by David Pope
“Seven ways,” agreed Ronnie, keeping an eye on the promised cigarette. He shifted the subject and asked, “What we got so far?”
Kirby looked over at his buddy then pulled off his other glove and tossed it to the ground. With the dwindling cigarette in his mouth he said, “You done seen what we got. Ain’t shit so far, just a couple of rings. And we won’t have shit until we get past that fucking search tomorrow.”
“You put it in your boot?” asked Ronnie.
“Look, I hollowed out both our boot heels and they only hold so much. Yes, it’s in my boot. But there’s a shit pile of stuff out here. If we had a way to hide more and come back later, we’d have us a king’s ransom. We surely would.” He sucked on the smoke, measured the length, determined it was more than half gone, and flicked it across to his buddy, where it landed in the dirt.
Ronnie picked up the butt, examined it at eye level, and brushed away a few particles of sand. Placing the butt between his lips, he drew in the smoke. A moment later, he leaned back with a satisfied smile.
Kirby watched Ronnie smoke, but his mind worked the problem—the lack of good hiding spaces. They were just getting started and would be humping bodies all night. He expected to find lots of loot. To lessen suspicions, he needed to make sure a few valuables got tagged and turned over. The rest they would hide. But soon, their boot heels would be full, forcing them to hand over items they’d otherwise pilfer. Not acceptable.
The idea of a better hiding spot intrigued him. By finding a good location to stash loot, with plenty of room, profits were sure to increase. With a cache, they’d come back later and retrieve it when no one was looking. Maybe after the fighting. Deep in thought, a potential solution appeared out of nowhere.
Intrigued, in the gloaming, Kirby stood and walked over for a closer look. The depth of the shell hole was only five feet, and about half way up stood a little cave. A dark opening less than a foot in diameter. Curios, he bent over and stuck his index finger through the spot and touched nothing on the other side. Good.
Now excited, Kirby decided to widen the hole and find how deep it was. From his boot he pulled out a combat knife and stuck it through the opening. Again, he felt no pressure against the tip. The hole was deep. With the knife he scraped around the edges, causing dirt and sand to crumble away. The hole widened farther. In a burst, he clawed at the dirt and sand until he uncovered something bigger. A pipe. Perfect!
Finished with the cigarette, grinding it out, Ronnie watched Kirby work the side of the shell hole. “What you got there?”
Not looking back, Kirby replied, “Found a hole. I think we can use it to hide stuff.”
“Oh,” replied Ronnie. He seemed happy to let Kirby do the work.
Within a few minutes, Kirby exposed the entire entrance. Standing back, he admired his labor. The pipe circumference was rather large, and covering it up again would be challenging. After sheathing his knife, he pulled a penlight from his web belt, flipped it on, and pointed it through the opening. Shocked, he jumped back and extinguished the light.
Ronnie, obviously alarmed, whispered, “What is it, what you see?”
Kirby turned and raised a finger, warning his friend to keep quiet. With the penlight in one hand, he backed away from the entrance and with the other pulled out his knife. Seeing the movement, Ronnie also withdrew a knife.
Kirby whispered, “Somebody’s in there.”
Ronnie, still seated, leaned around his buddy and guessed. “Dead guy?”
Kirby shrugged. He didn’t know if the guy was alive or not. All he’d seen, not far inside the pipe, was a pair of boots. Expectant, staring at the opening, both friends listened and remained quiet. Nothing, zilch, no noise.
After a minute, Ronnie pointed over his shoulder outside the shell hole where they’d left their stuff and whispered a question, “Weapons?”
Kirby considered the possibility. Firing an assault rifle could alert the enemy. Worse, and more likely, shooting would bring officers, and he didn’t want that. No, he and Ronnie had knives, and those would have to do. Besides, whoever was in there didn’t appear to be moving. It had to be a dead or wounded enemy. He decided and whispered, “Follow me. Keep your knife ready. I’ll pull the guy out, and if he fights, help me stab the shit out of him. Got it?”
With nervous energy, Ronnie bobbed his head.
In the fading light Kirby gave his friend a wicked smile and then retraced his steps. Ronnie got up and trailed behind.
