 
### Brave Run

By Philip W. Arnold

Edited by Maureen Wright and Olivia Fobes

Text copyright 2020

All Rights Reserved

This book cannot be copied or reproduced without specific permission from the author

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781311292674
Chapter 1

It was the hum of the helicopter's two churning blades that finally took the edge off his uneasiness. The steady rapid paced thumping vibrated through his body and seemed to override everything else. It soothed his jaded nerves. He was glad to be rid of the tension that he experienced at the start of each of the 13 missions he had flown as a Black Hawk helicopter door gunner in Afghanistan.

The steady thumping gradually lowered in pitch indicating that the helicopter was starting a descent, which was unusual because today's assignment was a simple transport mission. Those kinds of flights were made at a high elevation to avoid any possible anti-aircraft fire that the Taliban might direct at the chopper.

"Hey Brave, why the heck are we descending? The last thing we need is to lose airspace." The question was shouted at John from the adjacent door gunner who was standing about six feet away.

Rather than try to holler a reply above the deafening noise of the engine, John just shrugged his shoulders. He also had another reason for remaining silent; he hated the nickname Brave. Mendoza, his fellow door gunner, had come up with it to remind everyone that, although John was born in Mexico, he was not Hispanic, he was an Indian "Brave."

He had been born 21 years earlier in the tiny town of Urique, deep within the Copper Canyon country of rural Mexico. His mother was a Tarahumara Indian, and his father was an American anthropologist from Texas. After she died when he was 17, John had nowhere else to go. So he drifted across the border into Texas to reunite with his father. Switching his name to John Lyons hadn't changed the fact that he was a Mexican Indian. That gave Mendoza much fuel for cruel jokes that he used against John with glee. The truth was, he was neither Mexican nor white, but a rich mixture of both races.

The young door gunner felt the helicopter lurch as the floor's downward angle increased. Unexpectedly a woman's voice boomed through his headset, "There is turbulence ahead and we will follow the scout chopper under it."

John recognized the voice of the helicopter's pilot, Captain Angela Robinson. She was one of the U.S. Army's first female pilots allowed to fly combat missions. Although John did not know Captain Robinson personally, her reputation was outstanding.

As the Black Hawk flew lower, John began to perceive glimpses of the terrain below through the diminishing cloud cover. He strained to see further out into the open void next to his machine gun. He reached his arm back and checked his "monkey strap," a chord hooked into the floor of the chopper that allowed him to lean out without falling. A quick pull reassured him that it was secure. The last of the cloud cover thinned out and he saw that they had descended quite a bit. It was apparent that they were following a narrow valley that snaked between the rugged mountains towering above him.

He pulled his body back inside to lessen the exposure of the numbing cold. It was a fortunate move because, at that instant, the Taliban began firing at the two now visible helicopters. John had encountered Taliban anti-aircraft fire before and wasn't too worried. Usually his foes just pointed their AK-47s up at the helicopter and sprayed the skies with their rounds. They trusted Allah, rather than skill, to guide their bullets. John glanced at Mendoza who was pointing frantically in an upward direction. He then ventured a quick glance outside and up. To his surprise, he saw several enemy positions high above them in the cliffs firing down on the chopper.

The uneasy voice of the scout helicopter's copilot came over the intercom, "Our pilot has been shot in the leg and is bleeding profusely. We have no choice but to turn around. We can fly above the anti-aircraft fire and make it back to the drop off point to get a medic. Home base is just too far away."

Captain Robinson's calm voice once again came through John's headset. "Roger, we are just about through the last of the enemy positions. It is all clear up ahead. We will continue on and make it back to home base in about 45 minutes."

John felt momentary relief, knowing that they were almost out of danger, until he looked back at his fellow door gunner. He was shocked to see Mendoza both disconnecting his own monkey strap and unpinning his machine gun. Foolishly, his comrade leaned further out to engage the Taliban positions above.

Whether Mendoza didn't hear the pilot's message, or if he just chose to ignore it, will never be known. John watched in horror as Mendoza leaned way out of the aircraft and began to fire. The angle was all wrong, and the 7.62 bullets quickly sprayed back into the helicopter's tail rotor damaging it beyond repair. The helicopter immediately began vibrating violently. Something was obviously very wrong.

John heard Captain Robinson's concerned voice say, "Something has damaged the rotor and we are in danger of losing control of the aircraft."

John's stomach dropped suddenly as the helicopter drastically lost altitude. He focused his attention towards the cockpit. There he saw the pilot struggling to keep control of the doomed aircraft.

"Brace yourself men, I can't keep this bird in the air much longer." came the captain's voice over the intercom.

John felt, rather than heard, tree branches clawing at the side of the aircraft. The helicopter lost speed immediately. Shock overcame him when he looked over at where Mendoza had been and saw nothing but empty space. The unforgiving tree branches had ripped Mendoza right out of the chopper. Over his headset, John heard the co-pilot attempting to transmit a distress call, but at that instant, the helicopter struck the ground with a thunderous crash. A curtain closed over John's eyes sparing him from the rest of the horrifying experience.
Chapter 2

No one ever believed it when John told them that he had been born in a cave, but it was true. To say that his mother's people had a hard time embracing the twentieth century was a huge understatement. The Tarahumara Indians lived in Mexico's most inhospitable country. Their mountainous homeland was a geographic nightmare of gravity defying slopes interspersed with cruelly hot desert plains. Roads were few to nonexistent in the high mountains so his people travelled almost everywhere by foot. Unlike other cultures, though, the Tarahumara people seldom walked anywhere. When they were travelling, they were running. From the moment a young child could complete a few unsteady steps, they were encouraged to run rather than walk. In time, all children, both male and female, became skilled runners. Because the distances between villages was so far, it was not uncommon for a family of runners to complete a trip of several days and end up running two or three hundred miles.

John's earliest memories were of runs that he and his family would take through the deserts and mountains. Although the terrain was rough and rocky, they wore hand-made sandals that protected just the soles of their feet. Technique had been passed down over many hundreds of years that made ankle and foot injuries almost unknown.

Mexico had entered Tarahumara runners into the Olympics as early as the 1920's. However, it wasn't until the 1970s that the Tarahumarans were "re-discovered" by pioneer long distance running enthusiasts from America. Several of his tribe's men had been persuaded to enter into the ultimate long distance race in the United States. It was the grueling Leadville 100. This foot race follows a course averaging 12,000 feet in elevation through Colorado's Rocky Mountains. Not surprisingly, the Tarahumara men finished first, second, and fifth.

Along with the running enthusiasts came American anthropologists as well, one of whom was to become John's father. His mother, Consuela, spoke English, which she had learned as a missionary's assistant in the local Catholic Church. An interpreter was needed to help translate for the anthropologists, and Consuela got the job. In the six months' time that the study was going on, the head anthropologist, John, and Consuela had fallen in love. Unfortunately, a marriage had already been arranged between Consuela and another man in the tribe. With a broken heart, John's dad left to go back to the United States without knowing that his son had been conceived.

John had grown up as a young Tarahumaran speaking both English and Spanish. He knew no other culture than that of his mother's people and thrived living that way. His mother married Ramone Ramirez, the man she had been betrothed to. John was given the last name Ramirez, and although Ramone was not his real father, the man raised John as his own son. Although John was light skinned for a Tarahumaran, very few people suspected who his real father was.

John's people were a unique mixture of modern and old ways. They lived a simple life in the mountains, raising small crops of corn, beans, and squash. Because the land was so mountainous and rugged, most people lived wherever they could find enough land to farm. Each farmable area would have three to four houses or cave homes. People lived in whichever shelter was more convenient. These tiny communities were called ranchos, whereas larger communities with churches were called pueblos. John grew up in just such a pueblo called Urique.

The ideal lifestyle that he cherished ended when he was 17. His mother started out early one morning on a run that would take her to another pueblo about 12 miles away. She was carrying a dozen hand woven baskets that she would try to sell in the other village. Tourists occasionally ventured into the neighboring pueblo and often purchased her creations.

Unfortunately, Consuela never reached her destination. When she failed to arrive back home that night, John knew that something was wrong. A party of runners was sent out with torches, and they searched long into the night. Eventually she was found dead, her right leg hideously swollen and distorted. She had fallen victim to a rattlesnake bite. Ironically, the leather thongs, which kept her safe when running among the rocks, had failed to protect her from the snake's penetrating fangs.

Ramone, the man who had been a wonderful father figure for John started to die that day as well. Although the man's body was fine, his enthusiasm for life left when his beloved wife died. Ramone began to retreat within himself. He became an introvert, talking only to himself. Within a year Ramone had met the same fate as his wife. To his friends and family the only reasonable explanation was that he died of a broken heart.

The only thing that kept John's mind off the tragedies was running. He still called the village of Urique his home, but was rarely ever there. Whether the days were warm, cold, sunny, or rainy, he was out running. He ran every mountain trail that his family had shown him as a child, and some trails that only the animals knew. Being in constant motion was a feeling he enjoyed tremendously. The rugged trail was all he needed to concentrate on while running. If he didn't pay attention to the dips, turns, rocks and crevices, then the next step might be his last. John's time away gave him a mental break from thinking about his parents' deaths. He slept wherever he ended up when night fell. Usually his bed was just a lump of earth beside the trail with a flat rock for a pillow.

Much to his distress, John found that sleep and the blanket of darkness was not always a protective shield. He began to have vivid nightmares about his mother's agonizing fate. He came to fear the dark and sleep. One evening, out of desperation, he didn't stop running when the sun went down, but kept on going well into the night. He found that, with the aid of moonlight, he could see well enough to keep from an unintended fall. That night he ran until he passed out with exhaustion. The next morning he awoke lying half on and half off the trail. He grinned at the rising sun, when he realized for the first time in as long as he could remember; he had slept in peaceful bliss. After that, the night became his ally, rather than something to fear.

One day he found himself back in Urique after a run that had taken him almost to the border of Northern Mexico. He was glad to be back in familiar surroundings. He stepped inside the comforting walls of his old cabin, and was shocked to see his few meager belongings lay scattered all over the dirt floor. As he was picking up the mess, a shadow filled the opening of the doorway. To his relief he could see that it was his uncle Roberto. Relief soon turned to concern however, when he saw the look on the old man's face.

"It was the Coyotes who made a mess of your place," murmured the old man.

"Coyotes, what do you mean?" asked John who was as puzzled now as when he first stepped foot into his violated home.

The old man went on to explain that a group of several men had unexpectedly come into the peaceful village earlier that day. They had bullied the docile people by brandishing pistols. They demanded that all of the villagers gather in the church. The newcomers searched every cabin and cave for stragglers, pushing over the furniture and smashing belongings. The trembling Tarahumarans had no choice but to comply. When everyone had filed into the church a tall Mexican with a cruel face began to speak to the people. He told the villagers that they no longer owned their land. Everything in sight now belonged to him and his fellow "Coyotes." He laughed when he told them how he intended to use the Tarahumara as human mules. His "mules" would haul loads of drugs from the village to the border of the United States. The tall Coyote shouted at the church leader, Father Gomez, telling him that the villagers were not allowed to leave town.

Roberto told John that he should join the villagers in the church, or he might be killed.

As the day went on, the terrified people heard the Coyotes getting louder and more threatening. Evidently, they had found the supply of corn beer that the Tarahumara had made that spring. The noise level outside intensified with every minute.

Eventually a Coyote came staggering in and grabbed Roberto. He had let Roberto outside earlier to tend to the village goats, so he knew him as the town shepherd. He pulled the old man close to him and bellowed at him. Roberto looked helplessly at the drunk who was yelling in Spanish, which the old man did not understand.

Father Gomez stepped forward and quickly spoke up, "This man speaks Tarahumaran, and he knows very little Spanish. Let me explain what you want."

The Coyote seemed satisfied as the priest spoke rapidly to the terrified old man. "Roberto, he saw you this afternoon herding the goats. He wants you to get one and bring it to the men outside. They will kill it and barbeque it to go with their beer. When you get out, you drive a few of the goats into the village, and then disappear. Get up to Chihuahua and let the police know what is going on here."

Roberto looked at Father Gomez and bravely said just one word, "Si."

The Coyote let Roberto out to go find the goats. A few minutes later, the goat herd appeared in front of the church. Roberto, however, was nowhere to be seen. The drunken men didn't seem to care and shot two goats whose meat they began to roast over an open fire. They seemed to have no concern about the old man who had disappeared.

What they were unaware of was that Roberto was just like every other Tarahumaran; he was born to run. The 63-mile journey to Chihuahua would seem impossible to anyone else. But, because he ran the entire way, it only took him about 8 hours.

When he arrived, Roberto quickly found the police station. Luckily, he knew just enough Spanish to communicate with the police. They listened to him and acted quickly.

John, along with all of the other people in his village, spent a sleepless night in the church. The noise level had died down about daylight. John looked out through a crack in the wall. He could see most of the Coyotes in the middle of the village, passed out. Two armed thugs, however, sat just outside the church's door quietly talking. There would be no way for the people to escape so they remained in the church sitting passively.

Suddenly, a couple of hours past dawn, an unfamiliar sound thundered throughout the church. John, who had ventured close to the US border, recognized the sound. By the shouts coming from outside, it was obvious that the Coyotes knew it too. John quickly explained to his people that it was a flying machine called a helicopter.

The helicopter swooped low over the village sending the drug smugglers scattering in all directions. John smiled to himself. He knew Roberto's mission had been successful.

Although the drug runners had fled from the police before they could be caught, John knew that they would be back. He realized that the Coyotes would never stop harassing his people. With a sad heart, he decided that he would have to leave his lifelong home forever. What bothered him more than anything was that he had no idea where to go. He only had a vague notion of going deeper into Copper Canyon to live like a hermit. Other than Roberto, he was completely alone.

Back at the cabin, he began to get his few belongings back in order. He would leave everything to Roberto. It was the least he could do for his kind uncle. As he was cleaning up the last of the mess, he found the family Bible. He lifted the heavy book to put it back on the shelf, and a picture fell out.

It was a picture he had never seen before. In it, an unknown man was sitting beside his young mother, Consuela. He had a happy grin on his face and was joyfully strumming a guitar. John was perplexed about the picture. He quickly turned it over, hoping the back of the image might yield some answers. He was in luck when he saw some faint writing on the back. He held the backside up close to his face and read, "John Lyons Sr. – McAllen, TX."
Chapter 3

A distant sound pulled the dazed soldier slowly out of his unconsciousness. A persistent noise grated upon John's brain. Slowly it dawned on him that the sound was a series of excruciatingly painful screams. The spinning in his head finally stopped, but the screams did not. A cloud of dust surrounded what was left of the chopper's canopy. The continuous swirling debris told John that he hadn't been knocked out for very long. As his vision cleared, he began to realize how violent the crash had been. The nose of the chopper was completely crushed, and the entire fuselage lay on its right side. One look at the co-pilot's gruesomely twisted neck, and John knew that another soldier had made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.

The screams were coming from the pilot, Captain Robinson. John unhooked his monkey strap and slowly slid down the inside of the helicopter. His whole body felt sore as he landed. John carefully made his way through the twisted wreckage until he was by her side. It was clear that the crash had crushed her legs. John pulled frantically at chunks of bent metal and mangled airframe. He was finally able to move enough of the wreckage away so that Angela's legs weren't pinned anymore. The relief in the pilot's eyes was immediate. Her screams died away to silence.

Her calm, intelligent eyes met John's as she murmured, "We really stepped into it this time, didn't we?" "Where are the others?"

He could only shake his head slowly. "They are all gone."

Angela looked for a moment as if she was going to cry, but she steadied herself.

"Private Lyons," the captain continued, "My legs are badly injured and I don't think I am ever leaving this cockpit. The Taliban will be here soon to finish off any survivors. Save yourself, and get out of here while you can. Just leave me with my weapon and I'll do what I have to do."

John looked down at Angela and then up out of the broken canopy into the icy blue sky. There were nothing but endless snowcapped mountains as far as his eyes could see. No matter where he looked, the scene was the same in every direction.

He stared back down at the pilot's crushed legs before speaking, "Captain Robinson, give me your gun."

Angela struggled to free her weapon from the helicopter's frame. Its cold metal felt uncomfortable in her fingers, but she handed it to John without a hint of unsteadiness.

John took the assault rifle from the courageous pilot and quickly pulled the slide back. The metallic "cha-chunk" left no doubt that the gun was locked and loaded.

The young machine gunner had used his own weapon several times as a protector of the aircraft. There was no doubt in John's mind that his weapon had killed more than a few Taliban soldiers. However, today the rifle in his hand would be used only in defense. He did not hand it back to the injured pilot.

Speaking slowly he said, "We are either going to escape this mess together or die trying." He continued on, "There will be no more thoughts of suicide, ma'am. We may die here with a Taliban bullet in our skulls, but that won't happen until we have given them every last bit of fight that we are capable of giving."

Angela's calm steady eyes never changed, but one small tear slowly made its way down her left cheek. "Whatever choice you made would have been much harder on you than me. You are an extremely brave man."
Chapter 4

The day that neither one of them would ever want to go through again was finally ending. The last of the sun's rays were disappearing behind the desolate mountains. With the loss of direct sunlight came a breeze that shocked them both with its frigid chill.

"I'm sure that the emergency locator beacon has been activated, but we need to try the radio as well," stated Angela.

John struggled to get to the front of the crushed cockpit and found that the radio had been demolished by the crash.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but the radio is broken beyond my ability to repair it. We have to get away from here and find shelter quickly or we will not survive the night," urged John.

His voice had a wary edge to it that quickly clued Angela back into the reality of their predicament.

Angela glanced around and said, "Let's take stock of what we have here before doing anything else."

John nodded and began to separate useful gear into one pile and twisted scrap into another. He grabbed the four cockpit bags found on the chopper. These bags had been packed individually by each crewmember based on personal needs. He quickly unzipped one of the bags, which was labelled, "Mendoza." After rummaging around for less than a minute, he found that the bag was full of cigarettes, sports magazines, and a broken pair of sunglasses. All of the other bags, however, contained some useful items. Unfortunately, one item he had to discard was his machine gun. Its barrel lay twisted like a pretzel. When he finished, the pile of potentially helpful equipment was very small, indeed.

He spoke slowly to Angela listing everything of possible use, "We have a pistol that is fully loaded, two M-4 assault rifles with six magazines of ammo, one Leatherman pocket tool, and one hand grenade. We also have three MREs, three full canteens of water, two first aid kits, a couple of waterproof ponchos, a small roll of Para cord, our survival radio, and a roll of electrical tape. There's also two sports magazines we can use as a fire starter, and some cigarettes we can use for the same purpose."

Angela had been thinking quietly while John was speaking. "One of the cockpit bags should be able to carry everything."

A look of anguish came over the pilot's face, "Private Lyons, you'll be able to get out of here rather easily, but I am stuck here just like the rest of this wreckage."

"Ma'am, like I said before, we are either both going to die or save ourselves by getting out of here." With that, he slung the bag and rifles on Angela's back and sat down in front of her. "Put your arms around my shoulders and lock your hands together in front of my neck."

In one fluid motion, with Angela riding piggyback, John regained his feet. She held on tight while he tried a few steps. The pilot let out a soft groan.

John gently set Angela back on the ground, "I know it hurts, but can you make it ma'am? Could you hold on like that if I was to become your legs?"

Angela nodded while speaking with admiration, "Thank you, for the sacrifice you are making for me."

John smiled for just a minute, but then a grave look came over his face, "I've got one more thing to take care of before we leave here."

Sadly, but with determination, he reached around the dead copilot's twisted neck. Finding what he was looking for, he grasped a metallic chain and jerked it quickly. The chain separated and John found two dog tags in the palm of his hand. Leaving one in the pilot's lap, he carefully lowered the other one into his pocket.

After witnessing John's act, Angela spoke up, "We need to say a prayer in honor of our friend."

John nodded at Angela and she began to speak, "You shall never be forgotten. For though you may be gone from this world, your spirit will remain forever. May you rest in eternal peace, safe in the knowledge that your sacrifice was not made in vain. Amen." After a moment of silence, they were both ready to go.

Suddenly a barrage of shots rang out from the nearby mountains. They looked back and saw several torch flames steadily moving towards them. The lights could mean only one thing; the Taliban was coming. Any friendly search team would be using flashlights, rather than torches.

"Captain Robinson, this wrecked bird will end up becoming our tomb if we don't leave quickly. Help will look for us here, but those Taliban shooting at us will show up sooner than our rescuers will. On our way out, I think I know a way to buy us some time."

John rifled through the cockpit bag and found what he was looking for. Moving with speedy determination, he dragged the dead copilot out of his seat and laid him flat on his belly on the chopper's deck. He grabbed an M-4 rifle and placed it under the body so that only a slight portion of the barrel could be seen. Angela's eyes widened as she watched John pull the pin of their only hand grenade. He held the grenade tightly in his hand without letting go of the arming spoon. With extreme caution, he placed the grenade under the corpse. The weight of the body would keep the spoon held down rendering the grenade live but unable to go off.

"When the Taliban arrives they will see the M-4 rifle under the copilot's body. When they flip the body over to get it, the grenade will roll free and explode. This is a trick I learned during training at Fort Knox."

Angela managed a weak smile and said, "I sure am glad you are on my side, partner, but we need to get out of here ASAP!"

Adrenaline kicked in, driving John into a steady run. The shots slowed, and then stopped altogether. Angela could faintly see the group of lights stop in one spot. She could only assume that the Taliban had just reached the helicopter. Suddenly a tremendous explosion lit up the night sky. A smile came over both of their faces.

John stopped and placed Angela carefully on the ground. They both looked back at the slowly disappearing fireball.

"Your plan worked but that explosion was too big to have been from just one grenade. I'll bet the fuel pods exploded. That would have killed most of the Taliban but also destroyed the bird and the locater beacon that was transmitting inside."

John could only nod at Angela in agreement. Suddenly they both heard a roar that swept through the canyon and then quickly disappeared. A faint glow from an engine's exhaust caught their eyes, as well.

"That had to be one of our jets looking for the crash site," said Angela in an excited voice. "Get the emergency radio out and see if we can make contact with it."

John felt through their gear bag and found the small radio. He extended the antenna and turned the power on. The unit was automatically preset to "Guard Channel," an emergency channel that all planes and ships monitor.

John pushed down the transmit button and began to speak, "Mayday, Mayday, US Army helicopter crew needing assistance."

His plea was greeted by static. He tried repeatedly, but was not able to make contact with any allied forces.

Suddenly a voice came through the device clearly, "All air assets searching for downed US helicopter in the Panjshir Valley, the crash site has been found and there appears to be no survivors."

John mashed the transmit button down and spoke forcefully, "We are alive; Repeat two survivors from the crash are alive!" His message was once again met with only a dull hiss.

John looked at Angela with a puzzled expression. "There must be something wrong with the radio. We can only receive but not transmit. I will try to fix it when daylight comes."

With disappointment, he put the radio back in its protective case and motioned for Angela to get ready to go. Minutes later the pair was back on the move.

The moon was their guide for travelling. As a runner, John could easily navigate the trails of his homeland in the dark, but he quickly learned that the mountains of Afghanistan gave a completely new meaning to the word "treacherous." There was no real trail leading away from the wreckage so the Tarahumaran let his instincts guide his feet. The problem was that his instinct couldn't take into account the shale that slid every time he stepped down. There was also the unseen brush, which would grab and stick to him as if he were wearing Velcro. Carrying an adult woman on his back, along with all of their gear, added to the misery. Although Angela was petite, her weight kept his pace slow and deliberate.

Every few minutes the two would stop and rest. During these times, Angela always stayed positive and encouraging, despite being severely injured. However, the fact remained that they were not travelling very quickly and they wouldn't be far from the crash scene by daylight.

Several hours later, the first strands of daylight began to appear against the snowy whiteness of the towering mountains. John put Angela down and rubbed his aching back. As a matter of personal pride, he kept himself in great physical shape. That and the tricks he had learned as a long distance runner had kept him focused and moving during the night. Now however, he was about done in. As he lay there, gasping to regain his breath in the thin air, Angela began to speak.

"We better find shelter soon. Daylight is almost here. Soon the enemy will see and kill us or find worse things they can do to us. Unfortunately, we really aren't that far from the crash site as the crow flies."

John had been thinking the same thing. He looked at the landscape around him, which reminded him of home. It was rough, rocky and devoid of any sign of civilization. He did a thorough scan of the countryside trying to pick out any type of vegetation or structure, which would give them both cover and concealment. There were plenty of bare rocks and cliffs, but little vegetation _. This place is about as inhospitable as the moon_ , he thought. John finally settled on a patch of scrub brush that reminded him of juniper trees. He wearily carried Angela over to the scant cover and carefully laid her in the most comfortable spot he could find. As he put Angela down, her face betrayed a pain that he hadn't seen before.

Grabbing the first aid kit, he said to her, "Let's have a look at those legs."

When the woman did not protest John carefully ran his hands along both of her legs. He then asked her how they felt.

"They both hurt, but my left leg hurts the most," explained the injured pilot. "That one may be broken because I can't put any weight on it. My right leg feels more stable. I have been able to use it a little."

John nodded in agreement. "I can feel an uneven spot in your left leg. I am not a doctor, but it does feel like a broken bone. I've worked on goats with broken legs before, but we usually end up just eating them instead of fixing them."

Angela laughed for the first time in a long while, "You mean to tell me I am being cared for by a goat doctor? Do you have your witch doctor license too?"

He knew that she was kidding and they both had a good laugh.

"I have an idea," he said suddenly.

He rummaged around in the pilot's bag and brought out Mendoza's two fitness magazines. They were thick and he carefully wrapped them around the broken area of Angela's leg. Using athletic tape he found in the first aid kit, he bound them together securely.

"That ought to hold your bones in place so they don't get worse. They should be safe until help finds us."

Angela cut him off ominously, "Or until someone else finds us first."

They both knew who that "someone" was.

Chapter 5

John immediately began working on a shelter for them. Just getting out of the wind would be a psychological victory for the both of them. So he began building a debris hut shelter. He had learned about this type of lean to when he was in the Army's survival school. The irony was that his people had been making the same type of structure for thousands of years.

John started out by making a tripod with two short sticks, and a long ridgepole. Using the Para chord, he tied the ends together. Next, he leaned the framework up against a boulder. He placed large branches along the ridgepole, and then covered the entire frame with their poncho, using rocks to weigh it down. Finally, he filled any open spaces with other vegetation.

As John finished, he took a step back and took a thoughtful look at his finished creation.

"This will do," he said to Angela. "Now let's have another try at getting the radio to work."

John dug through the gear bag, found the radio, and turned it on. The battery indicator revealed that the unit had lots of power left. He pressed down on the transmit button and began to speak.

"Mayday-Mayday! Can anybody read me?"

Although he listened carefully, he heard nothing. He tried again with the same results.

"I don't know why it's not working, Captain Robinson. Perhaps we need to get to higher ground. Right now, it would be best to refuel, rehydrate, and then rest up until the moon rises before moving again."

"I agree with everything you said," began Angela, "but just where will we go? It does not appear as if a search team is even looking for us. That jet pilot reported that our bird was destroyed with no survivors. I know there won't be any search teams inserted until they are positive that the crash area is Taliban free."

"That's what I have been thinking about too," John went on to explain, "If we stay near the crash area we stand a chance of getting picked up by a search team, but the area seems to be a Taliban stronghold. Chances are more likely that we would run into them rather than friendlies. I think we should get as far away from the crash site as we can, and once we find a secure area, try to get help. It would be best if we head downhill where hopefully, we can find water or a spot where the radio will receive a signal."

"Alright then, it's settled," said Angela. "Help me behind the rock so I can use the bathroom, then we can split one of our MREs and rest. When it gets dark we will head downhill from here."

John left Angela behind a boulder to take care of her personal needs. He reached into the pack and pulled out an MRE. On the side was printed "Chicken Stew". Although it was not one of his favorites, it came with some side dishes that he liked. He carefully began laying out each foil-covered package. Angela could have first choice, and then he would choose from what was left. Even though the meal was not intended to fill up two adults, it would have to suffice.

He was just about to get to Angela when he heard something far in the distance that he could not figure out. It sounded like a high-pitched wail. What he heard reminded him of coyotes yelping. It was one of his favorite childhood memories; however, the sound was anything but reassuring. Making sure he remained hidden, he crept to an opening in the brush that seemed to be the best spot to hear from. He tuned out everything else and focused on the hills where the sound came from. The noise he heard came in clearer from this spot and it slowly began to dawn on him that he was hearing a human voice. At first it all came out as gibberish, but eventually he was able to piece together the words being repeated.

"Help me, Help me!" The voice repeated, and then continued, "Help me Brave, you gotta help me or I'll die!"

As quickly as he could, John headed back to Angela. She could tell immediately that something was wrong.

"I heard someone out there calling for help, and they were calling for me by name."

Angela stared at him thoughtfully for a minute before she spoke. "The Taliban, or any enemy for that matter, all use the trick of calling for help and then ambushing the helpers. The Japanese did it in WWII, as well as the Viet Cong in their war against us. Nobody but a fool would fall for that ruse."

"Ma'am you are wrong. That is not some third rate Taliban trick, I know I heard someone call me by my military nickname, Brave. The only one on our chopper who knew me by that name was Mendoza. He must be out there injured from his fall, and he needs our help."

Angela looked concerned, but firm. "If he fell from the chopper, he died. Going out there would just ensure that you and I die as well. As of this minute, I am giving you a direct order; I forbid you to attempt to go out and investigate that voice. Do you understand me, Private Lyons?"

Nevertheless, John was already chambering a round into his M4 carbine. "Sorry ma'am, but I am choosing to disobey that order. I have to know what is going on. I would never forgive myself if I let Mendoza die out there, alone. You'll be fine here until I get back." Without saying another word, he headed out.

Angela was at a loss for words.

John had learned the art of concealment in the army, but his most valuable tool in the hunt for Mendoza was patience. That was something that had been instilled in him during his boyhood years. As a young man, John was taught to wait for the things that he desired. The country he lived in didn't give up anything quickly, or easily. If the distance between two springs of water was 23 miles apart, then he patiently waited until the next sip of water.

It should have taken John ten minutes or so to walk to the spot that he thought the pleading voice was coming from. A walk like that, however, would have given any Afghan with bad intentions an easy target. No, the way to go was slow and cautious.

John travelled with infinite care. His pace equaled that of a house cat stalking a quail. The expert soldier used many rocks and boulders as cover. His camouflage uniform helped him blend in with the bleak surroundings. Although he stopped often to listen, the cry of help was never repeated.

John eventually entered a maze of boulders. Some as big as a Volkswagen bug, with a few even larger. His best guess was that Mendoza was somewhere in this confusing place. Of course, it would be just as easy for an enemy to hide here, as it would be for a friend.

He slowly worked his way from boulder to boulder, looking for his lost comrade. Finally, John's ears gave him a clue. He faintly heard the sound of metal striking rocks. Listening intently, he heard the sound again. It began to come in a rhythm. _Strike, strike... pause, strike, strike... pause._ John moved cautiously toward the sound. Upon arriving closer to the noise, John also heard human grunts. He crouched down in order to discover the source of the sounds. There, beyond the boulder in front of him, John saw a gruesomely disfigured Mendoza using two Kabar knives to pull himself across the terrain. He watched in fascination as his fellow door gunner jabbed one blade into the sand and pulled himself along a foot or so, and then repeat the same process with the second knife. His legs had been mangled in the fall, and his spine seemed to be twisted. His body was bloodied and battered. The only thing that didn't seem broken was his spirit.

Mendoza heard John stirring behind the boulder and struggled to look up at him. "Hey bro, it sure is good to see you. Somehow, I knew somebody would come. You got any smokes?"

When John produced one of the cigarettes he had saved to use as a fire starter, the look of relief in Mendoza's face was immediate.

After a moment of silence John said, "Buddy, you look like you just lost a fight with a T-Rex. If it wasn't for the weight lifting you do, you would never have had the strength to have gotten this far."

