Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I told him Lieutenant Fahoud wanted the prisoners taken back across the canal immediately.”

  “Who is Lieutenant Fahoud?” Miri asked.

  Ali grinned. “The officer who interrogated us. He’s in charge of all POWs.”

  “So what’s he doing now?” Brad asked, looking at the guard inside the hut.

  “Calling Fahoud to check,” Ali said calmly.

  “Ali!” Brad hissed.

  “You think they’ll find him in this madhouse? If we get away clear, we are ten times better off.”

  “Get away where?” Nathan hissed. “We don’t even know where we are!”

  Ali savored the little surprise he had been saving. “One mile straight ahead and we come to the road that leads to the Mitla Pass.”

  “And how many Egyptians between here and there?” Nathan murmured, unimpressed.

  “You are on the perimeter of the forward command post,” Ali said proudly. “All the Egyptians are now alongside us or behind us. Why do you think Fahoud is so anxious to get you out of here by this morning?”

  “Then we’ve got a chance,” Miri said, breathlessly.

  “Oh oh!” Brad said between clenched teeth. “Your friend has got someone on the phone. He was waiting for a minute, but now look at him.”

  The guard listened for a moment, then talked back into the phone, nodding his head vigorously. He glanced out quickly at the jeep, then nodded again.

  “I think they’re on to us,” Brad said quickly. “All right, listen. I’ve got a grenade.” He handed it to Miri, ignoring her startled look. He eased up the rifle he had been hiding on the floor. “Miri, when I say, you lob the grenade next to the hut. Nathan, you punch this baby and move it. Stay down, we’ve got a dozen automatic weapons at our backs.”

  Suddenly aware of his pounding heart, Brad took another grenade from his pocket and eased out the pin. “Okay? Now!”

  The jeep shot forward as he lobbed the hand grenade toward the closest machine gun emplacement and whipped up the rifle. Ali was nearly hurtled off the back when Nathan popped the clutch. He grabbed wildly and caught Brad’s neck.

  “Hang on, Ali!” Brad shouted as the two grenades went off almost simultaneously. He threw his arm around his friend and hauled him down as far as he could into the narrow seat on top of him and Miri.

  The surprise was total, and it took nearly fifteen seconds for the Egyptians to react. But when they did, the perimeter erupted in a blaze of gunfire. Nathan had his foot to the floor and speed-shifted through the gears without lifting it. The jeep had blackout lights, but Nathan had switched those off at the gate, anticipating this very thing. The light of a half moon was enough to see the thin ribbon of asphalt stretching out in front of them. Nathan didn’t bother to zigzag, wanting distance more than movement. He cursed at the jeep in Hebrew, urging it to top performance.

  “Stay down!” Brad shouted as he felt Ali suddenly grunt and lunge upward. The young Arab instantly collapsed back on top of Brad and went limp.

  “Miri! Ali’s been hit!” He wiggled out from under Ali’s weight and squatted down on the floor, pulling Ali down onto the back seat. Miri, hunched down as far as possible herself, straightened halfway and tried to pull Ali’s head into her lap.

  “Miri!” Brad screamed, “get down!” Her scarf whipped off and disappeared, her hair buffeted by the wind.

  “No!” she cried, trying to straighten Ali’s twisted body around on the seat.

  The jeep was now five hundred yards from the camp, and at sixty miles an hour was covering eighty-eight more feet every second. At that distance they were no longer visible, though still within killing range of the weaponry. The Egyptian line was pouring fire in their general direction, but it was blind and spreading out widely across the desert terrain.

  A moment later Nathan shouted back at them. “Here’s the main road. Hang on!” The tires screeched as he leaned the vehicle into the corner.

  For a moment Brad thought they were going to roll, but Nathan knew his job well. The jeep went into half a broadslide, then fishtailed back into line as Nathan opened it up again.

  Brad leaned forward. “Ali’s been hit,” he yelled into the wind.

  “How bad?”

  “Can’t tell. How far to Israeli lines?”

  “Who knows?” Nathan shouted back, the wind whipping his voice away. “I would guess five to ten miles. Maybe fifteen.”

