The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  The U.S. soldiers were silent.

  “Okay,” Houston muttered for the final time.

  He stared through his scope and listened to his heart beating in his ears.

  So far, so good.

  He took another deep breath.

  Everything going according to the plan.

  Of course, no one had fired any bullets yet. All plans were good until the shooting started. No plan was worth a wad of spit after that.

  * * *

  “That boy is not the prince!” the woman cried in terror.

  Abdullah turned and looked at her as if for the first time, his mind screaming.

  How did she know about the prince?

  He glared at her in amazement.

  Why did she call the boy her son?

  He lifted his hand toward the two guards who had brought her to him, commanding them back. Looking over his shoulder, he shot a glare of warning to the boy who had fallen against the stone wall, his eyes red and teary, his hands trembling in the mud. “STAY!” he commanded, then turned back to the girl. His guards were close around him now and he wanted to push them back. This woman was no threat to him. But what she knew might be.

  One of the guards grabbed the woman’s arm and brought her forward. Stopping before the king, he bowed so deeply his head was parallel to the ground. “My king, my master, may Allah forgive me for intruding and if it gives you pleasure, please take my life. But this woman says this boy is—”

  “He’s not the prince,” the woman cut in, her voice shrill and frantic. “The one you seek is still hiding in the village. They have tricked you. They have taken him. But I know where he is.”

  The king looked at her as if she had lost her mind, which she clearly had. The boy before him was his nephew, he was certain of that.

  But she knew about the prince. And he had to find out how she knew.

  She bowed her head before him. “My son!” she cried again.

  King Abdullah reached out to her.

  Azadeh lifted her eyes and looked at him, then bowed her head in submission and fell upon her knees.

  This was the signal they would be waiting for.

  She braced herself for the attack.

  * * *

  With a jerk, Azadeh fell back, a spot of red oozing at her chest. The sound of the gunshot rang out from somewhere in the village, the crack echoing against the terraced hills. Then came another shot. Then too many shots to count. The gun blasts echoed off the terraces and sounded across the valley. The king’s guards started falling in their tracks, bloody spots in their heads, their chests compressing into gory holes.

  The guards were being taken down by an expert marksman.

  No, by an entire team of marksmen.

  Dallas Houston watched the king’s men fall. Hissing into his radio headpiece, he called out to shooter three. “Lay it down! Give it to me NOW!”

  Instantly he heard the thuuuump from the C4 charges the team had hidden against the stone wall. The explosions were spaced out at all four corners of the village. Even from the distance, he felt the percussion from the explosions and his ears rang from the overpressure. It looked like the entire village was under attack now, smoke rising in the sky, balls of fire inside the rolling smoke, pieces of shattered rock falling through the air. Four seconds later, he heard the chest-crushing whomp of the third-generation antipersonnel guided missile. Radar guided, the missile needed no further guidance during flight once the target had been identified. It honed in on the main body of enemy troops, leaving a trail of white smoke to mark its flight. The warhead exploded into the village wall, sending stone and metal fragments in all directions.

  Looking on the carnage, Houston almost smiled. Then he remembered his hesitation about the plan and felt a sudden pang of nerves.

  In seconds, a dozen guards went down. The king watched in horror, then fell to his knees. In a moment of sheer terror, he didn’t know what to do. His mind froze. His heart stopped. His throat was far too tight to breathe. His face was blank and expressionless.

  He was certain he was dead.

  Did his entire life race before him? Did he think about mortality or the world that was to come? Did he regret his many murders?

  No, not for an instant. True to his core, the only question that ran through his mind was, “Will I have time to kill these guards for their failure to protect me before the assassins kill me?”

  The king’s eyes darted back and forth. Chaos, blood, and smoke swirled all around him. Bodies falling into the mud. The roar of the helicopter’s engines. The massive chopper blades turning through the smoky air. Return shots rang over his head now as his elite guards started to shoot back. Gunfire spouting in every direction. His guards didn’t even know what they were shooting at! A trail of bullets passed; he could feel their pressure. He could almost feel their heat. Three more members of his RSF team went down, leaving him alone. He rolled into the mud, pretending he’d been shot.