Mendoza nodded in agreement and then spoke up, "Hey Brave, you will have to reach into my side pocket and get my lighter. I would get it myself, but I can't feel anything below my waist."

John grabbed a lighter from the injured soldier's outside cargo pocket. John flipped open the old Zippo lighter and held it up to the cigarette, which dangled loosely in Mendoza's quivering lips. He couldn't help but read the inscription engraved on the back. "To my number one Scout. Love, Maria."

The nicotine seemed to calm the wounded soldier and he began to speak. "Bro, I really messed up. It was my rounds that knocked down our bird. I just panicked and kept firing at those muzzle flashes coming from the enemy positions. I knew I would be firing dangerously close to our rear rotor, but killing those jerks was all I cared about."

As John listened silently, Mendoza continued with his story. "When my rounds hit our tail, the helicopter lurched violently and I fell out the open door. I landed on my back and rolled quite a ways down to the bottom of the canyon. By the time it was all over, I couldn't feel a thing below my waist. How is that for really screwing things up?"

Several tears stained his cheek and dampened the dirt. He continued on, "I discarded everything that would weigh me down except for my two Kabars and this little surprise."

A lopsided grin came to Mendoza's face as he reached into his shirt pocket and found what he was looking for. John knew that the green, baseball shaped object clutched in his friend's hand could only be an M-26 hand grenade.

"If they had found me first, those boys in turbans would have been in for a big surprise when I blasted 'em with this!"

John could only shake his head in amazement.

As the cigarette finished, so did his story. Mendoza's crippled body slumped to the sand like a balloon that had gradually lost its air. He clenched his teeth, grimly trying to keep back the pain without uttering a sound. Mendoza seemed very relieved to have been able to tell someone his account of what happened.

There was no way that John would be able to carry Mendoza as he had done for Angela. The crippled door gunner was just too big. Moving a person with a spine injury that serious would cause them a tremendous amount of suffering. _No,_ John thought, _I must leave him here and go get Angela._

When he explained all of this to his friend, Mendoza simply nodded in agreement and asked for another cigarette.

The Tarahumaran ran swiftly back to where he left his annoyed pilot. Speed was needed now, rather than stealth. He would have to move Angela and all of their gear to where he had left Mendoza, and build another shelter. All of this would have to be done before dark, which was rapidly approaching.

When John got back to the shelter, he found everything undisturbed. Although he could see in Angela's eyes that she was relieved to see him, she didn't say much.

He quickly explained the situation and then wrapped the poncho from the shelter around Angela. This would help ward off the oncoming cold. Then he was off, once again carrying his pilot, and all of their gear.

With his mind on speed rather than caution, John committed a huge mistake. Coming around the last boulder, he received a horrible surprise. There, surrounding Mendoza, were three armed Taliban fighters. They quickly spotted the American soldiers and turned their weapons towards the startled pair.
Chapter 6

The turbaned fighters motioned with their weapons for John to raise his hands. He did so, and then carefully laid Angela down on the ground behind him. Next, he slowly slid the M-4 assault rifle off his shoulder and laid it on the ground.

One look told John that these primitive soldiers were all business. Although their AK-47s were old and worn, they were well cared for. Their clothing consisted of long pants that reminded him of pajama bottoms. They all wore a long shirt that extended way below their waists. Two of them had olive drab vests where they kept their AK-47 magazines. All three of the men had turbans covering their heads, which would keep out excessive sunlight as well as dust. The fabric of their garments was lightweight and yellowish brown colored, which had helped them blend in so well. John was amazed to see that two of them were wearing flip-flops on their feet as if they were out for a walk on a Hawaiian beach. Only one of them had boots on. They were shabbily made, and possibly of Russian origin. Perhaps they had come from the feet of a dead Soviet soldier years ago. The man wearing boots seemed to be the leader. Instead of an AK-47, he held a Makarov semi-automatic pistol, which he pointed at John's head. He advanced slowly towards them.

Through rotten teeth, he began to speak, "We've been out looking for you American pigs. We get down in this valley and smell cigarette smoke. Only a stupid American would smoke out here in daylight." The Taliban soldier turned back towards the helpless Mendoza and shouted, "Don't you know smoking kills?"

He laughed like a maniac at his own joke. However, his laughter was cut short by a loud anguished moan that came from Angela. Her moan turned into a shrieking scream of agony that had all three of the enemies looking at her with scorn.

Rotten Teeth brushed past John and gave Angela a hard kick. "Shut up, American dog!"

It took every bit of John's composure not to strike back at the cruel man, because doing that would have ensured all three of their deaths.

Suddenly, Angela began babbling in an excited voice, "John, John, is that you?" Another swift kick struck Angela but failed to silence her.

Rotten Teeth turned to John and said, "Shut her up or she dies right here, right now!"

Despite what the Taliban soldier said, the delirious girl didn't stop, but kept up her gibberish. "John, I got the entire payroll here right under the poncho. I kept it hid just as you said. Nobody is going to get the money we were going to give all of the soldiers on payday."

The Taliban leader's eyes lit up and he asked John what she meant.

John replied, "You idiot, can't you see the girl is injured and delirious?"

Angela spoke up again, "The money is all right here under this poncho.

That was too much for the greedy man, who pushed roughly past John in order to throw back the poncho. John focused his attention away from Angela to an alarming new sound coming from in front of him. That sound was the distinct pop of a spoon leaving a hand grenade. He had heard this sound many times before, and he knew what it meant. A triumphantly grinning Mendoza held the grenade for just a second. He then rolled it right between the legs of the two Taliban guards. They neither saw nor heard the grenade go live. Instead, they were distracted by their lust for American cash. They greedily watched as their leader ripped the poncho away from Angela. Instead of money, she held a 9mm pistol. She only needed one shot to put a bullet hole into the center of the enemy's head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

At almost the same instant, John looked over in time to see Mendoza grab the legs of the two remaining Taliban, tripping them so that they fell next to the armed grenade. Using his powerful upper body strength, Mendoza held them down as the grenade exploded, tearing all three bodies to pieces.

It happened so quickly that John had no time to throw himself to the ground. The noise, dust and debris, momentarily confused him. When his mind cleared, his first thought was for Angela. He leapt over to where she lay. She appeared unharmed but dazed. Eventually her eyes cleared. She said nothing for a long while before finally regaining her composure.

She nodded towards the dead Taliban leader and said, "I guess I showed him that it wasn't smoking he needed to worry about. No, it's lead poisoning that's the real killer."

Perhaps it was the seriousness of the situation, or perhaps it was just good military training that revived her. John couldn't however deny the fact that Angela was once again back to her old self. They both grinned at her dry attempt at humor.

He wondered if they should bury the bodies but decided against it. Common sense told him that every enemy fighter within hearing distance would soon be arriving at this very spot. They would have to leave at once.

Before they could leave, he had one more task to complete. He moved over to the pile of bodies, which included Mendoza's. He tried not to look at the gruesome remains but instead focused on the legs, one pair of which were clad in camouflage. He examined the combat boots and found what he was looking for. Like most combat soldiers, his friend carried one dog tag laced in his boot. A good tactic, which ensured one tag would always be found regardless of what happened to the body. John unlaced the boot and removed the dull silvery tag.

He read the inscription aloud to Angela, "Francisco R. Mendoza." He quietly slipped it into the same pocket that held the co-pilot's identification tag.

John paused for a moment and then continued, "Mendoza fell on that grenade to save us. He gave up his own life in order for us to have a chance to save ours. If we get out of this alive, I swear I will do everything in my power to ensure he receives the Congressional Medal of Honor for such an unselfish sacrifice."

A knowing smile crept across the face of his sad companion. They had both experienced a tremendous amount of loss in the last two days. That fact however, could not slow them down. Both soldiers realized that they would have to leave again. Like a hunted animal, they had to move quickly and put as many miles between them and the hunter as they could.

As efficiently as possible John grabbed up their supply bag and hoisted Angela onto his back. He headed off towards the bottom of the valley moving at a steady trot. He knew that traveling like this in daylight was extremely dangerous. However, it was even more risky to stay put. Therefore, they escaped into the dusty, barren landscape with no other intention, but to save themselves. John kept up a relentless ground-eating pace. He concentrated only on the down sloping terrain. He never looked at the ground below; instead, he used the old Tarahumaran trick of letting his feet feel out the trail. This worked so well that he lost track of time. Finally, Angela suggested that resting might be a wise idea.

They lay next to each other. She massaged her aching legs, and John stretched out his back as best as he could. They both drank thirstily from a canteen until it was empty. Unfortunately, that left them with only two remaining. The exhausted pair rested for several minutes without saying a word.

Finally, John spoke up. "I think we should eat a little and rest up here until nightfall. Then when the moon rises, we are going to move out of this valley into the flatlands that are bound to be down there somewhere. Although we will be more in the open, it will give any search teams a better shot at spotting us. The flat terrain will also give us better odds that the radio will be able to transmit and receive."

A moment of silence passed, and Angela began to speak, "You are so different from every other soldier I have ever met, in a good way I mean. There is so much more to you than meets the eye. Would you please tell me a little bit about yourself?"

"Well, it's kind of a long story." John began.
Chapter 7

John had never thought that he would leave Urique permanently. However, after the death of his mother, he really had nowhere else to go. His hometown was now simply a grim reminder of Consuela's tragic death. With the coyotes' imminent return in the back of John's mind, he decided to leave Urique, to find his father in Texas.

He began packing by stuffing food, money, and a few personal items into his satchel. These sentiments included his family's Bible, and the photograph of his father and mother.

The run would take several days, and would be fairly difficult. The terrain ranged from rocky slopes to dry flatlands. For the first few days, John travelled on a familiar path. His mother had travelled and died on this same trail. However, after passing a few towns, it eventually extended all the way to the U.S.-Mexico border.

On the third day, John entered an unknown expanse of land. He had run this far many times before, but never further on this particular path. He had no other choice but to keep going.

After a few more days, John arrived at the border. The area was lush in comparison to the surrounding landscape. The bushes and trees hid him from the view of any possible border guards. Yes, he would be entering the United States as an illegal. It wasn't ideal, but it was the fastest way to track down his father.

John waited just a moment before wading a shallow river, which he assumed was the Rio Grande. He found himself up against a fence consisting of steel panels. It didn't take him long to find a small gap between two panels that he could squeeze through. He had done it; John had arrived in the United States!

Almost immediately, John encountered a few people. He began to notice the difference between the two cultures. His ragged clothes would no longer do the job if he wanted to pass as an American. John wandered away from the border on a dirt road for a few miles until he arrived at a highway. Following the road he eventually found what looked like the outskirts of a small town. Beside the road ahead of him, John could see a rundown building with a large parking lot. He could only assume that it was some type of store.

As John walked closer to the building, he saw a tall, white sign that read, "Thrift Store." After entering the store, he saw racks of clothes leading all the way to the back of the building. The storeowner didn't give him any hassle as John wandered the aisles trying to decide what to buy. He eventually chose a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. He had seen a few Mexicans wear such clothes in Urique. He found a very old pair of cowboy boots, which weren't much to look at, but fit him well. He didn't bother to get socks to go along with the boots since his feet were so toughened by the trail. John began to panic a bit when he realized that the only money he had was pesos. However, the elderly clerk seemed happy to have the money and gladly accepted his Mexican dollars. The man asked if John needed to use the changing room, John replied that he did.

After John was done changing, the old timer asked him if he would stay awhile and talk some more. The man seemed lonely and since John was curious, he agreed. The old man explained that his name was Felipe' and that he had come from Mexico to the USA many years ago. He also explained that he spoke Spanish better than English so the conversation quickly changed to that language. Felipe' asked John where he was coming from and where his journey would end. John ended up spending nearly an hour with the polite old gentleman. He told Felipe' about his intended plans.

The old man nodded and smiled after the story and said, "Son, sit awhile because I have some recommendations that might help you."

John gained some important advice. The knowledgeable old timer explained how to avoid the authorities, where to find work, and most importantly, how to get to McAllen. He could either walk or hitch hike. There was no public transportation around there. John gave a cheerful good bye to his new friend and started out towards the road.

John had been walking for nearly a mile and had counted thirty-seven cars that had passed him on the highway without picking him up. Each driver had glanced at John's hitchhiker's thumb and kept right on going. John was about ready to give up when a huge semi-truck pulled over onto the side of the road right ahead of him. John walked up and noticed that inside were two men; one of which looked quite a bit like himself. The other looked much older, and a bit more rugged.

The older man opened the truck door, began climbing out, and started to speak. "Hey there, you looking for a ride?"

"Yes sir, could you take me all the way to McAllen?" the hitchhiker asked.

"Well, sure. We're heading there right now, actually." The old man replied. "You can call me Burt and that is my son, Billy." Burt pointed back towards the younger man who was still in the vehicle.

John climbed up onto the bench seat as he introduced himself. He noticed two bumper stickers on the dash; "Seattle Seahawks" said one, while the other declared, "Native Pride." Eighties classic rock music could be heard vaguely drifting from a pair of speakers above the seat. Billy reached into a cooler and dug out a diet Mountain Dew soda, which he offered to the thirsty hitchhiker. John happily took it and swallowed a large gulp of the delicious liquid. It completely washed the dusty taste out of his mouth. Then he took a closer look at Billy. The first thing John noticed were Billy's massive, muscular arms. They were almost completely covered with tattoos, all of which had a Native American theme. The second thing John noticed about Billy was his legs. They were oddly shaped, and seemed twisted and grotesque. Billy saw John's questioning eyes and spoke up.

He said, "I was paralyzed in a fall a couple of years ago and lost the use of my legs." Then he smiled and continued, "I make up for my skinny legs with upper body strength." He flexed his arms and showed his rippling muscles.

Billy stared intently at John for a few seconds.

Finally, he spoke up to his father, "I was right dad, John is no Mexican. He is like us; he is a _Native_ American!"

John smiled and explained, "You're right _and_ wrong. I am a Tarahumaran Indian, but my tribe is from Mexico."

After reflecting for a minute Billy declared, "That makes it clear partner, you are one of us then."

During the next several hours, John listened as Billy told him all about his life. Both he and his father were natives of the Colville Indian tribe from Washington state. Life on the reservation hadn't been all bad. Burt worked as a truck driver while his mother worked as a nurse in the tribal medical clinic. Tragedy struck when his mother accidently contracted AIDS during her duties as a nurse. Unfortunately, she died soon after. Billy and Burt had gone into a downward spiral. Burt turned to alcohol to deal with his loss. Billy turned to anger. As Billy explained it, they had finally found themselves by losing themselves in nature.

After they bottomed out with their behaviors, both men went to work in the woods for a guiding business that Billy's uncle, Blake, owned. Billy worked as a horse wrangler and Burt guided hunters. They spent many days and nights out in the wilderness, until they finally got a handle on their grief. Billy and Burt were now ready to get on with their lives. Just when things seemed back to normal, Billy was crippled in an accident. He had been thrown from a spooked horse onto a rock, which crushed his back. Eventually, with the help of his uncle Blake, who stressed using his inner native strength, Billy found purpose in his life. He had even been a participant in his tribe's ultimate test of manhood; a horse race called "The Suicide Plunge." These days Billy and his father were a truck driving duo with Billy as the navigator and Burt as the driver.

Billy ended the story with a laugh, "My life has been such an adventure that somebody should write a book about it!"

As Billy finished, John happened to glance out the window to see a sign that said, "McAllen - 10 miles." That was just enough time for John to tell his friends a little about his life, and the quest he was on to find his missing father. Coincidently, both young men had suffered the same type of loss, which given time, they had been able to overcome.

Burt shook his head and summed up what all three of them seemed to be thinking, "Boys, life has given you two its share of heartache. Both of you have refused to give up though, and that toughness has made you better men."

The truck slowed down and turned into a cafe parking lot. It appeared to be a popular spot with about a dozen big rigs parked in the spacious area. Burt expertly backed the truck into one of the last spots left. John got out and jumped down to the dirt. His boots kicked up a small puff of dust that was quickly snatched away by the morning breeze. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and was amazed when he looked up to see Billy hanging from a handle securely bolted to the side of the truck. Amazement turned to admiration as he watched Billy swing to the back of the truck where he unhooked a wheelchair. Without effort, he lowered the chair to the ground and then dropped into it. John realized that several handles had strategically been placed on the truck to allow Billy access to his wheelchair and the ground.

"Let's go get some food, dude. I'll bet you are starved," suggested Billy.

John didn't realize just how hungry he was until that moment. He thought for a second and remembered that all he had eaten in the last few days was some parched corn and venison jerky.

As they walked in John noticed the sign above the door which proudly proclaimed, "Bob's BBQ Bunker."

Burt nodded up at the sign and said, "They only serve BBQ here for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Lucky for truckers, they stay open 24 hours a day. Best of all, this place has got everything."

A cute blonde waitress with a name tag that read "Lori-Lynn" glided up to the table. Curiously, she brought only one menu with her. Wordlessly she handed it to John.

She spoke to the other men, "I know you two want the usual." When both men nodded, she continued. "O.K. let me write this down; Burt, you want four pieces of BBQ chicken and a Coke. For Billy, BBQ buffalo burger, onion rings, and diet Mountain Dew."

Lori-Lynn smiled triumphantly as both men nodded in agreement.

She turned to John and chirped, "I will give you a little bit longer. We have a lot of choices here, if you like BBQ!" She grinned and left to go get the drinks.

Burt and the waitress had not been kidding. As John glanced through the menu he noticed that everything was indeed BBQ. He saw the usual burgers and poultry choices but when he looked further he discovered a section labeled, "Exotic." Under that heading John found BBQ alligator, armadillo, turtle, ostrich, and even rattlesnake. He was amazed at all of the choices.

Burt glanced at Billy and smiled, "Everything here is good. You have to try the BBQ donuts; they are the best ones I have ever tasted."

John didn't know if he was kidding or not, but to be safe settled for the BBQ chorizo. This was something he had occasionally eaten in Urique. The waitress brought back drinks and took John's order. She placed a glass down in front of him that had a familiar green liquid in it.

"Diet Dew," exclaimed a happy Billy. "It just doesn't get any better than that!"

A short while later the platters of food appeared. The servings were enormous, and the three men dug into their food greedily. All conversation ceased as the piles of food and drinks slowly diminished. Eventually, however, no one could take another bite.

With his hunger satisfied, Burt spoke, "Defeated again. I never have been able to finish a meal here. They sure aren't kidding boys, everything in Texas, including the BBQ, is bigger."

John glanced up while Burt was speaking and saw to his horror that two law enforcement officers had come in and were walking directly towards him. One of them wore a jacket that had "Sheriff" printed on it in large black letters. The sheriff didn't scare John as much as the second man whose coat read "Immigration Control." It was clear that the Tarahumaran was in heaps of trouble.
Chapter 8

The two lawmen headed in a beeline for John's table and stopped just short of it.

The sheriff cleared his throat and began speaking, "You law breaking hoodlum!" he growled, "I knew I'd catch up with you in here!"

To John's surprise, the two men, along with Burt, began laughing as if it was the funniest joke that they had ever heard. Billy leaned in and explained that the three men were friends and they frequently met here to have lunch.

The sheriff turned and began to speak to John, "Do I know y'all from somewhere son?"

John answered honestly, "No sir, this is the first time I have ever been in this town." The sheriff and the immigration officer immediately looked at John with accusing stares.

Before they could ask another question however, Billy spoke up and said, "He is one of us." He then pointed to his arm that had "Colville Nation" inked proudly across it.

That seemed to put both of the men at ease. John guessed that, initially, they had figured him to be an illegal border crosser who had just arrived in the United States. His friend, whether he knew it or not, had just saved John from a serious situation.

The officers ordered coffee and pulled chairs up to the table. The men got deeper into their conversation, and John could sense that the danger had passed. As John listened, he discovered that the sheriff had gotten several tips about drunk drivers from Burt, and seemed to appreciate the help. Eventually the coffee and conversation was finished. Lori-Lynn brought out the bill, and Burt paid for everyone. The group then parted and began to walk towards their rigs. Burt followed the sheriff to his patrol car and waved John over.

Burt explained, "I told the sheriff about how you are searching for your father. He is willing to enter your dad's name into the police computer data system in his car. Perhaps we can get a clue about where your father is at now."

John nodded and began to speak, slowly spelling out his father's name, "J-o-h-n L-y-o-n-s" and then added, "McAllen, Texas."

As John spoke the sheriff typed the name into the computer. They all waited for a few seconds as it analyzed the data. Soon the screen lit up as something came through. The sheriff stared at the screen for a minute and began to write some information down.

He then spoke to John. "There are three different men named John Lyons living in McAllen. One of these may be your dad. Here are the addresses for all of them."

With that, he gave the paper to John and wished him luck. John looked back at him blankly.

"Sir," he said, "What is an address?"
Chapter 9

Before the sheriff had time to digest John's strange comment, Burt put an arm around the young man's shoulder and guided him back to the big rig.

"Listen John, wherever you came from or how you got here is no concern of mine. This country welcomes legal immigrants with open arms. However, if you don't have the right paperwork that makes you an illegal immigrant, and the authorities can come down on you very harshly. Since your father is an American citizen, I think that with his help, you could get the correct paperwork you need to gain your citizenship."

"I knew finding my dad was not going to be easy," explained John. "My journey is unclear, but I have to stay with it to the finish. I am going to go on and at least try to find the three men on the sheriff's list. If none of those names proves to be my dad, I'll head back to my homeland and live there till I die."

Burt thought for a minute and then spoke up, "Give me that list of names. I have a GPS in the truck. By entering these addresses into the system we can get an idea of where you need to go."

They both headed back to the truck. Burt climbed into the cab and began entering numbers into the GPS unit. He grunted with satisfaction when his task was completed.

"One of these addresses is right near a warehouse where we occasionally pick up produce. The other two are near the college. I will drop you off at the warehouse near the first address. I am also guessing that you could use some money to get started. I know the manager of the warehouse fairly well. I bet he would hire you on as a manual laborer. He pays cash and looks the other way if someone doesn't exactly have the right documents. What do you say John, will that work for you?"

Without hesitation, John replied, "I love the idea of working here and getting to know this country. Let's do it!"

It was just about noon, the hottest part of the day, when the big rig rolled up to the warehouse. The two younger men stayed put while Burt went in to make the arrangements.

Billy's mood had changed from being upbeat, to a bit more philosophical. He seemed to have something on his mind that he wanted to share with John.

Finally, Billy spoke from his heart, "John although we have known each other for only a short amount of time, I feel a kinship with you. It is almost as if we are brothers in a spiritual way. Sadly, I feel that we will not meet again in this lifetime as mortals. However, I know that when the Great Spirit, our Creator, calls us back, we will easily find each other and be friends for all eternity."

He grabbed John's hand and pressed a coin into it. It was unlike any coin John had ever seen. He read the front, which said, "Suicide Race Participant." Flipping it over, he read, "A Race for only the Brave."

Billy continued, "I have had this with me every day since that race and it has brought me good luck. I want you to have it now. My life is now fulfilled. I sense that you will need a great deal of luck in the future. So take this and never forget our friendship."

John was stunned. He could only mumble a quick thanks before Burt called to him from the door of the factory. Before leaving the cab, he gave Billy a hug and then a parting handshake.

John jumped from the truck and said, "Don't worry my friend; I will never forget you and all of the kindness you have shown to me."

He pocketed the coin and walked over to where Burt was standing.

"John, this is Mr. White. He has agreed to hire you on here and he will pay you minimum wage. The work here is hard but honest. I wish I could stick around here and help you get settled. I can't stay though because Billy and I have to get the load of toys in our truck up to a Gimbel's store in New York. Christmas will be here soon and kids need their toys. Good luck son."

With that, he shook John's hand and returned to the truck. John turned and waved as the rig pulled out of the parking lot and headed back up the highway in a black plume of diesel smoke. As he watched the truck leave, John felt a loneliness creep into his bones that he hadn't felt since his mom died. Shrugging off his gloom, John followed Mr. White into his office. After a brief discussion about his duties, John learned that most of the work would involve moving crates and sacks of fruits and vegetables. They would need to be taken out of the warehouse and loaded into waiting trucks. Mr. White finished his speech by asking if John had any questions. When John shook his head, he was sent into the warehouse to get started.

Burt had not been kidding. The boxes and crates of food seemed endless and they constantly needed to be loaded or unloaded from huge trucks. John was in good shape to begin with, and his new job made him even stronger. That was the good news. The bad news was that because it was the harvest season, he worked ten hours a day seven days a week. He had little time to himself and no time to explore the city. The company that owned the warehouse provided clean, safe dormitory style housing. The rent charged was reasonable and John took advantage of the opportunity. By doing so, he was able to both save money and learn several valuable tips on how to fit in and get by in this new land.

For the next two weeks John worked without a break. Days were spent doing hard labor in the warehouse, while nights were taken up with English lessons. Many of his fellow workers knew little or no English. They begged John to teach them how to speak "American" as they called it. John couldn't refuse and so he found himself tutoring new English speakers well into the night. When the lessons ended, he slept till the entire dorm was awakened at first light. There had been no time to search for his father.

At the beginning of his third week of work, John was unexpectedly called into Mr. White's office. The normally carefree boss has a concerned look on his face.

"John, you are an outstanding worker, but we have a problem. No matter how hard I look, I can't find any paperwork pertaining to you. You have no green card, no social security number, and no immigration documents at all. According to the government, you do not exist. The thing that puzzles me the most is that you speak almost perfect English. I want to keep you here as an employee, but you've got to level with me and tell me what's going on."

John thought for a moment before he spoke. "Mr. White, what you say is true. I have no paperwork because I am here illegally. I snuck across the border from Mexico. I know English because my mother spoke it and taught it to me when I was a child. I am here in McAllen looking for my father. If I find him, he might be able to help me get the paperwork I need to become a citizen. I love my job and enjoy being in this country. I realize that I haven't been honest but I am willing to do anything to make this work."

Mr. White paused and then spoke. "John how about if we try this; I will pay you for your two weeks of work here. I will also give you as long as you need to find your father and get your paperwork in order. When you have finished looking, you can come see me again and I will be happy to give you your old job back."

John was pleased and agreed with the idea. He walked with Mr. White up to the payroll office where he received nearly $500.00 in cash. He went to his room and threw the few articles he owned into a backpack and then headed out to the front gate of the factory. He had learned from his fellow workers that taxis were a much more efficient way of getting around town than running or walking. There were always a few cabs waiting at the front gate. John looked into each cab until he found the kind of driver he was looking for.

"¿Hablas español, señor?" John asked the driver.

"Si" came the reply. "¿A dónde vas?"

John handed the driver the address Burt had given him, the one closest to the factory.

"Aqui señor," said John enthusiastically.

The driver, who introduced himself as Julio, smiled and turned the cab out onto the main highway. He seemed friendly enough and quizzed John about what he was up to. John explained that he was looking for his father and the man on the list might be him. Julio's upbeat mood turned to concern.

He spoke to John in broken English, "Amigo, this area of town is a bad place. Lots of gangs and drugs there. We can try, but I don't think you find your padre there."

John told the man that he was determined to continue, though.

Finally, the cab pulled up to a sketchy apartment complex. John asked Julio to wait there while he checked the address. He threaded his way between broken down cars and piles of garbage. He finally came to a set of stairs. They led up into an apartment complex, where the address indicated John Lyons should be. When he got to the end of the complex, he saw he could get no further. A fire had destroyed the entire end of that wing.

The address led to nothing but charred timber and rubble. As he stared at the unwelcome sight, he felt, rather than saw, a person creep up next to him.

A deep raspy voice addressed him. "They call me Bones," said the voice.

John whirled around and saw a paper-thin man about 20 years old standing beside him. Bones looked like he was dead. He was deathly pale, and his blue eyes seemed to look right through John. As John waited for the man to continue speaking, Bones began to cough. The terrible rattling sound only ended when Bones spat something red onto the ground.

At last, he regained his composure and continued. "I got the cancer all up in me and I ain't long for this world. I just got to know though, what are you doing here boy?"

His question ended with another uncontrollable fit of hacking.

John mustered up his courage and began to speak, "I am looking for a man named John Lyons who used to live here."

"Big John?" Bones asked. "He was a friend of mine from high school. Matter of fact he died right here cuz of this fire. You ain't gonna find nothing of him here 'cept his ghost!"

With that, Bones began laughing and it continued as John retreated back down the stairs and into the open courtyard.

The laughter stopped as Bones shouted one final comment to John, "Y'all ain't gonna find nothin' here but death, boy, you'd best not be walkin outta here, you best be _running!_ "

John could still hear the maniacal laughter ringing in his ears as he jumped back into the waiting cab.

Julio could tell something was wrong by the grimace on John's face. "Amigo, I tell you this place is bad news. Nothing good come from here. Lemme see the other addresses. We can get good luck if we try another place."

John didn't know if he wanted to try another spot but he handed the paper to Julio and let the driver study the last two addresses.

Julio handed the paper back to John and said, "I know both these addresses cause one is a bar and one is the local college. Which one you wanna try?"

John knew little about his father, but he did recall that his mother had talked about him being sent to Mexico by an American college. Perhaps this clue would finally lead him to the man he was looking for.

"Please take me to the college address. I have a good feeling about that one."

"Sure señor," replied the driver, "Vaya con Dios, and we can't go wrong here!"

The cab kept up a steady pace as the neighborhood changed from "hood" to good. Houses with green lawns began to appear with citrus trees in many yards. Children could be seen playing in the street. A sure sign of a safe neighborhood thought John. Eventually, the area changed from residential to a business area. John glimpsed a sign that said "South Texas College- 2 miles". He began to feel the excitement build as he got closer to his goal. Finally, the college appeared in the distance and Julio drove expertly up to the front entrance.

"Amigo, they don't let cars in here. You gotta walk the rest of the way. But I like you, and I will wait for you here till you come back."

John paid the honorable driver and agreed to come back and let him know how things went. John found a map of the college attached to a signboard just as he entered the compound. By comparing the name of the building on his slip of paper to the map, he deduced that he was only a couple of buildings away. He felt like running but forced himself to be patient. John walked purposefully along until he came to the place he was looking for. He let himself in and followed a corridor that led to a secretary's desk.

He cleared his throat and asked the woman, "Ma'am could you please help me find John Lyons?"

The woman looked up from her paperwork and smiled, "Of course. You are in luck because he is on break this hour and in his office. Go down that hall, and it's the first door on the left."

John thanked her and headed down the hall. He had a strong feeling that his journey would soon be at an end. He came up to the correct door and noticed the sign on it. "Professor John Lyons"

John knocked and a voice invited him in.

"I am John Lyons" the professor said, "How can I help you?" The man was very well spoken, very well dressed and very black.
Chapter 10

John apologized and explained to the professor that he had made a mistake and had found the wrong John Lyons. Professor Lyons was curious and questioned John about his motive.

After listening to John's story, he began to speak, "I do remember hearing about a John who worked in the anthropology department. He was here before my time and I never met him. The funny thing was he didn't go by his last name. He wanted everyone to call him Dr. J. He was the life of every party from what I've been told and that was his downfall. He came back from a trip to Mexico, began drinking heavily, and was eventually asked to leave the school. Last time I heard, he was tending bar somewhere. I don't know if that is the man you are looking for, but I wish you luck in your search."

John thanked the friendly gentleman and got up to leave. As he walked back to the taxi, the word "Mexico" kept running through his head. Could this be the tip he needed to finally find his father? He decided to talk it over with Julio.

True to his word, the cabbie was waiting patiently for his passenger's return. By the look on John's face, Julio knew something was up.

"¿Lo encontraste?" he asked.

"No I didn't find him," John explained. "I have a clue though, that might point us in the right direction. Didn't you say that one of the addresses is a college bar? I think we should try there. Either we will find my dad there, or I'll buy us each a drink and then you can drive me back to the border. If this doesn't work out, I have a long run to get back home."

"Si señor," said Julio, "but I buy _you_ the drink if this thing doesn't work out. You have a strong heart to do what you are doing. It would be an honor to help get this settled one way or the other."

