by D.I. Telbat
*~*
Extraction: Pakistan
by D.I. Telbat
"It's a bumpy ride, Artie, I know!" the soldier yelled through the headset over the helicopter's noise. "Try to relax! We're about an hour from the L-Z."
Having never ridden in a helicopter, Artie's knuckles were white as he clenched his fist. Artie studied the two men across from him. The one who spoke was a big man with unruly brown hair. He had carried Artie into the chopper. The second soldier next to him was even bigger, a giant with a blond crew cut. Artie figured them to be in their early forties—not the optimal age for Special Forces operatives, but he knew they weren't regular soldiers.
"I haven't spoken English in years," Artie said as he adjusted his headset. "Do you know who I am?"
"Sure. You're Artie Stephens," the first soldier said with a wink.
Artie smiled awkwardly; he hadn't smiled in a long time, either. He glanced at the blond soldier who'd carried both men's rifles while the other had packed Artie across rocky terrain to the chopper. The rifles weren't the typical assault weapons. To rescue Artie, they had come into the Pakistani camp shooting. But there'd been no gunshots; only popping sounds came from the rifles.
"What kind of gun is that?" Artie asked the blond man over the thump of the rotors.
"Air rifle," the man said with a thick Russian accent. He held up one weapon. "Tranquilizer capsules. The enemy sleeps, see?"
Nodding, Artie faced the first man again.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Mac. This is Sven. Don't know the pilot's name. He's just a rental."
"How did you know I . . . was still alive?"
"To tell you the truth, Artie, I didn't." Mac shrugged. "We just go where they send us, and pick up who they tell us to."
The chopper occupants were silent for a time. The emptiness of Afghanistan's rugged mountains flew by as they left Pakistan's air space, heading west. Staring out the bay door, Artie was still lost in the wonderment of what he'd just been saved from.
"I was gone for a long time," Artie mumbled to himself.
"What's that?" Mac asked. "You have to yell, Artie!"
Artie tore his eyes away from the landscape.
"Everything is different now. I've been gone for a long time."
"The important things aren't," Mac said. "Trust me—if we came for you, it's because our head office was urged by people who wanted you home. How long were you gone?"
"Twelve, I think. Twelve years."
Mac and Sven glanced at one another.
"That's a long time, Artie, but it's not long enough for people to stop caring," Mac said. "You have family?"
"I did. My captors said the world believed I was dead."
"Doesn't matter." Mac dismissed the subject with a wave. "Till we can confirm a body, it doesn't matter what they tell us."
"But, I still don't understand who you are." Artie gestured at Sven's rifles. "What military uses those?"
"The tranq guns? Two reasons we use these," Mac said. "First, we cross borders all the time without permission, like this morning. The enemy isn't so upset if they wake up after twenty minutes and realize we spared their lives when we could've easily killed them. It's dangerous for us to use tranqs. There's a time lapse between contact and sleep time. But it's worth it, diplomatically."
"And the other reason?"
"You're a missionary, right?" Mac asked. "When you were taken, you were reaching the Pakistani people for Jesus Christ?"
"Yes. Two others besides me. But they were killed years ago."
"Well, what kind of voice would we be for Jesus if we were killing our enemies when Christ told us to love them?"
"What?" Artie frowned, not sure he'd heard them correctly. "Christian Special Forces?"
"We don't exist." Mac winked again. "Get it?"
"Okay, I understand." Artie watched the brown landscape zip past. They were flying dangerously low to avoid militant RPGs. "I have to know," Artie asked nervously. "Who's waiting for me? When we land, who should I expect?"
"I don't know." Mac shook his head and glanced at his partner. "Sven? You read his file?"
"This is not easy news," Sven said, warning the rescued man.
"It's okay. I've feared the worst anyway. Just tell me."
"Five years ago your wife died." Sven bowed his head as he reluctantly shared the bad news. "Your two children are in college now, but they wait in Kabul. We will take you to them."
Artie's eyes drifted down to his left hand. He opened his fist to show the two soldiers what he was clutching. It was a cross-shaped rock, perfectly crafted and polished.
"When I started this, it was a rock the size of my fist." Artie's voice choked. "It took years to chip away and polish. I made it for Susan, my wife. If it'd been found, I would've been beaten to death. Do you understand?"
"Sven and I have been captives ourselves," Mac said, nodding. "Me in India, and Sven in North Korea. We know the dangers and hardships."
"After so many years, this is all I have. I had no Bible, no prayer partner, no refuge. Only the Lord . . . and this cross . . ." Artie held the fashioned rock out to Sven. "Here, I want you to have it. It's all I have to give."
"Give it to your children. Use it to tell your story."
"I have plenty of words to tell my story," Artie said with sadness. He thrust the cross into one of the pockets in Sven's field jacket. "Please, keep it."
"It will be given a special place." Sven patted his pocket.
"Tell me," Artie said to Mac, "will there be a way I can contact my captors? Someday?"
"No one's ever asked us that before." Mac rubbed his grizzled chin. "What would you say if you could?"
"In secret, I told many of the men about Jesus Christ. If I could just get them Bibles—if they just had God's Word in Fusha, it would help."
"I see," Mac said, nodding. "Artie, sometimes we do come across missionaries in captivity who prefer to stay where they are for the ministry, rather than be rescued. Is that what you're telling me?"
"Oh, no, I'm very thankful you came for me. Believe me, their patience was growing quite thin with me. I was taking more risks every day. You saved my life. But you men are Christians. As you know, the message is more important than our simple lives."
"You want to reach out to them even after all they did to you, Artie?" Mac asked.
"Well, I do know them in a unique way."
"Most don't return to their captors," Mac said with an amused look on his face. "It's your decision, of course, but you probably want to clear it with your family. Maybe get checked out medically and all that, first."
"Like, maybe see a dentist?" Artie joked. When he smiled, several gaps in his teeth showed where teeth had rotted. "But don't think I appreciate this any less."
"It's cool," Mac assured. "No promises on a second rescue, though. That's up to the head office."
"Yes, I understand." Artie then addressed Sven. "How did Susan die?"
"The cancer."
Artie nodded sadly, and bowed his head for a time.
"I won't marry again," Artie stated decisively, raising his head. He contemplated for several seconds, and then added, "Yes, I'll set things in order, then return to Pakistan. That's what the Lord wants me to do, I believe."
"Do what you gotta do, Artie," Mac said.
"Maybe all I've been through was just training." Already, his spirits felt lighter than when he'd first been picked up.
"Training?" Sven looked puzzled. "I do not understand."
"Sure. Now I speak the local dialect perfectly. I've been to language school!"
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