Quest for Honor (32 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Somalia

J
im and Denise
had been brought trays of food along with bottled water. They ate in silence. The crusty bread wasn’t much better than what he’d choked down earlier in the day, but there was brown rice and some sort of meat, probably mutton, she said. No utensils. Somebody had actually been thoughtful enough to provide small towels so they could clean their hands. After the meal they were led to a latrine, more primitive than anything Jim had ever seen in the States, but he presumed they were standard issue over here.

Back in the cell, he said, “Now, about that new shirt.” He slipped his own over his head and handed it to her. “It’s a little big for you, and it’s not in the best of shape, sorry.”

She took it with a smile. “It’ll do.” She looked at him, and he turned around. When he turned back after the rustling was done, she was tying the hem of the shirt into a knot, snugging the shirt as best she could to her body, leaving a few inches of midriff. “How do I look?”

“Under the circumstances, pretty terrific,” he said. He gestured at her stomach. “Will they get upset about that?”

“Probably, but we’re way past that by now, aren’t we?” She gave the shirt one more adjustment, revealing another half-inch of her toned abs. “They’ll be coming pretty soon,” she said.

“I suppose so.”

“Listen, Jim, I have to apologize for what I said before. I know you thought what you were doing was for the best.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I can understand how you must’ve felt.”

She stepped closer to him. “Don’t get yourself killed, all right?”

He reached out to her, and she came into his arms, hesitantly, but then she wrapped hers around him. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “You might want to start thinking of a better way for us to get out, just in case.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said with a little laugh. Then she looked up at him, and came closer.

The angry shouting started as soon as Denise came around the corner into the yard, with two armed fighters in front of her, two behind her, then Jim and two more men.

A year ago he’d watched a TV series about Spartacus, the Thracian warrior who’d been sold into slavery and became a gladiator in the arenas of the Roman Republic. Jim vividly remembered the episode where Spartacus was led into the arena for the first time, facing a fight to the death. Now he knew how the man must have felt. Every man here wanted to see Jim die.

But Spartacus, a man Jim considered to be the embodiment of courage and honor, had survived that fight and went on to lead a rebellion that nearly toppled the Republic. A dose of gladiator courage would come in handy right about now. Words came to Jim from somewhere deep in his past, from a source infinitely better than Spartacus:
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.

Dozens of men, probably well over a hundred, ringed the open area in the center of the camp. The sun was dropping into the low hills to the west, and it was starting to cool down. Several torches had been placed in holders along the walls of the three buildings forming the sides of the courtyard. Trucks were parked at each corner of the open end and their headlights were turned on. Ahead of him, three lines of men blocked the way. Beyond them in the gathering gloom were the far reaches of the camp. On the left side was a small wooden platform just large enough to hold a man setting up a video camera on a tripod.

Joe was there, sitting in the middle chair of three that had been brought out from the chow hall. He actually managed a slight smile when he saw the Americans. Jim sat down in the chair to Joe’s left, Denise to his right.

“Joe, are you all right?” Jim asked.

His old friend’s dark brown eyes looked pained, and one was puffy and swollen. “Don’t worry about me, James. Are you ready for this?”

Jim had competed in dozens of tournaments and before every one of them, he’d felt nervous. This tournament would be unlike any he’d ever experienced, but all things considered, he felt good. The decision to give Denise his shirt wasn’t just for her; he wanted the men out here to see that he wasn’t soft and pudgy as they probably assumed an American civilian would be. He’d spent some time in the cell stretching, getting limber and working up a sweat, and now the evening air felt cool on his bare chest and back. His knee felt fine, thankfully. If that went out on him now, he’d be in real trouble. Of course he was in real trouble anyway, but he needed everything firing on all cylinders for as long as possible to survive what was to come.

“Well, I’d rather be sitting in my house watching TV right now,” Jim said, “but I’ll be okay.” He actually felt rather calm. He kept his breathing steady, trying to block out everything beyond what was waiting for him in the arena. He wasn’t normally a man who prayed a lot, but he’d done more praying in the past twenty-four hours than he had in months. Hopefully God wouldn’t consider it to be too little, too late.

The African looked like he was about to break down. Jim could hardly imagine the pressure he was under. All these years as a leader of men like this, and suddenly he was a prisoner, just as he was on the verge of freedom. Jim put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Listen, Joe, we’re gonna get out of here, okay? We’ll find ourselves a quiet little bar somewhere and have a couple beers. We have a lot of catching up to do.” A wry grin stretched Joe’s parched lips. “Oh, sorry, I forgot Muslims don’t drink.”

