The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Fighting the rage inside him, Omar didn’t say anything. Staring at the village leader, he thought for several moments, his heart beating in his chest. But as he stared at him, seeing the fearful look on his face, he realized the leader wasn’t going to change his mind.

  Omar glanced down at the boy standing at his side, then put his hand on his shoulder and guided him away. Turning, they started walking up the winding trail that led back into the mountains. Forty steps ahead of them, the trees grew thick. Beyond the first grove of evergreens, the trail dropped twenty meters toward a mountain stream. On the other side of the gushing water, the trail climbed out of the streambed and quickly disappeared in a thick forest of pine and mountain oak.

  Looking behind him, Omar felt a sudden sense of hurry. Too long in the open. Too long to be seen. He felt a web of fear running through him and he fought the urge to run.

  The village leader stood beside his hut and watched them go, his eyes sad, his lips pulled into a frown.

  Omar caught his eye in a final farewell, then took the child’s hand and pulled him closer. “We must hurry!” he declared.

  * * *

  Above them, hidden in the rocks and low shrubs, the king’s sniper spoke into the radio transmitter snapped to his lapel. “Target is exiting the area,” he announced urgently.

  The radio buzzed in his ear. “Confirm the target is leaving the immediate location?”

  “Affirmative. Target is moving back up toward the mountains.”

  He heard a vicious curse, as angry and foul as anything his language had to offer. “You must not let them reach the mountains,” his commander ordered. “We’ve been looking for them for weeks now. If they make it to the mountains, we’ll never find them in time. We can’t operate up there!”

  The sniper simply waited. There was nothing more for him to say.

  “Is the escort staying with the target?” the voice in his radio demanded.

  “Yes, the fat one is with the boy.”

  “Do whatever it takes to stop them. We’re seven minutes yet away.”

  “I can’t stop them without killing him.”

  “Do whatever you must to stop the fat one, but leave the boy alive. You know our instructions. We must save him for the king!”

  * * *

  Looking ahead, Omar saw the trail descend suddenly, winding through a series of short switchbacks toward the rushing stream. He was close enough now that he could feel the moist air kicked up from the water gushing over the boulders in the stream. In fifteen meters they would start descending, dropping out of sight.

  He felt the urge to run again. Something was screaming inside his head, the words almost forming in his mind.

  * * *

  “Go!” Neil Brighton told him, whispering urgently into the mortal’s ears. “Go, Omar. Run now! Your life’s in danger. There is danger for the child!”

  Teancum stood beside him, not saying anything.

  Neil turned toward his friend. “Will you not help me?” he cried.

  Teancum reached out and rested his hand on Neil’s shoulder. His face was calm and peaceful. “Neil,” he offered simply, “this is not why we are here. Father has another plan for this one. It might be his time has come.”

  * * *

  The village leader watched Omar and the boy walking up the trail. Inside, his heart was breaking. He honestly didn’t know what to do! Should he save the boy or save his family? If the foreign military forces came looking for the child—and the village leader knew that eventually they would—they would find him. The village was too small to hide a trinket, let alone a living child. And if the king’s forces discovered he had concealed the child, their punishment would be swift and thorough. Best case, they would only kill him. Worst case, they’d make him shoot his wife and children before turning the gun on himself.

  So he didn’t move as he watched them walk away, his mind reeling.

  It wasn’t too late. He could still stop them. He could offer sanctuary and protection to the child . . .

  As he stood there, a verse from the blessed Koran filtered into his mind: “There is no God but him, in him I have put my trust.”

  His thoughts quickened as he considered. Then his heart seemed to settle and he felt a cooling breeze.

  That was his answer. He would put his trust in Allah. He would offer sanctuary to the child.

  Calling out, he started running after Omar and the boy.

  * * *

  On the other side of the stream, across a split log used for a bridge, there was a thicket of brush and young trees. There the trail ascended steeply before reaching the forest again. Once in the protection of the forest, Omar knew they would be all right. Their packs were hidden up on the mountain: food, protection, warm clothes. They could disappear and survive up there for days, which would be long enough for him to decide what next to do.

  Reaching down again, he pulled the prince along. Once they had reached the protection of the mountain, Allah would lead and guide them.

  It was the last thought to filter through Omar’s mortal mind.

  The fine-grain bullet entered the right side of his head, metal and pieces of fractured skull exploding into his brain and blowing out the other side.

  Omar made a sound as he fell over. Before he hit the ground, he was dead.

  The dull thump of the bullet crashing into bone was the second sound the young boy heard. Before that, he sensed a slight buzzing, like a surge of electricity, as the bullet passed over his shoulder before exploding into Omar’s head.

  Looking around him, the young prince stopped and waited for the next bullet to come slashing into him.

  * * *

  The village leader didn’t hear the gunfire or sense the bullet passing. All he saw was a red explosion out the left side of Omar’s head. Then he saw him crumple. Then he saw the child stop.

  Then he too, like the young prince, stood and waited for the next shot to be fired.