It wasn't a far drive to get there. Julio found a spot to park and they both got out and headed for the door. They both looked at the sign out front; "The Great Texas Bar (B-Q)."

John said to Julio, "Texas seems to have a thing for barbeque."

"That, and Lone Star beer," replied Julio.

The bar was unlike anything John had ever experienced before in his life. He guided Julio over to a corner and wordlessly tried to take it all in. The place was huge with the center taken up with an enormous dance floor. A mariachi band played festive Mexican music and people on the dance floor grooved to the catchy beat. A jukebox was playing the same type of rock and roll John had heard in Burt's truck. It was as loud as the mariachi band and people were dancing to its rhythm. The strange thing was, it didn't seem to bother anybody. There was an enormous Texas flag on one side of the wall and a confederate flag almost as large on another wall. The centerpiece though, was the bar itself that had real horse saddles on benches to sit on. Behind the bar was a stuffed bullhead with the largest set of horns John had ever seen on any bull. They found a pair of unoccupied saddle stools and sat down. A waitress dressed in a western shirt and Levi shorts appeared in front of them. After asking them what they would like to drink, John ordered two Cokes. The server was gone for only a minute before she reappeared.

She popped the tops off two Coca-Colas in thick glass bottles and placed them in front of the men.

"I am Jolene, your waitress. Today's special is tacos. I will be happy to bring you fellows out a platter full if you're hungry."

The two men grinned at each other, "Sure, that sounds great," said John.

"I knew we would like it here," replied Julio.

The platter of tacos arrived quickly but John noticed that they were unlike any tacos that he had ever seen before. The shells were the familiar standard yellow variety. What was inside them though was entirely different from the norm. Each was filled with chunks of barbequed meat. Instead of lettuce and tomatoes, the meat and shell were drenched in BBQ sauce.

Jolene's face lit up as she explained, "These are the best BBQ tacos in the state!"

She dropped off two bottles of tabasco sauce before leaving the men to their meal. She either ignored or did not notice the puzzled expression on their faces.

"Texas is full of surprises," said Julio, "eat up!"

The two men devoured four 'tacos' each and worked on finishing their Cokes.

Before they could digest their food though, a loud argument began to take place at the back of the bar. An obviously drunken man was swearing at his wife. The Mexican woman seemed both embarrassed and scared. Before things could get out of control, a male bartender stepped out from behind the bar and headed over to the couple.

He stood in front of the man and began to speak, "Ya'll calm down and treat that lady with respect. Ya'll quit your swearing and being ignorant or I am going to have to throw you out of here!"

The drunk looked up and immediately focused on his antagonist. Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the bartender in a bear hug and picked him up. With a tight grip on the unlucky bartender, he began to run. To John's horror, the bully seemed to be coming right towards them. With a yell of triumph, the strong man slammed his victim directly into the table. It crashed into splinters as the two men landed on it. Without thinking, John grabbed his bottle and smashed it over the bully's head, instantly knocking him out. The bartender stood up slowly and shook the wooden debris off himself.

He stuck out his hand to John and said, "I owe you one partner."

It was then that John could see his name tag; "J. Lyons"

"Dad?"
Chapter 11

"So that's how I found my father," said John.

Angela could only shake her head in amazement. "That is an extraordinary story. I would love to hear more of it later. Perhaps then you can tell me exactly how you got in the army, but for now, we need to think about staying alive."

John knew she was right. He looked up at the horizon and could see that the sun was already beginning to set. He had learned a trick in survival school that served him well in this instance. He put his palm out in front of his face, and aligned the bottom of his hand with the top of the ridgeline. When he moved his thumb and index finger back, he saw that his remaining three fingers took up all of the space between the ridge and the sun. He knew that each finger represented five minutes so he quickly calculated that they had fifteen minutes left before the sun dipped below the horizon.

John confidently told Angela, "We have fifteen minutes before sunset. We had better gather our things together and be ready to move soon. Hopefully the moon will come up and we will be able to see well enough to travel."

"By traveling downhill, we are going to end up out of the mountains and into the desert. I am concerned about our lack of water when we get there, but I don't think we have any other choice." Angela said thoughtfully. "All I see when I look at these mountains is death. If we can make it to the desert floor, help can find us or we may be able to self-rescue. I have heard that some Afghanis are friendly towards westerners."

John nodded in agreement. "That seems to be our best chance at getting out of here and surviving this ordeal."

As they waited for the moon to rise, John rummaged through the pack and found one of the two remaining MREs. He slit the top open with his Gerber knife and felt through its contents.

"Since I can't see what is in here, how about if we both split whichever food I grab."

He rummaged around the plastic pack until his fingers clutched a familiar feeling wrapper.

"Ta Da" he said, as he pulled out a small bag.

He dramatically shook the bag and then opened it and sniffed it quickly.

"I knew it, Skittles!" John whispered triumphantly.

Angela laughed and said, "I knew all along that you were going to grab the candy first!"

John had Angela hold out her hand and he divided them as evenly as he could. Each small candy was a tasty treat that they both enjoyed thoroughly. John stuffed the rest of the MRE into the pack that Angela slipped over her shoulders. Then he stood and helped her sit up. In a minute, she had both of her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. They were ready to head out into the moon lit night.

Almost at once, they heard a single gunshot. It was unclear where the shot came from since the night air was still and sound could travel for a considerable distance.

John turned his head and whispered to Angela, "That worries me. I have heard that the Taliban uses gunshots for signals. There is no way a US soldier would fire a random shot into the night."

"How could they have seen us?" Angela murmured.

"Perhaps they captured an American night vision device. More than likely though, they are using one leftover from their war with Russia," John answered.

No doubt, someone was out there who had a weapon. This made their journey into the night even more stressful.

Just like always, the way was downhill. This somewhat eased John's burden, but he found himself resting more frequently. At one of the stops, Angela spoke to him about their slow progress.

"John, I am worried because we are stopping so frequently. I am not criticizing your effort. I am grateful for all that you have done for me." She went on, "Perhaps you should eat what is left in the open MRE. That food would give you a much needed energy boost."

After thinking about her words for a minute John spoke, "I could use the extra strength that the food would give me, but what will you eat?"

"You are the one doing all of the work," she pointed out, "I am just along for the ride. You go ahead and eat. Give me the Chicklets gum to chew on. That is all I need."

John did as she suggested and felt around in the pack until he discovered the open MRE. He found the spoon and then cut into the top of his MRE entre. He had no idea what he was getting until he took his first bite.

He whispered. "Veggie omelet. That is the worst!"

Angela laughed quietly. "Then I don't feel so bad not eating either. I hate the veggie omelet!"

John finished off the omelet and then opened some crackers. He rummaged around, and found cheese spread to go on them. He made cheese and cracker squares, and handed two over to Angela. He insisted that she eat them, which she did without complaint. Finally, John felt around in the rapidly emptying MRE bag and pulled out a small square packet. He opened it and sniffed.

"Yuck, coffee. I just do not like the taste. But I heard that the Marines in Iraq lived off this stuff because they had to stay up for days at a time."

He dumped the entire packet into his mouth and swallowed a bit of their precious water.

"Okay, I am wired now! Let's go."

He picked up Angela and headed downhill once again. There were no further warning shots, which was a relief for both of them. With fewer stops, they made good time until eventually John could feel the land change. The downhill slope was flattening out. It came as no surprise to him when daylight began to arrive, that they had just about reached the desert floor. As the sun slowly began to brighten the sky, John found a rock pile and stopped to rest. He sat Angela down gently and took the pack from her back. He took the rifles off each of her shoulders. Gathering up one of them and the radio, he scrambled up the tallest boulder.

"Mayday, Mayday, does anybody copy?" John called out.

He was excited when he heard a voice reply to him. Whoever was talking seemed to be answering his call for help. It was obvious though, that they were not speaking English. He was never able to understand anything that was said. It all seemed to be gibberish. Eventually the voice turned into static and faded away altogether. A sudden ominous thought entered his brain. Perhaps the Taliban had captured a radio and were listening in to his call for help. That may have been why the voice was so unrecognizable!

He turned the radio off and climbed down next to Angela.

"I think that the radio does transmit," John explained, "but perhaps only for short distances. My call for help was heard but whoever replied was not speaking English. Maybe the Taliban is monitoring the guard channel waiting for us to make a transmission. I am worried that our radio might be doing us more harm than good."

Angela shook her head in dismay. "The last thing we need is to have our best way of getting help, that radio, become the Taliban's key to capturing us. I think it would be best if we stop using it. Maybe if we see search planes or helicopters we can use it again, but just like you, I have a strong feeling that we are being monitored by the bad guys."

They both sat glumly against a boulder, brooding about their fate.

Finally, John spoke, "We had better stay here today until it gets dark. We can stay hidden as best as possible and keep our movement to a minimum. Then when evening comes, we need to put as much distance from here as we can. The Taliban may have direction finding equipment and it is possible that they could have a pretty good idea of where we are."

Angela agreed, "I like the plan. I am not as concerned about the Taliban knowing our exact location, because your transmission was so short and it would have taken them time to lock in our signal. What I am worried about is that you cannot keep carrying me and all of our gear across the desert floor. From what little we can see of it from here, the ground looks level but rocky. If you were to step on a rock and twist your ankle, it could break. My weight on your back would only make the injury worse. If that were to happen we would be in serious trouble."

John thought about what she said, and then spoke. "The same thing has been going through my mind. I can't think of any solution though."

Angela spoke up. "There is another way. Tomorrow night, we find a secure hiding place and you leave me there. Then you can go and find help."

"No, I won't leave you!" John said firmly. "There is too much of a chance that you would be found. I can imagine that the Taliban would love to 'interrogate' one of the United States' first female combat helicopter pilots. They would do _anything_ to make you talk. None of their methods would be pleasant."

Angela was equally as firm in her conviction, "You will never be able to travel through the desert packing me on your back. If you break down, _we_ break down. Then we both die a miserable death from dehydration. You see, there is no other way."

John sat in silence, thinking about Angela's plan. He busied himself around the rock pile making a shelter that would keep out the sun. Eventually Angela asked him to carry her to the other side of the rock pile so that she could relieve herself. When John brought Angela back, she noticed that he had laid out all of their gear. Everything was in one pile with the exception of a rifle, two magazines of ammunition, a pair of gloves, an empty canteen and the Leatherman pocket tool. She looked at him questioningly.

John explained, "I have thought a lot about what you suggested. I think it is a terrible idea if we split up, but there seems to be a window of opportunity here where I could get us some help before our supplies run out. If I travel alone with just a few items, I can get through the desert quickly. That will give me a better chance of contacting someone who can get us out of here. There really is no sense in waiting for tomorrow night to find a good hiding place. This spot has cover and concealment. With the poncho canopy I have made for you, the sun shouldn't be too much of a problem. I lived in a desert for years, which will help me find things to eat, and water sources that most other people would not recognize. I will leave you with the pistol as well as most of the supplies. If you ration the water and food and keep out of the sun, I think that you will be ok here for at least three days. I can run a long ways during that time. I hope that by then, I can contact someone friendly. If I am not back at the end of three days, crawl out into the open and use the radio. Broadcast a mayday call hourly until you contact help or the batteries fail. If you can't reach anyone, your last hope is to pray for a miracle."

Angela realized that this plan, although extremely dangerous, was really their only hope of getting out alive. John eventually came and joined her under the sunshade. They had quite a few hours to kill until sunset. So Angela decided to find out more about the man who had sacrificed so much to help her make it this far.

She quietly asked, "John you told me how you met your father, but after that, how did you wind up in the army?"
Chapter 12

John Sr. had been grateful when the young man who called himself his son saved him from a beating. After the drunk was hauled away by the police, things settled down and the two men were able to talk. John Sr. seriously doubted the young man's story and suspected a fraud. No matter how hard John tried to explain the situation to his father, the man still remained skeptical. John had one last hope. He always carried with him a picture. It was the last thing in the world he had left of his mother. The picture showed John Sr. with his arm around Consuela. The young couple happily looked into each other's eyes while the man romantically strummed a guitar.

"Where did you get this?" demanded his father.

John answered simply, "My mother, the woman in this picture, gave it to me."

"That doesn't prove anything," his father shot back accusingly.

"Turn the picture over and read the back sir." John said slowly.

His father did as he was told.

"John Lyons Sr. –McAllen, TX."

"John Sr.?" the older man asked questioningly. "That could only mean that you are my....." He couldn't finish the sentence. "I just can't believe this. You came out of nowhere and claim to be my son. Everything in my brain screams 'fraud,' yet when I look into your face I see Consuela and myself. Still, I have to know for sure. We will have to get your blood tested to see if you really are my son."

John nodded in agreement. "I am willing to do that."

They drove to the local clinic where they both had their blood drawn by a cute technician named Carolyn. She came back sometime later with a smile on her face.

She turned to address John Sr. "I have good news for you, it's a boy!" The father finally had to accept that he did indeed have a son.

Their relationship however, never did blossom. After the blood test John Sr. took his son back to his house. The home turned out to be a singlewide mobile trailer with just one bedroom. That night, and for the next few days, John stayed with his father and crashed on the couch. They both tried to find common interests but it turned out John Sr. was only interested in alcohol. Since his son was not a drinker, there was really nothing to talk about. On the third morning John asked his father if he would be willing to help get the paperwork to become a United States citizen.

The old bartender ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair and spoke thoughtfully, "I used to date a cute little Mexican girl who works for the immigration services. I helped her move out of her old house, so she owes me. I know where she works and we can go there today before things start to get busy."

John found himself in a beat up pickup heading into the center of town. Country music blared from the truck's radio.

"I listen to both kinds of music," announced his father, "country _and_ western!"

His son, though, had begun to develop a strong dislike for the twangy depressing songs. He thought back fondly to the rock and roll music that he had heard in Burt's big rig. He vowed to fiddle with the radio when his father wasn't paying attention and listen to some good music for a change.

They finally arrived at a gray building. John noticed an unusual spring in his father's step as his cowboy boots quickly ascended the stairs. John had to move quickly to keep up with him as he threaded his way through the building. Finally, they arrived at an office that had a sign, which said, "New Citizenship Applications." A couple of people were in line ahead of them. A very efficient woman behind the desk was fielding questions and handling paperwork. John noticed the name tag on her shirt said Inez.

His father nodded her way and said, "I told you she was a pretty thing."

John had to agree about her beauty. The thing that impressed him the most was how efficiently she worked.

Finally, the two men found themselves at the front of the line.

Inez looked up and immediately noticed John Sr. "John, you handsome devil, where ya'll been hiding?"

John Sr. seemed very pleased as he spoke to her. "Well darling, they've been giving me so much work down at the bar that I haven't had a spare second to call ya."

Inez laughed and said, "Oh, I am sure the problem comes from the bar, but not from them working you too hard."

They both laughed at Inez's inside joke.

"Well John, it's obvious that y'all aren't here for a social call. How can I help?"

John Sr. nodded at his son and said, "Inez, this is my boy. It is a long story but he is here from Mexico and I want to help him become a U.S. citizen. We have no paperwork other than a blood test that proves he is my son. I know that this is a surprise for you sweetheart, but if you can help my boy, I will be forever grateful."

For the first time she seemed to notice the young man standing beside John Sr.

She looked at him for a minute before speaking. "You know John I can see your face in him. I do believe he is your son. You have done so much for me in the past that I will do everything I can to help. Now, I hope ya'll ain't in a hurry. We've got some paperwork to fill out."

After what seemed like forever to John, the paperwork was done to Inez's satisfaction. Both men had to sign the documents in several places.

Under her breath she whispered, "Ya'll know that I am not supposed to do this, but I will see that John's paperwork is pushed through to the front of the stack."

John Sr. leaned forward towards Inez and passionately said to her, "Honey, you just earned yourself the biggest plate of BBQ ribs they have at the Best Bar (BQ) in Texas."

Inez giggled like a little girl and said, "Cowboy, you got yourself a date!"

John Jr. had seen enough of the flirting that went on between the two and headed back to the pick-up.

When his father finally arrived he asked, "Dad, at one time you were a successful college professor. How did you go from that to bar tender?"

"Well son," his father replied, "I gradually stopped listening to the dean of my department, and spent more time listening to Jim Beam and Jack Daniels. Eventually I had to choose, and the college came in second place."

That was all he ever said about it. Although John Jr. didn't like the answer, he accepted it.

Inez had told John to check back with her in a couple of weeks and the paperwork should be ready by then. He couldn't see staying that long in the trailer with his father so the next day John told his dad that he planned to go back to the produce warehouse and talk to Mr. White about getting his old job back. His father seemed pleased with the plan and agreed to drive John there.

The next day, John found himself standing in front of Mr. White's desk. His former boss seemed pleased to see him. When the young man told him that he should have his citizenship paperwork in a couple of weeks, Mr. White happily agreed to give him his old job back. John went back to work that day and after a few days it seemed like he had never left. Even his old roommates welcomed him back. They were eager to learn more English. He soon adjusted into his old pattern of work, teach and sleep. The next week flew by. To John though, something didn't seem right. Although he loved his job, he could not see himself doing it for the rest of his life. He was restless to see more of this new country and perhaps even the world.

Mr. White, who was an intuitive man, sensed that something was not right with his star employee. One morning he called John into his office to find out if anything was wrong.

"John," the older man said, "I have seen many men who worked for me come and go. I get to know people and have learned to get a sense if something is not quite right. I am getting that vibe from you now. You just don't seem to have your former happy go lucky attitude. Is there anything going on that I need to know about?"

"Sir," John began, "You are correct. Something is going on with my emotions and I am not even really sure what it is. I can just feel that there is something else out there for me. That thing, whatever it is, it's calling to me. I am sad to tell you that although I love this job, I can't stay here forever. Whatever is out there, I have got to try and find it."

Mr. White smiled thoughtfully, "Son I think you just figured out the key to a happy life; a man needs to find a job that he wants to do, rather than one he has to do. I will support any decision you make. My suggestion though, is for you to look back into your past and find something that excites you and brings you passion. That will be the key to finding your future."

John was extremely grateful to have such a wise and understanding boss. He agreed to use that advice.

Later that night John had a dream. He was back in Urique and the Coyotes were holding the village hostage. He remembered the fear and complete feeling of helplessness during the crisis. Suddenly in the dream, he heard a noise that would end up becoming his salvation. A loud steady thumping came from a mechanical bird that would save the entire village. The Mexican police helicopter floated into his vision. It turned out that the dream would become the key to unlocking his future. He left work early the next day and walked to a U. S. Army recruitment office.

The sergeant at the desk looked up from his paperwork and smiled at John, "How can I help you young man?"

John replied, "I'm interested in a job that would get me on a helicopter."

"It's your lucky day," announced the recruiter, "we have one opening left for cavalry scout training. This is the best job in the entire army and once you finish your schooling, you will have a chance at becoming a helicopter door gunner."

John had a huge grin on his face and replied, "That would be fantastic!"

"Of course you'll have to take some tests and fill out some paperwork but if you can jump through those hoops then we can get you shipped out of here in about four weeks,"

"Yes sir!" snapped John.

The old sergeant smiled a knowing grin, "Young man that is your first mistake and also your first lesson. I am Sergeant Culpepper. I am a non-commissioned officer; therefore you address me as sergeant rather than sir. _You_ need to study. I have a book that will prepare you for your ASVAB. That means your Armed Forces Vocational Aptitude Battery. It is a test, and the higher you score on it the better chance that you will get the job you want. I also want you to study this too. It is your SMART book. It teaches military etiquette, and gives you a heads up on how to act once you get to basic training. Finally, here is a list of documents that you need to bring back to me in order to get the process started. Since you seem sincere to me, I will get on the computer and save that spot in the cavalry scouts for you. Sit down and we can get started."

John left the office with an armload of literature and a high-spirited attitude that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was late by the time he got back to his dorm room, but he dove right into his studying. His daily pattern now became; work, study, sleep. The other workers seemed to understand that he needed the extra time to himself and they didn't intrude. He checked in with his father every other day asking if his citizenship papers had arrived yet. Finally, they were there. He felt that he was ready to start the next phase of becoming a soldier.

He had the next afternoon off, so he gathered up his paperwork and books, and walked back to the recruiting office. Sgt. Culpepper was there and seemed happy to see John. The sergeant checked all of his documents and nodded in satisfaction.

"This is everything we need to get the ball rolling for you. A week from Tuesday is the next opening for your tests. You'll take the ASVAB as well as a physical test. I have to take you to San Antonio, which is a three and a half hour drive from here. I will pick you up at 0545 hours. Now I know military time is covered in your SMART book, so let's see what you have learned. What time will I be picking you up?

John sighed and answered, "Five forty-five in the morning, sergeant."

The recruiter smiled, "Well done. You'll do just fine, John!"

The week flew by and it was Tuesday before John knew it. Mr. White agreed to give him the entire day off since there was no telling how long the test would take. At precisely 5:45, Sgt. Culpepper arrived in a government sedan and the long trip to San Antonio began. John was thrilled to get out of McAllen and see a different part of Texas. The sergeant seemed upbeat too, and told John of his many adventures in the army. He had been deployed overseas three times and been in combat zones on two of those deployments. He admitted though, that recruiting was the hardest, yet most satisfying job he had ever done in the army. The difficult part was that he was asking a person to give up several years of their lives. Many young people just weren't ready for that kind of a commitment. John had questions of his own about the army. These mostly dealt with what he could expect to do as a cavalry scout. The recruiter explained that once he passed the test, he would be assigned a military occupation specialist who would show him some films and fill him in on all the aspects of being a scout.

When they arrived at the Military Entrance Processing Station John joined a line of young men and women who would also take the test. Sgt. Culpepper promised to find him when the tests were finished. After a quick breakfast, John and the other male recruits were given a physical test by a group of army doctors. He was still in great shape and he had no problem passing the physical. After a short break, he was ushered into a large room where he took the ASVAB. The test was done on a computer, which was new to John. After a few minutes of trial and error and with some help from the staff, he figured the device out enough so that he could answer the multiple choice test questions. After a grueling three hours, John finished. True to his word, Sgt. Culpepper soon appeared and they both headed to the military chow hall for lunch. The sergeant explained that after they had eaten, John's scores would be ready. If he passed, they could confirm his job choice.

When they finished lunch, the sergeant took him to a processing center where they could both view his test results. A new sergeant sat with John and went over his scores. He studied the computer for several minutes and eventually finished with a grunt of satisfaction.

He explained, "You did very well John. Your scores will let you have virtually any job in the army. What kind of career were you looking at?"

John replied quickly, "Cavalry Scout!"

The new sergeant chuckled, "19-Delta eh? Are you sure about it? To be a scout you have to sign up for four years. With your excellent score, how about if I look and see if there are some non-combat military jobs that will give you training for your future, and require less time?"

Sgt. Culpepper interjected, "This recruit is not interested in some MOS that will keep him so far back in the rear area that he will be bumping into generals. Keep your sales pitch to yourself."

The sergeant behind the desk flashed a look of disgust at Culpepper, but did as instructed. John saw him type in, "MOS-19-Delta Cav Scout." The computer screen came up to the cavalry scout page and John listened about that career field. After watching a short film, John got even more excited about being a scout. He told the two men that he had made up his mind.

Sgt. Culpepper smiled triumphantly. "Give him the slot you see right there; it will open up with his name on it when I type in my password." He pointed to the computer screen. "We can have him to basic training at Ft. Knox in Kentucky in about three weeks."

Those were magical words to John's ears.

His recruiting sergeant continued, "Your physical shows a slight hearing loss in your right ear. Perhaps you had an ear infection as a child. In this MOS, you will be around loud engines and other sources of sound that could cause even more damage to your hearing. Promise me that you will wear hearing protection. There is nothing more annoying than when people speak and you cannot hear them clearly. I know, because I did not follow that rule and now I'm paying the price."

John nodded to indicate that he _heard_ his sergeant, and that he would follow his advice.

The ride back to McAllen did not seem quite as long as the earlier drive had been. To John it was time to reflect on the life changing choice he had just made. It was comforting to know what he would be doing for the next four years. He had been through way too many changes recently, and the army would offer him a sense of stability.

Sgt. Culpepper had warned him to keep up with his physical conditioning. Push-ups, sit-ups, and jogging were most important. John vowed to work on the first two. The third one though, came as naturally to him as breathing. He did however start running again early in the morning before work started. It felt great to be out with his legs flying and his arms pumping. Running was a part of his heritage, and he did not realize how much he missed it.

Time rolled by quickly and eventually he found himself with just one day left before he had to leave for basic training. He had already told Mr. White that he was quitting. Now, he just had to throw a few things into his backpack and he would be ready. The army had provided him with a list of what he needed to bring with him and it was very meager. John could only assume that he would be issued everything else.

His boss had offered to drive him to the bus station, but John wanted to see his dad one more time. He arranged to stay with his dad that night. They went out to dinner that evening, and then the next day his dad drove him to the bus station.

John Sr. gave his son just two pieces of advice, "Listen to your drill sergeant, and write to me every once in a while."

They shook hands and John stepped onto the bus. His journey had begun.
Chapter 13

He had been given his plane ticket, and all of the information regarding the flight into Louisville as well as $20.00 cash to cover meals. When he got to the airport he asked an attendant where he needed to go, and was given directions to the boarding area. The young Tarahumaran had seen commercial jets flying over his village from time to time, but to see them up close was an amazing sight. To think that he would soon be flying twenty thousand feet above the ground, was troubling, yet equally exciting to him. He bought lunch and waited patiently for his flight number to be called. Eventually he boarded the jet and found his seat. The flight attendant instructed him on how to adjust his seatbelt. She then lectured the passengers about oxygen masks and water landings, but nobody really seemed to be paying attention. He was the only person sitting in the row of three seats, so he moved over towards the window to get a better view. Eventually all of the passengers had settled in and the plane began to taxi onto the runway. John could feel the mighty engines increasing their thrust until the pilot released the brakes and the plane shot down the runway. The aircraft gained speed until they were going faster than John had ever gone before. Then like magic, the nose of the jet lifted off the ground and they were flying! He watched in awe as the landscape slid beneath him at an incredible rate. He watched the ground, skies, and clouds for over an hour before he finally became tired of it. He reached under his seat for his backpack and dug around until he felt his SMART book. He chose the section on military rank and began to study.

Time passed slowly, but eventually John could feel a change as the plane began to descend. He looked out the window and could see a large city spread out before him. It could be none other than Louisville, Kentucky. The plane turned sharply and John could make out an airport and landing strips. His plane lined up on one of these and he watched as the plane landed gracefully. The young recruit was momentarily frightened when the plane's engines reversed in order to come to a stop, but that feeling passed quickly. Eventually the flight attendant told the passengers that they could unbuckle their seatbelts and begin to leave the plane. John grabbed his backpack and followed the others. He was unsure where to proceed until he saw a sign with an arrow that pointed in the direction for all military personal to go. He was guided by a series of signs until he found himself exiting the airport. The nervous recruit saw a green military bus pulled up next to the curb and walked towards it. A grim bus driver, in military fatigues, directed him to get onto the bus. For the next hour, it slowly filled up with males and females who were all about his age. The soldier at the wheel of the vehicle told each newcomer the same thing; sit down and wait. Eventually, with the bus nearly full, they took off.

It was late afternoon when the tired recruits arrived at Fort Knox. The bus pulled up to the curb and their removal from civilian life began. Almost immediately, a huge man dressed in camouflage jumped in the bus and bellowed at the top of his lungs for everybody to shut up. He then instructed everyone to get off _his_ bus _now!_

John and all of the others scrambled out as fast as they could. Three clones of the first man met them at the bottom step. They shouted instructions until every recruit formed up into a single line. A female drill instructor herded all of the women recruits out, and took them to a different location.

The hazing began immediately. Orders were shouted at the new arrivals quickly and forcefully. They were allowed to say only two things; "Yes, drill instructor," or "No, drill instructor," This was to be shouted as loud as possible when answering. The Tarahumara are quiet people. Loud communication is almost unknown in the tribe. Therefore, John was taken back by the army's "in your face" style of getting the point across. Eventually, after much noise and confusion, the new soldiers were brought into a large hall where they were herded towards two rows of long tables. There were large yellow boxes on top of the tables. The recruits were instructed to get in front of a box and stand at attention until further instruction. They were then ordered to dump everything from the civilian world into the containers. This included their clothes, all except their underwear. John complied with the order as fast as he could, but his quickness did not seem to satisfy the drill instructors who circled around like sharks.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a drill instructor run up to him, "Did you not friggin hear me, you maggot? I said _move_! You are entirely too slow. Your lack of compliance is an embarrassment to my beloved army. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, drill instructor" John screamed back as loud as he could. He didn't want to draw the wrath of any other sharks and was relieved when the D.I. found another victim. The drill instructors tore through the boxes throwing items about with glee. Anything considered contraband such as playing cards, or cigarettes was held up in the air for all to see and then thrown down to the floor in disgust. One drill instructor found a shirt that had the word "Army" written on it. The D.I. grabbed it out of the box and turned it over to read the label.

"Made in China!" he screamed. "You commie punk, how dare you wear a shirt with the word 'Army' on it that was made by a nation I _hate_! You disgust me, and it will be my mission to make you suffer!"

After his anti-communist speech, the enraged sergeant ripped the shirt to pieces.

All the terrified young recruit could do was scream, "Yes, drill instructor!"

Things like that occurred all around John as the confusing day continued. He quickly learned to never draw attention upon himself. He tried to be as compliant to the drill instructors' commands as humanly possible.

At no time was he given a second to rest or think. He started just instinctively reacting to each new situation like some sort of robot on autopilot.

The next traumatic event was haircuts. John was astonished that the army charged $10.00 for the cuts. The entire experience took less than a minute, and John was left with about a tenth of an inch of fine stubble on his head where there used to be hair. He returned to the back of the line. A nervous recruit slid up beside him and whispered that he had no money. John quickly slipped him the $10.00 bill he had received as change, and the young man seemed immediately gratified. Unfortunately, John never got his money back because when the men left the building minus their hair, everyone looked identical.

Soon they were all rushed over to a new building to receive their issue of army uniforms. Everyone was quickly measured for size and handed a stack of clothing that corresponded with those measurements.

A supply soldier quickly measured John's foot and hollered out, "Size 7-wide!"

John reacted without thinking, "No, I am a size 9."

The soldier glared at John and repeated, "Size 7-wide."

A pair of size 7-wide boots were shoved into John's hands and he was instructed to move along. After that, the men were taken into a barn-sized building where they were instructed to put on their new army clothing and boots and throw their civilian underwear into the trash. John looked himself over and for the first time that day, he smiled. He was happy because his boots really did fit. He was also relieved to finally look like a soldier!

The next ordeal was to get their required shots. With an evil glint in their eyes, the drill instructors assembled the new soldiers and positioned them all in one very precise single file line. The men were then marched up to the entrance of another huge building.

One drill sergeant said in an insulting voice, "I hope you didn't eat a big lunch, _girls_!"

That got all of the recruits worried about what awaited them inside. John was in the middle of the line doing his best to stand perfectly still and not draw any attention to himself. The line slowly snaked forward until he could make out what was happening inside. The recruits were ordered to take off their shirts and T-shirts and move forward one at a time. Someone with a twisted mind had made it so the line of men passed through the middle of ten doctors. These doctors stood in a row with five on one side and five on the other. As each man passed by a doctor, he was jabbed with a needle and quickly given an injection. They received five shots in each arm!

Suddenly John heard the loudest bellow that he had ever heard in his life. He initially thought it was a recruit crying out in pain, but it was a drill instructor who had noticed something that greatly annoyed him. Instantly all of the other D.I.'s ran to where he stood. They all gathered around a poor recruit who stood shirtless and trembling.

The first instructor grabbed the helpless man's arm and jerked it up for all to see. John noticed a tattoo that had an American Flag and under it was inked, "US ARMY."

The irate D.I. screamed, "You miserable puke! You didn't earn this! Just one day in basic training and you deserve a tattoo with 'US Army' written on it? Hell no! I should get my K-Bar knife and carve it off of you!" Instead, he ran up to the doctor's table and found a black sharpie pen. He grabbed the soldier's arm and scribbled over the entire tattoo with black ink.