  That was when it occurred to him.

  Most of his guards were dead around him.

  But they hadn’t shot him yet.

  Which meant they didn’t want to kill him.

  He shook his head violently.

  The two soldiers who had brought the woman to him moved suddenly to his side and pulled him up, ready to sacrifice their lives to protect him. One on each side of him, they crowded close, never allowing the shooters to get a clean shot. Everything around him seemed to slow. He saw the woman dead upon the ground, shot in the chest. He looked at the guards beside him. One of them had light-colored eyes!

  A flutter of new fear ran through him.

  Why were the guards so close?

  Were they protecting him or keeping him from running?

  He looked down at the weapons the soldiers had produced from their shoulder harnesses. U.S. made MK-46s.

  The fear rose higher in his chest.

  “Sayid,” the nearest guard called above the chaotic noise.

  Abdullah turned to him.

  “Sayid! Sayid!” the guard motioned frantically. “We’ve got to get you to the helicopter!” He grabbed his arm and started pulling. “To the helicopter, Sayid!”

  The guard pulled frantically on his arm.

  The king started leaning back.

  It didn’t make any sense!

  His men dead around him?

  The explosions from the brick wall, expertly placed. The attack had been a work of brilliance. Snipers from the foothills. Snipers from the village. Some of them were very close. But none of them had killed him.

  Yes, they wanted him alive.

  The guard pulled him again toward the chopper. Through the tinted glass, Abdullah could see the waiting pilots. The rotors were at full speed now, the chopper light upon its wheels. The instant he was on board, it would spring into the air. He stared at the waiting helicopter. The largest target in the valley. Critical to his escape.

  Why hadn’t they destroyed it?

  His heart jumped up into his throat.

  The guard kept dragging him toward the waiting chopper. Abdullah jerked his arm away. Turning to the guard, he spoke in Sahrawi Arabic, his tribe’s ancient dialect.

  The guard stared back at him but didn’t answer.

  He spoke again in Sahrawi.

  The guard didn’t understand.

  All his guards spoke Sahrawi.

  This man wasn’t one of his guards.

  Abdullah reached up and jerked off the soldier’s helmet, looking into his eyes.

  Lieutenant Samuel Brighton stared back at him.

  Dallas Houston had been right. The plan was about to fall apart.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The plan Sergeant Houston had been so skeptical about was audacious to the point of lunacy, brave to the point of prideful, simple to the point of childish, and only a few seconds from actually working.

  Azadeh would be dressed in local garb. Bono and Sam were dressed as Saudi guards. They were to stay beside her as they dragged
her to the king. (What she was to say to him, they had never told her, and Sam couldn’t have been more proud when she had come up with her story about the prince.)

  The entire operation had only one goal in mind: to confuse the king long enough for them to get close to him

  without getting shot. Once they were beside him, the hidden U.S. soldiers would attack. Confusion, death, and fear would follow. The king would, of course, be evacuated to his waiting helicopter. The three of them would go with him. Once inside the chopper . . . well, they didn’t know. One problem at a time, Bono had told them after explaining the unfinished plan.

  * * *

  King Abdullah stepped away from Sam and lifted his handgun, pointing the shiny muzzle right at his forehead. Sam backed up, lifting his hands in surrender while bowing in subjection, still in role. Abdullah kept the gun on him. The bullets continued flying all around him, explosions on every side.

  “Who are you?” Abdullah demanded in a deadly voice. “I want to know before you die!”

  A burst of Saudi machine-gun fire erupted from the wall. The American soldier’s position in the village home had finally been identified. A hail of bullets crashed into the house from no fewer than twenty-five positions, destroying the home in a burst of dust and metal. The king hesitated while the rain of bullets blew the home to pieces. Seeing the destruction out of the corner of his eye, Sam felt sick, knowing the first member of his team had been killed. “No, Slapper!” he almost cried, the young soldier’s face bursting into his mind. The king followed his eyes, reading the pain on his face.

