by Rolf Nelson
The mud-brick hovel they watched was much like a million other nondescript tan rectangles in the country most Americans had never heard of. And most of those who had couldn’t find it on a map. But between oil lines, opium production and transport, strategic borders, and a recently discovered supergiant natural gas field next to a newly opened moly/copper/lead mine, the powers that be decided this new and “independent” ’Stan was now a critical place to be. But the building, much like the people in it, hadn’t changed noticeably since camel caravans on the Silk Road crossed the region. Perhaps not since a few thousand years prior to that either. They watched as the older woman—hard to say if that meant 30-ish or 60-ish from this distance—went about her chores while night fell. She’d been unusually busy for a while now. Wisps of smoke and ash rose from an outdoor oven and around the sheet-metal roof over it.
“You know…” Amos whispered softly to his spotter and immediate superior, SFC Kristoff, “That’s a pretty big oven for a hovel that size. And that’s an awful lot of dough she’s been manhandling.”
“Hmmm,” grunted Kristoff.
“Looks like about fifteen guys worth.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’ve made a lot of bread.”
Kristoff watched the woman work another minute. “How certain are you?”
“No evidence she’s a baker. Professionally speaking anyway. The local stuff doesn’t travel well. Local wheat has pretty good protein, but not a lot of gluten.… Anyway, it’s best if eaten in the next few hours. Figure they’d eat dinner here. Take a day’s supply with. Ninety-five percent, plus or minus a couple of guys.”
Kristoff considered the low-key analysis and what he knew of the background of the man offering it and then passed the “suspect things might be getting interesting soon” message down the tug-line to the other hunters on the team.
Soon the woman started portioning out the dough, kneading it briefly, and putting it in the oven, sticking it to the side to bake against the hot brick on one side and the fire’s coals on the other.
“Ridge,” whispered McGee softly. Coming into view over the far ridge was a head. Then, the man it was attached to. He came over, paused, and looked around. Middle aged or older, local dress, beard, stooped from hard work but still nimble enough. He spent a couple of minutes looking up and down the little valley they were in. He pulled out a pair of field glasses and searched the valley again for a while longer. McGee and Kristoff were confident of their field craft, but it was still a bit nerve-wracking to be looking directly back into a pair of binoculars as the man glassed the valley and far ridge where they were hidden. Satisfied that he was not walking into a trap, he walked back the way he came, disappeared briefly, then returned, and ambled down toward the only house in sight. Shortly, a widely spaced line of men filed down into the valley. None of them carried any obvious weapons in the gathering darkness though most had small packs or bags.
“Thirteen MAMs…. Fourteen…,” whispered SFC Kristoff. Nobody else followed.
When the lead man reached the hovel, still well ahead of the others, the woman greeted him warmly. The words couldn’t be heard clearly, but the body language was obvious. But it quickly changed when the second man came around the corner to be seen by the woman. The volume ramped up, the gesticulations became much more animated, and the body language was angry. Spitting on the ground near someone’s feet was a pretty universal sign of unwelcome. She was apparently not the submissive type.
“Change target. Not the old guy,” whispered Kristoff.
The older man tried to restrain the woman, but her displeasure was obvious. The third in line of the younger men stepped forward and started yelling back at her and then the older man. He started beating them both. “Beater is the target,” whispered Kristoff. In the crosshairs Amos watched the man pause and then shove the woman back toward the pile of dough and oven. He then pushed two of his men off toward the near hillside while the rest of the men slowly filed in, laughing and as happy as the older pair’s body language said they were unhappy. Clearly, it was not who the woman had expected or liked.
“Drop the leader first, then the two guys closest, and then the farthest man,” whispered Kristoff. “No wind. Hold center. Near guys, hold two inches high right now.” He quickly passed shooting assignments to the others of the team as well. They knew the ranges and holdovers for several easily identified markers around the valley and had adjusted the scopes accordingly. But the reminders were always good.
The two men went a little ways up the hillside and started poking around in the bushes. After a few minutes of searching they called out in exuberant tones. A bit of digging and they were carting AKs and RPGs down toward the hut. They had just missed a grenade booby-trap the team had set up the night before. The team would have to initiate by fire. Kristoff gave a warning tug on the line.
“Leader in sight. Clear shot,” whispered Amos.
“Hold center… send it.”
Amos paused a moment. In his scope he saw a movement by one of the unwelcome men, going to walk past the leader on the far side. Just before the man was obscured by passing behind the leader, McGee’s shot broke. The suppressor on the rifle kept the report to a minimum, but the buzzing of a bullet in flight was a real downer to hear at the party. It passed through the neck of the leader and the head of the shorter man passing behind him. The leader’s throat was ripped open irreparably, the tumbling bullet hit the temple of the second man sideways, making a keyhole entry wound and a rather messy exit.
One shot, two down.