“It’s okay, James. I will have an iced tea.” He clasped Jim’s hand with his own, unable to keep his shoulders from shuddering. But then he straightened in his chair, his strength returning. Jim could see the change in his face. Just moments before, there had been fear and anguish crowding the lines in his black skin. Now, Jim saw courage and determination. The little Ugandan’s power seemed to flow into him. Jim removed his hand, and it was almost like breaking an electrical connection.

“I must tell you, I have seen Heydar training some of the men,” Joe said. “They appear to me to be proficient.”

“I guess we’ll find out pretty quick.” He saw the rows of men at the far corner of the courtyard part, and the two Iranians came into view, followed by three other men, all three stripped to the waist. Two of them looked to be shorter than Jim, but one was tall, broad in the shoulders, and scowling. Of course, Jim thought, there’s always one of these guys in every dojo, a weightlifter who thinks he can translate that kind of power into what is a totally different kind of training. But if the rules allowed grappling, that guy might be real trouble.

“Have you seen them do any ground work, Joe?”

“You mean, wrestling?”

“Yeah, MMA-style, that kind of thing.”

“I do not know of this MMA, but yes, I have seen them do something like wrestling, and the large man there, Mahmoud, is very good. He is Syrian, was once one of Assad’s bodyguards.”

“Terrific.”

Heydar stepped out into the center of the courtyard. Jim saw another pair of men following Mahmoud, and they had their arms full with something wrapped in what appeared to be heavy sheets of some sort. The Iranian major began to speak to the crowd.

“He speaks in Arabic,” Joe said. “He announces this series of challenge matches. He thanks the many volunteers who offered to kill the American, but he has chosen these three.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a relief. I offered to fight four.”

“Do not think Heydar the fool, James. Undoubtedly if you defeat these three, he will be the fourth.”

The Iranian went on, drawing cheers from the crowd. “What did he say?”

Joe cleared his throat, glancing at Denise, who had stiffened in her seat. “Heydar says the fighter who defeats you will be allowed to use the body of your woman in full view of the camp. Then she will be killed.”

Jim looked over at Denise. He still felt the softness of her lips on his, delicate and tender. “I wouldn’t think your religion would allow that, Joe.”

“Of course it does not. ‘Fear God and respect women.’ The fourth Sura. But Heydar twists the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him, to suit his own purposes.”

“Imagine that.” Jim stood up. “Well, looks like it’s just about showtime.”

Joe stood and offered his hand. “God be with you, James.”

“Thanks, I’ll need all the help I can get.” He took a step to Denise, and her eyes were wet. Maybe these characters needed to see how an American man treated a woman. He extended a hand. She took it gratefully.

“Good luck, Jim. Do what you have to do.”

“Thanks, Denise. Thanks for everything.” He looked at the enemy fighters, then back to her. “When we get back, I’ll buy you a drink at that bar in McLean.”

“You’re on,” she said with a smile.

Heydar motioned Jim to the center, and the first Arab came out from the other side. The guy was young, maybe early twenties. He looked excited, maybe too excited. Heydar looked calm and confident. “Mr. Hayes, this is Abdul, from Iraq. He joined our cause to help fight against your people when they invaded his country.”

“I suppose he would rather have taken his chances with Saddam and his boys.”

“Joke while you can, Mr. Hayes,” Heydar said. “Abdul is one of my best students, and he has no love of Americans.”

“Well, I’m touched. Let’s get on with it. What are the rules?”

Heydar gave him that same magnanimous smile he’d had earlier in the day in the chow hall. “The rules, Mr. Hayes? My men can choose a weapon from those they’ve trained with, or they may choose to fight with the empty hands. You may try to defend yourself as you please.”

The two men with the rolled-up sheets laid them on the ground at one side of the yard and pulled away the cloth with a clattering sound. Jim saw a scattering collection of familiar martial arts weaponry. Abdul went over to the nearest stack and picked up a pair of
nunchaku,
then walked confidently back to the center, whipping the two connected short sticks around, behind his shoulders and over his head.

Jim watched him carefully. The first thing he noticed was that the weapon was a cheap one, easily available on martial arts websites around the world. Two rounded sticks, probably oak, about fourteen inches long and connected by a short chain. In his
kobujutsu
class back home, Jim used a version of the weapon that was custom-made of polymer, easy to hold and maneuver, connected with a short, tough rope cord. He went over to the weapons and looked them over. He’d hoped there would be a sansetsukon; the three-section staff would have given him a big advantage against everyone but the most highly-skilled opponent, but it was rare enough in America and so he wasn’t surprised there wasn’t one here. He chose a pair of nunchaku similar to Abdul’s. They would have to do.

