Son of Syria Read online

  I glanced at the rearview mirror just in time to see a look of pure hatred pass over the Taliban commander’s face. He screamed at us, a wordless expression of fury. Then the Reaper fired another missile, and he was gone.

  It wasn’t over yet. As soon as the Reaper wrapped things up in the valley, it would come for us. I reached into my vest pocket and pulled out my radio. Thankfully, it hadn’t taken a bullet in the chaos. I turned it on.

  Central said, “—peat, please respond.”

  “I’m here,” I replied. I grunted as the truck took a turn faster than I had intended. Once all the wheels were on solid ground again, I said, “Get on the horn with the Air Force right now. Tell them that they have to cease fire immediately. There are friendlies in the area. Repeat, friendlies in the area.”

  To their credit, they didn’t ask any stupid questions. For a few tense moments, there was only silence. Then Central said, “Kyle, the Air Force reports that the mission is complete. You should have no further trouble.”

  I slumped in the driver’s seat. My hands started shaking as the adrenaline wore off and I had to fight to maintain control of the lumbering truck. A bout of nausea clawed its way through my throat, but I pushed it down.

  There were no signs of pursuit, but I used caution as I doubled back toward my hide site. The data I had gathered was still important for coalition intelligence services and I couldn’t just leave it behind. I parked at the base of the hill and looked around for any Taliban survivors that might have followed our tracks. It was just dirt and hillside as far as the eye could see. I made my way around to the back of the truck.

  I lifted the canvas flap and hopped onto the bed. The man and woman were huddled together. They sat back to back and held one another’s hands. As I got closer, their grip tightened. They still thought they were about to die. It was time to fix that.

  I put my hand on the woman’s hood to remove it. She tensed and pulled away from me. The man felt her movement and croaked, “Don’t you touch her!” His voice was hoarse and strained, but there was still strength in it.

  “Calm down,” I said.

  The two captives froze. The man said, “You’re speaking English. Are you American?”

  “I’m a friend,” I replied. “I’m going to remove your hoods now, okay?” Neither of them said anything, but the woman nodded. It was good enough.

  I yanked the hoods from their heads at the same time. Both of the former prisoners recoiled at the sudden exposure to the light. Both were Caucasian, somewhere in their mid-forties if I had to guess. Their skin was pale and clung to their bones. I guessed it had been days since they had been given anything to eat.

  Only a few cuts and scrapes marked the woman’s face. In contrast, severe bruises and dried blood covered the man’s jaw and nose. It was safe to assume he had a history of making life difficult for his captors. Yet he persisted after receiving such punishment. It was a testimony to either inspiring courage or idiotic stubbornness. Either way, my respect for the man jumped up a few notches.

  I unsheathed my K-Bar knife and cut their bonds. Their lips were dry and cracked, so I offered them some water from my canteen. The man motioned for his companion to drink first. She took a long pull from the canteen and started to gag. “Take it easy,” I warned. “Your body needs to adjust. Take smaller sips.” She nodded and did as I said. I looked at the man. “Can you tell me your names?”

  “I’m Glenn,” his voice cracked. The woman took a break from drinking and handed the canteen to Glenn. He took a cautious sip, then wiped his mouth. “Glenn Goodmonte. This is Patricia, my wife.”

  “I gave up hope that anyone was looking for us. It’s been weeks since we were taken.” She blinked as her eyes reacted to the sunlight. “Did Doctors Without Borders send you?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m here with the American military.” Only a partial lie, as I had been here to gather intelligence that would be passed along to the U.S. Army. “My name is Kyle.”

  “You don’t look like a soldier,” Glenn said.

  He was right. My hair wasn’t long for a civilian, but it was well past standard Army regulations. I wore a generic khaki camouflage jacket and cargo pants devoid of any insignia rather than any official uniform.

  “Forgive him, Kyle. This has been a trying time for us.” Patricia turned to her husband. “You see, Glenn? I told you that someone was still searching. We just needed faith.”