  Inside his mind, the village leader counted, his heart beating like a butterfly, his eyes darting left and right. Were they going to kill the boy? Was there any chance they would let him live? He held his breath and waited, expecting the child to crumple like his friend.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  Five, then ten seconds.

  The air gushed out of him like an explosion from his chest. Without thinking any longer, he rushed toward the child.

  Sweeping him up in his arms, he held the boy against his chest as he dove over the hill and rolled toward the gushing stream.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan Border

  Eighty-Five Kilometers East of Kandahar, Afghanistan

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  Bono stared through his field glasses while bracing his elbows on the ground to form a bipod, allowing a more stable view. “His face is partially covered by part of his turban,” he answered absently, concentrating more on his viewing than on responding to Sam’s question. He moved the binoculars just a fraction of an inch, then dropped them. “Show me his photograph again.”

  Sam held up his iPod. Small, easy to conceal, password protected, long battery life, capable of holding huge amounts of information, it was a perfect—if completely unauthorized—military accessory. A close-up of Omar’s face filled the small screen. Bono looked at it, then swore. Handing Sam the field glasses, he answered, “I’m pretty sure that’s him.”

  Sam looked, taking his time to be certain, then lowered the binoculars. “They got him,” he agreed in frustration.

  “If they got him, they got the boy.”

  Sam turned around carefully, positioning his back against the ridge. The rocks behind him were sharp slabs of slate, and he had to be careful as he leaned against the broken fissures.

  “They got him,” Bono repeated. “We came out here for nothing. The prince is dead. We’re all too late.”

  Sam took a weary breath. For a long moment neither of them spoke; then their rad
ios suddenly crackled in their ears. Sam listened to the report from their reconnaissance leader. “We’ve identified all of the special units around and in the village,” Dallas Houston said. “We’ve got members of the Sword Knights from the First Saudi Special Forces Brigade and a couple of regular SpecFor units from the 21st.”

  Sam touched the transmitter on his radio. “So we’re covered, then. We’ve got the right uniforms and the other special equipment that we need.”

  “Rog that, boss. We were way lucky, if you ask me, but yeah, we got it right.”

  “So we can go in if we have to?”

  “True that. The only problem, far as I see it, is that the prince is probably dead.”

  Bono looked at Sam with an “I-told-you-so” expression.

  Sam ignored it. “Stand by,” he told the NCO.

  “What’s going to happen now, Sammy boy?” Bono asked. “What’s the world going to come to? When we go back without either the prince or King Abdullah, there’s going to be a terrible price to pay.”

  “I don’t think they got the prince.”

  Bono didn’t move. He was trying to believe that Sam might be right, but the evidence was there before him. He saw the dead man, the young prince’s protector, lying on the pathway. The boy must be down there somewhere as well, probably lying facedown. He sighed, weary to the bone already. “Let’s gather up the team,” he said.

  “They don’t have the prince yet,” Sam repeated.

  Bono looked at him in disbelief. “Come on, Sam, it’s time to go.”

  Sam rolled over to face the village four hundred meters to the west. “Check out the dead one,” he offered, holding up the field glasses. “Look at the size of the exit wound on the left side of his head. That’s a fine-grain bullet, I’m guessing an M118. We know all Saudi Special Forces units use U.S. weapons, too. Take a closer look at that, Bono. How many shells have the velocity to do that kind of damage? The sniper was out here somewhere. He had good position and opportunity, yet Omar was the only one he killed.”

  “You don’t know that,” Bono answered after looking through the glasses. “For all we know, he killed the prince first.”

  Sam gestured toward the path below them. “Do you see any other bodies? Any spots of blood anywhere along the trail? Any evidence that indicates there was another shooting?”

  Bono stared through the glasses, then shook his head. “You think he’s in the village, then?” he asked.

  “I’d bet my life he is.”

  “But where? And how did he get away?” Bono put the binoculars down and shook his head again. “Where’s the sniper, Sam?” He moved his eyes around the terraced hills looking over the tiny village.

  Sam pointed with his finger toward the mud and stone hut on the corner of the lowest terrace. The pathway toward the river where Omar’s body lay was only forty meters from the hut. “That’s the abbu Rehnuma’s home. Omar brought the boy to him, seeking sanctuary, I would guess. Then Omar left, heading back up the mountain, maybe with the boy, maybe alone. Either way, while he was moving away from the hut, he was taken out by a long-range sniper. But all of the evidence we have suggests the boy was unharmed. We’ve been here long enough, and we were close enough before that, to have heard any helicopters in the area . . .”

  Bono started nodding.

  “The boy is here.” Sam was certain, and he motioned to the village. “Somewhere down there. Maybe hiding by himself, but maybe hidden. Either way, he’s still down there.”

  Bono lifted the powerful set of binoculars and turned them toward the village, studying the rows of huts, outhouses, barns, fences, and pens, all of the things he hadn’t taken the chance to look at before. Moving his field of vision, he studied the central market with its arched entryway and pockmarked walls.

  There, moving through the market, he saw him. The Saudi soldier made no effort to hide his presence, choosing to move out in the open. He wore a camouflage uniform and flak vest but his head was covered with a black helmet now. His gun was ready and he moved quickly.

