stood beside him, not saying anything.

  Neil turned toward his friend. “Will you not help me?” he cried.

  Saint Michael reached out and rested his hand upon Neil’s shoulders. His face was calm and peaceful. “Neil,” he offered simply, “this is not why we are here. Father has another plan for this one. It might be his time has come.”

  *******

  The villager leader watched Omar and the boy walking up the trail. Inside, his heart was breaking. He didn’t know what to do! Should he save the boy or save his family? If the king’s forces came looking for the child—and the village leader knew that eventually they would—they would find him, his village was too small to hide a trinket, let alone a living child. And if the king’s forces discovered he had concealed the child, their punishment would be swift and thorough. Best case, they’d only kill him. Worst case, they’d make him shoot his wife and children before turning the gun on himself.

  So he didn’t move as he watched them walk away, his mind reeling.

  It wasn’t too late. He could still stop them. He could offer sanctuary and protection to the child.

  Standing there, a verse from the Koran filtered into his mind. “There is no God save Him. In Him have I put my trust[.]”

  His thoughts quickened as the considered. Then his heart seemed to settle and he felt a cooling breeze.

  OK, that was his answer. He’d put his trust in Allah. He’d offer sanctuary to the child.

  Calling out, he started running after Omar and the boy.

  *******

  On the other side of the stream, across a split log used for a footbridge, there was a thicket of brush and saplings. There the trail ascended steeply before reaching the forest again. Once in the protection of the forest, Omar knew they’d be all right. Their backpacks, filled with food and warm clothes, were hidden up on the mountain. They could disappear on the mountain and survive up there for days, which would be long enough for him to decide what next to do.

  Reaching down again, he pulled the prince along. Once they’d reached the protection of the mountain, Allah would lead and guide them.

  It was the last thought to filter through Omar’s mortal mind.

  The one hundred seventy-five-grain bullet entered the right side of his head, metal and pieces of fractured skull exploding into his brains before blowing out the left side of his head in an explosion of blood and bone and gray matter.

  Omar made a sound as he fell over. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The dull thump of the bullet crashing into the skull was the second sound the young boy heard. Before that, he sensed a slight buzzing, like a surge of electricity, as the bullet passed over his shoulder before exploding into Omar’s head.

  Looking around him, the young prince stopped and waited for the next bullet to hit him.

  *******

  The village leader didn’t hear the gunfire or sense the bullet pass. All he saw was a red explosion out the left side of Omar’s head. Then he saw him crumple. Then he saw the child stop.

  Then he too, like the young prince, stood and waited for the next shot to be fired.

  Inside his mind, the village leader counted, his heart beating like a butterfly, his eyes darting left and right. Were they going to kill him? Was there any chance they’d let him live? He held his breath and waited, expecting the child to crumple like his friend.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . .

  Five seconds. Then ten seconds.

  The air gushed out of him like an explosion from his chest. Without thinking any longer, he rushed toward the child.

  Sweeping him up in his arms, the village leader held the boy against his chest as village leader dove over the hill and rolled toward the gushing stream.

  FOURTEEN

  Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan border, eighty-five kilometers east of Kandahar, Afghanistan

  “Are you certain it is him?”

  Bono stared through his field glasses while bracing his elbows on the ground to form a bipod, allowing a more stable view. “His face is partially covered by part of his turban,” he answered absently, concentrating more on his viewing than on responding to Sam’s question. He moved the binoculars just a fraction of an inch, then dropped them. “Show me his photograph again.”

  Sam held up his iPod. Small, easy to conceal, password protected, long battery life, capable of holding huge amounts of information. It was a perfect—if completely unauthorized—military accessory. A close-up of Omar’s face filled the small scre
en. Bono looked at it, then swore. Handing Sam the binoculars he answered, “I’m pretty sure that’s him.”

  Sam looked, taking his time to be certain, then lowered the binoculars. “They got him,” he agreed in frustration.

  “If they got him, they got the boy.”

  Sam turned around carefully, laying his back against the ridge. The rocks behind him were sharp slabs of slate and he had to be careful as he leaned against the broken fissures.

  “They got him,” Bono repeated. “We came out here for nothing. The prince is dead. We’re all too late.”