  “Will the Egyptians follow us?”

  “Not in anything faster than this,” Nathan responded. “And not when we’re headed toward the Israeli army.”

  Brad looked at Miri, who was staring at Ali and gently brushing his face, tracing the outline of the bandage on his cheek.

  “Is he—?” Brad yelled, not daring to ask.

  “He’s still alive,” she answered, “but he’s hurt bad.”

  “We’ve got another problem,” Nathan shouted back. “We can’t go slamming into Israeli lines at sixty miles an hour in an Egyptian jeep. Once we’re sure we’re not being pursued, we’d better stop until it gets light, and get off this uniform.”

  “No!” Miri shouted. “We’ve got to get Ali help as soon as possible.”

  Brad reached over and touched her hand. “Nathan’s right, Miri. It won’t help Ali if an Israeli tank blasts us off the road. Dawn is in half an hour.”

  “He’s going to die,” Miri sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He saved us, and now he’s going to die.”

  Twenty-eight

  They sat on empty ammunition boxes, staring at the closed flap of the tent that housed the Israeli field hospital. Brad was oblivious to the heat of the midmorning sun on his back, and incessantly smoothed the sand with the toe of his shoe, jerking up his head whenever someone came to the doorway of the tent, then dropping it again to stare at the ground.

  Miri and Sarah sat next to him, their faces drawn, their eyes red and filled with anguish. For the first half hour, they had exchanged occasional comments of encouragement and hope for Ali’s recovery. Then gradually they had lapsed into a bleak silence.

  The bloody carnage of war paraded before their eyes as helicopters clattered in from the front and disgorged their maimed and wounded cargo to be hastened into the field hospital. The camp was only ten or fifteen miles from where a massive tank battle was raging, and each new set of casualties bore witness that the Israelis were being badly mauled.

  Once the Israeli commander had verified the escapees’ identities—a task requiring over an hour, since the Egyptian lieutenant had taken their wallets and identification—he strongly urged them to catch a ride eastward where things weren’t quite so tenuous. But Brad and Miri both adamantly refused. Nathan finally talked quietly with the officer, and he reluctantly agreed to let them stay. Nathan went off then in an attempt to find transportation to his own unit, which was engaged in a desperate struggle of its own in the Golan Heights of northern Israel. Brad, Sarah, and Miri came to this spot to await word of Ali.

  Miri suddenly stood up. “Here comes Nathan.”

  Somewhere the Israelis had found Nathan a uniform and he carried a Uzi submachine gun on his arm. His eyes were deeply sober, his face almost haggard. Brad and Sarah stood up to join Miri as he approached.

  “My helicopter has arrived,” he said without preamble, taking Miri’s outstretched hands. He pulled her to him and gave her a fierce hug. “Captain Goldman has promised to get word to mother and father and let them know we are all right. As soon as you know about Ali, he’ll see that you all get back to Jerusalem.”

  He pulled away and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “It will be okay,” he said firmly. “They caught us by surprise, but we’re recovering quickly.”

  Miri forced a smile. “Take care, Nathan,” she said.

  Brad could feel the anguish and fear that lay beneath that simple farewell and suddenly remembered she had done this once before, sent a brother off to battle with a kiss and a brave smile. No wonder her eyes were glistening.

  N
athan turned to Sarah and, to everyone’s surprise, including Sarah’s, kissed her hard and long. “I’ll see you again, when this is over,” he said, his voice deep and growly to hide his emotions. “Okay?”

  She nodded through her tears.

  Nathan gripped Brad’s hand in that crushing grip of his, which Brad returned with equal firmness. “Brad,” he started, then shook his head. “What can I say? That’s twice you’ve risked your life for my family. We stand forever in your debt.”

  Brad took a breath and was about to speak, but Nathan went on quickly. “I hope to be able to say this myself…” He glanced quickly at the hospital tent. “But if I can’t—if you get a chance to talk with him, will you tell him…” Again his voice trailed off, and he looked away.

  Finally he went on. “Tell Ali I’ve known many brave and good men. He was the best. Tell him for me, Brad.”

  “I will,” Brad said. “I will.” He put his arm around Miri, who was openly crying now.