The men were cheering Abdul as he showed off for them. Jim hefted his weapon. It was in decent enough shape, and used properly it could deliver an impact of about twelve hundred pounds to something fragile, like a man’s wrist or his temple. But it could be used for other things, too, and he wondered if Abdul knew about those. Heydar was a taekwondo stylist, and back home Jim knew that TKD people, as competent as they were at empty-hand fighting, generally didn’t do much weapons training. Certainly not as much as he did in his classes. Now he would find out whether all that practice would pay off.

They met in the middle of the yard, with Heydar about fifteen feet away. Jim was flipping his nunchaku like he was not very familiar with them. It would be better to really warm up with them first, go through some of his
buri
techniques, but he didn’t want them to think he knew what he was doing. It would be a risk, but it might just give him an edge in this first bout. Abdul took a stance right out of a cheap Hong Kong movie, feet splayed apart with the right foot back, knees bent, left hand pushed out, right hand holding the weapon, twirling it easily.

Heydar yelled
“See jak!”
and Abdul charged, screaming, pulling his right hand back to deliver a mighty killing blow. As his body twisted to the right, his left arm extended outward just a bit more, and Jim sidestepped to his right, whipping his weapon around Abdul’s left wrist. As the outer nunchaku swung around, Jim grabbed it with his left hand and cranked them apart, generating hundreds of pounds of force through the chain into the Iraqi’s fragile wrist. Jim heard it popping just before Abdul’s scream changed in pitch.

Twisting the weapon further toward him, Jim forced Abdul down onto his right knee. He gave the wrist one more crank, producing another shriek, and then released the left nunchaku, bringing the weapon up and around behind his head with his right hand and delivering a strike into Abdul’s exposed, naked ribcage. The Iraqi staggered to his right, pressing into the ground with his right hand, his weapon now useless. Jim’s weapon came around again, his motion hardly slowed by the rib strike, and this time he brought it swinging around Abdul’s neck. With the chain planted on the right side of the Iraqi’s throat, Jim grabbed the left nunchaku and cranked on the windpipe. The screaming stopped, and there was utter silence from the crowd. Jim heard the choking, saw Abdul’s eyes bug out and spasms wrack his body. It only takes eleven pounds of pressure to collapse the human trachea, Jim knew, about three times that to crush it completely. He applied a little more. The Iraqi gagged, and Jim released the grip and stepped back. Abdul convulsed once, twice, then lay still, his breath producing a hideous rasp.

Keeping his own breathing ever under control, Jim turned to Heydar, who was staring in something approaching disbelief, and said, “All right, I’m warmed up now. Who’s next?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Afghanistan

“
C
olonel Hayes? Captain
Krieger wants you over at the comm shack on the double.” Mark jumped off his cot, dropped the Vince Flynn novel he’d been reading and trotted behind the sergeant. There was a group of about ten men inside the comm shack, eyes trained on a flat-screen TV set up on a platform at eye level. Krieger was standing in the midst of the troops and he motioned Mark to join him.

“What’s going on?” Mark asked. The picture showed what appeared to be an open yard of some sort, with men milling around the perimeter. Not the best light, and Jim could tell by the slight stuttering of the image that it was an internet feed. As remote as they were, the outpost had a connection with the nationwide fiber-optic system installed a few years before by the Chinese.

“We got word from ISAF that there was something happening on an al-Qaida website,” Krieger said. “They think it’s from Somalia.”

“The boys at the Puzzle Palace are on the ball,” Jim said. He knew that the massive, secretive National Security Agency back home constantly monitored numerous websites favored by terrorists. This same feed was surely being watched right now at CIA headquarters in Virginia, and probably also the Situation Room at the White House.

A man wearing military fatigues walked into the middle of the yard from the upper left, and from the right came another man, taller and bare-chested. Mark’s heart almost seized up. “That’s my brother,” he said.

“The man on the right?”

“Yes.”

The tech turned up the scratchy audio feed. An Arabic speaker in the crowd started translating. When the officer doing the talking mentioned the woman captive, the camera panned to the right and zoomed in. Sitting in two chairs were a short black man and a taller white woman. The translator hesitated, then said, “If he loses, they’re going to rape the woman right there.” Several of the watching men hurled curses at the screen, some of the vilest epithets Mark had ever heard, and that was saying something. The stakes had just gotten a lot higher.

Another tech at the comm console yelled, “Colonel Hayes, are you here?”

“Yeah.”

“Call for you, sir. ISAF HQ.”