One of the other sergeants snarled, "Serves you right you piece of garbage!"

John didn't dare do anything other than move forward and receive each shot without the slightest flinch. After the shots, the recruits were allowed to sit on the floor while a nurse circled around them looking for anyone who had an adverse reaction to the inoculations. John sat down next to a small recruit who looked green. A few minutes later, the man threw up on the wooden floor. The nurse came over, threw him a towel, and told him to clean it up.

_So much for compassion_ , thought John.

After everyone had received their shots, they ate dinner in the mess hall and were marched into a building called the barracks. The building was dome shaped with row after row of metal framed bunk beds. On each bare mattress was stacked two clean sheets, two green wool blankets, and a pillow in a green pillowcase. The recruits were told how to arrange their newly issued gear in a footlocker that stood at the end of their beds. The D.I.s then instructed them on how to correctly make a military bed, or rack. Once each recruit had made the rack to the instructor's satisfaction, they were then told to strip down to their underwear and get into the beds.

The day ended with a drill instructor shouting, "SLEEP!"

John tossed and turned most of the night. His new short hair rubbing against the pillow felt very strange. The night was full of sounds he was unused to. Men near him snored, while others cried. He got very little sleep that first night.

About 0500 hrs., the men were awakened by a loud rattling crash as a metal garbage can was kicked down the length of the room by two drill sergeants that John had not seen before.

"Don't look at the clocks, grab your socks," one of them screamed. "You have five minutes to clean up, get dressed and be standing at attention beside your bed. Do you hear me recruits?"

Every recruit shouted at the top of his lungs, "Yes, drill instructor."

John and the rest of the recruits ran to the bathroom called "the head" at the end of the building. Recruits washed, shaved and brushed their teeth as quickly as possible, and then headed back to their footlockers to retrieve their uniforms. Of course, five minutes was not enough time to get everything done. At precisely the 5-minute mark, both drill sergeants began "correcting" the slowest recruits by shouting at them until they picked up the speed. Eventually, all of the recruits were dressed and standing tall in front of their racks.

One of the drill instructors began to speak, "I am Drill Sergeant Tubezewski. Since none of you morons will be able to pronounce my name correctly, you will call me Drill Sergeant Ski. Is that clear recruits?

"Yes, Drill Sergeant Ski." a few of the recruits shouted back.

"I didn't hear you girls..." Drill Sergeant Ski growled at the men.

"Yes, Drill Sergeant Ski," came the shout back from all of them.

The next instructor spoke up, "I am Drill Instructor Cruz. Even though my name is Cruz, I am a proud American, and I was born here in the USA. I don't want none of you Hispanics trying to speak to me in Spanish. I am NOT your homeboy or your friend. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant Cruz." came the loud reply.

"From now on, you will be considered a platoon of soldiers. This is a cavalry platoon, and you will refer to yourselves as D-6C-1. You pronounce it, Delta, six-c, one."

Many hours of the second day were spent teaching the recruits how to do things the military way. It seemed like there was an army method of doing everything. They had to forget the civilian things they had been taught, and relearn to do everything the army way. There was a new way to refer to their army clothing. Those clothes were now called B.D.U. blouse and trousers. The hat was called headgear, and their boots were called footgear. Next, they learned how to stand at attention and walk in formation. All movements seemed to be built on timing and precision. Every time someone made a mistake, the entire platoon was "corrected." This involved getting in the front leaning rest and doing push-ups. The irony of the front leaning rest was that it involved no rest at all. It was just doing push-ups until the D.I.s figured the privates had been corrected sufficiently. Nobody complained because, as the instructors explained, the recruits were never allowed to have an opinion, and these "corrections" made them both mentally and physically stronger.

The days passed by quickly. Being molded into combat soldiers required an enormous amount of training. The hours were spent in either the classroom or the field learning the million and one things that would turn a raw recruit into a cavalry scout. The men learned; military etiquette, first aid, map and compass reading, and communications. Later on, the men would learn to drive the Humvee, and the Bradly Fighting Vehicle.

Like many of the recruits, John patiently waited for the day when they would finally begin weapons training. Each man was issued an M-4 carbine. This was a cut down version of the M-16. John had used a shotgun and a 22 rifle when hunting small game, so he was familiar with how his new weapon worked. His army instructors wisely started John and everyone from scratch though. They stressed safety above all else. Harsh "corrections" were handed out to the recruits when a safety violation occurred. They spent two days learning about the rifle, before they were allowed to shoot it. Finally, the day came when Sergeants Ski and Cruz both agreed that the recruits were ready for live firing.

Early the next day, the men were bussed to the firing range. D. I. Ski inspected every weapon for cleanliness and serviceability before grabbing one that met his satisfaction.

He loaded the weapon and hollered, "Range going hot!"

He stepped up to the firing line and looked left and right to make sure that the range was clear. He then instructed the men to watch closely. The sergeant fired one shot at an ammo can that had been filled with water. The men were amazed when the can exploded in a wet spray. Ski turned to the men and reminded them that the human body was made up of mostly liquid. What had happened to the can could certainly happen to them if they were not careful.

Next, he placed the rifle to his shoulder to show the men the correct firing position. He cranked off three rounds and knocked down three targets. To the men's amazement, he next put the butt of the weapon to his chin. With the barrel pointed at another target, he squeezed off a single round. That target too fell over. He explained that he hadn't shot the weapon like that to show off, but to prove to the men that the M-4 had almost no kick. They never needed to be afraid of getting a sore shoulder from firing it.

John was very impressed and eager to fire his own weapon, but that was not to be. To the men's disappointment, they spent the rest of that day learning how to use the three different shooting positions; standing, kneeling and prone. They learned range commands and how to handle any malfunctions that might occur while shooting. The only thing that lifted the recruits' spirit was when the sergeant told them that they would be back tomorrow to fire for real.

John could hardly sleep that night in anticipation of the next day's activities. It seemed to him that firing his weapon was the first step in finally becoming a real soldier.

The next day started at dawn when the men were marched to the armory to retrieve their weapons. The bus then took them to the range where the D.I.s went over the safety rules one more time. After that, the men were formed into groups of 12. An instructor guided the first squad of a dozen men up to the firing positions. These instructors were made up of range personal as well as drill sergeants. John was lucky and got to be in the first group that would be shooting. Drill Sergeant Cruz would be his mentor while he shot.

Most of the morning was spent zeroing the rifles. That meant adjusting the iron sights so that each man's weapon would hit as close as possible to the center of a target at 25 meters. Using Drill Sergeant Cruz's advice, John was able to zero in his rifle after ten shots. The next step would be seeing how well John could shoot at distant targets.

Drill Cruz, as he liked to be called, was a man of few words. His instructions were precise and to the point. John was told to remember the acronym B.R.A.S. It stood for Breathe, Relax, Aim, and Squeeze. The drill sergeant explained that if John could remember to do those four things, he would be on his way to becoming an expert shooter. Over a loudspeaker, John heard the range commander declaring that the range was going hot, which meant that live firing would commence. John inserted his foam earplugs, and chambered a live round. Suddenly, a target shaped like a human torso, popped up 25 meters directly in front of him. John concentrated and remembered B.R.A.S. He squeezed off a round and was delighted when the target fell over. He fired twenty rounds that session at targets that ranged all the way out to 200 meters. Twice his targets did not go down, but 18 times, they did.

Drill Cruz even gave him a rare compliment of "Not bad."

After the last shots had been fired, the range master declared the range closed, or cold. The men were led back to a set of bleachers while a new group of shooters fired. John's group was told to study their SMART books. Most of them found it hard to focus because there were so many exciting things to watch.

Each time he shot, John felt more confident with his abilities. He was able to complete three cycles of shooting before the men were excused to eat. The recruits were in for a surprise that day when it came time for lunch. The drill instructors each carried two large boxes up to the foot of the bleachers. Drill Cruz retrieved a Leatherman Tool from his front pocket and cut the plastic fastener that held each box together. When they were opened, the men whispered in delight when they realized that lunch was MREs. The D.I.s grabbed the plastic wrapped meals and tossed one to each man. Each meal contained an entrée, some type of fruit, bread or crackers, and candy for dessert. They also had a small pouch that contained instant coffee, a spoon, sugar, powdered drink mix, matches and toilet paper. To John, the contents of the MRE reminded him of Christmas!

That evening, on the bus ride home, John felt very pleased with himself. Later in the week, the men would attempt to qualify and become official riflemen in the army. John and the rest of the recruits practiced all week, trying to be as prepared as possible for their big test.

The day to qualify eventually arrived. Every recruit from the base would be shooting. The two drill sergeants from John's platoon huddled the men together to give them some last minute tips. Since all of the basic training groups were scheduled to shoot that day, the competition between them was extreme. Platoon pride was on the line. The reward for every soldier who qualified was a shooting badge that was to be worn on his dress uniform. There were three different badges; Expert, Sharpshooter, and Marksman. Every recruit's dream was to qualify as an Expert and get to wear that special badge.

The scoring scheme was simple. To qualify as a Marksman, you had to hit between 23 and 29 of 40 targets. To qualify as a Sharpshooter, you had to hit 30 to 35 of the 40 targets. Finally, to achieve the coveted rank of Expert, you must hit at least 36 of the 40 targets.

The targets were the same human silhouettes that John was used to firing at. For the test they were set to pop up in front of the shooter from anywhere between 25 and 300 meters. They remained in position for only 6 seconds before they popped down. So the recruit had to see the target as it sprang up, aim his rifle at it, and squeeze off a round before it disappeared. If the target disappeared before a round could be fired, or if the target was not hit, it was considered a miss.

After a long nervous wait, John finally got his chance to qualify. Drill Cruz would be keeping score. The first few targets that popped up were close ones and John scored hits on all of them. He found his rhythm when the medium targets began to appear and by the time he was half way through the test he had zero misses. The twenty-first target was another easy one at 25 meters, John shot and to his surprise, the target did not go down. He had missed for the first time. John heard Drill Cruz grunt in dissatisfaction from behind him. With renewed determination, John began engaging the targets again. Some of these new ones were at the 300-meter range. He hit the first one, but saw dust kick up slightly to one side of the next one. He had missed again! Of the last 10 shots, he had missed two. The remaining targets would all be at medium to far distances. John knew he couldn't keep going the way he was if he wanted to become an expert.

He heard Drill Cruz growl from behind him, "What are you doing melon head? Remember B.R.A.S. or you will keep missing your shots."

John's training kicked in as he began to shoot again the way he had been taught. He did not miss another target during the test and ended up qualifying as an expert with a score of 38 out of 40. John was elated because in his entire platoon of 48 men only one other man had done better. He beat John by just one shot.

Drill Cruz seemed very happy because there had been six of the 40 men who qualified as experts. This was an unusually high amount. That said a lot about what an excellent job the instructors had done.

Later that day, D.I. Cruz approached John. He had a lean black recruit with him named Lynch. Cruz explained that Lynch and John were the two high scorers in the platoon. He "suggested" that every day at the end of training that they go to a neighboring barracks where the rifles were stored and get additional training from the armorer. He could teach them more about weapons than the D.I.s could. If they did that, he explained, they would become even better shooters.

After training the following day, Drill Cruz found recruits Lyons and Lynch and took them to meet the armorer for D-6C-1. They were introduced to an old sergeant named Hall. He shook their hands and told them that although his friends called him "Pop," the recruits needed to address him as Sergeant Hall. Pop led them into a musty room that he called his office. It smelled of metal and gun oil. John saw many different weapons on benches. They were all in various stages of repair.

"Boys," Pop explained, "come here an hour or so every night, and I can turn you from being a good shooter into an expert in all aspects of weapons. You will learn all about every weapon the army trains with here at Fort Knox. We will start with the 9-mm. pistol and work all the way up to the M-240 7.62 machine gun. You will get to know the army's two types of grenade launchers, as well as the AT4 anti-tank missile launcher, and the S.A.W., which stands for squad automatic weapon. When I am finished, you will be walking encyclopedias of these weapons systems."

When Pop was finished, Lynch gave him a puzzled look and asked, "When will you tell us about the sniper rifle?"

Sgt. Hall replied, "Young recruit, your job is to be a scout. You are to find the enemy and then unleash the army's awesome power to kill him. You can call in a sniper to eliminate the enemy, but sniping is not in a scout's job description."

Lynch seemed very disappointed. He simply said, "If I can't learn how to be a sniper, then this really isn't for me."

The old sergeant nodded at him and said, "I understand. You will be missing a tremendous opportunity to learn here, but if your heart isn't in it, then it would be a waste of time for both of us."

Lynch shook Pop's hand and walked out.

Pop turned to John and said, "Well what about you? Did you think this was going to be some sort of sniper school too?"

John spoke up immediately, "No Sergeant Hall, this kind of training, especially on the M-240 machine gun will get me one step closer to becoming a helicopter door gunner and maybe eventually a crew chief."

"Okay then, let's get to work," said Pop.

John's new schedule found him training to be a scout by day and working hard learning about weapons at night. During the day, he might find himself learning how to perform first aid for a combat wound. Then the evening would be spent learning how to make a machine gun fire flawlessly in order to _create_ combat wounds. His day started at 5:00 am (0500 hrs.) and he often didn't get to sleep until 10:00 pm (2200 hrs.). Luckily, he was used to working long hours at the warehouse.

The only downfall to his new assignment was that some of the recruits were jealous of his "special" work. They were especially annoyed that he didn't have to pull fire watch at night like everyone else.

Fire watch consisted of having a man stationed on all three floors of the barracks where the men slept at night. It was an especially bad detail to pull for the men because it interfered with what little sleep they were allowed. It seemed unfair for the men to have to be a fireguard during an eight-hour shift on a building that was entirely made of brick. What they didn't understand yet, was that this was excellent training for them, because they would have guard duty as full time soldiers.

To avoid hard feelings, John disappeared to the armory every day after dinner (chow). That way he could learn in a quiet place, where trouble would be averted. He returned to the billets at 2200 hrs. and went right to bed.

What John didn't realize, was that his platoon-mates had become increasingly jealous of his new opportunity. They saw him as a target for all of their misfortunes. One night, a spiteful recruit named Francisco Mendoza got his revenge on John. While on fireguard he snuck into John's sleeping area and dumped his clothes out all over the floor. John slept through the entire incident.

The next morning, when Sgt. Ski came to wake the men up, he saw the mess and exploded in rage. "Which private is responsible for making my barracks a pig sty?"

The men scrambled to their feet, and stood at attention. None of them responded.

Drill Ski's face grew beet red as the men remained silent. "You will dress, skip chow, and meet me at the obstacle course at 0545 hrs." With that, he stormed out of the room.

The men were dumbfounded until Mendoza spoke up. "Thanks a lot Lyons, you left your stuff lying around and now we all have to pay for it. You're not even a real Mexican! You're just an Indian Brave. Instead of us, it should be you out there alone running the course, _Brave_."

John defended himself by saying, "I didn't even do it."

Mendoza just smirked and said, "Excuses are like dead skunks, they all stink."

The men ended up running the obstacle course for a full hour. During that time, several of the recruits made threats against John. They vowed to get even with him. By the days end John was happy to get back to the armory.

There was always lots to do in the armory and Pop seemed happy to have John there to talk with. He told John about his life in the army, and of his travels throughout the world. The army had been his only job. Eventually though, he planned to retire and become a gunsmith in the "real world" as he called it.

John was fascinated by the time he spent with the old sergeant. As promised, he learned about all of the weapons used by cavalry scouts. Pop Hall was a firm believer in a hands on approach. Often he would bring John a weapon and tell him to take it apart. Once John had gotten a handle on disassembling a weapon, he would be told to put it back together again. He was learning by doing.

Time seemed to fly by, and before John knew it, D-6C-1 was set to graduate from basic training. After graduation, they would move on to advanced individual training (A.I.T.) where they would learn the job of being a scout. The funny thing was that nothing would change other than moving from being called a recruit to being called a soldier. The men stayed in the same barracks and learned A.I.T. from the same drill sergeants.

Basic training graduation day was special. Quite a few of the men had relatives that came to the graduation ceremony. The troops put on an excellent display of marching precisely onto the parade ground where they stood at attention in the hot Kentucky sun. The commander of the post who was a general, spoke at the ceremony. John didn't remember much of what he said but it seemed to be a "fire up the troops" kind of speech.

When things finally concluded in the afternoon, the men were given the rest of the day off. This was the first time in 6 weeks that they were allowed to wander around the post with no supervision. Since John had not asked his father to come to the graduation, he was free to do whatever he wanted. He and a couple of the other soldiers who were without family headed to the bowling alley where they could get burgers, shakes and then go bowling. If they were lucky, they might even get to see some girls. When they got there, they ordered their burgers. One of the new soldiers noticed that beer was served there. He ordered a pitcher of beer and all of the men had some. The servers never bothered to check the men's ages, so one pitcher turned into several. The men had been given a stern warning by Drill Sergeant Ski to avoid drinking and getting into trouble. Unfortunately, two of John's bigger "friends" did not heed that advice. Without warning the two of them picked up the smallest soldier of the group, a man nicknamed Peewee. The two bigger men turned Peewee sideways and began to run down the bowling lane. The scared little soldier was screaming for help because he knew that they intended to use his body as a bowling ball. Luckily, one of the bullies lost his balance and all three tumbled to the ground. Peewee saw his chance and escaped out of the building. During all of the commotion, John decided that he had experienced enough "fun" so he left the same way. He found refuge back in the billets.

The next day was training as usual. Neither Drill Sgt. Ski, nor Cruz, said anything about a bowling alley incident, so no one got in trouble.

After evening chow, John went to the armory expecting to start work immediately. Instead, he found Pop Hall smiling at him mysteriously.

"Private Lyons," said his mentor, "do I have a surprise for you!"

He led John back to a large bench that had an olive drab army blanket covering something. Pop pulled the blanket off dramatically to show John a large pile of communist weapons.

He explained to John that the army had chosen Ft. Knox to host this year's Opposing Force (Opfor) war games. The Opfor was a unit made up from the 11th Armored Calvary Regiment. Its team members played the role of the aggressor. They dressed, and even spoke like the enemy. They also drove captured vehicles, and most importantly used captured weapons. The bench full of enemy arms needed to be checked by John and Pop before the games were scheduled to start in two weeks.

Pop was very excited to have all of these new weapons to look over. He showed John two assault rifles. One was an AK-47, as well as a newer model AK-74. Next, he pulled two different rifles out of the pile. One was an SKS bolt-action rifle and the other was a unique Draganov sniper rifle. Finally, he showed John a light machine gun called the RPK. The only thing left on the table was what looked to John like a missile launcher. Pop explained that this weapon was called the RPG-7. It fired rockets that were capable of knocking out a tank. All of the weapons had been captured in Iraq or Afghanistan, and could fire live or blank rounds. When they were finished, it would be John's job to take them to the range and fire them. The young soldier could not believe his good luck!

The next few nights John spent several hours disassembling, observing, and cleaning the various weapons. Pop had not worked on these types of arms before, so both men had to learn a lot through trial and error. After a week of studying, the men agreed that the enemy had built weapons that were both durable and well made. As Pop put it, there wasn't a piece of junk in the whole bunch. John agreed, and couldn't wait for the next week to begin so that he could test fire the weapons.

Finally, Monday evening arrived. John, Pop, and the range master, loaded up a Humvee with the enemy guns and headed out to the firing range.

It was dark by the time they got there, but there were stadium lights to illuminate the shooting area.

As a favor to the range sergeant, Pop had agreed to let him fire some of the weapons as well. Once the range had been declared hot, and all of the men had put in their hearing protection, John was able to step up to the firing line and shoot. He had chosen the newer AK-74 to test fire first. He slammed home a 30 round magazine, set the selector switch to fully automatic, and squeezed off a three round burst. The rifle was amazingly well balanced and his bullets hit the target nearly every time. The only thing that bothered him was that the AK-74 had considerably more kick than the MK-4 he had shot in basic training. The rounds were bigger, and they held more powder. Therefore, they generated higher energy, which was focused onto his shoulder.

After John finished shooting his 30 rounds, the other two men took their turn with the AK-74.

Pop, who was last to finish, remarked, "I've noticed that the muzzle of this rifle tends to move up as you are firing. I think that we would shoot more accurately if we held the top end more firmly, or even push it down a little as we are firing."

Both men nodded and agreed to try Pop's idea.

When John shot next, he found that he was able to shoot much more accurately once he had a better control on the weapon's barrel. He decided that this was a good tactic to remember.

Throughout the evening, the men were able to test fire all of the captured weapons with the exception of the RPG-7. The range master explained that his firing center wasn't set up to handle tank killing rocket rounds.

On the trip back, the men all agreed that the experience of firing the enemy's weapons had been worthwhile.

In no time at all, the platoon was a week away from graduating A.I.T., after which they would become full time soldiers. John had tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible during that time, and no further retaliation had come from his fellow recruits. The men were busy getting the last of their scout training. That, along with practicing for the graduation ceremony, kept everyone occupied for most of the day. John had less time to spend with Pop, but his mentor kept him constantly learning. One of the last nights in the armory found the two men finished early. Pop opened a soda and handed it to John.

"John," he began, "the knowledge you have gained here could get you an armorer's job anywhere you get posted. I have added a letter of recommendation to your file explaining everything you have done here."

John thanked his friend, and told him how much he appreciated all that he had learned.

Pop continued, "I get the sense that you don't want to just take care of and maintain weapons though. Every warrior wants to prove himself in combat. I see that desire in your eyes. That is why I have done my best to ensure that when you experience combat, that you were as well trained with weapons as possible. I never told you this, but I looked at your orders and you are being sent to Afghanistan as soon as you graduate from basic training. They say that combat is the ultimate test of manhood, but I am here to tell you that all of that is nonsense. In the first war with Iraq, I was a young squad leader in a scout platoon of four Humvees. In the first 24 hours, I saw hundreds of Iraqis and every one of them was waving a white flag. They were even surrendering to the French army, for crying out loud! Late during the second day, my squad was given the mission of finding a good area to R.O.N. (Remain overnight). We had seen some buildings ahead of us, and since there was nothing else around, we headed over to them. It turned out to be some kind of abandoned factory. The place looked like it hadn't been used for years. I should have been a better scout, but I didn't notice the danger when we pulled up near the compound. There were two new Toyota pickups parked there. It just occurred to me that they seemed out of place, when to my surprise it seemed like a hailstorm was hitting my vehicle. It wasn't hail though, it was lead. Some Iraqis in the building were taking us under fire. I had eight well-trained men with me. We all exited the vehicles, took cover, and returned fire. The Iraqis ran from the building towards the two Toyota trucks, which were about 75 yards away. They ran and sprayed AK-47 rounds at us in wild bursts. There were five of them running together and my training just kicked in. I lined my sights up on the one in the rear and squeezed off a three round burst. All three rounds hit him in the back and he fell forward dead. I did the same thing to the next man in line and he went down just like the first."

The old warrior paused for a minute, and looked up at the ceiling as if trying to sort the rest of the story out in his mind.

John nodded towards Pop in reassurance, and said, "Keep going, I need to hear this."

Pop regained his composure and continued speaking, "By that time my SAW gunner had his weapon up and going and he took out the next two. One of my other men got the last one. Before he died, he turned and shouted something back towards the building. So I figured that there was at least one more Iraqi left in the factory. After instructing my men to check on the downed Iraqis, I grabbed my driver and we headed into the building. I was amped up out of my mind on adrenaline. I smashed open the door as we rushed in. We both continued going for about 15 feet and then hit the deck. We let our eyes become adjusted to the gloom. The factory had one long hallway going down its entire length. There was only one other corridor intersecting with it that made a T. As we lay there in silence, I heard something around the corner of the T. Suddenly I saw the muzzle of a weapon poke out of the other corridor. I knew a man would be coming out with the rest of the rifle. I made up my mind in a split second that I was going to kill him. As soon as I saw his face, I fired. My three rounds hit him in the jaw and neck, but he didn't die right away. I ran to him to try to save him, because I had just made a terrible mistake. He wasn't coming out with his weapon to fight, he was laying it on the floor to surrender. I had taken all of that in just a fraction of a second. It was too late though, because by the time I realized his intentions, I had already pulled the trigger."

Pop struggled on. He sucked in a huge gulp of air and then sobbed.

His voice cracked with emotion as he continued, "I wasn't able to save him and he died in my arms. It's almost as if he didn't die though because I see him in my dreams every night. I was not reprimanded because no one ever knew the truth. My driver said that he understood, and would never say a thing about it. Ironically, because there were very few firefights in the first gulf war, my encounter was studied by many high-leveled army officials. They all complemented me on a job well done. I even heard I was up for a bronze star medal. I never got it though because the war ended right after that, and we were shipped home a short time later. So my advice to you John, is to use your skill as an armorer as a sort of 'get out of jail free card.' If you want to avoid combat, and still serve honorably, you now have a way to do it."

John felt numb after he heard the story. It seemed absurd, but he had never taken the time to consider that he had a job in which killing another human being was a distinct possibility.

Sgt. Hall's face broke into a lopsided grimace as he finished, "You have to decide to get tough now, because that war over there against the Taliban is brutal. Killing those mountain warriors may be the only way you can save yourself and your friends. If you can't come to grips with that fact, then find a unit that needs an armorer and sit out your tour in safety."

A helicopter roared over the building. John gave Pop a hug as the building shook from the turbulence. John was never sure if his knees were shaking from the chopper's flyover, or from the fear of his impending deployment to war.
Chapter 14

His flight to Afghanistan was long and boring. Most of the men slept or listened to music, but John was too apprehensive to do either of those activities. He stared out the window and let the time pass slowly by. He knew a few of the men on the plane, "Pee Wee" Steven Kraft, George "The Bull" Mesko, and Bob "The Skull" Scorey. They were the three hooligans involved in the human bowling incident. John could count those three as friends. He couldn't say the same about the last person whose voice he could hear behind him bragging about all the terrorists he was going to kill. That voice belonged to Pvt. Mendoza.

Sgts. Ski and Cruz had nicknamed several of the men during basic training, and those names had stuck. Neither John nor Mendoza had been graced with a nickname. That was fine with John, but it seemed to disappoint Mendoza. He instructed everyone to call him, "Killer", although very few people ever did.

Eventually, just as John was nodding off, the aircraft began a steep decent towards the ground. John looked outside, and could see nothing other than towering mountains. Eventually, he could make out a postage stamp sized runway and airbase that was rapidly getting bigger. His plane corkscrewed down wildly as he hung on for dear life. At the last minute, the plane righted itself and landed safely on the airfield. It taxied slowly to the front of an immense hanger and came to a final stop. After a few minutes of waiting, a door opened, and a lieutenant in a spotless uniform stepped into the plane.

"Attention!" somebody yelled.

All the men rose to their feet.

The lieutenant said, "At ease." and the men relaxed.

"Welcome to Jalalabad Airfield, Afghanistan. We call this little slice of the war zone J.A.F., but don't worry about getting used to this place, because none of you will be here for long."

"Crummy fobbit," a corporal next to him grumbled.

When John gave him a questioning look, he went on to explain that a fobbit was a service member who never left the safety of J.A.F. Those kind of soldiers were looked down upon by the grunts, who were expected to leave the security of the base and kill the enemy.

The lieutenant seemed to talk in circles and repeat himself several times. By the time he eventually finished, most of the men had tuned him out. To John's surprise, the lieutenant pointed to him and demanded that he repeat back what had just been said.

John thought quickly and replied, "What he is trying to tell us is that we have to follow all of the rules and be careful at all times."

The fobbit seemed satisfied at John's vague answer and shouted at the men to disembark.

When the men stepped out onto the tarmac the heat and smell of jet fuel seemed to hit them like a wall. The hot air blasted them in the face as they were herded towards a white metal building. Sweat began to trickle down John's neck and ooze along his backbone. Growing up in a desert, he was used to heat, but this was something else altogether. He wondered how men who came from cooler places would be able to withstand this type of intense climate. As the men entered the building, they gasped in relief. The cool breeze from the massive air conditioner was a great comfort. They were met by more fobbits who guided them through the ordeal of in-processing. Much time was spent standing in endless lines to get to a table where form after form had to be precisely filled out. When the last forms were completed, the soldiers were led to an immense supply bunker where they were issued their combat gear.

The gear needed to outfit a combat soldier filled an entire duffle bag. One of the things that impressed them the most, was the combat knife that they were issued. They got their choice of an Air Force style survival knife or a Marine K-Bar. Mendoza, who was directly in front of John, grabbed a knife and found the small sharpening stone in its sheath.

He began sharpening the knife, and with every stroke he sang out, "One dead Haji, two dead Hajis...."

Corporal Bengan, the same soldier who had explained to everyone what a fobbit was, looked at Mendoza in disgust.

He grumbled aloud, "That idiot doesn't know what he is talking about. The word Haji is used for a bad guy in Iraq. In Afghanistan, they are called the Muj, (Moozsh). You better learn to respect their fighting abilities, or you will never make it out of this place alive!"

Mendoza ignored the corporal and continued sharpening his knife. John just shook his head and wondered how Mendoza ever made it past the army psychologist.

The next day the men were assigned to their units. All the new recruits, including John, were assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. The Screaming Eagles, as they were called, were a highly regarded combat proven unit. John was initially disappointed, because the 101st Airborne Division was considered a ground unit rather than an aviation unit. That meant that his chances of getting to be a gunner on a helicopter were slim. However, when he took a closer look at his orders, he saw that he was being assigned to the 17th Cavalry Regiment. This was a helicopter troop attached to the 101st Division. The unit's job was to fly out with the grunts and look for trouble. Specifically, he was assigned to A troop, 2nd platoon of the 17th Cav. The unit's nickname was, "The Annihilators."

A camouflaged 2 ½-ton truck, known as a deuce and a half, took the men over to their unit's assigned area, or A.O. The men dismounted the truck and stood beside their duffle bags. A few of the dozen men lit cigarettes and talked softly. For most of them though, jet lag had them groggy and silent. Eventually a small group of soldiers approached them including one officer.

Corporal Bengan shouted, "Attention."

All of the men jumped to their feet.

The officer addressed them in a firm voice, "I am Captain Bill Moyer. Some of the men here call me Wild Bill, but you all will address me as Captain Moyer, or as Sabre Six, which is my radio call sign."

He paused, and looked the men over carefully before continuing, "I asked the army to send me all of the scouts they could find. Although I need a couple of dozen, it looks like the twelve here will have to do. All of you, with the exception of the corporal, look like new recruits. That is exactly what I was hoping for because when a soldier is new, he has picked up no bad habits that I have to break. All of you will be molded into the exact kind of soldier that I want. Anybody can be a door gunner, but I want my gunners to be army scouts whose eyes have been trained to see the enemy. When I think you are ready, I will put you to work spotting, and then killing the enemy. Any questions?"

When nobody spoke up, he finished, "Privates Hardee and Lawler will show you men to your billets. Training starts tomorrow at 0500 hrs. Dismissed!"

The new men were led to their barracks called CHUs, which stood for Centralized Housing Unit. The units were set up so that four men could live comfortably in them. John shared the CHU with Peewee Kraft, Bull Mesko, and Skull Scorey.

After dropping the new men off, Private Hardee told them, "Don't bother to spend a lot of time setting up your stuff. We are usually out in the field chasing the Muj. You will rarely be back here. Get some rack (sleep) as soon as you can. 'Iron Training' as Wild Bill likes to call it, is a major butt kicker."

True to his word, the next morning Captain Moyer had the men up and running at zero dark thirty. They spent the first half hour every morning, "stretching" their legs out in a run around the perimeter of the airfield. Wild Bill led every one of the runs, and the men soon found out that he was very passionate about fitness. As he liked to explain to the men, that although they were "Legs" (not airborne qualified) they would train just as hard as the airborne troops did.

He'd often yell his favorite saying to the men, "The more you boys sweat in training, the less you will bleed in combat."