  “And tell him that I was a fool,” Nathan added lamely. “I wanted to tell him that myself, and I will if we both make it through this. I am so sorry.”

  “I’ll tell him. Good luck, Nathan.” Brad pulled Miri close as they watched him turn and stride away without looking back.

  * * * * * *

  It was shortly after noon when an older man in a khaki-colored surgical gown and with a surgical mask draped around his neck stepped out of the tent and blinked at the bright sunlight. The three were on their feet as one, as he arched his back and stretched out the pentup tension in his body.

  “You Kennison?” the doctor asked in heavily accented English.

  “Yes.”

  “He would like to see you, but only for a few moments, please.”

  “How is he?” Miri asked, beating Brad to the same question.

  The doctor shook his head. “Not good. The bullet hit his spine and fragmented. He’s been in surgery for over three hours. I’m still not sure we got it all. We’re going to give him blood now; then we’ll transport him to Tel Aviv, where they are prepared to treat him better.” The doctor’s eyes were bloodshot, and he rubbed the stubble on his chin wearily. “I don’t know. He’s in critical condition.” He motioned to Brad. “Come with me.”

  Inside the huge tent there were no partitions, just row after row of beds filled with the battle-shattered refuse of war. The smell of antiseptic mingled with the unmistakable odor of blood, burnt flesh, and imminent death. It was a smell Brad knew only too well. Sinai or Saigon, it didn’t really matter much to bodies of vulnerable flesh and sinew. War was oblivious to geography.

  The surgeon motioned Brad to a bed. “I shouldn’t let you be here,” he said, “but he insisted on seeing you the moment he came out of the anesthetic. Only a minute now.”

  “Thank you,” Brad said, and he stepped up to Ali’s side.

  Ali opened his eyes and managed a wan smile. Brad struggled to keep the shock from his face. The eyes were dull and almost gray, the face so pale it almost matched the new white bandage on his cheek. Brad took his hand and gripped it firmly.

  “We did it, didn’t we,” Ali said weakly.

  “You did it!” Brad answered. “Not we—you did it.”

  Ali shook his head slightly, too feeble to protest.

  “Nathan asked me to—”

  “I know, I know,” Ali murmured. “Tell him I’m not angry with him.” His eyes closed for a moment, and Brad noticed with sinking heart the shallowness and rapidity of his breathing.

  “How do you feel?” Brad asked

  Ali grinned, a faint shadow of the infectious smile that Brad so loved. “Only my cheek hurts,” he said. “How’s that for logic?”

  “Ali,” Brad said, leaning over slightly, “would you like me to administer to you?”

  “That’s why I asked for you.”

  Aware of other eyes watching, but not caring, Brad laid his hands on Ali’s head for the second time that day. Early that morning, while huddled in the jeep waiting for the dawn, as Ali’s head lay cradled in Miri’s lap, Brad had laid his hands on him and, filled with inspiration, blessed him with the strength to live until they could get help for him. Now he took a deep breath and began again. He had packed consecrated oil when they left Jerusalem, but it was in a Volkswagen bus stranded somewhere to the south of them.

  “Ali Mohammed Gamal Abdel Khalidi,” Brad started, remembering with a sudden surge of emotion the image of a young man in a T-shirt and faded jeans hoisting an old bag into the storage bin of an airplane, then sticking out his hand to introduce himself.

  He swallowed hard and then continued slowly, waiting, hoping for the promises he so desperately wanted to pronounce. But they didn’t come. He rebuked the pain, promising Ali comfort and rest. And then the tears came as, under the direction of the Spirit, Brad told Ali how the Lord felt about him, of the Lord’s great pleasure with this son of Abraham, of the special mission he had among the Arab peoples.

  Brad finished and stepped back, blinking away the stinging in his eyes.

  Thank you, friend,” Ali said with a deep sigh. His eyes closed, and he fell silent for a moment. Then his eyes fluttered open again. “Brad,” he whispered, “I want you to tell my mother something. And Ahkmud.”

  “Tell them yourself,” Brad said, trying to keep his voice even. “You’ll be flying to Tel Aviv by helicopter in just a few minutes.”

