Sunrise: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Ten

by Chris Stewart

  “OK, OK. Shooter two and three, you’ve got the nearest targets. The RSF leader is at the helicopter’s twelve o’clock position. You take him and the four RSF guards to his right. Shooter three, you’ve got all of the RSF guards to the left.”

  One by one, they confirmed the team leader’s orders.

  Houston moved his assault rifle up to his cheek. “OK.” (Just one OK now. The set up was the hardest part and he was starting to relax.) “Three, you’ve got the units from the Twenty-First stationed near the stone wall. I’m the free shooter. Any targets of opportunity are mine.”

  The team called back, confirming their last instructions.

  “After the first barrage, it’s every man for himself. But shoot to make your bullets count. And always, always, keep an eye on the friendlies down there!”

  The U.S. soldiers were silent.

  “OK,” 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 up 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.

  Al-Rahman 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, for 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.

  Al-Rahman 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’d been waiting for.

  She braced herself for the attack.

  *******

  The sound of the gunshot rang out from somewhere in the village, the crack echoing against the terraced hills. With a jerk, Azadeh fell back, a spot of red oozing at her chest. 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, bullet wounds in their heads and chests. More shots echoed from the terraces.

  The guards were being taking down by an entire marksman team.

  *******

  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 this 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 anti-personnel guided missile. Radar guided, the missile needed no further assistance 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 shaped 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 and 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 or all the people he had killed?

  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 all around. Chaos, blood, and smoke were all around him. Bodies falling into the mud. The roar of the helicopter’s engines. The massive helicopter 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 passing over him. He could feel their pressure. He could almost feel their heat. Three more members of his RDF team went down, leaving him alone. He rolled into the mud, pretending he’d been shot.

  That was when it occurred to him.

  All 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’d brought the women 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 women. Dead upon the ground. Shot in the chest. He looked at the guards around 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 MK46s.

  The fear rose higher in his chest.

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

  Al-Rahman 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!

  All 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.

  Which only left one answer.

  They wanted him alive.

  The guard pulled him again toward the helicopter. Through the tinted glass, Al-Rahman could see the waiting pilots. The rotors were at full speed now, the helicopter 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 helicopter. A
l-Rahman jerked his arm away. Turning to him, he spoke in Sahrawi Arabic, his tribe’s ancient dialect.

  The guard 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.

  Al-Rahman reached up and yanked off the soldier’s helmet, looking into his eyes.

  Captain Samuel Brighton stared back at him.

  Dallas Houston had been right.

  The plan was about to fall apart.

  TWENTY

  Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan border, eighty-five kilometers east of Kandahar, Afghanistan

  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 childishness 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 always stay beside her as they dragged her to the king. They’d never told her what she was to say to him, and Sam couldn’t have been more proud when she had come up with what she had said 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 helicopter, well, they didn’t know. One problem at a time, Bono had told them after explaining the unfinished plan.

  *******

  King al-Rahman 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. Al-Rahman kept the gun on him. The bullets continued flying all around him, explosions on every side.

  “Who are you?” Al-Rahman 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 soldiers’ position in the village home had finally been identified. A hail of bullets were fired into the house from no less 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 al-Rahman’s wrist, Sam snapped it. The bone almost cracked in two. Screaming, al-Rahman dropped to his knees in pain and shock, his hand flopping worthlessly beside him. Sam grabbed the handgun and twisted it from al-Rahman’s 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 al-Rahman’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 crying 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 machinegun 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 inside his grip. Reaching for his other hand, he dragged the king again.

  Al-Rahman fought and kicked him, screaming all the time. Sam tucked the king’s handgun in his pants. They were almost to the helicopter. Al-Rahman cried in fear and rage again.

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

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

  Having lost his primary weapon, al-Rahman reached for his ankle gun.

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

  The RSF commander saw his king go down and turned in time to see the soldier slam his fist into his king’s face. For a moment, he didn’t move, too stunned to react. One of his soldiers hit the king? Impossible! The king! The Royal family. 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 helicopter. 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 sown into her robe. After falling, with the gunfire all around her, she’d done exactly what they had told her: pretend that she was dead.

  Hearing Bono calling to her, she lifted her head to see him rush toward the waiting helicopter, 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 to her knees, she looked for Sam.

  *******

  On the other side of the enormous helicopter, Sam watched the Saudi RSF guard turn and point his machinegun 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 onto 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, having been 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 for him 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 femur. 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 Saint Michael. “What am I supposed to do?!” he cried.

  Saint Michael took Neil’s hand in his. “It’s going to be OK,” 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 still needs you. 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 OK, 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 helicopter when he stopped running in his tracks. It was as if someone had grabbed him by the throat and screamed, “STOP AND TURN AROUND!”