After reaching the pipe, Kirby stood off to one side and gestured Ronnie to stand nearby. Ronnie moved into place, and Kirby pantomimed, showing what he planned to do. Then, Kirby handed his knife, handle first, to his friend. Now holding a knife in each hand, Ronnie nodded.
From his combat belt, Kirby removed a penlight and, after turning it on, placed it between his teeth. Hands free, he readied himself. It was now or never. Heart racing, he jumped in front of the pipe, bent low, and in a single motion, reached in with both hands and grabbed a set of ankles. With a mighty tug he fell backward. To his surprise, the man slid out without much resistance, causing Kirby to stumble and let go. A moment later, the body landed in a thud on the sandy soil.
In a flash, Kirby scrambled forward and put his knee into the back of the prostrate figure. The soldier, or whoever he was, lay face down, head turned sideways, not moving. Ronnie, ready to pounce, hovered nearby, knives at the ready. But the person remained still.
Kirby removed the penlight from his mouth and shined it at his captive. In profile, he saw a mouth covered in dried blood. There was more, a surprise: medium-length dark hair. Not a man. Stunned for a moment, he wasn’t sure what it meant, but the opportunities dawned on him, and he smiled. With his knee still planted in the back of his captive, he let out an appreciative whistle. “Now look at what we got here.”
Before Ronnie could respond, Kirby realized the job wasn’t complete. He’d made too much noise. Near panic, he arose, turned to Ronnie, and whispered, “Watch her.” Like a cat, he moved back to the pipe. Once again approaching from the side, ready to move away at the slightest provocation, using his penlight he peered inside. To his intense relief, for many meters all he detected was the inside of an empty corrugated pipe. Relieved, he let out a puff of air and stood straight. “All clear,” he said to Ronnie and then shifted his attention back to the prize.
In the dying daylight, Kirby flipped his penlight along the length of the prone woman. Even wearing combat gear, he detected feminine curves. Then he made a note of her rank: a sergeant in the ROAS.
Ronnie stood over the body with knives in both hands and asked, “She dead?”
“I don’t think so,” said Kirby, taking a knee next to the fallen woman. He felt for a pulse and detected a steady beat. With his penlight, Kirby inspected closer and scanned the length of her body. Arms scratched and scraped, pant legs caked with dried blood, uniform and soldier protection suit covered in dust and sand, but she was alive. With no head protection system, she must’ve been knocked out while cowering in the pipe to survive. She was fortunate to be alive and even luckier for him!
“Now what?” asked Ronnie.
“That all you do is ask dumb questions?”
Ronnie looked back and blinked as if to confirm the answer.
Kirby, used to his dense friend and giving the orders, said, “First, give me back my knife.”
Ronnie did so, returning it handle first.
Kirby turned to the far end of the shell hole, sheathed the blade, and pointed towards the desert. “Go back up and fetch your pack. We need a blanket and supplies. But before you go, give me some water.”
Ronnie put away his own knife and unclipped his water carrier before tossing it to Kirby. Not waiting, following instructions, Ronnie climbed out of the shell hole.
Kirby returned to the unconscious woman. Still kneeling, he grabbed her left shoulder and rolled her face up, eliciting a groan in response. Eyes still closed, bruised, filthy, chin covered in dried blood, with he
r mouth hanging open, he noticed a missing tooth. But through it all, he found her somewhat pretty.
Although alive, Kirby wasn’t sure of the extent of her injuries. He reached down and pushed her left eyelid open. A blood shot eye, the ball rolled back, greeted him, and he let go. Head trauma, he suspected. Maybe a bad concussion. Knocked out cold. Not sure what he was doing, he twisted open the hydration system and poured a small trickle of water into the corner of the woman’s mouth. At first, she didn’t respond, and then, involuntarily, a tongue emerged. It flicked at the liquid. Kirby poured a little more, most of it dripping away, but through cracked lips, her tongue re-emerged. Then he spotted her name tag. It read “McMichael.”
A pack landed nearby causing Kirby to jump. A second later, Ronnie emerged and, bending down, he pulled out a blanket.
Still on a knee, Kirby snatched the fabric from his buddy, wetted a corner, and used it to wipe the woman’s face. As the grime and blood came off, beyond the scratches and a missing tooth, he found her even more attractive. But for a reason he couldn’t fathom, anger welled. He turned back to his friend and pointed towards the woman’s feet. “I think she’s hurt in the head. Take off her boots and socks.”
