by Tom Kratman
Francisco felt a chill run up and down his spine. The Brotherhood would never forgive or forget the death of one of their own. He knelt, laid his hand on the dead man’s forehead, and prayed silently for a moment. Even though the sentry had been of another faith, and probably guilty of many crimes, he would not willingly see any man in Hell, to be punished for all eternity. If it is possible, Lord, let his sins be forgiven him, he prayed mentally. May he be washed in the blood of the Lamb, and find mercy—and may we, too, be forgiven for what we have done this night. I don’t think we could have done anything else . . . but forgive us, too.
He rose to his feet. “Make an act of contrition, Esteban.”
The other bowed his head. “Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Father Francisco spoke the formal words of the absolution, making the sign of the Cross over his comrade as he did so. “This is to take care of things if we should meet more trouble tonight. See me for confession as soon as you can when we get back, and we’ll do it properly.”
“Thank you, Padre. What about him?” He indicated the body on the floor.
“Wrap him up in that tarpaulin. Tie it securely with plenty of turns of rope, up and down its length. Make sure there’s no blood left on the floor, or any sign of a struggle. Get his ammunition and empty his pockets before you wrap him up. We’ll take it all with us, and bury him at sea. Find something heavy to tie to his feet, to make sure he sinks and doesn’t come back up.”
While Esteban went about his grisly task, Francisco lifted the lids of a couple of crates that had already been opened. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw the rifles and ammunition inside. As soon as the fishing boat tied up alongside the quay, he hurried aboard and told Ramon what had happened.
“I want every crate loaded, quick as you can. The guard’s relief will arrive in two hours, and we’ve got to be out of sight before that happens.”
Ramon nodded, clearly shaken by the news. “They’re really serious about this? They brought so many weapons to attack us?”
“Yes, but they’ll have to get more before they can continue with their plan. Meanwhile, I and the others will train our people to use these in our own defense. Oh—load those cases of soap, too.” He pointed to two big cardboard boxes containing cartons of powdered laundry detergent, stacked next to a washing machine.
“But we have enough of our own.”
“We’ll need that for washing our clothes. We’ll use this for something else.”
Willing hands loaded the crates and boxes onto carts and dollies, wheeled them out to the fishing boat, lifted them over the side, and lowered them into the empty hold. They had to use the hoist on the boat’s mast to handle three of the heavier crates, cursing as the wood creaked under the strain; but no lights appeared in the houses farther up the hill, to suggest that anyone had heard the noise. Esteban slung the guard’s corpse over his shoulder and deposited it at the stern of the boat, along with a heavy steel mincing machine that would make a good sinker.
It was after three by the time they finished, the setting moons providing light for their efforts. “Hurry up!” Ramon hissed at his crew as the last crate was swung aboard. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
As soon as the lines were cast off, he put the engine slow astern, backed away from the quayside, swung the boat around and headed for the harbor entrance. Despite their urgent need to get out of sight, he held the speed down to what seemed like an agonizingly slow crawl until they were half a mile clear of the harbor entrance, so as to minimize the noise of the engine. Only when he was sure it wouldn’t be noticed did he advance the throttle, first to half speed, then, when they were a mile away, to full speed ahead.
As the vessel approached the headland, where the sea deepened as the bottom fell away steeply, Father Francisco tied the mincing machine to the corpse’s feet. Esteban helped him drag the body over to the rail. He intoned a short prayer, commending the dead man to God once more, then they rolled the weighted body over the side. It entered the water with a splash, and sank swiftly out of sight.
By zero-three-forty-five, the boat had disappeared around the corner of the headland. Alsamak slept on beneath the fading moonlight.
They reached Pescara at dawn. The other fishing boats were on their way back, and the women were preparing the processing sheds to deal with their catch. They ignored the blue vessel as it tied up near the uneven road leading up the hill to their houses.
“We’ll use Urbano’s shed,” Francisco decided. “It’s not in the harbor, so if they try to steal back their weapons, they’ll have to carry them further; and we’ll lock up the carts and trolleys when they’re not being used, to make the job harder for them. Esteban, run and ask Urbano for the key while we move the crates up to the door.”
When everything was inside, the priest thanked the fishermen for their help, and dismissed them to get some sleep. Esteban had woken Nicolau and Zacharias, and they helped lever the tops off the crates to examine their loot.
Zacharias whistled softly. “They were really loaded out! There’s enough weapons and explosives here to support a platoon in the field for a month!”
“Not so much ammunition, though,” Nicolau pointed out. “I don’t know how they expected to teach their villagers to shoot. They only brought about two hundred rounds per rifle. That’s nowhere near enough for training, let alone a fight.”
“No,” Francisco agreed, “but they probably weren’t going to teach them to be marksmen; only how to work the trigger. A group of people charging forward, shooting as they come—even inaccurately—will draw attention away from trained people moving in behind them. The villagers would have been no more than cannon-fodder. The Ikhwan have done that elsewhere.”
“So what do we do next, Father?” Esteban asked.
