Terminal Impact

by Charles Henderson

  “How about I stick my foot up your ass,” Jack snarled. “Take these chains off me. I’ll show you what hurts like a motherfucker!”

  “Oh, I am sure you would,” Abu Omar said, rocking back in the chair. “You know, Jack . . . You don’t mind that I call you Jack, do you? Certainly not.

  “Anyway, I have to give you credit. You are an amazing man, surviving as you have done, such a long time in the desert. Resisting an entire army single-handedly, as you did to allow your men to escape. Commendable!”

  “Kiss my ass,” Jack said.

  “Oh, Jack Valentine,” Omar said. “In so many ways, it is a sad thing to see you die. But I assure you, it will be a glorious death. A tribute to you. A once-great warrior, defeated, humbled under a more powerful sword. My sword!”

  “American jets took me down, asshole, not you,” Jack said, looking at the man in the rocking chair holding the cattle prod across his lap. “That’s the truth. You never had a chance at me until I had a run of bad luck. A few more steps, I’d be home free.”

  “Perhaps,” Omar said. “But Allah handed you to me, nonetheless. In a few days, you will surely die under my sword. That I promise you!”

  “You know. You’re a bunch of fucking cowards. Strip a man naked and chain him to the floor. How tough is that?” Jack said. “You’re a fucktard. A fat-assed old goat fucker.”

  “Fucktard?” Omar laughed. “I have not heard that expression before. I shall remember it. As for your clothes? They shredded to rags from the bombs your planes dropped on you. I am amazed that you lived! Hardly a scratch on you! Most remarkable.”

  The old graybeard leaned back in the rocking chair, shaking his head.

  “I do wish your equipment had fared better,” Omar sighed. “I truly want one of your Remington model 700 rifles. I hoped I might obtain yours since you will no longer need it.

  “The blast literally bent the barrel of the Marine sniper rifle you had on your shoulder. And the other one? The Vigilance rifle, another nice gun. It broke into three pieces! Can you believe it? Snapped in three pieces.

  “Your backpack, and everything inside, confetti. Truly amazing that you live. Not even a broken arm or leg.”

  “Divine providence,” Jack said, rolling onto his butt and managing to sit up with his hands between his ankles. He looked at Abu Omar on the level, eye to eye, and spoke in a soft, certain tone. “You won’t cut my head off, either. I’m getting out of here, and I will kill you. That I promise!”

  “Ha!” The al-Sunnah boss laughed and rocked back. “You are a bold man, Jack Valentine! I like you!

  “I thought I would hate you, and I did hate you, but now I like you. You have, as your Marines say, very large balls!”

  Jack smiled at the old man in the rocking chair.

  “I will walk out of here, and I will kill you.”

  Abu Omar laughed again. “I look forward to the coming days, Gunnery Sergeant Valentine. You are quite something. Your confidence. Your certainty, despite everything that surrounds you. A man in chains, in a dungeon, held prisoner by a thousand guns, and you boast of killing me. Amazing.”

  Then the graybeard shouted upstairs, “Giti! Miriam! Come tend to this filthy beast. Wash him, and put some clothes on him. We want the infamous and humbled Ash’abah al-Anbar presentable for our video cameras.”

  _ 15 _

  The girls brought Jack Valentine a milking stool to sit on while they washed him. He said nothing but winced as Giti took a cloth soaked with iodine and disinfected the dozens of bad scrapes, cuts, and bruises across his back, butt, and legs.

  “I am sorry if this burns, but you were cut to pieces along with everything you had on,” the girl said, speaking English with almost a British accent.

  Jack looked at her. “What happened to them? My clothes and my gear?”

  “Your clothes?” Giti said. “We took what was left of them off your body. I do not know about any equipment.”

  “So the old goat with the filthy mouth told the truth. My kit and guns blown to shit,” Jack said, and noticed that Miriam put her hand over her mouth and hid her laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Jack said as both girls rubbed soap in his hair, on his face, chest, legs, butt, crotch, even the soles of his feet and palms of his hands. Almost a ritualistic cleansing, as if preparing a body for the grave.