  “Actually, ma’am, we weren’t looking for you,” I explained. “We were tracking the insurgents.”

  “Praise God,” Glenn said. He looked into my eyes. “I don’t know if you’re a religious man, Kyle, but I have no doubt that your arrival was a miracle.”

  I looked them over for any injuries that needed immediate attention. Despite the cuts and bruises, they were in decent condition. The Afghan militia seemed to have recognized that harming their captives would diminish their value. “I’ve got some more water and some food tucked away in my observation post. Hold tight and I’ll be right back.”

  Patricia clutched my left arm and I winced in pain. She noticed my reaction and released her grip. “But what if they come back while you’re gone?”

  I pulled my Beretta 92FS out of its holster. “Glenn, do you know how to use one of these?” He shook his head. I put it into his hand and said, “It’s simple. Your trigger is here, your safety is here. If any of those men come looking for you, just line the front sight here,” I pointed to the forward ridge on the barrel, “in this notch back here and squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it back, or it will throw off the sight picture. You only have fifteen rounds, so wait until you have a clear shot.”

  He considered the heavy piece of steel in his hand. “I’m not comfortable using this.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not what I mean.” He hesitated. “I don’t think that I can . . . can kill. To take a life like that is against my beliefs. Jesus said that he who lives by the sword will die by it.”

  I sighed. “I appreciate your concern. I am a religious man. I don’t want to take someone else’s life. But you need to consider that those men out there will not share your reservations. If they come back and you can’t or won’t do anything about it, the two of you will be lucky if you just get killed. How does that help anyone? It will just reinforce the insurgents’ belief that kidnapping, torture, and murder are the best ways to get what they want.”

  Glenn snorted. “I should just give up my principles because my enemy doesn’t share them?”

  “I’m not telling you what to do. Make whatever decision you feel best. Understand there will be consequences, and they will not just affect you.” I flashed a look at Patricia, and Glenn seemed to understand the point that I had left unsaid.

  “Just come back,” he said.

  “Will do.” I hopped from the back of the truck, then turned to face him. “And as for dying by the sword, it’s not the worst way to go. Trust me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  GLENN was not comforted by my words, but I didn't have time to argue with him. I wasn't angry, just frustrated. I knew many people who thought like Glenn did. They all had noble intentions, but they didn't think through the whole situation. In their minds, there were no circumstances in which it was right to kill someone. Yet they were fine with sending people like me to do their dirty work for them. I couldn't think of any other sins it was okay to outsource like that. The debate about righteous violence or “Just War” raged since the birth of Christianity, and I wasn't naive enough to think it would be settled anytime soon.

  My lungs strained from exertion as I reached the hide site. I had been in Afghanistan for a few days, but my body had still not fully adjusted to the thin air of such high altitudes. The long sprint and subsequent combat in the valley would have been tiring under any circumstances, and the additional strain caught up with me as the effects of adrenaline faded.

  I stuffed my equipment into a large backpack.
I placed the camera, scope, and notepad adjacent to one another so I could provide my superiors with the information they needed without having to rummage through the whole pack. I crammed the rest of my food, first aid supplies, and communications equipment into whatever space I could find.

  Thick columns of smoke drifted up from the flaming wreckage in the valley below me. I heard a series of smaller explosions as the fire set off the crates of ammunition stored in the trucks. It sounded like an impressive arsenal, ranging from the short pops of AK-47 rounds to the deeper concussions of rockets and mortar shells. The chorus of war would echo in that valley for a long time.

  Once I was certain nothing would lead back to me or the Order, I took off down the hill. It seemed so much shorter when I raced down the other side into the valley. I guess the looming specter of death can distort anyone's perspective.

  I was halfway down the hill when I heard the gunfire. “Oh, crap.” I took off running. “Crap, crap, crap.”