After a week of conditioning, the men began to train with the helicopters. They were all taken up for a wild helicopter ride, and those who got airsick were sent out to a ground unit. Their shot at being a door gunner was over. The men learned how to exit a helicopter and take cover safely. They learned how to repel safely from a helicopter as it hovered 60 feet above the ground. Their final test involved firing the 7.62 machine gun mounted at each side of the chopper. John excelled in all aspects of Iron Training and before he knew it he was flying missions in support of the ground troops.

Missions number one through twelve had been exciting for John. He had done his job as a gunner well. Everything was going according to plan until his thirteenth mission. From that day onward, his world would never be the same.
Chapter 15

To run, that is what he had been born to do. Yet now, he was running for his life. This was no longer a task done for pleasure or conditioning. He was running now for only one thing and that was to save his life and the life of his pilot, Angela.

His task gave an entirely new meaning to the saying, "Run to the finish." He had to run, or he was finished. The idea of a Taliban bullet finding him kept him spurred on and constantly moving.

The first evening after he left Angela would turn out to be the easiest part of his run. He was traveling very light and there was still a little bit of downhill slope before he entered the true desert. Although the night was bitterly cold, his body in motion stayed warm.

It was ironic that a person could freeze in a scorching desert, but that was how things worked in Afghanistan. Freezing cold nights and very hot days were the norm. The daytime temperatures were high because no clouds or humidity blocked the sun's rays. Conversely, at night, the heat soaked sand quickly gave up its warmth back into the atmosphere. Intense cold replaced that warmth almost immediately.

The ability to see that night was also no problem. The moon was nearly full and John's keen night vision helped him so that he almost never needed to break stride when encountering an obstacle. His path downward carried him through boulder fields, but the rocks were all huge and easy to run around. He wasn't worried about the snakes and scorpions that inhabited the region either, because the cold would keep them sluggish and less aggressive.

Some time that night the rocky terrain petered out. The granite formations became smaller and eventually disappeared. John could feel the rocks underneath his feet turn from pebbles to sand.

Although he could sense the change in the soil conditions, it wasn't until daylight that John was able to see the enormity of the land he must venture into. This was a desert of heat and sand. It was called The Registan Desert by the natives, but was referred to as the Devil's Cauldron, by anyone foolish enough to enter it.

At daylight the landscape appeared more clearly, and John realized that this desert was nothing like the parched land he grew up in. Terrahumaran land was mountainous. Although, it was brutally hot in the summer, many of its numerous canyons held a little water year round. Mountains and canyons were not what his eyes beheld now. Instead, it became apparent that rolling hills of sand would be his challenge to cross. "Challenge" no / "Struggle" yes.

Sand, yellow dunes and gristly stinging pellets of misery made up his new world. He didn't know it yet, but blowing and shifting sand would be a constant companion for the duration of his journey. As the red/orange glowing orb of the sun came up, he was ignorant of its deadly consequence.

So he did what came so natural to him and he continued to run. In the beginning, the red dunes were of uniform size. It was easy to put himself on auto and work his way up one hill and down the next. His pace was fast because these tiny hills were easy and the day had not warmed up yet. By keeping the sun at his back and the distant mountains over his right shoulder, he could be reasonably sure of traveling to the west. As the day wore on however, the heat increased significantly. It seemed to bore into every fiber of his body. It was like a moisture stealing monster that would not stop until every drop was gone. By this time the first fingers of doubt about his decision to take on the desert began to form in his mind. The thought of the mountains and their streams of icy cold water almost made him want to turn back. Instead, he stopped for a break. He took off his army blouse which left his chest covered only with a T-shirt. He carefully wrapped the blouse around his head and let the end dangle down his neck. This would keep his head covered and would keep him cooler. He had gathered a few pebbles from the ground last night and put them in his pocket. He found one of these now and placed it in his mouth to suck on. There it would activate his salivary glands and give him the allusion of moisture.

Just like the sun that kept moving steadily across the burning sky, he continued with his relentless pace hour after hour. Finally, the furnace like heat stopped him. He halted at the top of the high point and took a long gaze out into the shimmering bleakness, but his eyes could perceive nothing other than sand. Dejectedly, he reversed his course and returned to the base of the dune. There he scratched out a hole in the sand just wide enough to fit his body into. He spread his poncho liner across the top of the hole. He spilled handfuls of sand alongside of the edges of the poncho to anchor it, careful to keep both ends open. In the end, he was able to keep his body shaded. Although the sand was uncomfortably hot at first, in time its temperature cooled due to the shade and the moisture that his body emitted into the open space.

He sipped sparingly on the last of his water as he contemplated his next move. Speed was the most important factor, yet he knew from his experience living in a hot climate, that this desert was a killer unlike any other he had ever faced. To keep running during the hottest part of the day would only exhaust him and he would never stand a chance of reaching safety before death claimed him. He decided to rest for the remainder of the day, and continue on when the sun began to set.

For the rest of the afternoon, he stayed in his grave like hole and contemplated the coming night's movement. Traveling at night had never been a problem in his homeland. Even during the blackest of nights he could always make out some sort of terrain feature to guide his travel. This desert however, was featureless at night. When the sun rose he could see mountains in the distance that would indicate the direction he needed to travel. There would however, be no such guide at night. He had never needed to plot his way by the stars and never been taught such information in the army. He would never be able to be sure that he was going in the correct direction at night. He knew that the moon rose in the east and that would at least be a start. So he stayed in his burrow until the sun's cruel rays began to disappear to the west. He slowly stood up, gathered up his meager supplies, and shook the sand off himself. As the sun disappeared the moon began to appear. Keeping it at his left shoulder, he began to run.

Up one dune, then down the next. That was his pattern for the next hour or so. The only thing that varied was the size of the small hills. They were composed mostly of hard packed sand but occasionally his footing became more difficult as the sand turned fine. When this happened his feet sank in ankle deep and his thighs would scream out in pain until he reached the downhill section. Finally at the top of a particularly difficult climb, he stopped to catch his breath. As he lay panting at the top, his elbows gave way at the crest of the dune and his shoulders and head slumped forward about a foot. He stood up and stepped backwards in order to regain his position at the top again. As he did this, the thought occurred to him that the crest of every dune he had climbed that night had a similar slight curl at the top. It reminded him of the tops of waves he had seen at the ocean in Texas. These crests in the sand he remembered had all been oriented in the same direction. He guessed that the cool air from the mountains moved down into the desert each day causing wind. This wind would create the tiny wave tops in the dunes that would be oriented in the same direction. With that in mind, he decided that if he watched the tops, and ran diagonally across the dunes, he would be traveling approximated east to west. West was where help would be.

He started again with a steady rhythm. Because he was convinced that the direction he was traveling was correct, his running became more natural and fluid. When daylight at last began to brighten the eastern sky, he knew that he was deep into the desert. As far as he could see in almost any direction was nothing but sand. Peering over his right shoulder, he was happy to be able to just make out the mountains that proved he was on course.

At dawn when he finally stopped for a breather. As best as he could tell, he had come about 50 miles into this blighted place. In a Mexican desert there was always some sort of plant or animal life to interrupt the landscape. Here however, there was nothing. That worried him, because he was completely out of water, and if he didn't find something to quench his thirst in the next 48 hours, the desert would surely claim his life. He plopped dejectedly down on a patch of sand and removed his combat boots. He was relieved to find his feet in good shape with no signs of blisters. The thought occurred to him that he could discard the boots entirely and run barefoot as many Tarahumara did. The boots however were a part of his uniform. At this point in time he was a US soldier, and no longer a Tarahumara Indian. Optimistically, he hoped the boots would be useful when he once again entered an area that could support plants. In the desert, that meant the cactus. One needle going through a bare foot, could spell disaster for both him and Angela.

He continued running like he had his whole life, his body functioning like a machine going up one dune and down the next. The problem was, that the machine was beginning to break down. John sensed and felt it as his movements were getting slower and his rest stops became more frequent. Eventually, he began to tradeoff between walking and running. Finally, when he judged it to be about noon, he stopped at the bottom of a dune that looked like the thousand other dunes he had seen. He began a physical assessment of himself. His feet, which were his most important asset, had begun to cramp as he toiled up each sand dune. He took off his T-shirt and examined it for sweat. He found it to be barely damp. This he knew, meant that his body was losing the ability to sweat. Because he had so little water in his system to spare, there was no sweat. Soon, he would not be able to cool himself off. Finally, he tried to spit, and out came only air. His throat lacked even enough saliva to expel moisture. He realized that if he did not find water soon, there would be no rescue, and only a painful death. With that unpleasant thought in mind, he dug into the base of the dune and made another shelter out of his poncho. The only way he could travel now and survive would be to go at night.

Several hours later, he crawled out of his shelter and felt a sense of relief as the sun began to set. The heat was much less intense now so he decided to press on while he still had a little bit of light left. The rest had rejuvenated his weakened body, but physically, he certainly felt less than 100%. He once again checked and made sure that the distant speck of mountains was over his right shoulder. He took off at a jog rather than a run with the full realization that if he didn't find water, or get help soon, he would die.

Two hours later he began to notice a change in the terrain. The dunes were getting smaller and an hour after that, they disappeared completely. He stopped and took a break on one of the last high clumps of sand. While resting, he studied the land ahead in the bright moonlight. What he could see gave him hope as well as apprehension. The land ahead was completely flat which meant that he could travel much quicker. That would help. On the other hand, the loss of the dunes, gave him no way to tell in which direction he was traveling. Considering how badly he needed water, he had no choice but to continue on, sensing the direction by guess, and trusting his navigation completely to intuition.

His speed did increase on the flats and for the next hour he was able to ignore his thirst by concentrating on what he had been born to do; run. By keeping his stride even, he was able to cover a considerable distance. His luck had changed too because he had come upon a dry stream bed which he followed throughout the night. He reasoned that when it was filled with water it would eventually lead to the river he was headed towards. There was initially a chance that he was following it back towards the mountains. In the bright moonlight though, it seemed to broaden and become shallower which kept him fairly certain that he was heading away from its source. He hoped to perhaps find some surface water in the stream bed. So he kept his head down often looking for any sign of moisture. Perhaps because of his desperate search for water, his mind didn't initially recognize the vague shapes that were spread out before him in the moonlit night. By the time he looked up, and focused, it was almost too late. He dove down headfirst into the sand. He wriggled forward to the top of the dry creek bed and studied the objects ahead. They were obviously man made. He kept hidden by ducking below the bank as he squirmed closer and closer. The streambed turned to parallel the objects he saw, and he was finally able to make them out clearly. It was a column of armored vehicles stopped for the night. Since the Taliban had no tanks, they were certainly allies. He was saved!
Chapter 16

His initial thought was to leave the cover of the stream bed, and run to them shouting with joy. That however, could cost him his life. He had learned during basic training that tanks and armored vehicles are most vulnerable at night. In the past, the Taliban used the cover of darkness to sneak up and fire RPG missiles at the immobile tanks. That made the tankers buttoned up inside very trigger happy. There was a good chance that if he approached the column of tanks, he would be observed by an alert tanker through the vehicle's night vision system. Thinking they were under attack, the tanks would open fire and shoot him to pieces. When they discovered his body in the morning, no one would ever find out about Angela. No, it would be better to wait until daylight and come out into the open with raised hands. Then it would be easy to recognize him as an American soldier. At that time, he would be allowed to join his comrades. So despite the nearness of safety, he hunkered down and studied his saviors.

He was very impressed by the unit's noise and movement discipline. He heard only silence and saw only motionless tanks during the next hour. As his eyes became better accustomed to the moonlit night, he could make out four tanks, and four armored support vehicles. They were probably M-1 Abrams tanks along with Bradly scout vehicles. He noticed that the column was in a herringbone defensive position, which was the correct tactic to use. There would be a happy reunion for him and his fellow cavalry scouts in the Bradlys. As he watched, he blew into his hands hoping to stop his body from shivering. The night was cold, but his excitement was building, which made him shiver even more.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the sky began to lighten a bit in the east. He noted the sun's position, and with satisfaction realized that his direction of travel had been correct. He expected at any minute to see movement from the tanks. Perhaps an engine would start, or maybe a soldier would leave the vehicle to relieve himself. None of that happened though. As the minutes moved along, he began to notice some odd things that puzzled him. First, the vehicles did not look American. Secondly, they appeared to be poorly maintained. It occurred to him that perhaps they might be British or other coalition force tanks.

It was still not yet light enough to be sure of the exact situation, but there was enough light available for him to safely reveal himself without being shot. After stashing his rifle in the gully, he stripped off his camo T-shirt, and slowly eased himself up into sight. He waved the shirt over his head and tried to yell loudly enough to attract attention. John's throat was so dry however that he was only able to croak out a hoarse grunt.

Getting no response at all, he began to move slowly forward. The closer he got, the more concerned he became that something was not right. He could see that the main guns on two of the tanks were pointed straight towards the ground. They would normally be oriented in the direction of any threat, and never pointed downward. It also was apparent that some vehicles were badly in need of a paint job, with large patches of rust clearly visible. He stopped trying to yell, as his joy began to turn to despair. As he got within 100 yards of the iron beasts he noticed spent shell casings at his feet. This told him that sometime in the past, there had been a battle here in the desert. When he got within 50 yards, he came to the crushing conclusion that he would not find rescue or salvation. The vehicles were Russian, and judging by the gaping holes in each one, had been abandoned for years. He stood staring at the ghostly machinery in stunned silence. His mind slowly came to the obvious conclusion that since nobody was here to rescue him, he would almost certainly die.

Instead of giving in to his fate, he decided to examine the wreckage more closely; perhaps he could find something useful. His throat was on fire, and his movements were sluggish and slow as he searched first for water. His effort was rewarded when he discovered about a dozen 5-gallon metal cans that were often used to carry fuel or water. He discarded the first couple as they had bullet holes in them and contained nothing but air. A few of the rest he shook and found them to be empty as well. But when he lifted the last three, he could tell that they contained something. He opened the first one and sniffed. His nose was met with the disgusting smell of stale fuel. The next one however, contained no odor and it sloshed reassuringly when he shook it. Now we are getting somewhere he thought. His raging thirst demanded that he drink from the half-filled container but he stopped himself. He grabbed one of the empty containers and positioned it under the ½ full one. Carefully and slowly he poured a little of the liquid from one container into the other. He needed to see what he would be drinking before he tried any of it. A rusty sludge oozed from his "water" container into the empty one. At one time, this had been potable water, but now it was more rusty mud than liquid. Hoping for a miracle he tried the last container. It too contained water that was also not suitable to drink.

The situation was desperate, so he tried a tactic that he had used before in Mexico to clear up polluted ground water. Using his shirt as a filter, he covered the opening of an empty container. He created a depression in the cloth that fit into the opening. With his hand he pushed the cloth in about 6 inches. He slowly poured the contaminated water into the "filter" of his shirt. The fabric clogged with gunk after only a few seconds. He stopped and cleaned the rusty material out and tried again. After ten minutes or so, he had poured all of the liquid from one container into the other. Placing a clean patch of his shirt over the opening, he began the entire process again. To his delight, he saw that although the next batch of liquid was still cloudy with rust, it was getting clearer. After three treatments, the water was still a bit brackish, but his raging thirst demanded he try a swig. He drank a sip from the container, and used his front teeth as a crude filter. Never, ever, had he tasted something so refreshing and delicious. It was lukewarm and full of grit but he drank more, and with each swallow, he could feel life coming back to his depleted system. He might possibly have consumed it all, but lifting the large container was awkward. It was not made to be used that way. His arm grew weak, so he stopped and put it down. Luckily, he hadn't spilled a drop. That was enough for now he decided. No telling how long it would take him to find more, and he needed to conserve what he had.

He placed the 1/3 full can aside and continued to search the long forgotten battle site. It was an eerie experience searching through the metal debris. Although much of the equipment had been shot up or burned, most everything lay as if the battle had ended just a few days before. He knew that could not be possible. He figured that the lack of moisture had kept everything from deteriorating. It all seemed to be randomly scattered around in the sand as if dropped in a hurry. That led him to believe that the battle had been an ambush by the Mujahedeen followed by a hasty retreat of the Russians. Considering the number of empty cartridge cases he found in the ravine, the ambush had likely started from there.

Scattered about the burned debris were helmets, bits of clothing, spent AK-47 rounds, and other gear discarded from the battle that he couldn't identify. During his search he never found any skeletal remains, or grave sites. More than likely the Russians had collected up their dead, perhaps by helicopter, and left everything else. From what he could tell there had been very little looting done by the Mujahedeen. They would have had to disappear quickly before the Russian HIND-E helicopters found them in the open desert and turned them into scrap meat.

As he rested in the shade of a knocked out T-54 tank, he took stock of what he had found. His search had netted him a pair of Russian vodka bottles with rusty, but serviceable screw on caps. They were both empty, and perhaps the lack of liquor in them, solved the mystery of why the Russian soldiers were so lax as to have gotten themselves ambushed. He had also found about a 100-foot coil of wire that looked tough enough to be used as rope. Tucked into a crevice under the seat of a shot up BTR-60 armored personal carrier, he found rolled up in a Russian "boonie hat", the greatest prize of all. It was three cans of sardines! The cans were a bit larger than the version he had seen in America. Although he couldn't understand the words written in foreign characters, he could easily recognize the picture of the small fish that appeared on the can. Using the can opener on his Leatherman pocket tool, he carefully opened one of the tins. He was rewarded by the distinct odor sardines make, rather than any smell of rot. With extreme care, he used his thumb and forefinger to remove one of the delicate little fish. He put it in his mouth. He left it there for a minute to see if it tasted suspicious. When the minute was up, and he hadn't felt any ill effects, he swallowed the single fish. His stomach happily accepted it, and after 5 minutes when he felt no sickness, he ate the rest of the can. When he was done, he greedily licked up all of the juices, like a cat cleaning out a can of tuna. Finished, he leaned back against the tank and took a very relaxing nap.

After about 30 minutes he was up again and alert. He felt very restless, and ready to start back on his journey. The thought of Angela lying in the mountains almost helpless, spurred him into action. Working quickly, he laid out the two vodka bottles and his own plastic water bottle. He then carefully filled all three with the water he had collected. This used up almost all of the filtered water that was left. Rather than leave any of the precious liquid behind, he drank up every drop. When he stood up he felt a reassuring sloshing in his stomach which meant he was fully rehydrated. His original water bottle fit easily in his pants cargo pocket. The two vodka bottles however, were heavier and would be awkward to carry while he was moving. He solved the problem by trying a method his people used to carry heavy loads. With his Leatherman tool, he cut a length of the wire into a 4 foot length. Taking one end of the coil he looped it around the neck of one of the bottles about 20 times. He then knotted the final loop tightly. Standing up, he took the remaining wire in his hand and pulled the bottle off the ground. It hung securely. He returned the bottle to the ground and grabbed the other loose end of wire and repeated the process with the last bottle. When he was finished, the two bottles were connected by about 3 ½ feet of wire. The bottles would hang around his neck, and by placing them in between his chest and shirt, they would be secure. He would keep the wire from chafing his neck by simply tucking it under his collar.

Placing the "new" Russian hat on his head, he decided to head out now rather than wait until the evening. The empty streambed would be his guide. He figured that with luck it would stay on a westerly course, and eventually lead him to the Helmand River.

After slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he began to run. The water and the bit of food he had eaten slowed him down at first. Eventually, his stomach adjusted, or perhaps just absorbed the nourishment. He began to increase his speed as his legs limbered up. The stream bed twisted slightly, but mostly it headed straight west. This allowed him to move at an impressive rate of speed. The ground seemed to get harder as well, since the sand dunes had vanished. This gave him hope that he would find some sort of a road. After all, the Russian tanks had to have come from somewhere. Unfortunately, he knew from his experience with men who had fought in the first Gulf War, American tanks had traveled hundreds of miles in roadless deserts just like this. Regardless of where and when he found help, the fact remained that he had to keep going until he reached safety.

Later that day, as the sun began to slip towards the horizon, he began to encounter the first signs of plant life. As he came around a corner of the stream bed he saw a small clump of withered grass. It had been dead for quite a while, but it was a positive sign that the land was finally becoming habitable. He felt more dead grass beneath his running feet. He also began to notice occasional patches of low bushes that were similar to sage brush that he had seen in Mexico. Everything that had once lived was now scorched by the sun and scoured by the wind driven sand. Seeing the dead plants gave him a small bit of optimism that seemed to make his legs go faster. The sun began to set in the west, which confirmed the direction he needed to go.

As day turned to night, the sky blackened. He decided to rest when he came to the top of a rise. He would wait for a few minutes to catch his breath, and maybe detect some lights in the distance that would lead him to civilization. The moon had not yet risen, but the sky was alive with millions of twinkling stars. He studied the sky for a while and eventually made out the blinking lights of two jets that were flying thousands of feet above his head. He thought dejectedly about the numerous other planes he had seen during the last several nights. The problem was that although some of them were more than likely searching for him, he had no way to signal them. Even if by some million in one chance a plane did see a light, or signal in the desert, how would they ever be able to tell that it was from a U.S. soldier in desperate need of help?

After a short break his eyes became accustomed to the dark. The moon began to rise, and that too helped enhance his night vision. Unfortunately, he saw no lights or signs of life in any direction. Regardless, he had to keep going. So once again, he began to run. Using the empty waterway as his guide, he was able to travel many miles. He began to encounter small dry streambeds that joined the one he was following. His path started to grow broader, wider, and easier to follow.

It happened suddenly, and he would have kept running right on by, if it hadn't been for his nose. During a gulp of air into his lungs, he encountered an almost imperceptible change in its content. From the parched desert air, he felt an unmistakable hint of moisture. It seemed absurd, but after several breaths, he was certain that he could smell and taste water. He stopped running and froze in place. At the furthest reaches of his hearing, he recognized something. After much straining of his ears, he was certain of it. There was a sound he had heard before many times in his life; the reassuring chirping of crickets! That, along with the moist air, led him to believe that water was near. Now, he just had to find it. Walking very slowly, and following the guide of his insect friends, he began to descend into the dry water course. Staying very alert for even the slightest sign of moisture, he continued downstream. He was rewarded when he came around the next corner, and saw a trickle of water shining brilliantly in the moonlight. The tiny oasis consisted of a swampy pool that bubbled up at his feet. Some of the water oozed out of the pool, flowed sluggishly for about 100 yards, and then disappeared. Although John really didn't need the water, he was happy to see it because water meant life. Where things could grow and live, humans might just be there too. Since some of the water did flow in a tiny stream, he knelt down next to that section and took a long satisfying swallow. He drank until his stomach once again sloshed.

As he ran during the remainder of the night, he watched the small stream reappear and disappear again several more times. Finally, just before daylight, the stream appeared and stayed flowing slowly and continuously. He stopped to drink again and decided to take a quick nap and wait for it to become completely light.

As the sun began to rise, he was pleased to see that the stream did continue without interruption for as far as he could see. This would provide him with a surefire path to the Helmand River and salvation. He consumed another tin of sardines, and then started running enthusiastically. As he followed the thin band of water, he began to see moss and algae, and even some green shrubs and grass along the bank. He knew that the desert would end soon. He was puzzled however, by the lack of any evidence of human or animal life. Except for the crickets, there were no animal tracks or droppings. Even in the most remote canyons of Mexico there was always some hint of people. He could usually find an old bottle, pieces of metal or other signs of past human presence. As he traveled throughout the day, he saw nothing like that. The land began to change though. The brown desert rock began to turn white. The ground beneath his feet turned once again back to sand, which surprisingly, felt almost spongy as he ran.

The big moment came about noon. The ground had been gradually sloping down, and at one point ahead he could see that it dropped away steeply. That steepness blocked his view of anything ahead. As he got close to the slope his eyes beheld a wonderful sight. The stream he was paralleling merged into a big river, which was undoubtedly the Helmand. He would now be able to find a road or perhaps even flag down an allied patrol boat.

He began a joyful sprint towards the cool waters of the river. The ground became almost marshy under his feet and he left six inch deep tracks in the muddy ground. The sloppy terrain slowed his pace, but not his determination.

He was about half way to the river when it happened. The ground opened up and he found himself waist deep in quicksand! He immediately panicked, and during those few seconds managed to sink another foot into the white slop. Then the oozing slime completely surrounded him and held him like a vise. He had learned about quicksand in basic training, and he bent and tried to lever his feet forward. He strained and clawed with his hands, but the only thing he accomplished was to make two long scratch marks on the sinkhole crust.

He remained calm and tried to reason a way out of the mess he was in. For several minutes he didn't move. He just relaxed and reviewed his options. After a few moments he did notice one positive thing, he hadn't sunk any deeper. Perhaps the sinkhole wasn't that deep or perhaps because he was not struggling, he sank no deeper. In spite of that, he forced himself to accept reality; although he wasn't sinking, he would just die a more cruel death of dehydration and exposure. Then like a shock, it hit him. He had left Angela alone in the desert. She was also unable to move! His careless act of rushing across the unstable ground had sentenced _BOTH_ of them to certain death.
Chapter 17

Lieutenant Samson Castillo carefully scrutinized the charred wreckage of the downed chopper. In his ten years of being a Marine in Force Recon he had been to the scene of several helicopter crashes. Sometimes there were survivors, sometimes there were only bodies. The scene in front of him now was very puzzling. He was looking at the remains of a male American soldier, and judging by his flight suit, was almost certainly the missing helicopter's co-pilot. Two other bodies lay near the wreckage as well, but their clothing indicated that they were Taliban fighters. The rest of his team had earlier formed a perimeter around the wreckage. He waved one of them over to join him. "Sergeant Haworth, what do you make of all this?" He pointed to the three bodies and waited patiently for the knowledgeable man to reply.

Haworth squatted down and studied the debris and bodies intently. He was a gifted man with a mind that saw things with mathematic like precision. He said nothing as he studied the scene. He behaved as if he were a detective at an important crime scene. He was especially interested in the two dead Taliban fighters. He used his foot to turn both of the bodies over in order to study them in detail.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but clear. "Lieutenant, what we have here is not what it seems. First off, this bird didn't explode right away. Look at what's left of the cockpit. See those two scorched seatbelts hanging down there? Well they have been unbuckled, and the co-pilot here, he wasn't flung from the explosion. No, I am sure he was dragged from the chopper to where he lays now. Look at the scuff marks in the sand. They show where the pilot's heels dug into the ground as he was PUT here. Next, let's look at the two dead Mujs. They were killed by an explosion, but not the same blast that tore open this helicopter. See how their torsos are mangled? That is the only point on their bodies where any trauma exists. There is more evidence that these two didn't die when the chopper exploded." He bent down to one of the bodies and carefully extracted a green piece of metal about the size of a quarter. "Sir, this is grenade shrapnel, it isn't aluminum and couldn't have come from the bird. No, I'd bet a case of beer and a $50.00 New York steak that somebody grenaded these two fools."

When the sergeant was finished speaking, Lt. Castillo reflected deeply on the information he had been given. He got up and crept towards one of the men guarding the perimeter. He quietly whispered, "Corporal Grinder, work your way slowly around the wreckage and see if you can find any human tracks leading away from here. If my hunch is correct, you'll find them heading downhill."

Grinder grinned and nodded to indicate he understood. The lanky marine from Idaho was a natural woodsman who had spent his youth chasing hound dogs through the hills. It was said that he was capable of tracking a bee through the air in order to find its honey. That wasn't exactly true, but his friends all believed it. He carefully began circling the wreckage and just as Castillo predicted, he began heading downhill. He popped out of sight for a minute and then reappeared. He signaled to the rest of the platoon that he had found something of interest. The soldiers left the scene of the crash, and gathered around Grinder.

He spoke softly but clearly. "Gentlemen, according to these tracks, we have two survivors who left this area. One set is indistinct as if someone was dragged, but I believe that they are Americans because they are both wearing combat boots. Those boots are the same kind helicopter pilots and crewmen wear. What puzzles me though, is that the tracks change right here from two sets into just one."

Castillo nodded to Sergeant Haworth, "Sarge, I want you and Grinder to work on this and figure out what the heck is going on here. I will send a couple of men with you as security. Stay on that track until you have some concrete evidence to report. Move out now, and while you're gone I will inform the higher ups what we have found."

About 15 minutes later, four men led by Corporal Grinder, emerged from downhill and gathered next to the Lieutenant. The men all listened as Grinder spoke, "It was Sergeant Haworth who finally put all of the pieces together. We both now believe there are two survivors, one of whom is injured. Amazingly, the other survivor is carrying the incapacitated one."

Haworth spoke next, "We couldn't figure out what was going on until I got down on my hands and knees to study the single set of tracks. I was confused because two sets of tracks had changed into just a single set. When I looked closely though, I realized that they were approximately 10-20 millimeters deeper. What that means is that the single set of tracks had weight added to it. Since there is no Golden Corral buffet here in the mountains, the person making the tracks is carrying something or _someone_!"

Castillo spoke to the entire group, "Our original reconnaissance mission is over. I've established radio contact with base and they are sending in a chopper load of grunts to secure the scene. There are also other units being rushed here to help in the search for the survivors. Problem is, they won't arrive till well after dark. We are the only ones that can begin that search right now. The chopper full of grunts has an ETA of 15 mikes (minutes). The second that bird touches ground, we get on those tracks. We have to cover as much terrain as possible before it gets dark." He looked into the eyes of each man in the squad and said, "This is a mission where time is crucial. The sooner we get going, the sooner we can bring help where it is needed. Any questions?"

The men all answered quietly in unison, "Hooh ahh."

The new mission was on.

After the grunts arrived and their leader was briefed, Grinder led the platoon down the treacherous mountain slope. Sergeant Haworth was next pulling slack. As they patrolled, this would allow Grinder to study the ground for tracks while the hawk-eyed Haworth could concentrate on looking for any potential danger ahead.

In spite of the fact that the ground consisted of mostly dirt and gravel, Grinder was able to follow the track without error. Where the others saw only rocks and boulders, he could see scuff marks and trampled grass. He never once saw a complete boot track, but that wasn't what he was looking for. Nature nearly always appears in patterns. When the pattern is disturbed by something like a person walking, clues are left. To the uninitiated, these hints are nearly impossible to see. The corporal, because of his interaction with nature, could detect that change. His years as a youth in Idaho had consisted of lots of hunting. His favorite animal to pursue was bear. They left a very faint footprint much like a barefoot human. Hooved animals such as deer left small, deep, indentions in the earth. They were easy to track, but the bear moved along leaving almost no mark at all. The young hunter eventually became able to track these creatures. Once he learned their secret, trailing all other things became easier.

At first, the single track was simple to follow. Whoever left it, had taken off in a hurry. The track was obvious to follow because the dirt and debris was pushed aside and scattered. After about an hour though, signs and clues became much harder to find. Whoever was running, now stuck to the rockiest terrain possible. This puzzled Grinder, because the rocks would have almost certainly been harder to travel on. He raised his hand into the air with a closed fist, signaling for all of the men to stop. Wordlessly, Grinder looked at Haworth, and motioned with his hand towards the ground. Haworth advanced cautiously up to Grinder and listened as the tracker explained what was puzzling him. "I can't figure this out Sarge, whoever is ahead of us is moving from rock to rock. I understand how he might be trying to hide his tracks. If he is carrying someone like we think, he would almost certainly fall and sprain or break an ankle."

Not much ever got past the old sergeant. He stood for a minute using his computer like brain to cipher out this latest mystery. He thought and then finally spoke. "Corporal Grinder, you are correct, there is about a 93% chance that the average person would fall and damage their legs." Looking very serious, he then asked Grinder a rather odd question. "How good was your history teacher?" Although Haworth occasionally joked, Grinder knew he was a very thoughtful man and that this was a serious question.

"What exactly do you mean sergeant?"

"We were briefed by the Lieutenant not an hour ago that one of the crew members, and possible survivor, is an Indian from Mexico. If you had a sharp history teacher, they undoubtedly told you about the Tarahumara natives. They are called the ghost runners because they live in the most rugged, mountainous areas of Mexico. If the Tarahumarans need to hide their tracks they run on rocks just like these, and leave no trace."