  Adjusting the glasses, Bono looked farther east. Then he saw it. The military vehicle had been hidden behind a brick wall on the far side of the village, but now it had been driven into the open. A group of Saudi soldiers were moving around the truck. They huddled on their leader, then split up and fanned out, taking up positions among the huts and dirty roads that led toward the market square.

  Farther to the east, other military trucks were moving down the road.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan Border

  Eighty-Five Kilometers East of Kandahar, Afghanistan

  The sniper moved quickly through the village, his eyes narrowed to a tight squint, his head always moving, his shoulders hunched, his weapon ready. The villagers had a lot of weapons, he knew that—between the local warlords, poppy farmers, and Taliban, Afghani, and Pakistani forces, this area was in a nearly constant state of war. But he wasn’t afraid. The villagers might be backward and uneducated, but they weren’t stupid. Just the opposite, especially when it came to rules of war. He represented something far more powerful than they were. They wouldn’t challenge him, not with their weapons, though there might still be a short battle of wills.

  Which meant it was important for the soldiers to establish their credibility from the start.

  Listening through his radio earpiece, he heard his brother soldiers take their orders, then begin moving through the village, searching for the prince. Listening to the orders being given, he couldn’t miss the fear in his commander’s voice.

  Their king was on his way, his chopper little more than fifteen minutes away. They had to have the boy by then or all of them would die. The villagers. The soldiers. None of them would survive the morning if they didn’t find the child.

  Fifteen minutes to find the young prince and turn him over to the king.

  Fifteen minutes to kill every man, woman, and child within the village if they tried to hide him.

  Fifteen minutes for the soldiers to do whatever they had to in order to save themselves.

  The sniper walked quickly, his steps angry and determined. He had seen it all, the abbu Rehnuma standing in silent shock at the death of the other man, his hesitation, then quick decision. He’d watched as the abbu Rehnuma had burst into action, sprinting up the narrow pathway and scooping up the child before diving over the embankment that held the rushing stream. From his position in the foothills, the sniper had lost sight of them for a few moments but, knowing they would have to emerge eventually, he had waited, sometimes using his binoculars, sometimes scanning the area with his eyes. Minutes later, the abbu Rehnuma had emerged, running through the trees to the south, where the mountain stream met the larger river. The water was strong and fierce there, more a series of waterfalls than just a rocky stream, and a light mist formed around the banks of the river, making it difficult for the shooter to see. Squinting, he’d watched as the abbu Rehnuma, child still clutched in his arms, had run up the narrow pathway and passed into the village, where the sniper had lost sight of them again.

  But they were here, inside the village.

  And he would kill everyone inside the rock walls if that was what it took to find the child.

  He glanced down at his watch.

  Twelve minutes until the king got there.

  * * *

  In the center of the village square there was a mosque: dusty, open windows, ancient white stone, and a checkered dome that was damaged on one side. Most of the holy structure was taken up by the musalla, or prayer hall, but off to the right there was a small wing with a domed roof and arching windows. The soldier approached the side entrance to the building, a thick, wood door tucked in a narrow archway, and stopped to listen. Lifting his weapon, he used the butt to knock.

  While he waited, he listened to the sound of the other soldiers searching through the narrow streets.

  “Pile Driver is airborne,” his commander announced over the radio in a terrif
ied voice. The king of the House of Saud was coming, the most powerful man on earth.

  “Time of arrival, ten minutes. Find the boy now, you pigs, or I will shoot you all myself!”

  The sniper listened, then banged again, almost breaking down the door.

  The village leader pulled it open, his eyes wide in fear, a tiny wad of spit on the corner of his dry lips. The sniper pointed his weapon, recognizing the leader’s face and long beard. “Where is he!” he demanded.

  The abbu Rehnuma held his ground. “He is safe in the mosque of Allah. He is protected here. He has implored for sanctuary—”

  The sniper lifted his weapon and jammed the barrel into the young man’s cheek, pushing him back. “Give the boy to me and you will live. Speak another word in his defense, and you will die. It is that simple. Now, where have you hidden the child?”

  The young man’s mind shut down, thoughts of love and family freezing his brain into a paralyzed state. My children! How I love them. All I wanted was to keep them safe. All I wanted was to be their father . . .

  “WHERE IS THE BOY?!” the sniper screamed after watching the young man bow his head to pray.

  The abbu Rehnuma swallowed and looked up, his heart racing in his chest. Drops of sweat rolled down his temples. His hands trembled. His knees buckled. He almost collapsed in fear.

  “Sanctuary,” was all he muttered, his voice nothing but the whisper of a man who knew that he was dead. “I have granted sanctuary to the young one—”

  The sniper shot the village leader in the head.

  Wiping spattered flecks of blood from his eyes, the soldier burst into the hallway. Turning left, he ran into the dark, green-tiled prayer hall. It took him only seconds to find the child hiding there.

  Grabbing him by the hair, he pulled him out onto the street.

  * * *

  Far above, half a kilometer to the west, Sam and Bono watched through their field glasses as the soldier emerged from the mosque, pulling the prince behind him.