  As I got closer, I noticed a rhythm to the gunfire. It was slow, methodical, and steady; one shot every few seconds. It took me a moment, but I recognized Glenn’s plan. He wasn't trying to fight. He was trying to signal me. Clever. He wouldn't take a life, but he wasn't going to lay down and die, either.

  The steady rhythm was disrupted by the sound of another weapon firing an automatic burst. I released my heavy pack and dropped to a low crouch, searching for the source of the gunfire. I spotted them almost instantly, two men dressed in light brown salwar kameez, a combination of tunic and loose trousers that was common in the mountainous regions of Central Asia. The men wielded antique Soviet-era AK-47s. They crouched behind a small outcropping a dozen yards away and took potshots at the truck I had “confiscated.”

  Glenn's gun went silent. I couldn't be sure if he was hit or was simply out of ammunition. Either way, this party was about to come to an unhappy end if I didn't act now.

  I could see the gunmen, but without a weapon of my own I couldn’t do much to stop them. To make matters worse, I was exposed on open ground while my opponents had at least some cover. I hadn't been spotted, but every second the gunmen ignored me was another second they spent shooting at Glenn and Patricia. I could see ragged holes in the canvas but couldn’t tell if those rounds had found their targets or not.

  There were only two options: either go to the gunmen or get the gunmen to come out of cover to me. Given the Church's opinion on suicide, the first choice didn’t seem to hold much merit. That left the option of luring the gunmen into the open, but I didn't particularly relish the idea of playing the role of the bait. But if I couldn’t be the bait, maybe another diversion would work.

  I pulled out my radio and said, “Central, I need a distraction.” Before Central could respond I cranked the volume up to maximum and tossed the radio into the dirt on the left side of the truck, the side opposite from the outcropping, and sprinted toward the front of truck.

  The gunfire shifted as the shooters noticed my movement. The truck was less than fifteen feet away, but it felt like a marathon as bullets whizzed by my ears. I crouched down, using the engine block to shield me from the incoming rounds, and waited.

  “Say again, Kyle?” Central's voice sounded from the radio. “Please repeat last transmission.” It was loud enough to be heard over the gunfire, and the shooters noticed. I couldn’t make out what they shouted to each other, but the tone of surprise was unmistakable.

  I bent low and watched from underneath the truck. The shooters crawled out of the outcropping to investigate the source of the sound. I would only get one opportunity to get this right. I waited as the gunmen split up, the first went around the front while the other swept in from the back.

  I rolled underneath the truck and came out the opposite side, now situated behind both gunmen. The man who moved toward the back was around the corner and out of sight, but the other man was directly ahead of me.

  I crept up behind him and lunged. I placed one hand over his mouth to stifle a scream and wrapped my other arm around his neck, forcing my elbow beneath his chin. I released my grip on the man's mouth and clasped my hands together. My forearm and bicep worked like a vice, cutting off blood flow from the carotid arteries. I stayed like that for about ten seconds, then released the gunman's limp form. I checked to ensure that he was still breathing, for my own peace of mind if nothing else, then took the man's weapon.

  One threat down.

  The second gunman found the radio and called out to his colleague. When he stopped mid-sentence, I raised the rifle I had acquired and prepared for the man to come charging around the corner. I stood that way for fifteen seconds. Still no gunman. I kept my head on a swivel to ensure he didn't sneak up behind me or trying to repeat my trick by crawling under the truck. Still no gunman.

  I edged my way to the back of the truck and rounded the corner using a technique known as “slicing the pie.” It basically meant that I took each step with care to avoid exposing myself to anyone that I couldn't see and shoot myself.

  Halfway around the corner I saw the gunman. His hands were in the air, and his AK-47 and my radio were on the ground at his feet. But he wasn't looking at me. I don't think he even saw me approach. He stared into the bed of the truck. I kept my weapon trained on the gunman as I turned my head to see what had captured his attention.

  Glenn Goodmonte stood in the bed of the truck, righteous anger blazing in his eyes. The Beretta sat in his hand and was aimed squarely at the man in front of me. As I looked closer, I could see that the barrel was locked back. Glenn was out of bullets. As soon as the gunman noticed this detail, all hell would break loose.