Grinder took all this in and nodded silently, and whispered, "How in the world did you know all that?"

Haworth grinned confidently, "I had an excellent middle school history teacher."

Grinder used Haworth's advice and began seeking clues among the rocks. He turned the circumstances around and began to think of it as if he were trying to hide his own tracks. By looking at the situation from that perspective, he began to track by looking for the direction of travel rather than going from clue to clue. He believed that as long as he kept moving on the correct route, the tracks and ultimately the individuals would be discovered. Using this technique during the next several hours, he was able to find a scuffmark or an occasional boot heel print to confirm that he was following the correct way.

The stress of following a nearly indistinguishable track began to wear on Grinder. He was just about ready to signal the squad to rest when he heard Haworth quietly snap his fingers one time. He slowly turned around to see what his sergeant wanted. Haworth simply pointed to something directly ahead. Grinder moved his gaze in that direction and was shocked to see three hideously mangled bodies.
Chapter 18

Angela waited patiently, as she and John had agreed she should do. The first day was completely uneventful. Using the shelter he had built, she was relatively comfortable and able to keep out of the direct sun. The first night had been cold but not unbearable. She had wrapped herself up in a poncho and tried not to move around. Any non-essential movement could bring attention from the enemy. That of course, would be disastrous. She'd mostly just slept. When not sleeping she daydreamed. This allowed her to escape the reality of her desperate plight. In the middle of the afternoon she had loosened the wrappings on her leg a bit. Other than some minor pain and swelling, they didn't seem to be any worse since the crash.

The second day was different from the first. She decided to begin the day with an earnest prayer. Although she wasn't extremely religious, on her dog tag was printed religious preference: "Christian." She also never forgot to carry a tiny camouflaged bible in the cargo pocket of her uniform. The Gideons had come around to her platoon during basic training to hand out bibles. Surprisingly, her drill instructors had been ok with a book that was not military issue, so she had taken one. She hadn't had much time to read it since she had been deployed to Afghanistan. She pulled it out now to study it, and felt an almost immediate sense of comfort and well-being. Most of this second day was spent, reading, praying, and sleeping. She knew that the next day, her third day, would have a huge impact on whether she survived or not. It was the day that John had instructed her to begin signaling with the radio to get help. Another possibility remained that she did not wish to think about. The enemy might zero in on the transmission and find her. So she continued to pray and hope that John or a search team would appear, but as day turned to night, she had the uneasy feeling that rescue was not going to come anytime soon. She fell into a very restless sleep.

The nightmare had come on suddenly. In it, she was floating above the desert. She could see for miles in the unbroken terrain. At first, it was amusing to be like Aladdin cruising above the desert on a magic carpet. That pleasant part ended quickly though. Her body stopped and hovered over a disturbing sight. She could see someone thrashing and convulsing like a fish tossed up on shore. As the vision became clearer, she could not make out a face. She tried desperately to see who it was, but the fog would not part. Suddenly, she heard the unmistakable clap of thunder. Along with the thunder, sheets of lightning appeared. As the storm reached its peak, her body began to pull back. She felt intense anguish because her vision was fading. She would never know who was suffering so greatly. As she watched, the form on the ground struggled all the harder. In the gathering gloom the person seemed to use superhuman strength to lift their head up from the muck. It is too late Angela thought, I am too far away and I will never know who you are. At that precise moment, a flash of lightning went off directly overhead. She caught one brief but sure glimpse of the figure's face. It was John! Her eyes fluttered open.

"It was only just a dream," she whispered to herself.

No matter how many times she said it though, didn't erase the fact that what she saw seemed incredibly real. Angela tossed and turned in her tiny shelter until it became unbearable. She wriggled out of her poncho and sat upright. The moon was directly above her so she judged that the time was roughly midnight. Since it was the beginning of the third day, she decided to wait no longer. Rummaging around the shelter, Angela found what she needed. The small plastic radio felt cold in her hand. She placed it carefully in an upper pocket of her flight suit, and began the painful task of crawling out of the rocks and into the open. There were no clouds to block out the moonlight, and she was able to see fairly well. The night was clear which meant that her transmission should be recognizable for many miles. She noticed a reassuring glow when the switch was turned on. She pressed down on the talk button and began to speak:

"Mayday, Mayday... This is Bold Avenger Two transmitting on emergency frequency. Does anybody read me? Over."

She repeated the same message three times without any success. She tried again every half hour for the rest of the night.

When the sky began to brighten and she had gotten no answer it became apparent that help was not on its way. Stiffly and painfully she began to crawl back to her shelter.

"Nobody heard me," she said to herself dejectedly. "I guess I will be stuck here for at least another day."

She couldn't have been further from the truth.

Azamet had been in the cave for the last three days. He was tired of the stuffiness of the cave, which was made far worse because the two comrades he shared it with, both smoked. He stood up and checked his Russian Poljot watch. It was a cheap copy of a Timex, but it kept time reasonably well. He smiled because his mental calculation had been correct. His time for listening to the radio receiver was up. He took off the bulky headphones, and laid them next to the Cold War era receiver. He walked over to a sleeping form and gave the body a nudge.

"Khalid! Get up lazy dog. Your service on the radio is needed!"

The sleepy form rolled over and began to curse wildly. The two men traded insults for over a minute. Finally, Khalid rose up and threw off his blanket. Without a word he grabbed his antagonist in a bear hug and whispered "It is now Allah's will for my shift to begin. Allah Akbar my brother!" The two Chechen men grinned at each other.

To Khalid, radio duty was extremely boring. His job was to monitor the American guard frequency, and then use the internal tracking device to zero in on the location from where the enemy broadcast was made. The three men had a basic knowledge of some English words and could understand enough of any American transmission to have an idea of what was going on. He had done this duty on many occasions and nothing exciting had ever happened. This shift however was different. An urgent request from his leaders had come in just last night. Spies had found out that an American chopper had gone down in the nearby mountains and that the pilot was one of the first American female combat pilots. If she could be captured, it would be an incredibly embarrassing situation for the Americans. Not since the Twin Towers of New York had been struck down, would there be such an opportunity to humiliate the hated Westerners. It was even rumored that the mighty Osama Bin Laden himself wanted to interrogate her.

Throughout the night Khalid read his Koran by candle light, and listened to the static coming softly through the headphones. Just after midnight he heard an unfamiliar sound. The static changed as the channel cleared. It was almost as if a transmitter had been turned on. The Chechen put his Koran down, and listened more intently. Faintly at first, but rapidly growing clearer, he heard a Mayday call. He quickly adjusted the dial on the tracking device to determine where the call was coming from. The longer he listened, the more excited he became. "Azamet, Azamet, wake up. Come here and listen. The voice I hear... It is the girl!"

Azamet, and the other Chechen, Bashir, pushed forward towards the transmitter. They were greedy to hear the hated voice of the infidel woman.

Once again the call came through clearly, "Mayday, Mayday... This is Bold Avenger Two transmitting on emergency frequency. Does anybody read me? Over."

The three men didn't have long to wait before a male voice answered back.

"Bold Avenger Two, this is Eagle Eye on guard channel. I read you Lima Charlie (Loud and Clear). Do you have traffic (a message) for this channel, over?"

Instead of answering back, the female voice repeatedly stated the same message several more times.

The male voice came on a final time. "Bold Avenger Two, this is Eagle Eye. You seem to be having trouble picking up communication from this station. Be advised, a team is enroute to your position. Remain in place. They will contact you when they get in range. This is Eagle Eye, out."

Khalid had been twisting knobs and adjusting dials the entire time that the conversation was occurring. He smiled triumphantly to his comrades. "Praise be to Allah, I have the coordinates of where the infidel woman hides. I will send a message to our commander. As soon as I am done, get your weapons and be ready to move out. With the help of Allah, we will be the ones to capture her and gain glory for him. She is only a half mile from here!"

High in the Afghan sky an AWACS plane circled lazily at 10,000 feet. Eagle Eye, an Air Force communication specialist, switched from the guard channel he had been speaking on to another frequency. "Jericho 7, this is Eagle Eye do you copy?"

The voice that answered, sounded tired but spoke with authority. "Go ahead Eagle Eye, send me your message, over."

"Jericho 7, this is Eagle Eye. We have made contact with Bold Avenger Two. We have the coordinates of her approximate position. Scramble all assets. I say again, scramble all assets. Coordinates to follow..."

Angela had been found, and the pentagon had been notified. The race for who would find her first, was on.
Chapter 19

The men of Marine Recon set up a perimeter around the cluster of bodies. Without being asked, Sgt. Haworth joined Lt. Castillo who was peering intently at the three dead men. One of them was an American soldier, the other two were Taliban fighters. The bodies of all three men had been torn apart by some sort of an explosion. Castillo watched as Haworth studied the gruesome scene. It didn't take long before he stood up and spoke.

"It was him who done the killing Lieutenant." He pointed the toe of his boot at the American. "He sacrificed his life to take out these two pieces of garbage."

Castillo looked puzzled and shrugged his shoulders.

Instead of answering, the Gunnery Sergeant bent down and removed something wrapped around the finger of the dead American. As everyone watched, he held up the ring and pin assembly from a hand grenade!

Haworth addressed the group of Marines who were looking to him for answers. "This brave soldier somehow lured these two Taliban close enough to kill them with his grenade. How he ended up here, and why he did it though, is the real mystery."

Grinder who had been nosing around came up and gave his take on the situation. "Whatever happened here did not affect the two we are trying to find. The boot tracks circle all around the kill zone. Whoever it is, stepped light until right about here." He pointed to the ground and then continued. "The imprint becomes deeper once again and then heads that way." He nodded towards the new direction in which they needed to travel.

Castillo who had been silent until now, ordered the men to cover the remains of the American with a poncho. "Treat the soldier's body with respect and dignity. I will punch the coordinates of this spot into my GPS. He needs to be recovered and given a proper burial. As for the dead enemy, leave em. Worms, buzzards, and foxes have to eat too. Be ready to move out in 5 minutes. It is nearly dark and we need to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall."

About a half hour later the light began to fail and Grinder had to quit the track before he lost it completely. He raised his fist to signal a halt. The men formed a loose perimeter around him, hiding themselves alongside the abundant rocks and brush. At dusk, Castillo had the men pull back to consolidate the perimeter. They all faced out like the spokes on a wagon wheel with their feet nearly touching. He had just finished telling the men the night's guard schedule when he heard a sharp crack. He cocked his head, and again heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol shot!

The Marine lieutenant had a crucial decision to make. He could ignore the sound of gunfire and stay in place. That option ensured that they could pick up the correct trail in the morning. The other choice was to have the Marines move towards the sound of gunfire with the aid of their night vision devices.

Castillo knew that what he had heard could be as simple as a goat herder shooting at a varmint. His instincts though told him that this had something to do with the missing chopper crew.

He touched the marine next to him and whispered, "Pass the word around. We are going to deploy our night vision devices and patrol towards the sound of the gunshots."

After the command was whispered to each man, the unit stood up slowly and oriented themselves. They could see Castillo outlined in a faint green glow. Using hand signals, he indicated who was to take point and slack. Carefully the team moved out.

The Chechen men had been busy too. Because they didn't have much gear and traveled light, they left the cave in a hurry. Azamet, their leader, considered leaving a man behind to guard the precious machinery. He was in charge of the direction finder and receiver. If they were stolen or discovered by the infidels, then he would suffer the consequences. His death would come from a quick bullet to the head. This mission though, and the glory his comrades would receive if they captured the Yankee girl, would be worth it. The fact that he left the cave unguarded would be quickly forgotten.

At a glance, the trio of men did not look like hardened fighters. That often worked to their advantage during battle. What most people didn't know, is that they had been drafted as young men into the Soviet army. As a result, they had learned much about tactics, weapons and discipline. When their enlistment was up, the Cold War had just about ended. Russia was in turmoil. They returned home to Chechnya, and used their skills against their former masters. For the next several years, they were involved in a massive guerrilla warfare campaign which eventually resulted in Chechnya gaining its freedom from the Soviet Republic. Being devout Muslims and seeking further adventures, they had drifted into Afghanistan to aid their brothers in the fight against infidel aggression.

Their movements through the rocky terrain were stealthy and precise. They had fought together for such a long time that they almost knew beforehand what moves and tactics their partners would use. Noise was almost non-existent as they proceeded along. Bashir, who had taken point, suddenly crouched down. The other men followed his example, and quickly found cover. In the bright moonlight, the point man had detected movement. As Angela crawled back towards her shelter, she had no idea that danger was lurking nearby. Quick as a cat, Bashir leaped onto the back of the American pilot. The cat was not quick enough because the girl sensed his approach and had just enough time to pull her 9mm Beretta from its holster. Her broken lower body did not permit her to swing around and aim precisely. She was quick enough to get off one shot that creased Bashir's head. She had time enough for only one more shot before the three men overwhelmed her and kicked away her pistol. She lay there stunned and defenseless. She was pulled roughly to her feet.

"Praise be to Allah," whispered Bashir, whose hand was pressing tightly against the side of his head to stem the blood that trickled down. "The American pig is ours!"

By the time Castillo's team made it to the scene of the shooting there was little left to see except for some torn ground, and a spattering of blood. It was the blood that clued the point man into the fact that they had found the correct spot. Through night vision goggles, blood takes on an eerie phosphorescence type of glow. That glowing moisture was a dead giveaway that this was the place where some sort of struggle had taken place. Grinder and Haworth scoured the area while the rest of the team set up a perimeter.

The corporal returned first. "I got bad news Lieutenant. The blood trail stops about 30 yards from here. Whoever got hit, plugged up the hole so it ain't leaking anymore. I couldn't find any other sign once the blood disappeared." He shrugged his shoulders indicating that he had done all he could.

Haworth came up a bit later to speak with Castillo. Even through his night vision goggles, Castillo could see that the sergeant's face was grim. "It was her Lieutenant, we just didn't get here in time. I found her shelter and a few belongings, but she is gone. It was her who did the shooting too because I found two spent 9mm cases. No doubt they came from a military issue Beretta handgun."

Castillo nodded and said, "Gunny I believe every word you say, but we have to be 100% sure it was her. How can we be certain?"

Haworth didn't answer, but instead held something up in front of Castillo.

"Open it to the front page sir, and you will find all of the proof you need."

Castillo took the object, which was a small bible. He opened it, and read what was written on the inside cover. "This bible is dedicated to Captain Angela Robinson. May the Lord bless and protect you."

There could be no doubt about it now, Angela was a captive of the Taliban, and she would need all the help from above she could get.
Chapter 20

"I'm not gonna die, I'm not gonna die!" mumbled John. Regardless of this pep talk, the fact remained that he was encased in quicksand with no way out. The odds of extricating himself, or having someone find and then help him seemed impossibly small. To make matters worse, during his initial struggle he had lost his weapon and the two water bottles. Ironically, although he was stuck in liquid, he might very well perish from thirst.

The day grew progressively hotter, and the sun scorched his exposed skin. As he felt his skin begin to burn, he slowly eased one arm up and tried dabbing mud on the exposed places. This helped a bit. His worst pain came from his head, for he had lost his Russian hat too, and the sun seemed to direct its rays from the top of his head to his brain. He could feel himself drying up like a frog caught without water. He was able to take his mind off the discomfort for a bit by trying to find a way out of this trap. Eventually though, all the ideas he had proved to be useless. Eventually his brain turned to daydreaming, and as the day grew longer, it became harder and harder to tell reality from fantasy.

The night although cool, was almost as bad as the day. In order not to sink any further he had to remain completely still. Temperatures plunge in Afghanistan during the dark, and John was wet as well as cold. Freezing to death, became a distinct possibility. To either bake to death in the cruel sun, or freeze in the frigid muck, meant a certain end for John. His body began to shiver, and although he did his best to stop, the movement meant that he slipped a few inches further into the slime. By the time the sun began to rise and bless him with a bit of warmth, he found that during the night, the quicksand had risen up to his armpits.

It didn't seem conceivable, but the sun seemed even hotter on the second day. Without water and hope, John began to hallucinate. He found himself in a conversation with Billy, about how to best use upper body strength to muscle his way out of the mud. His friend only answered the questions in the language of the Colville Indian tribe, and John began to rant and rave at Billy in frustration. Finally, Billy spoke in English, but it was just one short sentence, "Nature saved me, and it can save you too!"

After his conversation, John's brain seemed to click back into focus. He could see a small tuft of dried grass, about six feet from where he was trapped. Maybe Billy was right, perhaps he could reach the vegetation and attempt to pull himself out. Slowly and carefully he began the tedious task of stretching out his arms without causing himself to sink further. With a tremendous amount of patience, he stretched his arms out further and further towards the salvation of firm ground. But in the end, he found that the grass was at least 4 feet further away than he could ever hope to reach. It was useless. Death stared him in the face with an evil grin.

Sometime later that day, he was pulled out of his fantasy world by a tremendous BOOM! He mind snapped back in to see an eruption of flame that accompanied the boom. His eyes were nearly blinded, but this was no illusion. Again, a huge explosion accompanied by flame seemed to erupt nearby. His sun-addled brain was puzzled until the solution became obvious. Someone was calling in an artillery strike and the rounds were hitting nearby! That thought initially lifted his spirits because it meant human activity. Almost at the same time, it occurred to him that the flying shrapnel might decapitate him. That thought furthered his spiral into madness. He watched listlessly as the explosions came closer. The wind accompanying the barrage seemed to beat against his face. Closer and closer the sound and flashes came. Eventually moisture from the muck began to splatter on his face. He grinned deliriously at the sky, as if to say, "I am ready God, take me now!"

The explosions continued one right after another, completely blocking out the sun. The tremendous booms seemed to be occurring almost right on top of him. The noise and chaos became deafening. A violent explosion covered his body with moisture. It went on so long that it didn't seem to stop. Wetness rained down on him in one huge gushing torrent. It splashed him relentlessly in the face, and that is what finally brought him back to reality.

What his delirious mind had led him to believe as artillery being fired, was in reality a tremendous storm. The booming and flashing he heard and felt was lightning and thunder! The wetness he felt on his face was not 100 years' worth of sinkhole slime, it was rain! He turned his face up towards the soothing moisture, and let it wash over him. The cool wetness massaged his skin. He opened his mouth, and let the rain bring relief to his parched throat.

The rain poured down with even more intensity, and he could feel it beginning to fill up the space around his trapped body. The rainwater began to displace the muck and he felt rivulets of it snake down along his trapped lower body. With a surprising lurch, his body suddenly moved forward a few inches. It was as if a giant hand had pushed him from behind. It occurred to John that the muck around him was loosening enough so that he had some limited movement below his armpits. That was a tremendous inspiration, because if the rain continued, perhaps he could manage to work his way out of the quicksand.

He began to lean forward and as he did, water filled the space up where his back had been. He then leaned backward and water filled in the space where his waist had been. Like a huge bowling pin ready to topple, he increased his speed. His efforts were rewarded as he could feel his feet and body begin to come free. He was able to bring his hands below the muck and stir the rain water. This helped to loosen up his body even more. His spirit surged with adrenaline as he began to slowly kick his legs and pull with his arms. Little by little, he steadily rose upwards. The more height he gained, the harder he pulled with his arms and kicked with his legs. A loud pop suddenly occurred as his body broke free of the quicksand's suction. With a tremendous effort he swam. He was spurred on by the knowledge that if he stopped now, he would sink to his death. He propelled himself forward, fighting the mud and slime the entire way until one of his arms struck a patch of sand that had no give. Lunging forward, he pulled himself up. He rolled up onto solid ground and lay there gasping for breath as the life giving rain continued on. He looked up at the furious storm clouds and gave a prayer of thanks.

Thirty minutes later, like a mud encrusted prehistoric swamp creature, he trudged slowly towards the safety of the Helmand River.

About an hour later, a Westland Lynx helicopter buzzed over John's head like an angry locust, taking him completely by surprise. The British pilot and his spotter were on a boring routine sweep of the river. They performed this same mission every day and usually spotted nothing of any military importance. The helicopter they were flying in was an antique, and it was never meant to be flown in the harsh climate of Afghanistan. The problem was with the cooling system that kept the engine from overheating. It never seemed to be able to keep up with the scorching summer sun. So the British Army pilots were assigned the mission of flying along the river where the cooler water temperature helped keep the bird's engine from getting too hot. Because the Taliban kept to their mountainous sanctuaries, and rarely traveled in the lowlands, the British choppers hardly ever got to fire their guns in anger.

So when the helicopter appeared over John's head, the pilot and his scout became immediately excited.

The spotter who saw John first, shouted in his headset, "Captain Bennington, we just passed right over the top of a bloody Tali!"

The Captain flying the chopper, was a little calmer, and responded, "Roger, Sergeant Muldoon, I've got him."

The helicopter began a long lazy loop around John as the pilot took the 20mm chain gun off safe and charged the weapon which made it ready to fire.

"He's a dirty bugger ain't he?" exclaimed the sergeant in disgust.

"Looks like he's been living in a mud hole," agreed the pilot. "Well, he won't have to worry about living much longer, when I get this chopper swung around, we'll send him on his way to meet Allah!"

The choppers actions confused John as he stood and waved frantically up at it. When he heard the chain gun fire and felt its rounds passing just over his head, he realized that he was in deep trouble.

"Bit lower Captain Bennington, and we'll turn him into food for the jackals."

John knew that if he wanted to live, he'd better act immediately and decisively. So he took off running towards the safety of the river. By the time he reached its bank, he heard the Lynx completing its turn behind him. Just as a new set of bullets began to kick up dirt next to him, he dove into the cool safety of the river.

"I've lost him!" shouted Bennington as he pulled the helicopter into a slow hover over the spot where John had disappeared.

Although underwater, John could see and feel the turbulence that the helicopter was creating on top of the water. He swam as far away from it as he possibly could before the need for air outweighed every other concern. When he surfaced, he was dismayed to find himself only about 30 yards from sure death. As he looked up into the face of the observer, he felt complete hopelessness. The young soldier bobbed up and down slightly in the muddy water, ready to accept his fate.

"Captain Bennington, cease fire! Somethin ain't right about this. Now that the Tali has cleaned up a bit, he don't look like no Muslim fighter to me."

The pilot took his finger away from the trigger but left the gun ready to fire. He could see John now more clearly. The terrified young man in the water looked him directly in the eye.

"You're right Sarge, now that the mud is off him, he looks like any bloke you might see having a pint of ale in a London pub."

The sergeant agreed, "Since he's completely harmless in the water, perhaps we should put the heli down on the bank there and have him come over to us for a little chat. Maybe he's some Yank out for a stroll."

Bennington nodded and said, "Good idea. You keep him covered with your pistol while we figure this all out."

The 20 mm gun pointed John's way as the helicopter oriented itself for a landing. It did no more firing though. That's when John realized that perhaps he wasn't a dead man yet.

A figure dressed in British desert camo emerged from the passenger side of the bird and motioned with his pistol for John to climb up the river bank. John waded out of the water and raised both hands as he advanced towards the man.

"Speak any English, do you mate?" asked the British soldier in a deep accent.

John grinned and replied back immediately, "Sure do friend, and by the way, will that bird of yours hold three?"
Chapter 21

Angela's journey deep into the mountains was a never ending nightmare. Rather than making up a litter to carry her, the men just dragged their captive. Bashir and Azamet each took an arm and pulled her along. Every rock and brush jarred her legs with excruciating pain. Eventually she lost all feeling in the lower part of her body, which was a blessed relief from the misery.

The men stopped only for occasional breaks to eat small pieces of some hard bread, and drink a little from an old Soviet canteen that Bashir kept tied around his waist. Oddly enough, Khalid never shared with the job of helping move Angela. Just as dawn was breaking, the three men and their captive entered a small mountain village.

After setting Angela down, Bashir and Azamet began hollering in Afghani. They made a huge production of shouting into the doorways or windows of the dozen or so huts that made up the tiny community. Slowly the villagers emerged from their houses rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. They were curious about all the commotion. When a tall dignified man stepped out of the biggest house, everyone fell silent. Angela noticed that he was dressed in the usual Afghan garb, but his clothes seemed to be cleaner and newer. Bashir approached the tall man, and whispered something in his ear. After listening, the dignified man snapped his fingers twice and two middle-aged males appeared at his side. He spoke sharply to them and they hustled over to Khalid's side. The Chechen straightened himself up with some difficulty and was led into a hut by the two men. Angela's eyes widened in amazement as she saw where blood had soaked Khalid's clothes at the waist. Her second bullet had found its mark after all!

The two unhurt Chechens resumed their loud one-sided conversation with the villagers. They made a huge production out of belittling Angela. They poked her and pulled at her hair. They lifted her arm up over her head so that everyone could see the flag of the United States on her uniform sleeve. For all their theatrics, the two Chechen men did not seem to get the reaction that they desired from the villagers. Most of the residents simply watched in silence, showing no emotion at all. This angered the two men and their actions turned from bragging triumph, to anger. Azamet strode over to Angela and without warning, kicked her in the side. He then gestured at the crowd of people to do the same. When none of them accepted his offer, he leaned over to the helpless girl, roughly grabbed her by the hair, and spat into her face. Angela glared back at him with eyes full of rage. The tall man who had been silently standing in the circle spoke rapidly to the attackers. It was clear that he did not approve of their behavior towards the helpless girl.

As Angela wiped the saliva from her face, the tall man came over and spoke to her. In broken English he explained that it was an Afghani custom to treat all visitors as friends, regardless of which side they were on. He finished by saying that as long as she was in this village, she would be safe. Completely ignoring the two speechless Chechens, he helped Angela up, and supported her as they entered his house. He helped her lay down on a cot in a back room and then brought her a flask of water. The pilot's legs had regained some of their feeling and she winced as sharp bursts of pain shot through her lower body. The village elder seemed to sense her discomfort and quickly went into another room. He returned shortly with a small bottle of white pills. He indicated to her by holding up two fingers that she should take a couple of the pills. The thought occurred to her that this could be poison, but when she looked into his kind eyes, she realized he meant only to help her. She took the two pills with a swallow of water and laid back down. The relief from her pain came surprisingly quickly. A blessed sense of drowsiness came over her too, and she drifted off into a deep sleep.

While she slept, the two healthy Chechens stayed outside in the village square and continued lecturing the town's people. It was clear that they had expected the villagers to have a different attitude towards the captured American girl than they were getting. What the Chechens didn't understand was that most villagers in Afghanistan don't care at all about politics or which side was in power. What was most important to them was that they be left alone to go about their lives as they had for centuries. That meant farming a few crops, and raising a few goats and sheep.

Another important aspect of their lives was kindness to strangers. Any visitor was welcomed and treated like a relative as long as the stranger showed the same kind of respect in return. When the village people watched Angela being abused, they at once realized that the Chechen trio were not to be trusted. No respectable man would abuse a woman. That sort of behavior was never tolerated in Afghani culture.

Eventually, Azamet and Bashir ended their tirade and sat down. With deep scowls on their faces they grumbled quietly between themselves. After a few minutes, Bashir stood up and with a purposeful stride, headed towards a chicken coop. With a loud bang, he kicked the door open, and captured two unsuspecting hens. With a quick twist of their necks, he killed them both. He then grabbed the nearest woman by the arm, and gave her the two dead birds. By gesturing, and with a few words, he made it clear that he wanted the woman to clean and cook the chickens.

Angela awoke to the sounds of pots being clashed together. She tried to resume her sleep but could only doze. The smell of something cooking registered in her brain. Her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten in a long while. She was able to sit up and view her surroundings. A woman whom she assumed to be the village chief's wife, was moving purposely around an old wood burning stove. When she saw that Angela was awake, she brought her a steaming mug full of delicious chicken broth. After letting the liquid cool, Angela drank every last drop. The soup spread a warm glow in both her heart and stomach. She was amazed at how kindly she was being treated. It was in complete contrast as to how she had been treated by the three Chechen men.

A few minutes later, the village chief entered the house and told Angela that her bed was needed and that she could rest in the sun just outside the house. The kind chief took Angela outside and helped her sit. She leaned against the mud building and soaked up the sun's rays. She could feel the circulation once again flowing through her legs, and although they throbbed painfully, this was a good sign that they were healing. As Angela rested, she was surprised by two men from the village, who struggled past her carrying Khalid. The terrorist's eyes were closed and he appeared to be unconscious. She watched as they disappeared into the hut. Angela realized who would be occupying her bed. Fully alert, she looked across the courtyard and saw that Azamet and Bashir were just about finished with their stolen dinner. They glared at her but said nothing. As the two village men exited the chief's hut, Bashir barked out to them, and waved them over to where he sat. Once they got there, he and Azamet shouted out several orders, to which the village men simply nodded, and disappeared from Angela's view. She heard sounds of chopping, and a while later, the village men appeared carrying two long poles. They carefully laid the poles down in front of the Chechen men and spread a blanket out between them. As Angela watched, they punched holes in the corners and sides of the blanket. Then, they carefully wove a cord through the holes, which attached the blanket to the poles. When the men were finished, they had a device similar to a stretcher. While all of this was going on, the village chief came and sat beside her. He explained that the two healthy terrorists had decided to leave the wounded Khalid in the village. It would be Allah's will whether he survived and rejoined his two comrades, or died. He then stated that the stretcher was for her. The two village men had been chosen to carry her so that the terrorists could move quicker through the mountains. When he was finished speaking, a grave look came over the old man's face. "Your journey will be very difficult and dangerous. The Chechens don't even know exactly where they are going. You may be up in the mountains for a very long time. They are going to take you to the greatest terrorist of all. You know him as Osama Bin Laden."
Chapter 22

John's flight in the British helicopter was cramped but brief. The bird landed at a dusty airstrip on the outskirts of a small busy town. As John exited the aircraft, Sgt. Muldoon spoke to him, "Welcome to Lashkar Gah, a little slice of England just on the edge of hell." As John followed the big man into a nearby building, he was amazed at the amount of activity going on around him. They came to a door that had the name "Colonel Waverly" stenciled neatly on it. Sgt. Muldoon knocked once, and when a voice inside told him to enter, both he and John did.

The colonel spoke up, "Muldoon, you have brought me that crafty Yank who was able to outrun the Tali. Good work Sergeant, you've earned an extra ration of rum tonight. Now run off while I pick the brains of this new mate of ours." John wasn't used to the accents and lingo that the Brits spoke, so he simply nodded. After the co-pilot had left, the colonel stuck out his hand and said, "Ian Waverly, colonel of his Majesty's 16th Air Assault Brigade."

John shook his hand and said, "My name is John Lyons, and I am an American Army door gunner. It is a relief and a pleasure to meet you, sir, but I just don't have time for a debriefing." The old colonel looked at him strangely, but said nothing. He nodded for him to go on. John continued, "I left the pilot of my helicopter behind. She is hidden and injured. I need to get help to her as soon as possible. If we don't get there quickly, the Taliban will surely find and kill her."

The colonel stared silently at John for several moments. He seemed to be weighing his options before he spoke. "Yank, your pilot is an American, and her rescue comes under the jurisdiction of the American military. However, the nearest American military forces are a long ways away. It appears to me that your pilot needs immediate help. I will get the word to our allies as soon as we are done here, before that though, I believe we need to act. Come over here young man, and look at this map." John walked over to a wall that was almost entirely covered in a very detailed map of Afghanistan. The colonel continued, "Here is where you were picked up. Do you think you could find your pilot's position?" John nodded. After scrutinizing it for several minutes, he pointed to a spot.

"Sir, I think I've got it. The bird crashed about here, and Captain Robinson should be hidden just about here."

Waverly jotted down some information and picked up a phone. He punched a button so that John could listen in. "Corporal Mathiason, come into my office please."

An attractive but serious looking woman came into his office. "Yes sir," she said in a cheerful voice.

"Corporal, I want you to give the Yank here help with anything he needs. Get him a weapon, a uniform, and all of the rest of the kit he will need to be out in the bush for a spell. When you are done, bring him over to the building where the commandos hang out and send the two sergeants to me."