The priest heaved a sigh. “Will you all take my orders—not as a priest, but as a troop sergeant?”
The three nodded in unison. “I will.” “Yes, Father.” “Of course.”
“Very well. Esteban, take a few of the young men. Teach them how to use these.” He pointed to one of the crates, which contained a dozen two-way short-range radios. “I don’t know this particular model, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I want two people on watch on the ridge above the village at all times, day and night, to warn us if anyone approaches. They must watch the sea approaches as well as the path. Tell them to use their radios on the lowest power setting. It’ll be enough for short-range line-of-sight communication, and it won’t carry the length of the island to where the Ikhwan might overhear it. We’ll also teach them how to use a rifle, and arm them as soon as they’re safe with a gun, so they can protect themselves if necessary.
“Nicolau, I’ll assign a couple of men to help you. Cut the tops off some of the old fuel barrels stacked behind the processing sheds, and clean them out properly; then dig them into the ground at the base of the defile leading down from the ridge, to cover the path. Make wooden covers for them, loose-fitting, but secure against wind and weather.”
Nicolau began to smile. “I think I know where you’re going with this.”
“I daresay you do. That’ll take you two or three days before the next step. Zacharias, while he’s doing that, you and I will clean all these rifles, load all the magazines, and check out the rest of the crates. I want us to draw up training plans for every able-bodied person in the village. We’ll pick a dozen of the best shots for more advanced training.”
“Got it. Mind if I make a suggestion? You’ve seen the young men with their slings, right?”
“Yes.” The youngsters competed with each other to hit impudent seagulls with pebbles as they tried to steal fish from the sorting tables. The stones were too small to hurt them badly, but stung enough to make them back off.
“Why not teach a few of the older, stronger ones to sling heavier rocks, the same size and weight as a grenade? If they get that right, we can give them some of these. They’ll reach out further
with them than we can by arm strength alone. We can hold on the spoons with loops of twine or cloth, so they’ll only fly off when the slingers release the grenade.”
“That’s a really good idea! Well done, my friend. Yes, do that.”
Esteban grinned. “I wonder what those extremists are doing and saying right now?”
“I imagine they’re furious with us, and blaming each other. Let’s hope so, anyway. They’re sure to send a boat to the mainland to get more weapons. I reckon we’ve got no more than a few weeks to prepare.”
“If I were in their shoes, I’d want to hit back at us. If they still have their personal weapons, some of them might try something—maybe even to steal back their weapons.”
“I think you’re right. That’s why I want sentries on the high ridge.”
Problems soon emerged. The priest was summoned to an urgent meeting of the village council.
“How are we supposed to earn enough money to carry us through the winter if you insist on taking everyone off the boats for training?” Pablo, the council chairman, demanded.
“How much of a living can you earn if you’re dead?” Francisco riposted. “You’ve all seen the weapons those fanatics brought to Alsamak, and you heard what Abdullah said they were going to do with them.”
“What if he was wrong? What if they’re just here to set up a base, and not bother us?”
“Why would they need a base so far from any major center? That makes no sense. Wherever they’ve gone, they’ve made trouble. They’re sure to be getting more weapons, even as we speak; and when they arrive, they’ll be coming for us. Our fishing boats can’t carry all of us, plus enough food and fuel to get us to safety. We’re stuck here until the freighter arrives at the end of summer. We can submit to death or slavery, or fight back. If we fight, we need to know how to fight and how to use weapons, which is what I and the others with military experience are teaching you—but we can’t do that if you’re all busy fishing. Make up your minds.”
After much debate, a compromise was reached. The council would allow a dozen men to join the four military veterans and receive training. The remaining three dozen or so able-bodied men would continue fishing, and share their catch with those learning to defend them.
“However, that’s only for the next four, maybe five weeks,” Pablo warned. “If there’s been no attack by then, I don’t think there’ll be one at all; so I’ll want them back on the boats. We can’t afford this distraction.”
“The man’s a fool!” Esteban fumed when the priest reported back on the discussion.
“No,” Francisco replied with a heavy sigh. “He’s just faced with a situation he’s completely unequipped to handle. He’s denying it, rather than dealing with it. There are many like him. He’ll learn soon enough—that is, if he isn’t killed in the process.”
“So who are they giving us?”
“I got them to agree we could have the younger men, those who weren’t as experienced on the boats, and who won’t be missed as much.”
“That’s good for us,” Zacharias observed. “They’re fitter, and more willing to learn than the old farts. Also, by the time they’re trained, Guillermo should be back. Hopefully he’ll bring us some more help.”
“Yes. We’ll divide them into six teams of two for the time being. Each morning, I want one team on the ridge as lookouts; one or two helping Nicolau prepare our defenses; one or two on the shooting range, training with their rifles or throwing rocks with their slings; and two teams sleeping after sentry duty the previous night. During the afternoon, we’ll rotate them among those duties, and the sleepers can join in. Every night, two teams will mount guard on the ridge, with their rifles, some grenades, and a radio to warn us if they see anything. We four will continue to divide our time among the teams; check out all the weapons, cleaning and preparing them; and work out the next training sessions.”