  Sam took a weary breath. For a long moment neither of them spoke, then their radios suddenly crackled in their ears. Sam listened to the report from their reconnaissance leader. “We’ve identified all of the special units around and in the village,” Dallas Houston said. “We’ve got members of the Sword Knights from the First Saudi Special Forces Brigade and a couple regular SpecFor units from the Twenty-First.”

  Sam touched the transmitter on his radio. “So we’re covered then. We’ve got the right uniforms and the other special equipment that we need.”

  “Rog that, boss. We were way lucky if you ask me, but yeah, we got it right.”

  “So we can go in if we have to?”

  “True that. The only problem, far as I see it, is the prince is probably dead.”

  Bono looked at Sam with an “I-told-you-so” look.

  Sam ignored it. “Stand by,” he told the noncommissioned officer.

  “What’s going to happen now, Sammy boy?” Bono asked. “What’s the world going to come to? When we go back without either the prince or King Abdullah, there’s going to be a terrible price to pay—”

  “I don’t think they got the prince.”

  Bono didn’t move. He was trying to believe that Sam might be right, but the evidence was there before him. He saw the dead man, the young prince’s protector, lying on the pathway. The boy was down there somewhere, probably lying face down too. He sighed, weary to the bone already. “Let’s gather up the team,” he said.

  “They don’t have the prince yet,” Sam repeated.

  Bono looked at him in disbelief. “Come on, Sam, it’s time to go.”

  Sam rolled over to face the village four hundred meters to the west. “Check out the dead one,” he offered, holding up the field glasses. “Look at the size of the exit wound on the left side of his head. I’m guessing an M118. We know all Saudi Special Forces units use U.S. weapons too. Take a closer look at that, Bono. How many shells have the velocity to do that kind of damage? The sniper was out here somewhere. He had good position and opportunity, yet Omar was the only one he killed.”

  “You don’t know that,” Bono answered after looking through the glasses. “For all we know, he killed the prince first.”

  Sam gestured toward the path below them. “Do you see any other bodies? Any spots of blood anywhere along the trail? Any evidence that indicates there was another shooting?”

  Bono looked through the glasses then shook his head.

  “You think he’s in the village then?”

  “I’d bet my life he is.”

  “But where? And how did he get away?” Bono put the binoculars down and shook his head again. “Where’s the sniper, Sam?” He moved his eyes around the terraced hills looking over the tiny village.

  Sam pointed with his finger toward the mud and stone hut on the corner of the lowest terrace. The pathway toward the river where Omar’s body lay was only forty meters from the hut. “That’s the abbu Rehnuma’s home. Omar brought the boy to him, seeking sanctuary, I would guess. Then Omar left, heading back up the mountain, maybe with the boy, maybe alone. Either way, while he was moving away from the hut, he was taken out by a long-range sniper. But all of the evidence we have suggests the boy was unharmed. We’ve been here long enough, and we were close enough before that, to have heard any helicopters in the area.”

  Bono nodded.

  “The boy is here.” Sam was certain and he motioned to the village. “Somewhere down there. Maybe hiding by himself but maybe hidden. Either way he’s still down there.”

  Bono lifted the binoculars and turned them toward the village, studying the rows of huts, outhouses, barns, fences and pens, all of the things he hadn’t taken the chance to look at before. Moving his field of vision, he studied the central market with its arched entry and pock-marked walls.

  There, moving through the market, he saw him. The Saudi soldier made no effort to hide his presence, choosing to move out in the open. He wore a camouflaged uniform and flak vest but his head was covered with a black helmet now. His rifle was ready and he moved quickly.

  Adjusting the binoculars, Bono looked further east. Then he saw it. Before, the military truck had been hidden behind a brick wall on the far side of the village but it had been driven into the open now. A group of Saudi soldiers were now moving around the truck. They huddled on their leader, then split up and fanned out, taking up positions among the huts and dirty roads that led toward the market square.

  Further to the east, other military trucks were moving down the road.