  Giti smiled, and said softly, “Our husband, the old goat with the filthy mouth. Miriam finds that amusing, because it is true. His mouth is repugnant.”

  “I thought he was your father,” Jack said, looking at the young girls. “You’re both his wives? You’re just kids.”

  “Not by choice, and Abu Omar has two other wives in addition to Miriam and me,” Giti answered in a low voice, so that no one outside the cell could hear what they said.

  “You’re like slaves then?” Jack said.

  Giti nodded yes. “We are slaves. Truly.”

  “Your English,” Jack said. “Where did you learn to speak it so well? You sound British, in fact.”

  “Miriam here, and our sister in Christ, Amira, and I studied English, along with French at the Presbyterian Christian School in Mosul. In addition to being a very good farmer, my father taught language at the school,” Giti said.

  “So you’re not Muslim?” Jack asked, looking at the scarves that covered the girls’ heads and necks, and the plain Muslim dresses they wore.

  “We are Christians but have accepted the Muslim way, as our master, Abu Omar Bakr al-Nasser, requires of us,” Miriam said, and looked at her sister. “Giti is with child, and our husband will soon disown her and give her to the men. They will rape her and kill her.”

  Miriam began to cry and lowered her face, taking a rag from the clear water and beginning to rinse the soap off Jack.

  “That’s true, Giti?” Jack said. “You are Christians, and your name is Giti?”

  She nodded yes. “Giti Sadiq. We come from the village of al-Shirqat, halfway between Mosul to the north and Baiji to the south. Abu Omar murdered my father and brothers, cutting their heads at the throat with his long knife. Then because my mother and younger sister would not submit to Islam, he shot them both as they knelt at his feet.

  “He murdered Miriam’s father and mother and sister the same. Amira’s parents and brothers, too. We were afraid to die, and Abu Omar found us attractive, so we put on the scarves of Muslim women and submit to him.”

  Miriam wept as she washed Jack. “I have prayed so much that Jesus will come and claim me. Take my life. I should have gone to Heaven with my mother.”

  Giti shot her elbow into Miriam. “Don’t say such things. We did not deny Christ; we only put on these clothes. Do not forget that we still pray to our Savior, and the Holy Spirit of Jesus still takes care of us.”

  Jack let out a huff.

  “You don’t believe in Jesus?” Giti asked, genuinely surprised. “All Americans are Christians. You do not believe in our Lord Jesus?”

  Jack laughed. “I guess I do. I did in Sunday School a long time ago. And I have my holier moments from time to time, feeling the spirit, so to speak. Mostly when I need God’s help.”

  “But you do not take your faith seriously?” Giti asked.

  “I guess no more than most people,” Jack answered. “We have our exceptions. My colonel. Elmore Snow. He’s a pretty serious Jesus guy.”

  Giti smiled. “Submitting to Christ, living for Him is all that we truly have in life. Don’t you believe that?”

  “Probably not,” Jack said, being honest. “Most of the time, I don’t live for Jesus; I live for myself. I expect I’m a source of disappointment for the Lord. I think if most people are honest, that’s the truth about them, too.”

  “I am amazed!” Giti said. “I so want to go to America one day. A place where we can praise Jesus and worship God without worry, freely. And everyone there loves H
im. Now you say this is a falsehood?”

  “Hate to break your rose-colored glasses,” Jack said.

  “What does this mean?” Miriam said.

  Jack shook his head. “America’s pretty rotten these days. People shop and play on Sunday instead of going to church. Walmart open twenty-four/seven, porn on every corner, casinos, too. It’s gone to hell in a handbasket.”

  “They no longer worship God on Sunday?” Giti asked.

  “Lots of people still do,” Jack said. “Don’t get me wrong. My mom and dad, they’re Christians, in church every Sunday. But these days, more Americans don’t darken the chapel door except on maybe Christmas and Easter. Most people in America today? They worship money.”

  “That is so sad,” Miriam said, using a dry cloth on Jack, rubbing the water from his hair.

  “To have such liberty, and so many blessings of wealth as you Americans have. To not praise God for these things? For your freedom? It makes me want to cry,” Giti said.