A gleam of mischief entered Mathiason's eye as she answered. "So you want me to go to the enlisted men's bar and find Toe Cutter and Wild Man?"

Colonel Waverly sighed, "Yes Corporal, get those two hoodlums from wherever they are. Let them know that they are to be on the flight line with all of their gear, ready for a mission. They have 15 minutes to get there."

Mathiason saluted, and motioned for John to follow her. After a short walk, they entered a cavernous warehouse in which British soldiers were scurrying rapidly about in all directions. John gave her a questioning look. She caught on immediately and explained, "Our base is being shut down. As soon as that happens, our allies, the Afghan Army, will take over the entire place and we get to go home! I have a son and daughter that I haven't seen in over a year. They are my angels, and I can't wait to be with them. The sooner we get everything tidied up here, the quicker we can all go!"

As they worked their way through a maze of boxes and crates, she found a young soldier with a clipboard. "Sprog, we need kit for this Yank. He's about to be off into the bush with Wild Man and Toe Cutter. Make sure he gets all that he needs." The soldier with the clipboard nodded. She looked back at John and continued, "When you are done here, meet me back at my office. I've got one more thing to do." With that, the efficient woman headed back outside.

Sprog, whose real name John never found out, got him "kitted" out very quickly. He was given a new blouse and jacket, web harness, helmet and canteen, but no weapons or ammunition. When he asked about them, Sprog explained that since John wasn't a British soldier, regulations stated that it would be impossible to issue him any type of British weapon. John thought about arguing the issue, but because of his experience in dealing with military rules, he knew that it would be useless.

As he walked back to Corporal Mathiason's office, John was dejected. How could he be expected to go into Taliban country without a weapon? When he arrived, he saw the corporal in an animated discussion with two men who could only be Toe Cutter and Wild Man. Both of the men were listening attentively as Mathiason was giving the two commandos some last minute advice. She saw John, and made the introductions.

She turned and grinned slyly at John, "The sharp dressed chap here is Toe Cutter." She pointed to the other man and said, "The well-groomed fella is Wild Man."

He could see that the corporal was joking, because Toe Cutter was dressed in an old uniform that was dirty and poorly kept. It would have been quickly thrown into the rag pile by any employee at a Goodwill store. Wild Man, lived up to his nickname. He had a bushy unkempt beard that sprouted out of his face at various angles. Tattoos of skulls and gargoyles covered his massive arms. When he grinned at John, it was apparent that he was missing several of his teeth! The one thing John did notice was that although the men were both scruffy, their weapons and military gear were clean and well cared for.

Wild Man, who never seemed to lose his crazy looking smile, spoke to John. "Looks like we are going on this mission without you Yank. You've got no rifle, and no bullets. What ya gonna do, kill them Tali with yer looks?"

The two British soldiers laughed at their "joke" for what seemed to John like an excessive amount of time.

Mathiason turned to the jokers and loudly cleared her throat. "You two clowns can stop all of your nonsense this instant!" The men stopped laughing immediately and looked at her sheepishly. She continued, "Do you realize that while you are messing about here, there is a girl in those mountains who is trying to survive? This is no bloody joke. It is a matter of life and death. How many times have I helped you two out when you've managed to muck up some situation or another? Well, it's time for you two "gentlemen" to pay back your debt. Head back to your "office" and go through your stash of captured Taliban weapons. The Colonel has no idea of what you've got and what you don't, so give the Yank whatever he needs." She reached into her own pocket and withdrew a small pistol. "This was given to me by these two fellas for my 29th birthday. They took it off a dead enemy officer. I will be going home soon to be with my babies and won't be needing it anymore. Do either of you have any problem with me giving it to John?" Both men just stared down at their dusty boots and remained silent. "So, I have given you boys an example of what needs to be done, now get to it!" The two commandos nodded to her silently, and left to handle their business.

John took the pistol and admired the almost new Makerov. He looked up into Mathiason's emerald eyes. "How can I ever repay you for all of your kindness?"

A compassionate look came over the kind woman's face, "John, you can pay me back by finding that girl. She needs every bit of help we can give. Bring her back alive. When this mess is over, you can look me up in Cardiff. We will go to a pub, listen to some music, and I will buy _you_ a drink." She then turned to leave. "I've got lots of work to catch up on now, so good luck!"

He called back to her quickly before she got out of hearing range, "I don't even know your first name, and without that, how can I ever find you again?"

The playful smile had returned to her face as she called back over her shoulder, "My friends call me Nica."

As she faded into the bustling crowd at the base, John realized two things; first, when he needed a friend the most, she had been there for him. Second, he could never let her down. He would find Angela, no matter what it took.
Chapter 23

The Puma HC.Mk 2 helicopter streaked across the barren desert in a blur. John, Wild Man, Toe Cutter, and the two pilots were the only occupants. John, who had his flight helmet on, pressed the intercom toggle switch forward. This allowed him to speak to the commandos. "Why are there only three of us going on this mission?"

Wild Man, who had been sharpening his Sykes Commando knife, turned towards John. "Well mate, it's like this," he said, "The Puma, just like the Lynx, is a piece of rubbish. She doesn't have the guts to fly fully loaded in this blighted place. Because of that, we can never carry more than a few troops. The second reason is that me and The Cutter are the only two commandos left on the post. Since the base is being taken over by the Ghanis, all of our mates have been sent elsewhere. Waverly doesn't know what to do with us. We've been nothing but a pain in his arse, so he was happy to put us on this mission to help out our American chums."

Although the conversation made sense to John, he couldn't help but think that three soldiers, two of whom seemed slightly psychotic, would not be enough. The two commandos sat with a map between them. They studied it and ignored John. That gave him time to go over his Taliban weapons. He was most impressed with his rifle, which was an Ak-74. The weapon had been modified with a shortened barrel and a fold out butt stock. It was a compact little weapon that could quickly deal out a lethal dose of lead. Its dead former owner had kept it in great condition. Pop Hall, his mentor from the arms room, would highly approve. He pulled the Makerov pistol out of his pocket and examined it. Nica had kept it beautifully oiled and polished. He pulled the slide back and jacked in a round. The pistol functioned perfectly. It came as no surprise to him that such an efficient woman would take proper care of her weapon. As he slid the pistol back into his pocket, he pulled a magazine from his harness and examined it. He had six, all of which were old and dinged up. He removed one from his vest, carefully thumbed out a few rounds. He then pushed down on the remaining rounds to test the strength of the spring. He was happy to find that the spring had little give. It would be strong enough to feed the rounds into his weapon's chamber with no threat of a misfire. He tested the other magazines with the same result. Satisfied, he sat back and reached for a British MRE that Sprog had given him. He was famished, but had no knife to tear open the sturdy plastic that enclosed the meal. He looked at Wild Man, and nodded towards the Sykes knife. Wild Man caught on, and beckoned with his hand for John to toss over the meal. The crazy grin never left Wild Man's face as he caught the meal in midair, and bit a chunk out of the wrapper. He then spat the hunk of plastic down at his feet, and tossed the meal back to John who could only shake his head as he pulled items from the bag and began to eat.

The Marine patrol had just finished up from a quick afternoon break. Haworth was spooning out the last bite of chicken and rice from a plastic pouch. As he swallowed, the Sgt. cocked his head sideways. He snapped his fingers and then whispered to his teammates, "Chopper inbound. I give it an ETA of 3 mikes twelve." (3 minutes and 12 seconds) Sure enough, in just a little over three minutes the chopper passed over the hidden team.

Lieutenant Castillo ordered the men to freeze as they watched the British chopper. Castillo spoke quietly to his men, "Private Hobbs, get over here with the radio, I am going to attempt to contact that bird and find out what our allies are up to." Hobbs was the radioman who carried the squad's AN/PRC117F. He adjusted the radio to guard frequency, and handed the transmitter to Castillo. "British helicopter flying near the Helmand River and heading due southeast from Darweshan come in."

Castillo was pleased to hear a voice with a British accent answer back immediately. "Unknown station this is Piccadilly 6, if you have traffic for me switch now to Winchester frequency."

Castillo smiled. Winchester, was code name for frequency 30.30. "Roger Piccadilly 6, I am switching frequencies now." After a quick adjustment, he continued, "Piccadilly 6, we are a United States Marine Recon team on a rescue mission looking for a downed aviator. We could sure use your help. We have been unable to secure any air assets for our search. Over."

"Roger Marine One, we are trying to find your lost girl too. I have three assets on board that I will offload at your A.O. (Area of Operation.) Will that work for you? If it does, do you have any way of guiding us to your position? Over."

"Roger, Piccadilly 6, we could use the help. We will put a strobe light in the center of our position. Offload your package 50 meters south of the strobe."

"Marine One, I copy, am inbound now."

The Marine team watched as the helicopter banked and came around. It slowly hovered, and three figures leaped out. The men spotted Castillo, who waved them over. As he stared at the men he judged by their uniforms that two of the men were British commandos, the other man though was dressed in US Army pants, a British infantry blouse, and carried a Taliban rifle.

As the chopper flew away, the pilot had one more message for Castillo and his team. "Marine One, be advised that the weather is going to go bollocks on you. Kandahar Air Base has shut down all outbound flights. There is a whopper of a storm coming in. Winds will be in excess of 60 kilometers per hour. You men had better find shelter. From now on, you will be on your own. Good luck!"

The Marine team formed a loose perimeter around the three newcomers. Castillo quickly explained to them everything he knew so far. Although the news that Angela had been captured shocked John, he was able to accurately tell Castillo all that had transpired in the last few days. When John was finished, the Lieutenant spent a few moments silently weighing his options. Finally he addressed everyone, "Gentlemen, whether you are an American Marine, American soldier or British Commando, we are all here for the same reason. Our mission is to find Lt. Robinson. We will do everything in our power to accomplish it." He turned to the two Brits. "I am grateful to have both of you with us, but I must admit, I have no idea of your talents, or how you can fit in with our team."

Wild Man, who had been pulling at a thread on his uniform, jerked his head up and leered at Castillo. He strode right up to the Marine's face. "I am sorry I didn't have time to print you up a resume, but you have two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse on yer team. I am from a slum in London. When I was a lad my police list of crimes was as long as yer arm. The British constables told me that I had the choice of going into the military, or going to jail. So here I am. I'm a demolition specialist who is cross-trained as a sniper. So far, I have killed 23 of Allah's soldiers." He nodded at Toe Cutter and continued, "When the Cutter was a young lad, he lived in South Africa. At the age of 17, he ran away to Rhodesia and joined the Selous Scouts. He fought with them till they disbanded. They taught him to be tough as boot leather, and brutal mate, brutal! The rumor is that he cut the toes off the terrorists he killed so the other bad guys would know which scout done the killing. He learned to track them terrorists in Rhodesia, and it is rumored that no man ever escaped him when he was on their trail." Wild Man laughed manically, and continued, "Since Cutter only says about three words a day, I never could get him to confirm or deny those rumors." For the first time his face got serious as he finished, "Toe Cutter is your tracker and edged weapon specialist. I seen him do things with a knife that would make a butcher puke!" When Wild Man finished, he stepped backwards, and bowed. He grinned crazily at the gathered Marines, "At yer service, mates!"

Castillo, who seemed unimpressed, spoke with authority to the Brits. "I don't care where you came from, or what you did in the past; you are on my team now. As your leader, you will do as I say. Is that clear?"

To everyone's surprise, both of the commandos snapped to attention and said, "Yes sir!"

Castillo signaled for Grinder to come up beside him. "Take Toe Cutter, and show him the tracks we have been following. See what he makes of the trail they left, and see if he _really_ knows how to track. Have Haworth follow along with Crazy Man, or whatever he calls himself, and see if he knows how to patrol and pull slack for the trackers. Any questions?" When Grinder shook his head no, Castillo told him to move out.

The men moved out and the search for Angela continued. The team of Grinder and Toe Cutter worked well together. It seemed like whenever one tracker lost the trail, the other would find it. The men made good progress throughout the day. Eventually the country changed from rocks and hard ground to a land of rolling hills with low vegetation. This made finding footprints much easier. It began to seem like they were getting close to catching up with their prey.

Sometime after noon, light wind puffs began sneaking up on the men. They could mark the intensity of the wind by the arching of the withered yellow grass. As the day moved on, the wind puffs came more often and cut wide swaths across the grass. Grinder looked up at the cloudless sky and said, "It's fixin to storm." Nobody argued, because Grinder was always right about things like that. The increasing roar of the wind began to drown out everything. Soon clouds came, and they were big thunderheads. They piled up one on top of the other and the sky turned from blue to an ugly yellow.

Eventually, the clouds seemed to gather as one. They reached out and hid the sun. Something clicked in John's in mind. He shouted over the wind "We have to find shelter, now! It is going to start to..." About that time the wind changed to a hammering roar that shut off the rest of his warning.

Castillo gathered the men and shouted, "Let's split up and look for a place to find shelter. Things are going to get very nasty." Everyone agreed to meet back in 10 minutes.

Fear crept into John's stomach. There appeared to be no place to hide from the storm. Suddenly he saw Grinder standing on a rock and frantically waving, so he headed in that direction. The driving wind seemed to push the Terahumaran along like a tumbleweed. Without warning something stung John's neck like a bullet. It turned out to be the first of millions of hailstones that began to pelt the landscape. When everyone got next to Grinder, he shouted, "I see a village. It ain't much of a place, but it will shelter us for a while."

They nearly didn't make it in time. The full fury of the storm hit the men while they were still in the open. It struck with such a jolt that it seemed to suck the breath out of everyone's lungs. Hailstones began hitting with increasing regularity. The team raced along and entered the rock littered bed of a dry creek. They plunged around a tight bend and made out the village Grinder had located. Castillo motioned to Toe Cutter and Wild Man. The two British commandos rushed into the lead and began clearing a couple of buildings at the entrance of the town. They went through the first two buildings, and quickly came out, giving the team a thumbs up. Both buildings were unoccupied. The team split up and quickly sought shelter inside.

From the doorways, everyone watched in awe as the rain of ice smashed the grass and brush down. Anything, or anyone, caught outside would take a tremendous beating.

Tears of frustration crept down John's dusty face. He turned to Castillo, "Nobody could survive out there, and even if they did, the storm has wiped out every trace of the trail we were following! What are we going to do now?" Castillo had no answer. Toe Cutter surprised everyone by worming his way through the group to stand at John's side.

For such a big man, he spoke in a high-pitched squeaky voice. "Don't worry mate, although we've got no trail, we do have direction. The vermin we are after are like wild creatures themselves. They know these hills, and if we could find a place to hole up, so could they. So keep yer spirits up lad, we will find that girl."

After his speech, Toe Cutter smiled, and for the first time the men noticed that he had no front teeth! He looked and sounded so comical, that John had to laugh. The rest of the men caught on, and joined in too. The small moment of joy was over quickly. It would be the last laugh they would have for a very long time.
Chapter 24

Angela's journey was more comfortable after leaving the village. The two men who carried her were odd looking characters. To tell them apart, she gave them nicknames. The taller of the two had misshapen arms and legs. They were bent in an odd way, so she decided to call him Bendy. The shorter man had no beard with a long fat face with bulging eyes. Since he looked like a fish, she decided to call him Tuna. Although strange looking, the two village men carried her easily. Never once did they stumble, or allow the stretcher to fall during the climb into the inhospitable Afghan terrain. Never once did they complain about carrying Angela, or show any anger towards her at all. It was easy to guess that they had been hiking throughout these mountains ever since they were born. On the other hand, Azamet and Bashir had been in a foul mood the entire trip. Azamet led the group up, always up, but several times he seemed to lose the trail. When this happened, he would stop and question Bendy and Tuna. His way of questioning the men was to bark harsh words loudly and slowly. It seemed that either he spoke the Afghani's language poorly, or he considered them too stupid to follow simple commands. Bendy usually ended up searching for a bit, and finding the trail again for Azamet. This just seemed to reinforce the fact that the Chechen was a leader only in his own mind.

As the day wore on, Angela noticed that the men who carried her began to glance frequently at their back trail. At first, that gave her hope that someone was following them, and that her rescue might occur at any moment. As she studied the men more closely, she realized that they were looking at the sky. Bashir clued in to their uneasiness. He began to poke them in the ribs with his AK-47 every time they looked back. The third time this happened, Bendy and Tuna simply laid Angela's stretcher down, and refused to go any further. They sat on the ground alongside the stretcher, and looked up passively at the terrorists. This action caused Azamet to scream and threaten them with his weapon. When that didn't get the desired results, Azamet began to kick both of the men. Luckily the kicks weren't hard, and when the Chechen ran out of energy, he simply glared hatefully at the duo. Bendy waited a minute, and began to speak slowly to Azamet. He pointed at the sky and used his hands to mimic lightning and wind. He was trying to explain that a storm was approaching. As if to illustrate the point, a heavy gust of wind came tearing down the canyon. It sent stinging grains of grit into all of their eyes. The same storm that had forced their rescuers off the trail was about to strike.

Azamet moved up to Bashir and began speaking to his comrade in Chechen. After a brief discussion, Bashir traded places with Bendy as a stretcher carrier. Azamet allowed Bendy to take the lead. Evidently, they wanted him to try to find shelter quickly before the full force of the storm overcame them. Bendy began to lead everyone downhill. Although it was not the direction they had been going all day, the two terrorists did not complain. The canyon emptied into a long open valley. As they entered this valley, the wind picked up with a roar. The men had to hunch over in order to move. When they finally reached the lowest end of the open area, a trail appeared that headed towards a sheer cliff. Because of the intense wind, it was everything the men could do to keep going. Angela looked and saw Bendy take a sharp right, and then disappear! The rest of the travelers followed and found themselves entering a large cave. What struck Angela first was the smell. The odor was that of a barnyard or zoo which had never been cleaned. She nearly gagged. Her attention was taken away by the sounds. It seemed as if a thousand noisy animals were trying to be heard at the same time. The animals turned out to be sheep, and there were not a thousand, but closer to a hundred squeezed in. Bendy called out into the cave and a voice replied. The men laid Angela down, and she couldn't see who the speaker was. Eventually, she was able to see a very old man hobble up and embrace both of the Afghani men. After much talking and gesturing, he came and stood over Angela. He smiled a wide grin, bowed to her, then turned to the Chechens and did the same.

As the storm raged outside the cave, the travelers rested comfortably. Angela watched as the stranger entered a fenced off area where the sheep were kept. Although the light was dim, she was able to see the old man choose a young ram out of the herd. From his cavernous robe, he produced a long thin knife and a bowl. He then stepped over the ram's back, and straddled its neck. With a quick swipe of the knife he cut its throat. He held the bowl below the wound so that the blood could flow into it. When the ram expired, he dragged it out of the enclosed area. Angela noticed that a spike had been driven into the rock wall. The old man made a small slit at the back of one of the ram's legs. With Bendy's help, he was able to hook the sheep's leg on the spike. After that was done, the two men began skinning it. They worked so quickly and skillfully, that the job was finished in a matter of minutes. They laid the skin on the ground wool side down, and began cutting off pieces of meat from the carcass. These chunks were placed in a pile on the sheep's skin. When the men were finished, just the innards and some bones were left. Angela was surprised when the old man let out a piercing whistle that brought forth two dogs. They ran up and stopped at his feet. He spoke to them for a second, and then clapped his hands. The dogs then ran over and began to devour the remains of the sheep with gusto!

Leaving the pile of meat, the sheepherder retrieved the bowl of blood, and motioned for the men to sit down beside him. He passed the bowl to the Afghan men first and each man took a deep drink of the warm liquid. As they finished, both men looked up with bloody smiles to show how much they loved what they were drinking! When the bowl was passed to the two Chechens, they glared at the host and shook their heads disgustingly. The old man retrieved the bowl and put it next to Angela. Although the idea of drinking warm blood horrified her, she figured that it would be a good idea not to offend her host. So she bravely propped herself up, and managed to force down a couple of swallows of the thick liquid. It was warm, sticky, and consisted of globs that tasted like copper. She had never liked drinking coffee or any other warm beverages, so it was all she could do to keep the hot liquid from coming back up. The Afghan men seemed pleased at what she had done. By the time the bowl was passed to her for the second time, she was able to empty the bowl of the small amount that was left.

After the blood was finished, the old herder built a fire in the middle of a circle of rocks. He then moved a medium sized kettle next to the fire. The kettle seemed like it had been made during the middle ages. It was black from countless years of being used over an open flame. He took all of the chunked up meat and added it to the pot, and then poured in some water. Next he dug a small ceramic box out of his robe. Pinching out a tiny amount of salt, he dropped it directly into the pot. After the fire had burned for a while he rearranged a few sticks of wood and put the kettle directly onto the coals. The mixture began to cook and bubble. A pleasant aroma began to fill the cave. The smell made Angela's stomach grumble. It had been a long time since she had eaten a real meal, and she hoped some of it was meant for her.

When the "stew" had simmered for 15 minutes or so, the old cook used two unburned sticks to lift the pot out of the fire pit. He carefully carried it to an open space on the sand floor and signaled that everyone should come over and eat. The men completely ignored Angela in their haste to get to the stew. She watched silently as they sat down cross-legged around the kettle. The old man had but one spoon, and they all took turns using it to eat directly from the pot. It was clear to Angela that if she didn't get to where the men were eating, the food would be all gone. Since this might be her only chance to eat, and since nobody seemed to be paying attention to her, she slowly eased herself out of the stretcher. With great care, she propped her body up on her elbows, and tried moving her legs. The pain in them did not disappear, but it was manageable. With great determination, she slowly pulled herself along the floor of the cave. Her movement seemed to resemble a drunken crab, but eventually she made her way up to the circle of men. She startled the old man by grabbing his sleeve. He understood her need and gently helped her to sit beside the kettle. When the spoon came to Angela, she greedily dug into the hearty mixture, and brought a large portion of it into her mouth. It was greasy, and probably contained numerous germs, but it filled her belly and she could feel lost strength returning to her body. She and the rest of the men continued to eat until the entire pot was empty.

After the meal was over the two Chechens produced a sack of rough-cut tobacco and an old sheet of newspaper. The makings of a cigarette was passed around to the men. All of them seemed eager to partake in an after dinner smoke. They carefully portioned out the tobacco and rolled it into cigarettes using small pieces of newspaper. When their ritual was complete, they pulled a burning stick from the fire, and lit their creations. The stench of the tobacco was as foul as anything Angela had ever smelled. She crawled back to her stretcher in disgust.

Azamet rose and walked towards the back of the cave. He stood facing the wall and relieved himself. He had to walk past Angela to get back to his spot. As he went past her, she pulled at his robe and signaled that she needed to go to the bathroom. He simply shrugged, and jerked his thumb toward the mouth of the cave. Angela assumed that she had been given permission to handle her business outside. Although the wind was still blowing considerably, she was able to crawl to a boulder for shelter. She took care of her needs as quickly as possible, but it took a long time. Angela was surprised when nobody came to check on her. So she decided to remain out a little while longer to study her surroundings. The landscape was far from reassuring. Mountains towered in all directions, and clouds covered their peaks. Disappointed, she pulled herself back into the cave, and lay down to rest. She wondered why the men had been so lax about letting her leave. They must have figured a crippled girl who could only crawl, could never really escape. Her answer came a few minutes later when the old man brought the two dogs to the entrance of the cave. He spoke to them and they sat down. It was clear that with them on guard, nothing could enter or leave without everyone knowing.

The warmth and the hearty meal caused her to doze off. The next thing Angela knew, daylight was streaming into the opening of the cave. She could hear the men stirring as they began their morning rituals. The two Chechens walked past her with hardly a glance, as they headed out into the early morning light. They came back a minute later and pointed at Angela then Bendy and Tuna. The two Afghan villagers helped her onto the stretcher. They picked it up, and hurried out of the cave. The sunlight was dazzling, and it hurt the girl's eyes. She immediately noticed that the wind had died down overnight. The new day dawned cold and clear. The old sheepherder came to the mouth of the cave and handed his two friends a sack that she found out later contained dried sheep meat. He pressed into her hands a leather flask, which contained water. As she smiled at him, he bowed once, spoke briefly to the other men and then returned to the cave.

About that time, the two terrorists emerged from the cave. Each man struggled out pulling on a rope attached to an unwilling dog. Perhaps the Chechens planned to use them as guard dogs, or maybe they just wanted to torment the herder. The old man screamed at them and tried to take the dogs back. Without hesitation, Azamet and Bashir began to beat the man and his two dogs. Azamet swung his AK-47 like a club and viciously knocked the sheepherder to the ground. The two dogs went into a frenzy trying to protect their master, but tied as they were, they could do little to help. While Azamet was preoccupied with the old man, Bashir ran over to the two helpless dogs. He kicked them with savage glee. With a final stomp, he stood back to admire his work. It was over so quickly that nobody had time to react. Now with their initial shock ending, Bendy and Tuna began screaming at the terrorists. They dropped Angela's stretcher and strode purposely towards the Chechens. A burst of AK-47 fire impacted the ground right next to Angela. Dirt and dust blinded her, so she wasn't sure what had happened. When the dust cleared she saw Azamet leering at the two villagers. They were frozen in fear. Undoubtedly, they knew that if they did not cooperate, the next burst would tear into their bodies. Slowly, both of the men backed off and stood next to Angela. They glared in rage at the Chechens. Wordlessly, they picked up Angela and moved out towards the endless mountains. Azamet and Bashir followed behind them, their rifles ready for any potential rebellious behavior. As Bashir stepped over the bodies of the old man and the dogs, he spat down at them.
Chapter 25

When the storm began to weaken, Castillo had the Marines clear one side of the village, and the British commandos clear the other. The few villagers that were found were herded into the town square. The Marines worked quickly and efficiently. The two British on the other hand, seemed to be spending an excessive amount of time in the biggest building of all. Although no shots had been fired, Castillo was concerned about what was holding the Brits up. Suddenly, a piercing scream rang out from that building. Castillo grabbed Haworth and they sprinted into the hut. They gasped at what they saw. In front of them stood a tall dignified man who was obviously a civilian. Beside him on the bed was a Taliban fighter whose breath was hissing out of his lungs like a punctured tire. In a few seconds he gave his last gasp and expired.

The bed he lay on was covered in blood that came from a gaping hole in his stomach. Toe Cutter was just putting his knife back in its sheath. He had an odd grin on his face and a faraway look in his eyes. Wild Man spoke up, "Had us a Tali that resisted when we came in. Fortunately for us, he won't be causing trouble anymore!" He then began laughing as if it was the best joke he had ever heard. After a long while, he caught his breath and continued. "Before he died, the scum spat out a bit of gibberish. Perhaps Grandpa here speaks some English, and can translate for us."

Castillo was livid. His words to the commandos rang out harsh and firm. "If I find out that you tortured a wounded P.O.W. I will use every bit of my power to see that the both of you are punished. WE are the civilized people here, and we DO NOT abuse the wounded. When this is all over, I promise you, I _will_ get to the bottom of it. Now get out of my sight!"

The pair walked past Castillo with eyes full of hatred. Wild Man snarled, "You don't know how it is out here Lieutenant, the Talis, THEY are parasites! The only way you handle them is to treat them like the animals they are!"

The minute the British left, the old man began to speak. In broken English, he explained how Toe Cutter and Wild Man had entered the hut, found the wounded Taliban fighter, and began to interrogate him. Due to his limited knowledge of English, he couldn't tell them exactly what had happened, but it was clear that the prisoner had not been treated humanely. He bowed to the group, and surprised everyone by asking if they were searching for the American girl.

Castillo replied immediately, "Have you seen her?"

The old man nodded and spoke, "Yes, she was here two days ago, but the Taliban have her and carried her away. The dead man spoke before he died. He said that the woman would be taken to the mountain of caves. She will be presented as a gift to the most evil terrorist of all....Osama Bin Laden."

Castillo turned to his radioman Hobbs. "Do everything you can to reopen commo, and get help. We MUST get a message out that we are on the trail of Captain Robinson."

Hobbs stepped outside, adjusted some knobs and began transmitting. Although the storm had begun to weaken, the wind still howled. The radio man turned his back to Castillo to shelter himself. Several minutes later he turned to face Castillo. His face showed dejection as he explained, "Sir, I tried every channel I could to get a message out. Unfortunately, nobody replied. We will just have to hope somebody was listening."

Castillo scowled when he heard the news. "You did the best you could, but with the atmospheric conditions the way they are, and with us being boxed in by these mountains, I am not surprised." He turned to the rest of the men, "Get ready to move out. I will talk to the old man and try to figure out the way we need to go."

The Marine lieutenant spoke to the village elder, and got what little information the old man was able to give. With a vague idea of direction, the team headed out into the forbidding heights, to find the mountain of caves.

Six hours later, Grinder raised his right fist, signaling the team to stop. Some birds he saw puzzled him. Several big black ones reminded him of ravens he had seen at home. They were perched on a tall, dead snag. Every few moments, one or more of them dived down to the earth. Sometimes they flew back to the safety of the tree, and sometimes they didn't. He could hear more of the birds on the ground that he could not see. Years ago, he had shot a nice buck, but had not hit it well. He had tracked it, but not been able to find it until the next day. It was well hidden in a thick patch of brush. He hadn't been able to find it, but the birds had. Their squawking and fighting led him to the dead deer.

The tracker signaled for Castillo to come forward. "Lieutenant, I think we got something dead just ahead over that rise. Whatever it is must be big, because there are a lot of birds cleaning up the bones."

Castillo nodded to him indicating the trail they had been following up the valley for the last hour. "You lead the way Corporal, and we'll find out."

Ten minutes later, the Marines set up in a loose perimeter around the ghastly scene. The dead body of an old man and a dog lay out in the open. The birds had been at their business for hours, and their efficient beaks had mutilated the bodies.

While most of the men stood guard, Grinder, Toe Cutter, and Haworth searched the area. Grinder returned first, carrying a dog. At first glance the animal seemed dead, but as he carried it into the perimeter, it was whimpering quietly. Grinder looked up at Castillo and said, "Whoever did this is a monster. This poor dog has been beaten. I found him hiding in a cave. Years ago, I owned hound dogs that we chased bears with. They would get hurt sometimes. I tended to their wounds, so maybe I can help our new friend here." He laid the dog gently to the ground, and was surprised to see its tail wag ever so slightly. While the others carried on with their duties, he dug into his pack for a first aid kit, and began administering to its wounds. After carefully probing for broken bones, he determined that although the dog had been badly beaten, it had no life threatening injuries. He fed it some MRE chicken and watched as it began to recover.

Haworth approached him and spoke, "The perimeter is clear, so leave the dog for a minute. I've got something I need to show you." He led the corporal to a pile of boulders just outside the entrance to the cave. "Tell me what you see behind those boulders." Grinder noticed a couple of wet sheets of white paper. He knelt down to study the area closer. Suddenly it dawned on him that he was looking at several sheets of G. I. issue toilet paper. He looked up at Haworth who grinned at him. "Corporal, if you read this clue like I do, there is no doubt that Captain Robinson was here. As you know, G.I. toilet paper comes in a small pack with precisely 12 sheets. Every soldier or Marine I know carries several of these in their pockets. I am convinced that Captain Robinson came behind these rocks to handle her business, and then dropped the sheets of paper we see here. There is almost no chance that any Taliban would carry this item."

Grinder stood up and grinned back at the brilliant man. "Gunny Haworth, I'll find the lieutenant and explain to him what we have discovered. I am also going to see if he will let us bring this old mutt along too. Sometimes a good tracking dog is worth ten men."

They both walked over to where Castillo was standing and told him about what they had found. After seeing evidence for himself, he agreed with their conclusion. He called all of his squad together and gave them the message that they were on the right trail and that everyone should be ready to move out in five minutes.