  FIFTEEN

  Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan border, eighty-five kilometers east of Kandahar, Afghanistan

  The sniper moved quickly through the village, his eyes narrowed to a tight squint, his head always moving, his shoulders hunched forward, his rifle ready. The villagers had a lot of weapons. He knew that, among the local warlords, poppy farmers, Taliban, Afghan and Pakistani forces, this area was in a nearly constant state of war. But he wasn’t afraid. The villagers might be backward and uneducated, but they weren’t stupid. Just the opposite, especially when it came to rules of war. He represented something far more powerful than they were. They wouldn’t challenge him, not with their rifles and carbines, though there might still be a short battle of wills.

  Which meant it was important for the soldiers to establish their credibility from the start.

  Listening through his radio earpiece, he heard his brother soldiers take their orders then begin moving through the village, searching for the prince. Listening to the orders being given, he couldn’t miss the fear in his commander’s voice.

  Their king was on his way, his helicopter little more than fifteen minutes away. They had to have the boy by then or all of them would die. The villagers. The soldiers. None of them would survive the morning if they didn’t find the child.

  Fifteen minutes to find the young prince and turn him over to the king.

  Fifteen minutes to kill every man, woman and child within the village if they tried to hide him.

  Fifteen minutes for the soldiers to do whatever they had to in order to save themselves.

  The sniper walked quickly, his steps angry and determined. He had seen it all, the abbu Rehnuma standing in silent shock at the death of the other man, his hesitation then quick decision. He’d watched as the abbu Rehnuma had burst into action, sprinting up the narrow pathway and scooping up the child before diving over the embankment that held the rushing stream. From his position in the foothills, the sniper had lost sight of them for a few moments but, knowing they’d have to emerge eventually, he’d waited, sometimes using his binoculars, sometimes scanning the area with his eyes. Minutes later, the abbu Rehnuma had emerged, running through the trees to the south, where the mountain stream met the larger river. The water was strong and fierce there, more a series of waterfalls than just a rocky stream, and a light mist formed around the banks of the river, making it difficult for the shooter to see. Squinting, he’d watched as the abbu Rehnuma, child still clutched in his arms, had run up the narrow pathway and pass into the village where he lost sight of them again.

  But they were here, inside the village.

  And he’d kill everyone inside the rock walls if that’s what it took to find the child.

  He glanced down at his watch.

  Twelve minutes until the king’s arrival.

  *******

  A mosque stood in the center of t
he village square; dusty, open windows, ancient white stone and a checkered dome that was damaged on one side. Most of the mosque was taken up by the musalla, or prayer hall, but off to the right there was a small wing with a domed roof and arching windows. The sniper approached the side entrance to the building, a thick, wood door tucked in a narrow archway, and stopped to listen. Lifting his sidearm, he used the butt to knock.

  While he waited, he listened to the sound of the other soldiers searching through the narrow streets.

  “Pile Driver is airborne,” his commander announced over the radio in a terrified voice. King of the House of Saud was coming, the most powerful man on earth.

  “Time of arrival, ten minutes. Find the boy now, you pigs, or I will shoot you all myself!”

  The sniper listened then knocked again, almost breaking down the door.

  The village leader pulled it open, his eyes wide in fear, a tiny wad of spit on the corner of his dry lips. The sniper pointed his pistol at him, recognizing his face and long beard. “Where is he?” he demanded.

  The abbu Rehnuma held his ground. “He is safe in the mosque of Allah. He is protected here. He has implored for sanctuary—”

  The sniper lifted his pistol and jammed the barrel into the young man’s cheek, pushing him back. “Give the boy to me and you will live. Speak another word in his defense and you will die. It is that simple. Now where have you hidden the child?”

  The young man’s mind shut down, thoughts of love and family freezing his thoughts into a paralyzed state. My children! How I love them. All I wanted was to keep them safe. All I wanted was to be their father—”

  “WHERE IS THE BOY?” the sniper screamed after watching the young man bow his head to pray.

  The abbu Rehnuma swallowed and looked up, his heart racing in his chest. Drops of sweat rolled down his temples. His hands trembled. His knees buckled. He almost collapsed in fear.

  “Sanctuary,” was all he muttered, his voice nothing but the whisper of a man who knew that he was dead. “I have granted sanctuary to the young one—”