  I cleared my throat to announce my presence.

  The Taliban gunman spun around so fast that he lost his balance and my radio fell from his hand to clatter on the ground. He kept alternating his attention between Glenn and myself as if deciding which one of us was supposed to accept his surrender. It took him a moment to realize he still had his gun in his hand. When he dropped his rifle, I made a dismissive gesture with my left hand indicating that the man was free to go. He took off like a mountain goat and disappeared into the hills, his rifle left abandoned on the rocky soil.

  As soon as the gunman was gone, Glenn collapsed. I snatched my radio from the ground and clipped it to my belt, then climbed onto the truck to check on him. “Are you okay?” I asked as I pulled my pistol from his grip.

  “I think so,” he said.

  I checked anyway. Despite the Hollywood stereotype, bullet wounds don't send you sprawling or blow your head clean off your shoulders. A bullet can pierce your heart or brain and kill you instantly, but many critical injuries can go unnoticed when the adrenaline is pumping. Glenn was lucky. Other than the numerous cuts and bruises accumulated during his captivity, he was unharmed.

  “He could have killed me. He wanted to kill me.” His eyes widened. “Oh, God. I was going to kill that man for trying to hurt my wife. I can't believe I would do that.”

  I thought about telling him that there was no way he could have killed anyone without any bullets, but I let him have his moment of introspection. I turned my attention to Patricia. She was prone with her hands over her ears, and her eyes were wild with fear. I immediately noticed blood seeping through the back of her shirt.

  Glenn saw the blood the same time I did. “Patricia!”

  “Glenn, I need you to focus, all right?” He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “Good. I left the backpack with my supplies fifteen feet to the south. I need you to go get it for me.”

  “But what if there are more men—”

  “Glenn, your wife is hurt. Even if the wound is minor, an infection could be life-threatening if not prevented immediately. We don’t have time for this."

  To his credit, Glenn did not argue. He simply hopped out of the truck and ran. He was back in thirty seconds, an impressive run time for a middle-aged man who had been held prisoner and physically abused for weeks. I took the pack from him and dug around inside unti
l I found a bright orange box. I set it aside and closed the backpack.

  To my surprise, Glenn opened the box and began pulling out gauze and bandages. “Glenn, what are you doing?”

  “These hills are still crawling with Taliban. That man you let go is likely bringing friends as we speak. If we don't move this truck right now, we will all die." He paused from his frantic preparations for a minute. "Patricia and I are medical missionaries. I know how to treat a gunshot wound." His gaze turned to the empty Beretta, then to his wife. “Maybe I can't take a life, but I can certainly save one.”

  He was right. The greatest medical attention in the world wouldn't help Patricia if we were all shot in the process. If Glenn worked for Doctors Without Borders he probably did have more experience patching people up than I did. I was usually the guy who caused gunshot wounds, not the one who stitched them closed.

  I patted Glenn on the shoulder, then hopped out of the truck bed. I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand as I scanned the horizon. We were cutting it awfully close. I could already see several human figures approaching from distant hilltops. They would be on us in a matter of minutes. I intended to be long gone by then.

  I climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine whirred briefly, then died. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” I shouted. I tried again. Still nothing. “Come on, come on,” I muttered. One more twist of the key, one more failure to start. A distinct snap-crack filled the air as the distant Taliban fighters began taking potshots at us. They were still too far away for the bullets to be anything but distracting, but they were closing in on us fast.

  I took a deep breath and filtered out all the distractions. The fear, the pain, the noise, the dust; all of it subsided as I built up a mental wall of concentration. “Please, God, let this work,” I whispered. Without opening my eyes, I turned the key again. The engine coughed and wheezed, then roared to life. I shouted in triumph and threw the truck into gear. The sounds of gunfire started to die away, and soon the distant forms of gunmen disappeared completely.