Called to Gobi

by D. I. Telbat

  There, in the freezing forest of the Gobi Altay Mountain region, we knelt on the hard ground and prayed together. Dusbhan wept before his Creator over his past sins, and we laughed together as brothers in the joy of the Lord as those same tears froze to his cheeks. But he prayed because he believed the Word, and this was my essential mission: to plant the seed and allow God to give the increase.

  "Can I ride back to North Camp with you?" he asked. "I have to tell Zima I'm now a follower of Jesus."

  "By all means! Let's go!"

  #######

  The following morning was Sunday, the day of our first service. Everyone in all three camps gathered at North Camp. I was so excited and praising God about Dusbhan's decision the night before that I was speechless when Kandal approached me before the service with a similar desire.

  "My gods never do anything for me," he said, "and Buddha's wisdom seems stolen from Solomon, anyway."

  This was a remarkable transformation since Kandal was an old-fashioned skeptic, one who I'd believed would rely on tradition more than the others. But man's reasoning isn't God's reasoning. His love transcends even the aggressive traditionalists and grips their stubborn hearts!

  Kandal and I prayed together, then we were joined by Zima and Dusbhan as the first Christian family I'd witnessed in Mongolia.

  As the service began, the glowing faces of the three converts beamed at me from different parts of the gathered clan. Everyone listened to my words, and regardless of the two most recent converts, I knew the Holy Spirit was urging us to remember that the time was indeed short. Every soul mattered—especially now since something seemed to shimmer on the horizon.

  I taught rather than preached about Israel's struggles in the wilderness. The people loved stories and I didn't disappoint them while establishing foundational concepts for relying on God as well as obeying His Word.

  Our Bibles were limited, but the new Christians among the people helped them find the passages to read.

  When I closed in prayer, I knelt on one knee as was often my custom, and bowed my head. The people followed suit. By their faces, I knew many of them had been convicted by the message God had put on my heart to share.

  "Lord God," I prayed aloud, "please work in our lives and in our hearts, and don't let us be like the stubborn Israelites. We praise You for sparing us from tragedy thus far, and we can only assume You've called us unto Yourself because you desire to use us. Let us meditate on these words. In Jesus' name, amen."

  The children were instantly dashing about the camp, chasing the dogs, but the adults were less swift to part one another's company. They wanted more, which I assured them there would be, but we all had errands to run—especially me. In the activity, Dusbhan quietly left toward the west, taking two horses with him.

  Kandal patted me on the back, Zima kissed me, and Sembuuk saddled my horse. He would accompany me to Three Rocks, then I would approach the Chinese motorcade on my own.

  "See you tonight," Zima stated with hope as she waved good-bye.

  Only a couple of the men knew what Sembuuk and I were doing that afternoon, and he said as much as we neared Three Rocks.

  "It's as if you're purposely trying to sacrifice yourself for the clan, Andy," he said. "I don't like it, even if I do sound like your wife for saying so."

  I laughed.

  "The Bible says the purest kind of love there is, is shown when a man lays down his life for his friends. But don't misunderstand, Sembuuk. I'd rather live for my friends, not die for them, if I don't have to."

  "Let me accompany you to meet with the Chinese, Andy. I know some Chinese, more than you do."

  "That's not part of the plan," I said. "And if something happens to me, who'll go back and tell the others?"

  "If we're not back by tonight, they'll know," he said. "No messenger will be needed. Let me go with you." He pointed at the sky. "Look. There's our watcher. My raptor. She won't take her eyes off us."

  I admired his soaring eagle. It wasn't much reassurance, though.

  "Well, I suppose we can do this together," I said. "Just don't do anything that seems threatening, and interpret everything exactly I say."

  As we rode, I adjusted the pack behind me that held the oversized transmitter. Its battery was the heaviest component, but soon we'd be rid of it. I had also drafted a note in Russian Cyrillic to explain our intentions just in case our objectives were lost somewhere in translation. All our angles seemed to be covered, but to be even safer, Sembuuk and I rode a mile south of Three Rocks before we turned onto the plain to confront the Chinese vehicles and drivers.