  In that moment’s hesitation, Sam reached out for the king’s gun. Grabbing Abdullah’s wrist, he snapped it. The bone almost cracked in two. Screaming, Abdullah dropped to his knees in pain and shock, his hand flopping worthlessly beside him. Sam grabbed the handgun and twisted it from his fingers.

  Turning, he screamed to Bono, “LET’S GO!”

  * * *

  Bono ran toward the prince. Falling into the mud beside him, he commanded, “Come with me!”

  The prince looked at him, his eyes wild, his hands still trembling in the mud.

  “Come with me!” Bono repeated.

  The prince didn’t understand. Why didn’t the guard speak in Arabic? What was he saying? Was he threatening to kill him? What was he to do?

  “Come with me!” Bono repeated, wishing frantically he could think of the right words to speak in Arabic. “We’ve only got a few seconds. A few seconds! Come! Come with me!”

  The prince pushed against the wall and hid his face.

  “Tamanina,” Bono shouted. No, no, that was wrong. That meant “don’t move.”

  He tried again. It didn’t matter. Unlike Sam, he’d never picked up Arabic. He started gesturing with his hands.

  The prince watched and listened. He realized the soldier was speaking English but he didn’t know what he meant. From his gestures, he understood the soldier wanted him to go with him into Abdullah’s helicopter, which seemed like a stupid thing to do!

  Pushing himself to his feet, he threw a fistful of mud into Bono’s face and turned and ran.

  * * *

  The king was shouting to his guards now. “Help me! This guard is an American! KILL HIM NOW, YOU FOOLS!” Most of his words were lost in the roar of the helicopter’s engines and the constant snap of machine-gun fire. Another missile explosion rocked the village from the American positions in the hills. The king flinched from the exploding rocks around him.

  Sam grabbed the king by the arm and started pulling, feeling the broken wrist giving way in his grip. Reaching for his other hand, he dragged the king again.

  Abdullah fought and kicked, screaming all the time. Sam tucked the king’s handgun in his pants. They were almost to the chopper. Abdullah cried in fear and rage again.

  The last surviving member of the RSF heard his master’s cries. He turned from the battle to see a fellow soldier dragging the king toward the chopper. It was the obvious thing to do. Get the king to safety and get the chopper in the air. He watched a second, then turned back to the fight.

  The king struggled to escape from Sam, using his weight to pull away from him. “KILL HIM! HE’S AN AMERICAN!” he cried again.

  Having lost his primary weapon, Abdullah reached for his ankle gun.

  Sam saw him moving for the hidden weapon. He saw the glint of metal in Abdullah’s hand. Slamming his fist into the king’s face, he felt Abdullah’s cheek and eye socket crunch under the raw force of the blow. Abdullah’s breath huffed out of him and he rolled over. His eyes rolled back. His tongue extended. His body went completely limp.

  The RSF commander had heard the second cry faintly and turned in time to see the soldier slam his fist into his master’s face. For a moment, he didn’t move, too stunned to react. One of his soldiers had hit the king! It was impossible! The king! Men had been killed for looking at him wrong, for whispering in his presence, for stammering as they talked.

  And this soldier had just hit him!

  It was unthinkable!

  It was impossible!

  No Saudi would ever, under any circumstances, even think of touching the king!

  Which meant the soldier wasn’t Saudi.

  The soldier turned his gun on Sam.

  * * *

  Bono raced after the prince, sweeping him up in his arms. The child beat upon him, slamming his fists into Bono’s face and neck with every ounce of his strength he had. Bono ducked his head and started running toward the waiting helicopter.

  “Áwqafa! Áwqafa!” the young boy screamed, but Bono didn’t understand.

  They were almost to the chopper. Azadeh was sprawled out on the ground. “You’re clear!” he screamed to her as he rushed by. “GET IN THE HELICOPTER!”