The other team members joined the battle within seconds. The men suddenly under fire didn’t have time to do much. One spent far too long trying to load an AK, standing motionless as he swore at it trying to get the weapon to cooperate. Another ran to go around the hut but was hit and fell as he rounded the corner. Several dived for the mud-brick fence, seeking cover; when they stuck a head up to look or pointed a rifle up the hillside without looking to simply spray bullets, they became targets. The older man and woman took cover behind the oven.
In less than a minute, it was over.
Thirteen men dead.
The team needed to move fast, but deliberately. They left their hiding places and carefully removed a pair of grenade booby-traps as they approached the hut where the two were still cowering behind the oven. “I’ll cover the two oldsters,” said Amos.
The rapid search of the premises revealed nothing of significant value or danger. McGee walked over and squatted down near the two, but still at a respectful distance, rifle not threatening them while the others searched. He talked in a low, comforting tone. He didn’t expect the pair understood English, so he began with the Lord’s Prayer. He was about to continue calmly rambling when he had an idea. He slung his rifle, grabbed a piece of still-plentiful uncooked dough, started to knead it the way he’d seen the woman do it, and then put it in the oven. It wasn’t a particularly skillful placement in the slightly odd oven, but it was good enough to work. He tore off another hunk of dough and offered it to her, and then he did the same to the older man, who shook his head with an uncertain smile. Amos shrugged and kneaded it himself, starting to talk about bread recipes while keeping an eye on the bread in the oven and the two not-quite-exactly-prisoners. In a few minutes, he and the woman, who he now guessed to be about forty, were chatting away, understanding not a word spoken, but getting the gist with many a gesture. She improved his mid-air kneading technique—he was used to making bread on a counter—and also appeared to give grudging approval of his actions.
When the bread was done, he helped haul over a few buckets of water and did some cleanup. The mess was considerable, but there is only so much they could do with bloody earth. He managed to communicate to the pair, who he guessed were father and daughter, that the team would like to buy a portion of their bread and maybe other things if they had any to spare. They arrived at a price which was likely more than the two saw in a month, and not only ate some before t
hey left but had a couple day’s supply of the tasty flat loaves stashed in their packs as well as a big bowl of (goat?) stew that had been prepared in expectation of the insurgent’s arrival inside.
The dead had been searched and dragged into a row well away from the hut, their fingerprints and retinal scans taken for later identification, the weapons re-cached—but with some minor problems introduced to each one. After the team refilled their canteens at the well, they were ready to go. Amos asked them to hold up a minute. “Got something I need to do.” He went over to the line of bodies and knelt beside them, bowing his head respectfully and crossed himself before saying a brief prayer over them. SFC Kristoff looked at him a little bit funny, but he said nothing.
Amos finished and bowed slightly in a respectful goodbye to the pair they were leaving behind. “They are not Christians. But those two respect faith. I demonstrated that we respect the dead, even if it is in a different way than they do, and are therefore respectable ourselves. I think the man was put in a bind and told he had to help them or he’d be killed. The lady—his daughter, most likely—looked like she’d rather die than help that particular clan. Now they are likely more willing to tolerate us if they don’t actually like us. We are not the bad men in their eyes. We killed the bad guys and left the bystanders alone. They might hate the war and the various local factions. But at least they won’t hate us. Or others that wear our uniform.”
Kristoff looked at the expressions and appearances of the two people standing together, well behind them in the fading glow of the oven fire and last faint twilight of evening and the deepening shadows. “May be right. Good shooting, and well-played.”
Kristoff and the rest of the team were really starting to like the new guy. He not only did the technical parts of the job very well, which was expected of graduates of sniper school. But more importantly, he understood what The Job was. Not just putting metal on a target—dropping a hundred pounds of high explosives was stupidly easy with modern guided munitions and surveillance assets—but winning support from the local population at the moral level by maintaining order, killing only bad guys, working within the reasonable parts of local customs, paying for what they used, and generally acting like Good Guys should act. And the best way to act like a good guy… is to be a good guy.
Congregation
I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. He who is a hireling and not a shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees; and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. He flees because he is a hireling and cares nothing for the sheep.
—John 10:11-13
Father Carlyle always liked to see a new face in the pews on a weekday Mass. He’d seen the man walk in just before Mass began, and given the sparse attendance, it was easy to watch the new man and try to gauge his faith in order to figure the best approach to bring him into regular attendance. The stranger—big, broad-shouldered, tanned, short-cropped hair, leather vest over work shirt and blue jeans, pleasant smile immobile on his face—sat like a statue through the whole thing. No fidgeting, no coming forward for Communion, no reaction to anything said, nothing. When Father Carlyle finished Mass and returned to the nave after removing his vestments, he paused and talked to a handful of the regular parishioners; the stranger continued to sit. Watching. Silent.
When he got to the new man’s pew as he worked his way down the main aisle talking to the regulars, Father Carlyle decided to use a touch of humor as he greeted the stranger warmly. “Welcome, stranger, to the humble house of God. Looking for a home or just shelter from the rain? I’m Father Carlyle.” Other members of the congregation still present watched and listened attentively to find out more about the new face.