  The war must've been progressing nicely for the Chinese since the supply train flowed in a constant stream of convoys. A battalion of tanks fresh off the assembly line rumbled by, the soldiers barely glancing at us as they focused on their northern route.

  When we neared the road, two armored personnel carriers led by an ATV Jeep slowed to see what we wanted. I studied the vehicles for any sign of Sergeant Xing, but he wasn't among them. That would've been too easy, I thought. Without making any sudden gestures, I moved the radio onto my lap.

  Sembuuk exchanged greetings with a lieutenant that stood in the turret. The officer scowled and rattled off a series of questions at Sembuuk. I picked up only a few words. He asked if we had any airag, and Sembuuk assured him we didn't. Then I lost track of the conversation and waited for some sign from Sembuuk that the greeting was over and we could discuss the radio we were turning over. But I received no signal, and Sembuuk delved into the reason we were there without checking with me.

  The lieutenant cast his eyes on my Caucasian face and studied me suspiciously. Thinking this was my cue, I raised the bundled radio up off my lap. Right away, I realized that was the wrong thing to do. Apparently, Sembuuk hadn't completely relayed the matter of the object in my lap.

  With bulging eyes, the lieutenant scratched for his sidearm. It seemed that, in his mind, he saw me as a potential Russian with a packaged bomb. In that split second, Sembuuk and I realized the misconception.

  "No!" Sembuuk shrieked as the officer leveled his pistol at me.

  I raised the radio up higher to protect myself as he fired the gun. The bullet tore into the radio. Shrapnel fragments cut into one of my hands. My aduu reared from the sudden explosion. Two more soldiers drew and fired at me while I was still gasping from my hand wound. A round tore through my horse's neck, spraying me with blood. A third bullet slammed into my left upper thigh and my mouth opened in a silent scream at the fire that coursed my nerves.

  My aduu did her best to maintain her footing as I tumbled off her backwards while gripping my leg. Soldiers dragged Sembuuk off his aduu, beat him into submission, and searched his thick coat for a weapon. My mare screamed and thrashed as a hail of bullets cut her down once and for all. She nearly landed on top of me, as her black eyes clouded over and she breathed her last.

  When the soldiers leapt on me, I thought they would kill me immediately, but they only pinned me down. Others hesitantly inspected the package and discovered it to be none other than the sought-after radio rumored to be in this area. This was almost as unfortunate as having a bomb since Sembuuk apparently hadn't completed his explanation. And now he was unconscious.

  "Sembuuk!" I called, and was clubbed in the mouth with a rifle stock.

  Dazed, I shook my head as my jaw sagged. A barrel pressed against my temple and I stopped struggling. The lieutenant was inches from my face, screaming an order I couldn't understand.

  "English. I'm American!" I said in Mongolian and English. "My leg . . . I'm bleeding."

  He must've understood because he stepped back and noticed the oozing from my thigh. Then, stooping down, he squarely punched my wound. I saw stars as if I'd been boxed on the chin. As I fought consciousness, someone fell beside me. It was Sembuuk. His eyes were closed, his brow bleeding, and he appeared to be dead.

  Facing the yelling lieutenant again, I tasted blood in my mouth. What was he saying?

  "An
American," I said again. "I'm a missionary!"

  When he kicked me in the side of the head, I passed out.

  I awoke without immediate memory of the day's events. Or had it been two days? After blinking several times, my eyes focused on a cement wall two feet away from my head. While lying on my side, I moved my limbs slightly as my predicament with the radio came back to me. Thankfully, I wasn't bound, but from the throb in my leg, I could tell they wouldn't have to bind me; I wasn't walking anywhere soon.

  With all my effort, I pushed myself into a sitting position. Someone had tied a soiled rag around my wounded thigh. Feeling the underside of my leg, I gasped in pain, but found the exit hole from the bullet. It had gone clean through, and since I wasn't already dead from blood loss, I assumed it had missed an artery. Maybe there wasn't any bone damage, either.

  The chill of the air made me shiver, and I zipped up my coat. My journal and Bible were gone, though—my two most prized possessions.

  "God, help me . . ." I cried as I tightened the rag around my crimson-stained pant leg.