  Jack thought a moment, and said, “We’re pretty piggish, I guess.”

  “Yes you are,” Giti agreed. “I would give anything just to stand on my feet on American ground. Even for only a day!”

  Jack looked out the door and saw the old guy with the rifle guarding the entrance keeping his eye on them.

  “What are you looking at?” Jack called to him.

  The old guy didn’t understand what Jack said but knew it wasn’t anything he should like. So he just looked more, and Jack scowled.

  “Don’t mind him,” Giti said. “That is Yasir, a Bedouin man who herded goats with his brothers for many years along the Tigris valley where I lived. My mother bought milk and cheese from him before the war. He is not a bad man. Yasir has a simple mind, so don’t be rude to him.”

  “What about your husband?” Jack asked, as the girls finished drying him.

  “Abu Omar?” Giti answered, as if there were anyone else.

  “Right,” Jack said. “What’s his story?”

  “Before the Americans overthrew President Saddam Hussein, Abu Omar was Colonel Omar Bakr, commandant of the Republican Guard in Baiji. He lived in a fine home, and was born in Saddam’s hometown of Tikrit. Some say he is related to him.

  “Colonel Bakr held great influence in the Arab Socialist Ba’ath Party. Then came the Americans three years ago. It seems an eternity now. He lost everything. Even his wife and children, who died in the bombing in Baghdad.

  “Some men from Jordan and Syria joined Abu Omar and they formed the insurgent army, Jamaat Ansar al-Sunnah, a protector of their Arab faith. He is vicious and cruel.”

  “Help me escape,” Jack whispered.

  Giti reacted as if the American had jolted her with Abu Omar’s cattle prod.

  “You can come with me. You and your sisters,” Jack told her. “I will get you to America. You and your sisters. I know people who can get it done. I promise!”

  “Do not speak of this ever again!” Giti whispered. “You will die, and so will we.”

  “Miriam said he was going to kill you soon, because you’re pregnant,” Jack reminded her.

  Giti glared at Miriam. “He will kill not only me but Miriam and Amira and our Syrian sister, Sabeen, too.”

  “Sabeen?” Jack asked, now considering the problems and advantages of four teenage girls. “Can she use a gun?”

  “Certainly not!” Giti huffed back in a harsh whisper.

  Miriam leaned close, and said, “She might be able to use a gun. She is from Syria, after all. You don’t know. What is so hard? Point the gun and pull the trigger.”

  Jack smiled.

  “What is all this whispering?” Yasir said in Arabic with a loud, commanding voice.

  He looked at Jack. “Why have you not dressed him? Are you wicked girls admiring his manhood? Shame on you!”

  Amira came in the door behind Yasir.

  “Ah, there is Amira now with the clothes,” Giti said in Arabic, and pointed at her sister.

  Then she pointed at the keys on Yasir’s belt. “You must unlock the chains, so that he can dress.”

  He looked at Jack and didn’t like the odds. “I will get some help.”

  The old goatherd hurried upstairs to find backup, and Giti turned to Jack.

  “What you suggest is utterly impossible!”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” Jack said. “God has saved me many times over. He got me this far. He will not leave me to die here. Where’s your faith?”

  “Suddenly you have faith?” Giti said. “It is not something you can choose today and forget tomorrow.”

  “Does God require my faith to protect me?” Jack said. “People with great faith pray for me, and God hears them. We will get out of here. If you can’t trust me, trust God.”

  “I cannot think of this!” Giti said.

  Miriam and Amira both looked at her with big eyes and question marks.

  “Why not?” Amira blurted. “If I die trying to leave this horrible place, it is better than living what is left of my life here.”

  Miriam reminded Giti, “Very soon, Abu Omar will notice your baby bump. Then what? Do you wish him to feed you to his lions?”

  “We will talk of this later,” Giti told them.

  “We don’t have time to talk it over,” Jack reminded her, and made a cutting motion across his throat.

  “Abu Omar will not kill you today,” Giti told Jack. “They must wait for Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. He will want to be here, or he will have you brought to him.”