  Ali waved that aside, the effort exhausting him. “Please Brad. I’m not going to Tel Aviv. Try to help them understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Why I did it. For Israelis. That will be difficult for them.”

  Brad felt the tears spring to his eyes again, and he squeezed his friend’s hand gently. “I will, Ali. I will.”

  “Tell Miri…” He stopped, mustering strength. “Tell Miri it is true.”

  Brad nodded, unable to speak, anguish tearing at his soul.

  For almost a minute Ali lay there quietly, his eyes closed, and Brad thought he had fallen asleep. But then his eyes flickered open again.

  “I so much wanted to go on a mission,” he murmured. “To my own people.”

  “You will, dear friend,” Brad said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Think how many Arabs there are waiting for you in the spirit world.”

  Ali’s eyes widened. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s right.” He smiled weakly. “You always were better at Mormonism than me.”

  “Maybe so,” Brad said in a hoarse whisper. “But not at being a Christian.”

  At that moment a nurse walked swiftly up to them. “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to go now.”

  Brad nodded and took Ali’s hand in both of his, tears brimming in his eyes.

  “Farewell, my good friend, “Ali whispered.

  Brad squeezed his hand. “I’ll see you again. Until then, God be with you.”

  He turned and followed the nurse blindly out into the brilliant sunshine.

  Twenty-nine

  Brad was standing with President Marks and the BYU students outside the mosque in Bethlehem when he saw Levi Shadmi’s car drive up. Levi and his wife were in the front, Miri and Sarah Millstein in the back. Brad excused himself and went over to meet them.

  “Hello, Brad,” Levi said solemnly as he came around to open the door for his wife. Brad opened the rear door and helped Miri and Sarah out.

  Both were dressed in black, as was Miri’s mother. Miri’s eyes were sorrowful and her face pale and drawn, which only served to heighten her loveliness and intensify the ache in his heart for her.

  President Marks came over, and Brad quietly introduced him to Miri’s parents and to Sarah. Miri touched his arm after a moment. “Brad, I know they are almost ready to start the funeral, but may I talk to you for just a moment?”

  He nodded, and they moved a short distance away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I know today is hardly the time to bring this up, but—” She stopped, her lower lip trembling.


  Brad felt a sudden sinking of his heart. “What?”

  “They announced this morning that they are transferring my unit to the Galilee tomorrow.”

  “Oh no! I thought you said you would stay in Jerusalem.”

  “That is what they first told us. But we are a logistical support unit, and they need us on the Golan Heights.”

  “For how long?” he asked, sick at the thought of her being that near to the fighting.

  It was now Wednesday, the fifth day of the Yom Kippur War. The Israelis were slowly turning the tide of battle, but even the most optimistic military spokesman had stopped talking about a repeat of the Six Day War. There were not going to be any swift, decisive victories this time.

  Miri shook her head. “Even if the war ends soon, they are saying that they will keep our unit on active duty for a time. At least three months, possibly six.”

  “Oh, Miri! Can’t you do anything?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head. “Sarah and I had to get special permission to come to Ali’s funeral today. We start loading up at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  She looked up into Brad’s face, her dark eyes close to overflowing. “Many things have changed in the last four days,” she said. “I know you must be with the Khalidis after the funeral. But when you are finished, will you come and see me? I must talk to you before I go.”

  “Of course.”

  “No matter how late you are?”

  “Yes, I’ll come.”

  She touched his arm and went back to her parents. Brad watched her, a deep sense of foreboding adding its weight to the terrible sorrow that already lay heavy on his heart.

  * * * * * *

  When it was all over—the funeral, the burial in the Moslem cemetery, the long, poignant talk with the Khalidi family—Brad didn’t go to Miri’s. He drove the battered old Volkswagen to the crest of the Mount of Olives, parked it, and walked down to the spot where he and Miri had begun their first tour together.

  The sun was setting, leaving the western sky a flaming orange and the golden roof of the Dome of the Rock a burnished crimson. He stared out across the Kidron Valley for a long time, barely aware of the settling darkness and the lights that blinked on one after another.