  My holding place was obviously a cell. I'd spent enough time in prison to know, though this was a cell built decades earlier and had no running water or plumbing. A drain in the concrete interrupted the middle of the floor, and a bucket for waste sat in the corner. The walls were cement, cracked and molding. High up on one wall there was a vent that blew no air, nor heat. A naked light bulb, covered in grime, dimly lit my cell.

  Sembuuk. Where was he? Was he alive?

  I inspected my cell door from my seated position. It was steel with four massive hinges mounted halfway behind a second flange of steel. No escaping through there.

  Using my arms, I moved to my right side and lay down with my back against the wall. They wouldn't have transported me far, I figured. Maybe I was in Hasagt, or Bulgan, at the farthest. That meant I was in one of the old Russian buildings in one of the towns the Bolsheviks had built to assist Mongolia's communist revolution. And, it probably meant the Chinese weren't merely passing through Mongolia; they were taking isolated towns along the way.

  "Lord, straighten this mess out, please. I'm Your servant . . ."

  While praying for strength and deliverance, I drifted off to sleep.

  A heavy boot kicked my cell door, and I awoke with a flinch. The steel door squeaked open and two pairs of mud-crusted boots tromped into my cell. Hands grabbed my arms and dragged me upright and out the door. Breathlessly, I tried to use my wounded leg, but the muscles were too torn from the bullet. As they moved me quickly through two cold rooms, I did my best to hobble on my good leg until I was set roughly on a metal chair under a hot lamp. Thankful for the rest, I raised my face contently toward the heat. It felt so good. I couldn't resist and barely noticed as my arms were strapped to the chair's armrests at the elbow and wrist. My ankles came next, secured to the front legs of the chair.

  The two who had handled me stepped back a few paces, but remained in the room. A third uniformed figure swung the hot lamp away. Almost deliriously, I watched it move, then it was replaced by a Chinese woman with cold eyes. Her face was so severely lined and wrinkled—maybe scarred—that she appeared to be sixty-years-old, but her neck and hands told me she was probably younger.

  She spoke stern Russian to me. I sighed and shook my head.

  "I only speak English and Mongolian fluently," I said. "Please, I'm from—"

  "You lie!" she hissed in rough English and slapped me on the cheek. "No more lies!"

  Her slap resurrected the pain from my previous facial wound, and I felt again the memory of the rifle stock that had crushed my lips.

  "My journal . . . I'm American."

  "Journal lies!" She moved to one side of me and bowed over my shoulder to speak directly into my ear. She wasn't too tall, maybe five-two or -three. "We analyze journal. Find you have hidden intention. Bible, hah! You saboteur with Mongolians! With Kazakhs! Russian spy! Say it, and you may live! Deny you are man of God. All lies! A mission of war brings you here!"

  She slapped me again, though not too hard, but I felt every bit of it in my weakened state.

  "Where are conspirators?"

  "No conspirators. I'm a Christian . . . for Jesus," I said with emphasis.

  "No Jesus! No Bible! Spy! Say Russian spy!" She backhanded me on my ear, then changed sides. "Christians not have spy radio! You have Russian radio. You caught!"

  "I was turning in the radio. I had a note for Sergeant Xing. It was in my coat. You must've gotten it!"

  Again, she slapped me, and I tasted blood.

  "You lie! No letter! No Christian! Where you get radio? Where other spies?"

  Didn't they get the note? It must've been lost on the plain where I was shot.

  "No." I shook my head. "I'm not a spy. American missionary. No spy."

  She slapped me so hard, I saw her wince. Stepping back, she massaged her fingers.

  "This part of Mongolia, no Christians. All Lamaists. Buddhists. Speak Russian. We hear you on radio. No lies!"

  I bowed my head. Every story I'd ever heard about torture, interrogations, and pain came to mind. How much could I take? Could they break me? Would I know it when they broke me?

  Sadly, I was in fact protecting Russian spies, but by protecting them, I was protecting the whole clan, including Zima. In my agonizing, I reasoned that Duulgii and his partner weren't spies any longer.

  "There are no spies!" I said.

  "Where get spy radio?" She had a short belt in her hand now, and she slapped it against the palm of her other hand. "We do this all day. No end. Every day. You talk? Pain end. You free. Where get radio? No lies!"