The crowd parted as Mark slid his way through them to the desk, keeping an eye on the screen. The tech handed him a phone handset. “Colonel Hayes.”

“Mark, are you watching this?” came the familiar voice, now tense with concern.

“Yes, General. Is it a live feed?”

“We got the word from Langley not too long ago, and yes, they think it’s live. There are birds in the air from Lemonnier right now, looking for that place, and there’s a strike force spooling up. If your brother can hang on, they might have a shot at a rescue.”

Mark tried to recall a map of the Horn of Africa in his head. “General, it’s about eight hundred klicks from Djibouti to the Mog, isn’t it? It’ll take Lemonnier hours to get boots on the ground.”

“We have somebody closer than that, Mark. Twenty-sixth MEU is aboard USS
Kearsarge
off the coast.”

Mark’s heart slowed down. Having a Marine Expeditionary Unit in the neighborhood was always a good thing, and for damn sure it was a very good thing right now. “Thanks, General.”

“Don’t thank me, Mark. They were down near Kenya helping out with the cyclone that hit a few weeks ago. They moved closer to Somalia in advance of your brother’s mission, just in case. I want you to hang up now, Mark, and pull for your brother. Tell Captain Krieger we hope to have a package for him in the next twelve hours.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Mark had barely handed the phone back to the tech when there was movement on the screen and the watching soldiers let out a yell. He muscled his way through them back to Krieger. “What happened? I didn’t catch it from that angle.”

“Your brother took down the first fighter,” Krieger said, and Mark could hear the respect in his voice. “Using nunchaku. He’s fast, your brother. Very good.”

“That‘s your brother, Colonel?” a young officer next to them asked. “Shit fire, he’s good. You taught him well, sir.”

“I didn’t teach him anything like that, Lieutenant. This is all him.” He felt a surge of pride like he’d never felt before.

Two men emerged from the perimeter and dragged the first fighter away. Mark couldn’t tell if the man was dead or alive, but he was certainly out of commission. The officer in charge motioned to another bare-chested man, who went over to something piled on the ground and picked up a long staff.

“Oh oh,” the lieutenant said. “Dude’s got himself a
bo
.”

Somalia

Yusuf had never seen anything like it. Occasionally some of the men watched movies of Asians battling in the martial arts, but their own hand-to-hand combat training had always been much more basic, perhaps using knives or the occasional spear. He seemed to remember something from his university days about James doing some training. Evidently he had kept up with it. The Ugandan felt the first tickling of hope within his breast. They might yet have a chance. The crowd, shocked into silence by Abdul’s quick defeat, was now coming to life again, giving a rising cheer to the second fighter as he went over to select his weapon.

“Who’s this next guy?” the woman, Allenson, asked.

“His name is Farid, he is Saudi. A true believer in jihad, a graduate of one of the best madrassas in Riyadh.”

“Is he any good?”

“I know that he has been on two operations since he arrived here several months ago. He performed…competently.” He couldn’t tell the woman about how Farid had been one of the men who’d rounded up the children at Katabolang. Perhaps later, if they got out of here.

Farid picked up a long staff and began twirling it around, but he was not showing off as Abdul had done. He appeared to know exactly what he was doing. James went to the weapons and picked up two shorter sticks that looked like police batons. “What did he choose?”

“They’re called
tonfa,
”
Allenson said. She had a grim smile. Not for the first time, Yusuf wondered if there was something personal between her and James. But she did not appear to be afraid, either for herself or for him.

“They are much shorter than the staff,” Yusuf observed, watching Jim grip the weapons by their handles, twirling them around in tight circles. “How can James defend himself with them against something so much longer?”

“I have a feeling he knows how to do that,” she said. “The bo is longer but it has its limitations. If Jim can get inside his reach…”

The two men squared off, and then, oddly enough, Farid, with the bo tucked behind one shoulder along his right leg, bowed to James, who returned the gesture. The Saudi swung the bo around to his front and dropped into a stance with the weapon held at what almost appeared to be port arms. James was holding onto the tonfa by the grip handles, which were perpendicular to the main shaft. He held the shafts tightly up against the undersides of his forearms, and Yusuf could see how the shafts extended out a few inches from the handles. Farid began circling James, who maintained a distance of about ten feet. The crowd was louder now, many beseeching Farid to kill quickly.