Ronnie paused for a moment, as if confused, and then with a shrug followed orders. He unlaced her boots and pulled them off one by one. Next, he removed her socks and tossed them aside.
Kirby finished wiping the woman’s face and rolled up the blanket. He lifted her head, placing the material underneath acting as a pillow. Cushioned by the cloth, she moved her head back and forth, but didn’t regain consciousness. Satisfied she remained out, Kirby shifted his gaze downward and pointed at her belt. “We gotta search her. Help me take off her combat belt, pants, and shirt.”
“We gonna strip her?” asked Ronnie, a smile appearing.
Still pointing at the woman, Kirby explained, “This here’s an enemy combatant that we ourselves done captured. We gonna be heroes. First, we gotta do a thorough search. So yeah, to do it right, I figure we need to undress her. It’ll make it easier. Find out if she got weapons or secret orders. She might be carrying contraband. Help me get her pants off.”
“Got it,” replied Ronnie, and he bent over and undid her belt and the cinches on her combat pants. Afterward, both men stood and together they grabbed the woman’s pant legs and pulled hard. They had to tug twice, and on the second try, the woman lifted her head and let out a loud groan before dropping down. With blood trickling down her outstretched legs, naked from the waist down, neither Kirby nor Ronnie took notice. Instead, holding her pants between them, together they stared at a tuft of dark hair.
“She damn sure is a woman,” said Ronnie.
Kirby, his anger growing at the sight, shook his head. “She’s the enemy. You gotta remember why we’re fighting these people.”
“They done killed our vice president,” said Ronnie, his eyes drinking in the view.
“Yeah …” Kirby agreed, “… but that’s just a start. See, these people ain’t right. We and them is different as night from day. You said it earlier, that’s why we’re fighting. In fact, these people aren’t really people at all. Now they may be human, walk upright and all, but they sure as hell ain’t people.”
“Then what is they?” asked Ronnie, still ogling.
Kirby stopped and stared at the exposed woman. Dark hair protruded from between her legs, and he licked his lips. He’d try to explain. “They’s the enemy. Not human as God willed it, because they don’t think right. They got an affliction. A true malady. Like this gal right here …” he pointed at the naked form and continued, “… she ain’t no woman like we know. Not a real woman ’t all. Most likely a lesbo, or a Muslim, maybe both. They condone, celebrate, and tolerate all that heathen crap. Damn well bet she ain’t a Christian. And what the hell do they have women out here fighting for? We stopped that years ago. It’s uncivilized.”
Kirby paused in his tirade and dropped his hand. He spat off to the side and glowered at the female splayed before him. In growing anger, he continued to explain, “She might be an atheist. You know, the ROAS is full of them. Most of ’em are. No, they ain’t got any good human qualities ’t all. More like animals.” Kirby stopped for a moment when another thought struck him. “That’s the whole reason we split away from them years ago. But now we’re back, because it’s our Manifest Destiny. It’s our birthright to keep our country strong, spread liberty, and reunify the United States. And this thing lying here, with her legs spread to God and country, well, she ain’t right. None of ’em are.”
Ronnie, gazing at the woman, said, “Damn straight.” As if snapping from a spell, he looked up and asked, “Now what?”
Above, the sky had turned almost black. Looking up at the gathering darkness then back down at the half-naked body, Kirby felt a strange desire mixed with anger. “We ain’t got much time. You search her pants. I’ve gotta find out if she’s hiding something inside herself. Maybe contraband. Then, like we do with cigarettes, I’ll share and give you a turn to look.”
Ronnie looked at his buddy with a cocked head and watched Kirby unbuckle. Not saying a word, Ronnie seemed to understand and stepped back to rifle the woman’s pants and wait his opportunity.
Belt loosened, on his knees, Kirby maneuvered in front of the prostrate female. With Ronnie and the pipe at his back, Kirby stared at the helpless woman in disgust. Anger and want mingled together. Red in the face, Kirby dropped his pants. Between outstretched legs her nakedness beckoned, and the sight increased his anger. He told himself she was a slut, an enemy, and he hadn’t a choice. What came next was her fault. With the back of his hand, he pushed her legs farther apart. A groan came in response. The reaction caught him off guard, and his anger intensified. She had no right to protest. It was time to show her. For leverage, he gripped her left ankle and used it to raise her leg. The higher he lifted, the more he hated and lusted.