The man stood slowly and stretched himself to his near six-and-a-half-foot height. The heels on his heavy boots added to that. Father Carlyle looked up into his eyes. “Clint,” said the new man flatly. He took Carlyle’s extended hand in greeting for only the most cursory of shakes with his calloused grip. “Looking for a suitable church to attend.”
“Ah, excellent! Are you Catholic or wish to become one?”
Clint nodded slightly, drawing a smile from the onlookers. For the first time since entering the man in the pew showed some expression beyond a bland smile: curiosity. “Was today’s Mass typical?” The question was a straight-up interrogatory, no inflection implying approval or disapproval.
“Yes, I dare say it was. Less well attended than a Sunday Mass, of course, but about the normal length.”
“I mean content-wise.”
“Oh, I believe it was, yes. Pretty ordinary, all in all. In any case, we’d love to see you here on a regular basis, Clint.”
“Not likely.”
“Oh?” Father Carlyle blinked in surprised. It was rare to hear an open rebuff face to face: most people would much rather say something ambiguous and disappear without a trace. Informal rules of politeness almost demanded it. “Nothing I said, I hope.” He smiled: a soft, pleasant smile.
“Preaching Magic Dirt Theory, ad-libbing Bible quotes, and promoting abject submission to avowed enemies of Christianity is typical for this church? Or just you?” The words were a bald and bold challenge, but Clint’s tone was not accusatory or confrontational, just curious.
To say the effect on those listening was electric was an understatement.
“I beg your pardon?” exclaimed Father Carlyle in surprise. “I do not ad-lib the Bible, and I said nothing of any Magic Dirt Theory!”
“Do you suddenly change your behavior when you visit a foreign nation and act like a local, or do you continue to act like an American Catholic priest?”
“Of course I act like a priest,” Carlyle said defensively. “Why would I act otherwise?”
Clint’s tone was quiet, almost disappointed. “You keep your culture? But of course you do. Just like all the people you demand we import in vast number have shown no desire to behave like Americans or convert and become Christians.”
“You must give them time here to understand us!”
Clint shook his head. “You keep saying that. As if the soil of America is magical and will change them, alter them, and so they will suddenly become like us even though all evidence is to the contrary. It took generations for earlier waves of immigrants to assimilate, and the pressure on them to blend in was harsh a century ago. Half ended up going back home.” Father Carlyle looked startled. “You didn’t know that? You should study our world history as well as Church history, Father.”
“I have studied history,” Father Carlyle said defensively.
“There is always more to learn. Among those immigrating today, only a tiny fraction act like Christians, and more than half go on welfare….”
“That sounds suspiciously racist.”
“Facts are not racist. They simply exist. What do you call an immigrant who does not assimilate?” Carlyle shook his head uncertainly and didn’t answer. “A colonist…. No less than you would be if you moved to Africa and told them how to live and demanded that they pay you for the privilege.”
Carlyle wasn’t sure how to react. Clint said it almost as though it were a joke, but it was one uncomfortably close to the truth. A joke not to be funny but to educate. Those around them laughed at it uncertainly, recognizing its core honesty and not finding it something comforting.
“You would squander these people’s hard-earned money and scanty savings on non-Christians. And you alter the wording of the Bible to support your dream of a humanity that somehow behaves as though they are not fallen as we know men to be. You say we should quietly submit and change our culture to suit them when they should be the ones adapting. If their culture is so marvelous, why do they need to flee it and come here?
“They just need an opportunity to get a job, a safe place to raise their families,” objected Carlyle.
“If their culture is so superior, why are there more opportunities and safety here? Islam means ‘submit.’ You say
we should serve them while they preach mastery and dominion over Christians five times a day. You are the one putting your flock on the road to converting to Islam and paying jizyah to keep the peace. The drug gangs are in bed with them because they control the flow of immigrants not just from the Americas, but the jihadis that desire to attack us. Supporting them is what you are preaching.”
“I do not! And would you let the innocent starve?”
“You do say so, Father, and it pains me to be the one to point out the obvious. Your flock is clearly unhappy hearing your words. The so-called refugees would not starve if we help them at their home, and we can help them there far more cheaply than we can here. There, they can work and become good Christians and earn grace at home just as well as here, without putting our sons and daughters at grave risk here, too.”
“The drug gangs we should keep out, of course, but Islam is a religion of peace—”
“Your flock is not stupid, Father. Do not treat them as ignorant and fragile children who need to be protected from ghosts under the bed. Not when real dangers lurk outside the door. We can see with our own eyes. The drug gangs control the border refugee trade, and the Muslims who convert are rightly terrified of their own family’s often murderous reaction to their baptism if they convert. See reality as it is, and quote scripture as it is written, not as you’d like it to be.”