When the call came to move out, Wild Man and Toe Cutter were nowhere to be found. Castillo was getting tired of their constant antics, and was in no mood for any further nonsense. He had the Marines search, and eventually the Brits were located on a rock outcropping that dominated the trail ahead. Both men crouched down looking at something in the distance that only they could see. Castillo crawled up ready to give them both a tongue lashing. He opened his mouth to speak but the view ahead made him forget what he was going to say. He found himself looking at a mountain taller than all of the rest. It was as desolate and forbidding of a place as he had ever seen. Wild Man had out the sniper rifle and was scanning the mountain with its scope. Toe Cutter had the spotting scope out and was peering through it. When he saw Castillo, he moved over and turned the scope over to the Lieutenant. Castillo looked in the direction that Cutter indicated, and was amazed by what he saw. The mountain was filled with caves. Even more ominous, was that many of the caves had wisps of smoke escaping from them indicating campfires. As he adjusted the magnification, he could see dozens of turbaned men scurrying around. There could be no doubt. He had found the mountain of caves!

Castillo left the commandos to keep an eye on things. He crept back to the rest of the Marines, and had them form a rough circle around him. "Gentlemen, the end of our mission is in sight. When I take you over that rise, you will see the mountain of caves. With my own eyes I have seen dozens of armed Taliban soldiers, and no doubt there are many more. We are going into a meat grinder up there with just eight Marines, an Army scout, and two British Commandos. The thing is we are going to have to go against everything we have learned as Marines, and try NOT to engage the enemy forces. Our mission has been, and always must be, to find Captain Robinson. We stand no chance of locating her if we are caught in a fight with the enemy. Keep in mind that we will do all of this by ourselves. We have been unable to establish communications with anyone. We only have each other to rely on."

The Marine leader took a deep breath and continued, "Private Lyons, I have a special mission for you. You are very familiar with rough terrain, so I am going to give you the emergency radio our British friends brought. It is light enough so you will have no trouble carrying it. You need to take it up to the highest point you can find and transmit until you get ahold of somebody who can give us some help. If you succeed, we all stand a chance to survive this battle and go home. If you get caught, or worse, if you fail to get ahold of anyone, we will all leave here in body bags. Crawl over to where Wild Man is and explain to him what I told you. Have him show you how to use the radio, and then get going. The route you take to the top is up to you, you must never forget that getting caught means a death sentence for all of us."

John nodded to indicate he understood. Castillo shook his hand and then turned his attention to the Marines. He began to get them organized for the mission.

John crawled up to where the commandos were. As he got to the top of the rise, he was amazed at the scene before him. The mountains were as high as any he had ever seen. The slopes were steep and covered with boulders and loose shale. The worst part was that they were bare of all cover. He couldn't see any way to the top that would keep him hidden from the enemy fighters. He slid up next to the Brits who were studying the mountains intently. John explained his mission, and the fact that it would be almost impossible to get past the Taliban soldiers undetected.

Wild Man had the sniper rifle up to his eye. He never bothered to look at John the entire time. He grinned a psychotic little grin as he peered through the rifle and spoke to John. "I think I got a solution for ya mate." At that exact moment, his finger caressed the trigger of the sniper rifle. The shot was barely audible due to the silencer attached to the end of the barrel.

Toe Cutter, who was on the spotting scope, whispered, "Ya got him! Head shot too! That is one more terrorist with a ticket straight to the underworld!"

Wild Man became serious as he spoke. "Yank, crawl over to that gully where that Tali is laying. He was all alone, so you will be able to strip off his outfit and put it on over your uniform. Since I got him in the head, there won't be no holes in his britches to worry about! Now you've got a Tali robe to match yer AK."

Once again, he laughed the strange laugh of a maniac. It was muffled, but there could be no mistaking the fact that Wild Man was not quite right upstairs. The laugh went on continuously as John crawled up the gully.

The dead enemy fighter was gruesome to look at, so John averted his eyes. The Taliban's outfit was dirty, and it smelled like rotten garbage, but the fit was good. John admitted to himself that by blending in with the terrorists, he just might be able to accomplish his mission.

He stood up slowly and waved at the Brits. They recognized him and motioned for him to come forward. He cautiously reentered their position. The rest of the Marines were waiting for him there too.

Castillo called him over. From somewhere the lieutenant had found a blue bandanna. He wrapped it around John's upper arm and tied it securely. He turned to the rest of the men and explained, "In the event that we do get into a firefight, don't kill the Taliban with the blue bandanna on his arm. Got it?" The men all nodded. He continued, "Our Army brother here has a critical mission. He must reestablish communication for us at all costs. We will give him as much support as possible. Our primary mission though, is to find Captain Robinson. We must do everything humanely possible to help her. So we are going to dig in and hide. We are Recon Marines, and recon is what we must do. We will keep the enemy under observation, and wait for reinforcements. In the event that they don't get here, then we will go find Captain Robinson. Are there any questions?" When nobody spoke, he finished. "Ok then, keep your movements to a minimum and get hidden. John, good luck, now move out."

As John began creeping slowly up the mountain towards the clouds, he took one last look at his comrades behind him. They were all busy constructing their hides. Toe Cutter was the only one who watched him as he moved along. The Brit's goofy, toothless grin was the last thing John saw of the team.
Chapter 26

Angela could tell that her captors were completely focused on getting her to their destination. There was little talking, and very few breaks. Tuna and Bendy had lost their smiles and perpetual good humor. They scowled at the Chechens and carried Angela only because of the AK-47s pointed at their backs. The clouds and fog had settled in and it was impossible for Angela to make any sense of where they were going. The only constant was that they kept going up, always up in elevation.

The motion of her stretcher must have lulled Angela to sleep. She awoke startled and sat up on one elbow. The group had stopped, but that wasn't what woke her. She had awakened to the sound voices coming from the trail ahead. The Chechens jabbered excitedly to each other and then called out to the unseen people ahead. After a bit of back and forth discussion, several men appeared and joined the group. To Angela, they didn't seem like the Afghan tribesmen she had seen before. No, these men wore turbans and robes, but they looked Caucasian. They had to be Chechen fighters just like her captors. They hugged Bashir and Azamet. "Allah Akbar," the Muslim greeting, was repeated several times. The newcomers came and studied Angela. One of them spoke up, and in passable English told her, "The tall man will be happy to get you." He then said something to the rest of them. When he was done speaking, all the terrorists laughed and screamed "Allah Akbar" repeatedly. Angela could tell this was not good news.

The trail ahead led towards a series of caves. The new men looked suspiciously at Bendy and Tuna who were carrying her. It was obvious that since these two weren't Chechens, they could not be trusted. A wave of fear suddenly came over Angela. If the Russians saw the two kind Afghan villagers as a liability, there was a good chance they would be murdered.

As they came closer to the caves, Angela could see that the entire area was a beehive of activity. Dozens of men were carrying supplies, digging into the ground, cooking over open fires, and doing chores that come along with living in the wild. They passed a long line of Afghan men straining to lug boxes of what appeared to be ammunition upward towards the top of the mountain. The Chechens hollered out a command and Bendy and Tuna stopped. Angela felt the worst was about to happen when the Chechens pointed their AKs at the two men and motioned for them to step away. The line of ammunition carriers stopped to watch what was about to transpire. To Angela's great relief, the two villagers were ordered into the line of men carrying the heavy crates. The load of boxes was redistributed. Bendy and Tuna were given their own load and as the line started moving again, they joined it. Angela realized that they were now "volunteer" workers for the Taliban. She gave a sad farewell wave to the last two friends she had, and watched as their backs disappeared over the next rise. Two Chechens stepped up and carried her now, but they didn't have far to go. The group trudged along for a few more minutes, until they came to a cave opening into which everyone entered. Angela was carried towards the back and put down.

The tired American worked herself off the stretcher. She leaned her weary body up against a wall and began to take in the surroundings. Lights and wires were strung above her head. For as far as she could see down the tunnel, it was brightly lit. There was a breeze blowing against her face, and she could vaguely hear the distant sound of machinery humming in the background. From these clues, she guessed that the cave contained a ventilation system. What surprised her the most was the size of the cave. The passageway was at least 10 feet tall and just as wide. Her mind went back to military briefings she had attended where her superiors had discussed cave complexes just like this. She felt a thread of fear creep into her mind when she remembered that the Army believed that Osama Bin Laden himself had overseen the construction of caves like this. He had done this when the Russians occupied Afghanistan. The money to build these complexes had come from the vast wealth Bin Laden's father had accumulated in Saudi Arabia. The fact that she was in one of the complexes built by Bin Laden, and the reference the Chechens made about "The Tall Man," made her very worried that she had been brought into his lair.
Chapter 27

Rather than trying to remain hidden, John simply walked up the trail towards the mountains. He had concealed the radio in the folds of his robe. Because of his dark skin, and the fact that he was wearing Taliban clothes, and carrying an AK-47, he hoped to blend in. A short time later he got a chance to test his disguise.

As he came around a corner, he startled a pair of Taliban fighters digging a trench. They paused in their work and looked up at him with a puzzled expression. The young soldier thought quickly and barked out, "Allah Akbar!" A look of satisfaction crossed the terrorists' faces and they both yelled the same greeting back to John. He simply smiled and kept on walking.

He began to encounter larger groups of Taliban men. Many of them ignored him. The few who looked up at him or made eye contact were always reassured when he shouted, "Allah Akbar." The only Muslim phrase he knew worked like a charm.

Eventually though, his luck ran out. He came around a sharp curve in the trail and nearly collided with a group of men gathered around a small fire. The carcass of a goat or sheep had finished roasting on a spit, and the men were pulling hunks off the carcass to eat. The nearest man gestured at John to join the group and began to talk to him in a language that he had no possible chance of understanding. The man who seemed to be questioning John repeated the phrase. It was obvious that "Allah Akbar" was not going to work as an answer. When John remained mute, several of the men became more interested in him and their suspicion seemed aroused. For the third time the terrorist repeated his question, but this time he scowled as he spoke.

John was trapped and he knew it, so he decided to speak. He replied to the terrorist, "You are an ugly son of Allah, and I bet you eat pork for every meal." To keep them guessing though, he spoke in Tarahumaren. His enemies looked puzzled and talked softly among themselves. After a moment, they seemed to come to an agreement, and motioned for John to join them in the meal. Several times men approached him throughout the meal and questioned him in different languages. He always answered with a shrug, or a shout of "Allah Akbar". After a while, they all drifted back to their meal and left him alone. The only reason John could think of for his good luck, was that Jihadi terrorists came to Afghanistan from all over the world. They had all come to fight the infidels, and spoke many different languages. They must have thought that he was one of these fighters from an unfamiliar country. He pulled off a hunk of meat and sat by himself. He ate quickly and then got ready to go. He shouted one final, "Allah Akbar!" and started again up the trail. When he looked back, the men ignored him and continued eating their meal.

Eventually he found himself on a high rocky point. Visibility was improving, and he could see more mountains towering above him. He figured that this might be the perfect spot to establish communications. He took a long look to make sure he was alone, and then crouched down and turned on the small device. "Mayday, Mayday, does anyone copy?" he called out on the guard channel. He was excited when he got an immediate reply.

"This is Bon Ami Seven, go ahead with your traffic."

John had a difficult time understanding the heavily accented voice, but he explained his situation and location as best as possible and waited for a reply.

"We read you loud and clear, Le Legion 10 of the Charlemagne Paratroopers are at your service."

John didn't know it yet, but the French Army was on its way.

The 10th Charlemagne French Paratrooper Brigade was a reconnaissance unit with a small outpost set up in the mountains not far from John's position. There were 36 paratroopers stationed along with two helicopters at the tiny base. Their mission was to observe, and observe is what they did when the weather permitted. Usually, their days were spent in isolation looking at nothing but fog. Their captain, a man named LeClerc, was strict about their mission. They had all heard his philosophy many times before about how the French Army was to observe and stay hidden. They were forbidden to go on the offensive unless directly attacked. He believed that the French Army should maintain their observation post and act as defensively as possible.

The paratroopers were getting bored though, and grumbled among themselves about how their present situation was no different from being on the Maginot line, just prior to the start of WWII. They all knew how well that worked out for their people.

When the radio operator received John's call for help, he immediately brought the message to LeClerc. The captain studied it carefully for several minutes before he spoke, "I think helping the Americans is outside of our mission. This is an American problem, and they need to solve it."

The radio operator saw things differently and, in French tradition, began to debate the opposite position passionately. "Mon Capitaine, these are the Americans who died by the thousands to liberate our country from the Nazis when our fathers and grandfathers were powerless. My village on the French Riviera, like many others, has a memorial to honor the dozens of Americans who died liberating it in 1944. This is a chance to repay them. We are the only unit available for many miles. I fear these brave men will all be dead before American reinforcements can arrive. I beg you sir, please reconsider."

LeClerc paced the floor of the small building, and considered all options. Finally, he spoke, "Get the men ready, and tell them we are going into battle."

Minutes later, the paratroopers stood at attention in front of their captain. He spoke to them passionately, "We have a chance to help our friends, the Americans. We will land high above the Taliban, and cautiously work our way down to them. Our helicopters will take all of the men in two trips. This will be the first time in battle for all of you, so remember your training. We will fight in typical French tradition. This could be the greatest battle our paratroopers have been in since Dien Bien Phu. Head out to the helicopters now, and leave a seat open in the front for me. I will be the first man out of the chopper. Dismissed!"

John looked up excitedly as the two French helicopters descended onto a hilltop and let off the first group of French fighters. In the distance he could see the red berets on top of their heads very distinctly. He could also see the Taliban soldiers scrambling around like angry ants. The Frenchmen began moving down the mountain and ran into a hail of Taliban bullets. It made John sick as he saw one paratrooper after another throw up his arms and drop his unfired weapon. It seemed like every Taliban bullet hit with deadly accuracy. With their leader apparently dead, he watched as remaining troopers sought cover in the rocks. John saw disaster looming, as the French soldiers became surrounded and outnumbered. They seemed shocked by being in combat for the first time. Their only option would be to surrender, or die.

Desperately he tried the radio again, switching from one station to another but he received no reply. Then miraculously, his luck changed. His call for help was answered back immediately by a loud voice. "Unidentified American soldier, this is Watchman, how can I assist you?" Communication, lost for so long, had once again been reestablished, and American help was on its way.
Chapter 28

Taliban soldiers rushed out of Angela's cave like rats leaving a ship. They ignored her as they ran past and took up defensive positions in their mountaintop lair. Even the Chechens went out, leaving Angela alone. Perhaps they believed that since she was crippled, she would stay put. They could not have been more wrong.

Finally, the French helicopters brought the second group of soldiers in. This time though, the Taliban were ready. Both helicopters were hit immediately as numerous enemy weapons opened fire on them. One helicopter exploded in midair, hurling bodies in all directions before it hit the ground in a mass of flames. The other chopper, although shot many times, managed to make its way down to the ground. It performed a controlled crash-landing about 100 yards from where Angela lay. Perhaps half a dozen paratroopers exited from the chopper. Although dazed from the crash, they tried to find concealment wherever they could. But there was little cover to be found, and these men had about as much luck as the first wave. Angela watched in horror as they were picked off, one after another. One paratrooper, obviously wounded, dropped his weapon, and raised his hands in surrender. Dozens of Taliban bullets hit him almost as soon as he stood up.

One soldier was a bit luckier than the rest. He had remained unnoticed as he hid alongside the mangled helicopter. While the Taliban were busy killing his teammates, he had a moment to look around, and spotted the opening of Angela's cave. Perhaps his red beret had fallen off, or perhaps he discarded it, but with no red hat showing, the rest of his camouflage blended in well. He ran at least half way to the cave before he was spotted. A running target is difficult to hit, as the Taliban soon found out. For their first shots at the running man were widely off target. As Angela watched in amazement, she began to believe that he would make it to the safety. But his luck ran out as he neared the mouth of the cave. The report of a Draganov sniper rifle boomed out and the French soldier was knocked three feet forward as the heavy bullet entered his back. His momentum carried him to the mouth of the cave but no further. His dead body lay just outside of the shelter. He didn't make it into the cave, but his rifle did. As he fell, it came tumbling down to land at Angela's feet.

She snatched up the gift from God and studied it. The rifle was similar to those she had used in basic training, and she was relieved to see that the clip was full. Dragging the dead body up to the lip of the cave, she positioned it sideways. She would use it as a shield from enemy bullets. Her luck held as she found six full magazines on his harness. She repeated to herself, "Though I walk through the valley of death, I will not be afraid, for I have the Lord on my side." She sighted in on an unsuspecting Taliban fighter and squeezed the trigger.

John had made contact with American forces and help was on its way, but it would take time to get to this remote location. He had hunkered down among some rocks, hidden, but able to observe the battle taking place just below him. He was surprised to see enemy soldiers being shot. The odd thing was that none of the French seemed to be firing. The Taliban were entirely focused on killing the last of the paratroopers, and as John watched, at least three of the enemy pitched over dead. They had been shot from behind. From his vantage point, John could look down and see where the firing was coming from. He was amazed to see that it was coming from the entrance of a cave just below him. It was too far away from the Marine position he had left earlier. The French were either dead now or would soon be, so it could not be them. The only other allied soldier in the area was Angela! The thought hit him like a brick, and he knew that she would need his help, and need it immediately!

Castillo and the rest of his group had been ecstatic when they heard the approaching helicopters. They were sure that reinforcements had arrived just in time. John's message had worked! Their joy turned to sorrow quickly as they watched the allied soldiers land and begin to be picked off one after another by the ruthless Taliban. Castillo did not know who the soldiers were that had flown into this hornet's nest, but he would not allow them to be executed while he and his men watched. He called out to the men, "Marines, what we are about to do is exactly what they pay you for. We will leapfrog up to that downed chopper using the fire and movement technique. Haworth's squad will cover first, while Grinder's squad maneuvers. We will try to make it over to the downed chopper and get help to those allied soldiers who are still alive and hiding there. Toe Cutter and Wildman will stay here with the sniper rifle to give us as much cover as they can. Let's move out."

His men let him know that they understood, with a "Hooah."

The last players in battle for "The Devil's Lair," as it came to be known, had just joined the game.

The terrorists fighting on the ground had the advantage in numbers, but the Marines had superior training and the element of surprise. Although none of the French soldiers left alive were shooting, the Taliban soldiers were focused on them. At first they didn't realize the threat from behind them. A dozen or more enemy died from a bullet in the back from either Angela or the Marines.

Suddenly from the mouth of a cave stepped a very tall man wearing a camouflage coat. He shouted down to the fighters. Whatever he said meant nothing to the Marines, but to the Taliban soldiers the words rallied them. They began to shout "Allah Akbar and Osama Akbar" When the allied soldiers and Marines heard those words, there could be little doubt as to who was directing the enemy.

Toe Cutter and Wild Man had been very busy as a spotter and sniper. Toe Cutter had no problems finding and directing his partner on to the numerous unsuspecting targets. Repeatedly, their rifle's bullet found its mark. Suddenly Toe Cutter spotted the Tall Man and directed Wild Man's attention to him. "Look at that partner, we got us a head honcho directing them Tali. I think he deserves a dose of British steel."

Wild Man found him in the scope, but couldn't quite get the angle he needed. He raised his head up to where he could see the target. The sniper scored a kill, but it was the Chechen Draganov rifle that did the killing. Wild Man fell backwards dead with a hole in the middle of his head.

Toe Cutter went crazy with fury. He snatched the sniper rifle out of Wild Man's dead hands and ran towards the enemy. He shot and worked the bolt of the rifle, killing several soldiers as he ran. Then he began tearing grenades off his harness and pitching them with deadly accuracy towards groups of the enemy. His bizarre tactics seemed to startle his foes, and they did not fire back at the giant commando who was speeding towards them. That changed though as the Tall Man shouted down more commands to his soldiers. Bullets started to impact next to Toe Cutter, and then several found their mark and entered his body. He shuddered from their impact. He screamed in rage, "You bloody vermin, there isn't a bullet been made that can kill me!" He faltered in his run, and stopped as more bullets impacted his body. He seemed to be searching for something in the distance. A huge grin came to his face as he found what he was looking for. With unbelievable calm, he steadied his rifle and made one last shot. The bullet meant to kill Tall Man hit low on his hip. He was spun around by the force of it and just managed to enter his cave and scurry off leaving a trail of blood.

A rifle fell to the ground slowly. Toe Cutter let it drop, and then for the first time looked down to his body. It was covered with blood. He fumbled at his harness, reaching for his last grenade, but his movements were feeble and weak. A bullet hit his arm as he was pulling the pin from the grenade and it dropped to his feet. Whether he still would have had the strength left to throw it didn't matter. As he stared down at the grenade the commando moved only his lips. "You bloody fools, I told you there was no bullet that could kill me." The next second the grenade exploded, ensuring that Toe Cutter and Wild Man would be together forever in Valhalla.

John had found Angela, he was sure of it! He burst out of his hiding spot and tore down the hill in a mad rush to get to her. The rocks and debris that would trip a normal person, posed no problem to the Terahumaran. His legs got in a steady rhythm, and although several bullets impacted near him, he felt no fear. He rushed closer now towards the entrance of the cave. A few more steps and he would be there. He almost got the word "Angela" out as he entered the cave. It was meant to be a shout, but ended up as a whisper, because as he entered the cave, Angela shot him in the chest.

Angela had seen the Taliban soldier rushing towards her. She steadied the rifle on him and waited. Strangely, this enemy had a blue bandana wrapped around his arm, but it didn't make the least bit of difference, because he would be dead before he entered the cave. As he reached the mouth of the cave, she sighted on his chest and squeezed the trigger. The shot was deafening, and she was satisfied to see his body shudder, and then fall backwards. Oddly though, he whispered something just as he hit the ground. Horror and shock entered her mind as she realized he had called out "Angela." As she looked into the face of the man she had killed, she realized that it was John.

Castillo's men were unaware of the other events taking place around them. Their sole purpose was to make it to the helicopter. From the opposite direction came a group of Chechen fighters headed for the same objective. They had come a long way from what was known as the former Soviet Union, and had been tested in many battles. They had a special hatred towards the American Marines who reminded them of their former Russian masters. They had easily killed the helpless French, and would take great satisfaction to doing the same to the Americans.

As the Marines worked their way up the slope, Taliban bullets began to pepper them. Hobbs, the radioman was the first to die with a bullet through his throat. Castillo took a bullet to the abdomen and fell to the ground writhing in pain. In the first few minutes, the Americans had lost their leader and their communications man.

Haworth though, rallied the rest of the Marines. It seemed he was everywhere at once giving his men the courage and confidence when they needed it the most.

Grinder had just passed through a small field of boulders when he took a bullet to the leg. The AK bullet shattered his femur and halted his progress. He and the dog took cover among the rocks and he assessed the wound. "Looks like I won't be running a marathon any time soon partner." he said to the dog. "Let me doctor up this leg and see if we can get back into the fight." Because he was busy tending to his wound, the corporal was not as attentive to what was happening around him, as he should have been. The Chechen who had shot him was hidden amongst the rocks. He had seen the Marine go down after the shot, and intended to make sure he was dead. Bashir crept carefully through the rocks keeping concealed like a leopard stalking a gazelle. As he eased along, he was eventually able to make out the form of the Marine. He carefully lifted his AK and pointed it at the back of the Grinder's head. "I've got you now!" Bashir whispered to himself.

At that precise moment, a monster exploded out of the brush and leaped on Bashir. The monster had its jaws open and attacked the terrorists with a mouth full of teeth. As he struggled with the beast, his weapon dropped. Bashir frantically clawed for it. The beast however kept attacking him with a ferocity born of extreme hatred. "Cobaka!" The Chechen cried out in terror. It was the last word he ever spoke. Fueled by rage, the animal's strength was too much for Bashir. He slumped over helplessly as the beast tore him to ribbons. Sometime later, it took every bit of strength Grinder had, to pry the dog's mouth loose from the throat of the lifeless Bashir.

As Angela cradled John's head in her arms, she vaguely heard the roar of many helicopters as they descended into the valley. The cavalry, the 10th Mountain Division, had arrived. Dozens of American helicopters broke through the haze and dropped off scores of troops. Numbers would eventually decide this battle, and finally the numbers were on the Americans' side.

The heart broken woman wept in grief. She whispered to John telling him how sorry she was, and how much she loved him for his uncompromising bravery. As she lay stroking his head, a figure emerged at the entrance of the cave. The figure spoke in broken English and simply said, "Lady, I am here for you."

Figuring that it was a French soldier who was ready to bring her down to the allies, she simply replied, "I am not ready to go yet."

The sound of evil laughter filled the cave, and ominously she heard the unmistakable sound of a rifle bolt closing. She dropped John and jerked her body around. Before her stood Azamet. He was covered in dust, and blood was oozing from his face. His beard was caked with a mixture of dried blood and dirt. It formed a grotesque mask of filth. His eyes though, held her attention. She had never seen eyes filled with such hatred. . No doubt, that anger was directed at her. "Oh, you are ready to go alright," he laughed as he spoke, "Go straight to hell."

With that, he raised the rifle and pointed it at her head. A shot rang out; Angela fell.

Another shot rang out, and then in rapid succession, several more came. Azamet's face turned from smugness to a look of amazement as hole after hole appeared in his chest. Like a tree in a violent windstorm, he swayed wildly back and forth. He then crumpled to the ground, never to move again. It was a pistol formerly owned by Corporal Mathiason, which had finished him off.

John struggled to get up from under Angela's body. He threw the small pistol down, and used both arms to lift her up. He looked into her face and felt an intense hopelessness as her eyes stared blankly into his. Suddenly, her eyes began to flutter. Her eyes locked onto his and an incredible look of disbelief spread across her face.

John groaned and lay back on the ground. He said nothing, but instead pulled open the Taliban robe and fumbled around until he found the inside pocket of his shirt. Very delicately he pulled out an object and held it up for Angela to see. It was bent and distorted from the impact of a bullet. Still readable were the words on it, "Omak Suicide Race Winner." It was the coin Billy had given John for luck, and it had done its job incredibly well. Angela grinned and they hugged each other tightly.

Later when the two compared stories it turned out that when Angela shot John, the coin stopped the bullet from entering his body. He was knocked unconscious by the heavy blow to his chest. He remembered nothing about the event until Angela dropped him when she turned towards Azamet. The drop had jarred him awake. He was just aware enough to perceive the threat of Azamet. He slipped the pistol from his blouse and was able to eliminate that threat forever.

Sometime later, after the firing had stopped, the pair cautiously emerged from the cave. John had discarded his Taliban robe and once again looked the part of an allied soldier. For the last time he carried Angela. They went down the slope and into the allied perimeter.

Helicopters swarmed the area like angry bees. The wounded French and American soldiers were being tended to. Medics surrounded John and Angela. Their wounds were checked, and they were quickly loaded onto a helicopter.

As the chopper took off, a weak voice greeted them. "John, over here." The two crawled further into the medivac, and John was pleasantly surprised to see Cpl. Grinder. His leg was heavily bandaged and he seemed to be in no physical pain, yet he was silently weeping.

John scooted up next to him and said, "Grinder, this is Captain Robinson. We did it. We rescued her!" The Marine however just kept weeping and gestured at a green blanket that covered something John could not see.

The grief stricken Marine managed to pull himself together and explain. "It's Sgt. Haworth. He is laying under there, dead. He saved us when we all should have been killed. He was wounded seven times, but never gave up until a bullet hit him in the throat. We will never be able to replace him. There will never be another John Haworth." The grieving Marine hugged a dog lying next to him, and silently stared off into space.

Angela had been rescued. It had been a team effort with soldiers fighting from all branches of the armed forces; including French and British soldiers. They had all fought with bravery and loyalty to their team. As often happens though, when the dogs of war are unleashed, some paid the ultimate price.
Chapter 29

The ceremony was huge, and there were representatives from the French Army, The British Army, The United States Marine Corps, and The United States Army.

John and Angela stood side by side in their Army fatigues. Next to them stood Mathiason and Waverly. They both looked very sharp in their British uniforms.

John's friends the Marines stood at attention in the next row. Several of them were still suffering from their wounds. Sadly, two sets of flawlessly spit shined boots sat off to one side. A couple of rifles held up by their bayonets stuck in the ground were slightly behind the boots. A pair of helmets rested on top of the rifles, symbolizing Hobbs and Haworth.

With much pomp and ceremony, the French arrived last. They looked splendid in their colorful uniforms. In the group were several survivors of the battle, and they had been decorated generously with medals.

An American general spoke about the sacrifices all of the brave men and women had made to save Angela. He pointed out the fact that some men from each branch involved couldn't be there because they had made the ultimate sacrifice. He talked of bravery, commitment, and above all the heroism of the people who had saved the Army captain.

Towards the end, the medal ceremony began. The Brits had the highest medals to award, so they went first. Toe Cutter, and Wild Man both posthumously received the Victoria Cross, England's highest medal for bravery. The citation read, "For having stayed at their post fighting against all odds to ensure that others could live." Mathiason, with tears streaming down her face, accepted the medals for the two dead warriors.

The American soldiers and Marines were next. Most of the Marines who had been on the team received the Bronze star with valor. Castillo and Grinder each received the Silver Star along with a Purple Heart. Haworth had posthumously been put in for the Medal of Honor, America's highest award. Everyone agreed that he had sacrificed himself to save his squad when the fighting had been the fiercest. This paperwork for this medal though, took much time to prepare. Its finalization hadn't been approved yet.

Angela and John's awards came last. They both received the Navy Cross, the country's second highest medal. Angela could now claim, along with being one of the first female combat helicopter pilots, to being the first American to escape capture by the Taliban.

When things had ended, the soldiers and Marines gathered afterwards in the parking lot to talk. A handsome bearded civilian escorted Mathiason. She explained to John that he was her new boyfriend, and for the first time in her life, she had a man that cared very deeply about her. John was extremely happy for the both of them. He handed her back her pistol that had saved two lives. Her boyfriend playfully took it from her and said, "Oh she won't be using this on me, only the most foolish man in the world would ever leave her!" Nica laughed and went on to explain that the military post back in England, where they had all been reassigned, had made a sort of shrine for the two dead commandos. The post's pub had been renamed "Cutter and Wild Man Pub." John and Nica both agreed that the two hoodlums would have been very amused at such an honor.

The Marines and the two soldiers gathered, and went over the battle again, as combat vets do. It turned out that all of the Marines would make a full recovery, although Castillo would be eating yogurt and pudding for a while due to his stomach wound. Grinder would be staying in the corps, but would always walk with a limp. His service dog, whom he had rescued from the Taliban, would be allowed to accompany him.

Finally, as the others drifted away, John and Angela stood facing each other. The captain asked John what his plans were. He laughed and said, "Since you cracked three of my ribs with your accurate shooting, I get thirty days leave to recover. I am going to head to Texas to a diner I know of, and wait there till my friend shows up. I need to return something to him." He reached in his pocket and pulled out the dented Suicide Race coin that had saved his life. "After that, I don't know what lies ahead in my future."

"What about you Captain Robinson? After such a once in a lifetime adventure, what is next for you?"

Angela didn't hesitate for a second, "I am going to write a book to honor all of those who sacrificed so much to save my life. It is mostly going to be about you though, John, a Terahumaran Indian _brave_ , whose _run_ saved my life!"

John grinned. "Well, if you ever need a door gunner, you know where to find me. I don't work for cheap though, I require at least a 6-pack of Diet Mountain each day!"

Angela laughed and joked with him, "Oh I'll find you John, because I've seen you run, but you'll never be able to get away from me!"

John began to jog, headed back towards his barracks. His dress uniform was not the best outfit for quick movement, but it felt so good to be running again. He shouted back one last thing to Angela before she was out of hearing range, "Maybe I WANT you to catch me!"

The sun beat down as he found his rhythm. A knowing grin began to spread across his face. Maybe he did have some future plans after all!

Author Information:

"Brave Run" is my second book. I have published many articles in sports magazines too.

This book definitely got me outside of my usual writing!

I graduated from Central Washington University in 1987 with a degree in education.

As a consequence, most of my time is spent teaching middle school in Garden Valley Idaho.

I teach all of the middle school History and English classes.

I love sports of all kinds especially those that get me out in the woods.

Again, thank you for taking the time to download and read my book. I hope that you enjoy

Reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Phil Arnold

Parnold@gvsd.net

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