  Azadeh opened her eyes and looked around. After giving the signal, she had jerked back and screamed while throwing her hands to her chest, bursting the red paint capsule sewn into her robe. After falling, with the gunfire all around her, she’d done exactly what they had told her to: pretended that she was dead.

  Hearing Bono calling to her, she lifted her head to see him rush toward the waiting chopper, the young prince in his arms.

  Dead men, smoke, and blood were all around her. Bullets were smashing into the mud. Howls of pain filled the air like crying demons.

  Crawling on her knees, she looked for Sam.

  * * *

  On the other side of the enormous chopper, Sam watched the Saudi RSF guard turn and point his machine gun at him. Sam also turned his weapon, matching the Saudi’s movements almost exactly. In that instant, time stood still. Their weapons pointed at each other, the two men stared. The Saudi fired first, holding on the trigger, the weapon in automatic mode, sending a hail of piercing lead. Sam could actually feel the bullets coming at him. He fired his own weapon, sensing his gun recoil from the discharge of the empty shell, then pulled again, a two-shot burst. The Saudi bullets tore into his body, cutting through muscle and bone. The Saudi’s neck snapped back and he fell over, shot twice in the head. Another RSF soldier appeared beside the first one. Sam moved his gun and fired again, blowing the guard’s chest apart. His eyes darted left and right in horror—no more guards were close enough to shoot—then he dropped to his knees beside the unconscious king, feeling a spring of blood flowing down his chest. For a moment he felt nothing but the flowing blood; then a burning pain spread across his back and neck. His right leg was on fire, the second bullet having passed very near the bone. He tried to breathe, but couldn’t. He had no more strength to stand. He rolled on the ground to his good shoulder and looked up at the sky. The day grew dark around him and he slowly closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Neil Brighton dropped into the mud beside his son and took him in his arms. He held his head in his lap and brushed his hair back, wiping the mud out of his eyes. In desperation, he turned to Teancum. “What am I supposed to do?” he cried.

  Teancum put his hand out and took the father’s hand. “It’s goi
ng to be all right,” he said. Reaching out, he touched the mortal lightly, putting his hands across the unconscious soldier’s brow, then looked up at his father. “Keep your faith. He needs that more than anything.”

  Neil Brighton started crying. Cradling his son, he held his head against his chest. “Not now, Sam. Not yet. It’s not your time. You have to take care of your mother. She needs you more than I do. You have to be there for your brothers. You’ve got to fight to stay here, son. You’ve got to fight to stay here in this mortal world . . .”

  Neil felt another man standing there beside him. Lifting his head, he looked up at Sam.

  His son knelt down beside him. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said.

  * * *

  Gunshots splattered around the helicopter. The young prince kept beating on Bono’s face and chest, crying to be let go.

  Bono was almost to the chopper when he stopped in his tracks. It was as if someone had grabbed him by the throat and screamed, “STOP AND TURN AROUND!”

  He turned in time to see Sam roll over onto the mud, the king beside him.

  Bono almost dropped the child. He stood there unmoving, frozen with indecision. The prince still screaming in his arms, he took two steps toward Sam, then stopped again. To help Sam, he had to let the prince down. But if he put him down, the prince would run—and if he ran, he would be killed. The prince’s only chance of survival depended on staying next to Bono.

  The little boy didn’t understand that Bono was there to help him. Bono had to find a way to communicate with him. If he could just speak to him, the boy would know.

  But he couldn’t speak Arabic.

  How could he communicate with the child?

  * * *

  Teancum moved toward Bono, his face peaceful and full of light. In an instant, he was beside the soldier. “You have the Spirit,” he whispered in Bono’s ear. “You have the gift of attending angels. You have the gift of tongues. Have faith and let me help you.”

  * * *

  Without any further thought, Bono started speaking to the child. “American jundi,” he told him in perfect Arabic. “I’m an American soldier sent to save you. You have to trust me! I’m here to help you. Now run and get inside the chopper. It is safe there. I will follow. Listen to me, or both of us will die here. Do you understand?”