A few days later, the priest accompanied Esteban and the two guard teams for that night on the arduous climb up the ridge. Panting and puffing, they arrived at the lean-to shelter they’d constructed for the guards against the back of a large boulder. The team coming off-duty had built a fire to make coffee. Francisco frowned as he noted the thin wisp of smoke.
“Didn’t I tell you not to do anything that might give away your position?” he demanded.
“Yes, Father, but there’s no one here to see it. We’ve been looking all afternoon, and seen nobody.”
“Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”
The two shuffled, rebellion plain on their faces. “But it’s cold up here! How can we stay alert without coffee?”
Esteban tugged at Francisco’s sleeve, and muttered, “There’s no point in yelling at them. They’re not soldiers. They don’t understand military discipline.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The priest heaved a frustrated sigh. “On the other hand, there’s no reason we can’t take advantage of their mistake. I reckon those Ikhwan fighters will have been sneaking around, to find out what we’re doing. They must have seen that smoke, which means they know where our sentry post is. What if we stay up here with the teams tonight, and prepare a warm welcome for them if they try something?”
Esteban began to smile. “Why not?”
They spent half an hour examining the terrain in front of and around their position, selecting new locations from which to fight. “I think anyone wanting to creep up on the lean-to from the front would have to use that shallow draw,” Esteban said, indicating it with a pointing finger.
“I think you’re right. There’s also that clump of thorn bushes—they can get between it and the rocks behind it, masking their movements.”
“Yes. I’m glad there’s no moon tonight. They won’t see a tripwire until they hit it.”
Staying low to avoid detection, they strung two lengths of fisherman’s twine across the approaches at ankle height and attached them to fragmentation grenades. Francisco carefully pulled the grenades’ pins, then wedged them between rocks to prevent the spoon flying off and arming them until they were needed. They then sited the two teams of watchers in new locations overlooking the lean-to shack, warning them to stay awake and alert, and took up their own position covering the booby-traps. They took it in turns to keep watch while the other slept.
The priest was dozing when an explosion jolted him awake. He seized his rifle and shuffled up alongside Esteban as the other peered out into the night. “That was the grenade behind the bushes,” he said tersely. “They didn’t take the easy way in, down the draw.”
A moaning cry in Arabic came from the darkness. “Fawzi! Help me!” There was no reply, and the voice switched to English. “Hey! You up there! Help me!”
One of the youngsters half-stood in his concealed position, turning to look at the two senior men. He called, “I’ll go and—”
Before they could yell a warning or tell him to get down, a burst of full-auto fire came from the darkness. The young man screamed in agony, spun around, and fell across a rock. His rifle clattered as it struck the stone. Even as he fell, Francisco and Esteban instinctively lined their rifles. They could tell from the enemy’s muzzle flash that he was too far away to reach with a grenade. Each triggered five rounds rapid fire towards and around the position from which the shots had come. A muffled cry indicated a possible hit, but they didn’t move towards it. Instead, they crawled sideways, vacating the position they’d just revealed by their own muzzle flashes, trying to move silently, straining their ears to hear any sound that might indicate the enemy’s movements.
The radio at Francisco’s side vibrated silently, warning of an incoming transmission from the others in the village, but he made no move to listen or respond. He’d already turned off the speaker and the display, so that no untoward sound or light would betray them.
After a few moments of silence, the injured fisherman moaned, and his partner called in a panicky voice, “Rodrigo’s hurt! We must help him!”
The other man called again, louder, “We have to help Rodrigo!” His last word was punctuated with a flash of light and a blast of sound. He screamed, a short, sharp, agonized sound, and fell silent. Both men knew a grenade had found him. Almost instantly, they heard the scuffle of rapidly retreating feet, followed almost instantly by another explosion from the draw and a cry of pain.
“The bastard hit Emilio, then ran for it and hit our other booby-trap,” Esteban whispered.
“Sounds like it. We’ll wait right here until dawn. No sound, no movement.”
“Got it.”
Francisco used the radio’s keypad to send a text message to those below. “Stay there until we call you.”
The night drifted by almost interminably. They dared not smoke or talk. They listened to two sets of faint moans and gasps from out in front of them, and one from the position occupied by their team, which died away after a couple of hours.
As the faint half-light of dawn began to suffuse the sky, the priest signaled those below to begin ascending the slope. By the time it was light enough to see through the gloom, Nicolau and Zacharias joined them, along with four more of the young men under training. They waited until they could see far enough to cover each other, then Francisco and Esteban moved out to check on the sounds they’d heard overnight.
The two young men who’d so unwisely called out from their place of concealment were both dead, one from three bullets in his chest, the other from blood loss caused by grenade fragments that had sliced through his neck and opened the blood vessels there. Esteban spat grimly to one side. “We told them what to do, and they wouldn’t bloody well listen. We’d better make sure the others see this. They need to learn what happens if they don’t obey.”