  I tasted blood. No lies? I couldn't tell her the truth, not even a fraction. A crack in a dam becomes a hole, a hole becomes a flood.

  "Sergeant Xing. He knows I'm no spy."

  "There is no Sergeant Xing. You lie!"

  "No lie. Xing knows me. He's one of your soldiers. I was bringing the radio to him so spies wouldn't use it."

  "What spies? Where spies?"

  "There are no spies!"

  With fire in her eyes, she hit me with the belt. A welt quickly blistered from my neck to the corner of my mouth, stinging like a burn. I closed my eyes. It was only pain. Take the pain, Lord.

  "Where's my friend?" Had Sembuuk told her about Duulgii? He wasn't too fond of the man after he'd put the clan in danger. "Where's Sembuuk?"

  "Friend dead. I kill him, but he talk no lies before die. He tell all. This how I know you lie!"

  I shook my head. She was the one lying. Sembuuk wouldn't break. I knew he had too much pride. He wouldn't kill those left in his clan, even for Duulgii's capture and punishment. If she knew all, then why question me? They could go to the forest and search.

  "No spies," I said. "I'm a Christian. I help people."

  She hit me with the belt a little harder this time, but across the back of the neck.

  "Where get radio? From Russians?"

  "What radio?" I cried, suddenly in amusement. She wasn't listening to me, anyway. There was no harm in playing the game of circles she'd started, I figured. "I don't remember a radio!"

  Her eyes narrowed hatefully—probably seeing exactly what I was doing.

  "You play tricks. Russian radio. Where get?"

  She hit me again on each cheek. Gasping, I fought my binds.

  "Get what? I don't know what you're talking about!"

  "Radio! Where spies? No lies!"

  "Your English is too bad!" I shouted back. "I don't understand your speech!"

  The woman frowned and I could see her reflect on her language skills—probably wondering if her vocabulary was off. Was she saying radio correctly?

  In her pause, I continued in my mock madness.

  "I want to eat a radio! Look under the spy! Radios are good to eat! Spies grow on trees!"

  Crossing her arms, she studied me with a glare. I spouted nonsense for a few more minutes, then spat blood onto the floor.

  "No spies, no lies," I stated
softly, seemingly back in control of my senses. "Let me go. I have work to do for Jesus—unless you want me to tell you about Jesus. Otherwise, I'm wasting my time here."

  She stepped over to the two guards for a moment and they conversed in Chinese. Then, she addressed me once more.

  "Pretend American missionary, everyday worse and worse till no lies. You cry with hurt. Say who give you radio, where spies. You free. Talk now? No lies? Very bad pain tomorrow. Then next day. And next. No end."

  I sniffed. More pain tomorrow? After a week of this, I wouldn't have to pretend madness. I would be mad.

  "Jesus is a spy of the heart," I said. "He's the only spy I know now. Give me food and water. I'll tell you all about Jesus, the spy."

  Scoffing, she marched from the room. I was unstrapped, dragged from the chair and back to my cell. When I tried to take a step on my wounded leg, I found it was too painful to put any pressure on it at all. They threw me inside. Lying on my back, I stared at the light bulb planted in the ceiling. The guards closed the door, locked it, and stomped away down a corridor I'd only glimpsed.

  "You can save me from this, Lord. I have complete faith in You." Tears rolled from my eyes. "You know my heart. This is just a test. You've saved me from a plane wreck, and bullets, and falling off that cliff the other night. This is nothing. You control the authorities, even the evil ones. You put them where You want them. You give them power and You can take it away. Please, give me strength today. Give me strength tomorrow. Lift me up, Lord, in my humble state. Tend to me, I pray . . ."

  Even as I watched and prayed, the light bulb blinked off. I was surrounded in total darkness, perfect for praying.

  "You are my Light, Lord Jesus. I praise You for even this moment. You have given so much for me."

  And then I slept peacefully.

  *~*

  Chapter 26

  When the light blinked on hours later, I guessed it was morning. My leg was stiff, but some of the pain was gone. I rolled up my pant leg to look at my wound. It was pink rather than red around the hole. Since I wasn't bleeding now, I left the soiled rag off. There seemed to be no infection, but if there had been, I wouldn't have been able to do anything against it.