Heart racing, holding her ankle above his shoulder, it took a moment for Kirby to register a peculiar gurgling sound coming from behind. Distracted, he turned and saw a nightmare. Ronnie was staggering, his throat slit from ear to ear. From the fatal wound, crimson blood squirted in long arches matching the beat of a dying heart. Before he could react, his friend collapsed into a heap.
Horrified, Kirby dropped the woman’s leg. In a single panicked move, he tried to stand and spin to face the threat, but his pants tangled around his ankles and he fell. Before he landed, someone was on his back driving him to the ground. Pinned, he tried to breathe, when he detected a punch to the ribs, then another, and he wheezed. More punches, one after the other, and pain ripped through his soul. He wheezed again emitting a misty cloud of blood. The punching and pain seemed to last forever and, despite his efforts, he felt himself starting to drift away. With a jolt he was wide awake. One last attempt to live! Panicked, he kicked his feet and struggled. Then he saw it emerge from the darkness. Terrified by the specter wearing a robe and white hood from the past, a moment later it reached out and pulled him into the eternal night.
Chapter Thirteen
RESPONDING
May 8, 18:35 (PDT)
“Madam President, you have to see this!” exclaimed Press Secretary Grace Navarro. Tablet in hand, she passed it to the president. “Please hit the play button.”
Earlier, President Julia Ortega had returned from her meeting with General Story in Central Command. She’d flown back to the alternate secure seat of government located underground near the heart of San Jose, California. While traveling, and since arriving, she’d been in near constant communications with Senate Leadership and her cabinet. More critical meetings awaited. But first she stopped in the media room to meet with her press team. They needed to get an updated statement out to the populace, quick, not only to clarify what had happened but to calm fears and give hope. Not an easy task. With tablet in hand, President Ortega followed instructions and hit play.
At first, the surveillance drone image was disorienting. It took a momen
t for her to realize it was an aerial shot. High above ROAS lines, it looked down upon a smoking ruin of destruction. Dust, dirt, sand, and smoke filled the air. Explosions thundered about in a chaotic fashion, and then the shelling stopped. In response, the video closed in tighter, scanning what was left of the ROAS trench lines. It was hard to watch. Strewn among the smoking ruins she detected bodies. The destruction seemed total, and nothing moved. Certainly, it appeared no one was firing back. The president cringed, and once again a sense of guilt wracked her conscious. The panning ceased, and then the image zoomed even tighter until the screen filled with a lone woman in profile. Fascinated, the president watched. Wearing no helmet, face bloodied, the young woman appeared to be standing in a shell hole peering out at US lines. In her arms, she cradled a weapon and in a swift move she shouldered it and fired. After tossing aside the weapon, a moment later the young woman jumped up and down with exultant hands raised high. A moment later, heavy incoming fire raked the woman’s position, and she ducked deeper into the hole. Not long afterward, a Custer screamed overhead, lighting up the shell hole with explosions. For a few seconds the camera stayed on the position as the shell hole and surrounding area erupted in a mass of sand, dirt, and smoke. Then, the video ended.
Stirred by what she’d seen, the president reflected on the bravery and turned to Grace for more information. “Do we have a name for that young woman? Is she alive, and do we have video of what she hit?”
Grace pointed at the tablet and smiled. “Last question first. Please view the next video. Hit play.”
The president pressed the button, and another drone video started. This time, the angle was outward, panning across US lines. In the distance tanks maneuvered. Farther out, armored infantry vehicles awaited. Most alarming, hovering closer by, several US Custer aircraft menaced. Without warning, one of the birds took a hit. The camera zoomed closer. Focused on the stricken aircraft, the video recorded the machine trailing smoke, falling, and spinning to the ground, where it crashed into a huge fireball. For a few seconds, the video stayed on the wreckage. A dark plume of smoke rose above the licking flames, and then the recording stopped. Forgetting her despair, the president said, “Wow! Outstanding. Combine these shots into a single sequence. Let the world witness our resolve!”