  “Zarqawi?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” Miriam said. Giti looked at her as if she said something wrong, and Miriam shrugged back. “What?”

  “We should not talk about these things,” Giti said.

  “We must!” Amira said. “God gives us courage and His blessings. We must do this!”

  “Zarqawi. Do you know where he hides?” Jack asked.

  “These days, he stays in a safe house in the country near the village of Hibhib,” Amira said.

  “I’ve never heard of the place,” Jack said.

  “Hibhib is a small community on Iraqi National Highway 2, maybe fifty kilometers north of Baghdad,” Giti added. “Have you heard of Khalis and Baqubah?”

  “Yeah, I think so. They sound familiar,” Jack said, committing everything to memory, his Force Reconnaissance Marine self kicking into high gear.

  “The village is maybe six kilometers west of Baqubah, as the bird flies,” Giti said.

  “As the crow flies,” Jack corrected her.

  “Yes, as the crow flies”—Giti nodded—“because there are no roads directly from Baqubah to Hibhib. You must drive ten kilometers up to Khalis, then down to Hibhib, another six kilometers. Or drive south, then up again, an even greater distance.”

  “How do you know this?” Jack asked the girls.

  Amira smiled. “My grandfather and uncle live in Hibhib. I have many family there, so I know Hibhib exactly.”

  “No, I mean, how do you know that Zarqawi is in Hibhib?” Jack asked. “We have searched for him for years.”

  “Zarqawi was here only two weeks ago,” Giti said. “Abu Omar offered him my family home at al-Shirqat, that he now uses, but Abu Musab said that was too far from Baghdad. Then he spoke of his house in Hibhib, a place he always goes to hide. No one looks there because it is quiet. Many of Saddam’s people hide there, too. People protect them there.”

  “Do you know the house?” Jack asked.

  “Amira knows it,” Giti said.

  “Can you draw me a map?” Jack asked.

  Amira looked puzzled. “I am not good with drawing.”

  “Just directions to it from Hibhib,” Jack said.

  Amira smiled and nodded yes.

  “Write them down on paper and hide it,” Jack said. “When we escape, some of us m
ay die. We must promise each other that we will make sure that the directions you write down go with one of us who makes it out alive.”

  All three girls looked scared. Fear and the sense of reality rushed upon them with the talk that some of them, or all of them, might really die.

  “We will pray,” Giti said, and gave Jack a stern look. “You, too, must pray. Jesus loves you. Love Him, and He will take care of you.”

  Jack smiled. “Yes, Jesus loves all the little children of the world.” A hint of sarcasm showing.

  Giti smiled. “Yes, and He loves their mommies and daddies, too.”

  “Even the bad ones?” Jack asked.

  “They make Him weep,” Giti said.

  “I will say my prayers,” Jack promised.

  “Good,” Giti said. “We must have a plan, if we do this. What shall we do?”

  “Best time to escape is during the wee hours of the morning, when men standing guard can’t keep their eyes open,” Jack said.

  “When we start our cooking, no one is awake, even the men outside keeping watch always have their eyes closed,” Miriam said. “We can sneak away without them noticing?”

  Giti smiled. “No one gets hurt. I like this.”

  “Sorry, but shit happens,” Jack said, and the three girls frowned.

  “It does!” Jack said.

  “Yasir has the keys to the doors and to a truck that he uses to get supplies,” Amira said.

  “You swipe the keys, unlock me, we steal the truck, and run,” Jack said. “Very simple.”

  Giti smiled.

  “Simple plans work best,” Jack said, “but we always hit a snag when the mouse tries to sneak past the cat. We need a distraction, and a way to take out the guards. Timing. We must pick a time when they are weakest.”

  The three girls looked puzzled. Impossible.

  “Think about it,” Jack said.

  “We will come up with a plan of dealing with Yasir and his guards in the next day or two,” Giti said.

  Jack didn’t like the idea of waiting. He wanted to leave now. But considering that the people that Omar had watching him would be on their toes this first night, and in a day or two they might then fall back into more comfortable, complacent routines, he told Giti, “Give it three days.”