'What about the SEALs?'
Frank grinned. 'No, ma'am. Lieutenant Cruiser is just fine.'
Veronica's face reddened so much, it was apparent even in the dull glow of the illumination coming from the ACV's instruments.
Chapter 10.
CAMP TALATA, PAKISTAN
11 OCTOBER
IMRAN and Ayyub were sixteen-year-old mujahideen who had just finished their elementary training and were now considered full-fledged though inexperienced fighters in al-Mimkhalif. They had not been present at the disastrous attack on the police station on the Afghanistan border because they were in the final phase of their battle instruction in the foothills.
The boys' entrance into the world of jihad had not come from a devout belief in the causes of Islam. They had been apprentice bakers in their home village in rural Yemen, working for a demanding and cruel master. Slowness in learning or inattention to detail by the neophytes meant solid painful blows across the back and buttocks from a heavy cudgel wielded with cruel abandon by their large muscular boss. Many times they were locked in the pantry overnight without supper for their transgressions. Unfortunately, Imran and Ayyub were not the brightest of the village youths, and they made more than their share of mistakes in not only preparing the shop's products, but in learning the skills of the trade at the pace demanded by the master baker.
Things came to a head early one morning when both overslept. Their first duty of the day was to be up at four a. M. to get the oven fires going so that when the master appeared at five, things would-be ready to begin the day's demanding work. But that particular dawn began with the master's furious bellowing when he walked into a cold kitchen. The two apprentices sat straight up in their bed, looked at each other, and grimaced as they realized that this was the worst disaster of their short bungling careers. A prolonged brutal beating loomed in their immediate future.
Without exchanging a single word, they knew what they must do. The boys gathered up their few miserable belongings and went through the rear window of the bakery, and ran like hell toward the highway two kilometers away. This road led to the city of Sadah.
Luck was with them that day, and they were able to catch a ride on a truck that took them to the safety of the city where the brutal master would never be able to find them. Unfortunately, the pair of bunglers had no idea what they were going to do in the unknown metropolis, and after nearly starving for a week, they found a charity kitchen at one of the city's mosques located in the slums. More than physical sustenance was available in the dining hall. Clever clerics, looking for disenfranchised and frustrated youths to recruit into al-Mimkhalif, were waiting to preach to the boys prior to the serving of meals.
After several recruitment sermons--replete with messages of hate for the Great Satan America--Imran and Ayyub volunteered in the same unthinking manner they'd used when running away. It was a quick exit from a bad situation; better a dead martyr than be caught by the police and hauled back to face the master baker's rage and beatings.
.
1215 HOURS LOCAL
NOW Imran and Ayyub stood serious guard duty for the first time. They had been posted above the mountain pass that offered ingress to the camp. It was a narrow trail far below the bluffs that towered above it. A lot of their old careless ways had been driven out of them by hard-ass combat training along with cuffs and kicks in the military environment of al-Mimkhalif. They were also well indoctrinated, and they now tended to their assigned duty with discipline and determination.
'Look!' Ayyub exclaimed. 'Someone is coming up the trail.'
Imran looked in the direction his friend was pointing. 'A lone man, hey?'
'Let's make sure he is alone,' Ayyub said. 'Remember what we were taught. Sometimes the enemy sends scouts ahead to draw fire to discover the locations of our positions. We must be patient. This could be an attack.' After ten minutes passed, the rookie stood up. 'The stranger is alone.'
Imran cranked the field telephone kept at the lookout position, and raised the chief of the guard. 'There is a solitary man approaching the camp through the pass. We have watched him for a quarter of an hour. He is by himself.'
The chief of the guard put the receiver-transmitter back in its cradle, standing up and gesturing to the three riflemen relaxing at the midday cook fire. 'Let's go, brothers. Someone is approaching the camp.'
The chief took the trio with him as they hurried down to the spot among the boulders where they could safely intercept the interloper. Everyone was nervous since none of the camp's mujahideen was out on an operation. Somehow a stranger must have inadvertently wandered toward their camp. They took up their positions among the rocks and waited. When the stranger appeared, the chief called out.
'Wakkiff!'
The man obediently came to an instant halt, raising his hands.
'Walk slowly forward,' the chief commanded. 'Keep your hands raised high or we will shoot you.' He watched carefully as the man approached deliberately and carefully. Suddenly the chief jumped up and joyfully shouted, 'Mikael! It is you!'
Mike Assad grinned and lowered his hands, speaking in his crude Arabic. 'I come home.'
The chief and the riflemen ran out to exchange hugs and kisses with their comrade. This was another Middle Eastern custom that Mike had never gotten used to. Kissing a man did not measure up to making out with an affectionate girl.
The group hurried back through the camp as one of the riflemen ran ahead shouting the good news aloud. Others joined in the impromptu celebration, happy to see that a popular comrade they thought to be a prisoner had returned to them. By the time they reached the commander's tent, all the mujahideen not on duty had gathered around the canvas structure, chanting and clapping a welcome to Mikael. The chief went inside where the camp leader Kumandan, and Hafez Sabah sat consuming wheat loaves and rice.
'What is the disturbance outside?' Kumandan demanded to know.
'Mikael Assad has come back,' the chief announced. 'He is returned to us.'
'Bring him in,' Kumandan said.
Mike stepped into the tent. '
Kumandan stood up and studied the man before him. 'My God! We had heard you had been turned over to the Americans.'
'I was,' Mike said. 'They take me to their embassy in Islamabad.'
Sabah gave him a suspicious look. 'You are armed, I see. It appears you have a government-issue Webley revolver and pistol belt.'
'I steal it all in police station,' Mike said. 'It is a very old British weapon.'
'Sit down,' Kumandan invited. 'Fill up a plate for yourself. You must be hungry.'
Sabah was still not convinced. 'Did you say they took you to the American Embassy, Brother Mikael?'
'Yes,' Mike replied, reaching for the rice. 'But I escape. They want take me someplace from there. I do not know where. I am in car and handcuff is loose on one hand. I take out my hand and open door and jump in street. Then I run like gazelle and get away in big crowd of peoples.'
Sabah lost all interest in his food. He leaned forward, looking straight into Mike's face, speaking in the British English he'd perfected during his days at Oxford. 'Let's you and I speak in your language for a while, Brother Assad. I am going to ask you some rather important questions about your adventurous escape.'
'That will be fine, Brother Sabah,' Mike replied. He wished he wasn't so damn tired, knowing he would have to be careful and not trip himself up under the questioning.
The interrogation was unfriendly at first, but after an hour Sabah was convinced of the truth in Mike's cover story. The episodes in the Rawalpindi slums, the mosque, the bus trip, and all the rest fell into place with some scattered incomplete intelligence they had received from the interior of Pakistan. The end of the session evolved into a friendly conversation between Sabah and Mike.