Farid launched himself at the American, bringing the bo up and around toward James’s head, but it was blocked by the left tonfa. The blow would surely have broken James’s arm had it connected with flesh and bone instead of the wood. Farid brought up the rear end of the bo in an uppercut, but once again it was blocked, this time by James’s right tonfa, swinging downward and knocking the shaft aside as James stepped in closer. Then the left tonfa came around almost too fast for Yusuf to follow, striking against Farid’s right hand where it clutched the bo. Yusuf could hear the awful crack of delicate bones and the Saudi screamed, but it was cut off quickly as the right tonfa rocketed around in a tight arc and swung outward, its back end connecting solidly with the Saudi’s left temple. Farid staggered, dropping the bo, and collapsed to the ground.

Afghanistan

A roar erupted from the soldiers as the second fighter fell. “Fuck me!” the lieutenant exclaimed. “Did you see that?”

Mark had seen it, but could hardly believe his eyes. He’d done his share of hand-to-hand training over the years and had seen a lot of men doing it better than he could, but this was way above that pay grade. He thought of Hong back at his base. Maybe he would drop in on the Korean private’s next class.

“Most impressive,” Krieger said, and Mark heard an excitement in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Mark, was that the General on the line?”

“Yes, and he said to expect a mission package in the next twelve hours.”

“Excellent. Now, if somehow your brother and his people can be extracted…”

“The Marines are right off shore.”

Krieger gave him a triumphant look. “Then your brother must hold on until they get there.”

A shout brought their attention back to the screen. “Look out!”

Somalia

Jim was starting to feel it now, the tension of the first bout and then the next starting to drain him. Time to dig a little deeper. He stepped back from the fallen fighter and started to relax just a bit, keeping the breathing even, and then out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed something coming at him.

The impact was like being hit by a truck. He flew backward, the world turning topsy-turvy, and his rump hit the dirt hard, but the training with the Russians took over and he curled his back, tucked his head and completed the roll, coming out on all fours. He felt something go in his bad knee. He’d dropped the tonfa from his left hand, but still had the right one, and here came the big man again.

Trying to regain his breath, Jim rolled to his left at the last second as the Syrian crashed down onto the dirt with a grunt. Jim got to his feet quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a ground-and-pound situation with this guy. Mahmoud reached out for Jim’s leg, but Jim whistled his tonfa down and clipped the Syrian’s thumb. He yelled in pain and rolled away.

Jim knew he should try to finish this guy as quickly as possible but he didn’t want to get close to him on the ground, even with a weapon. Once Jim was on the ground the weapon would be pretty much neutralized. He looked for the other tonfa. There it was, about fifteen feet away, and he made a move for it, but the Syrian was quick, on his feet again, cutting him off.

Mahmoud was more cautious now, and he was shaking that right hand. Jim was sure he’d gotten a good hit on the thumb, enough to break it, but maybe this guy’s pain tolerance level was high enough to shake that off. If he tried to grab with that hand, though, or use it as a fist, it would hurt like a bitch. Jim hoped he wasn’t left-handed.

The Syrian circled warily. Jim was down in
zenkutsu dachi,
the standard weapons stance, left leg forward with the knee bent, right leg back, weight evenly distributed, his left arm down to protect the lead leg, right hand back with the tonfa, ready to deploy. He moved enough to keep the big man from getting an angle on him. His knee was starting to hurt but he pushed the pain away. Stay focused. No fear.

The Syrian would come after him again, he’d have to, trying to get inside the tonfa. Jim was taller by about six inches but his opponent was built, probably outweighing Jim by ten or fifteen pounds. Well, size and strength were important, but skill and leverage mattered more.

Mahmoud feinted, then shot in low, going for Jim’s legs. Jim splayed his legs backward and outward in a sprawl, catching the man’s impact diagonally on his thighs, and brought the tonfa down hard on the back of the grappler’s neck. He grunted, his grip loosening, and Jim wrested his legs away from him and came around to the man’s back. His first thought was to get away, but no, the Syrian had almost gotten him that time, Jim couldn’t afford to take too many chances, so he brought the tonfa around the front of his throat and gripped the free end with his left hand and pulled back hard.

The Syrian bucked like a raging bull, but Jim wrapped his legs around the fighter’s waist and held on, cranking the tonfa with everything he had. The man gagged out a raspy roar of pain and fury, pulling at the weapon, and Jim thought he was only seconds away from choking him out when Mahmoud threw an elbow backward, connecting solidly with Jim’s left ribcage. He cried out in pain, letting go of the tonfa with his left hand, and the Syrian shrugged him off, onto the ground.

Jim was on his back, trying to breathe through the pain in his ribs, when the Syrian came at him again. Jim rolled to his right and there was the tonfa. He grabbed it, felt a looming shadow and came around with his right hand, thrusting the tonfa straight up. The hard wooden knob at the front end of the shaft caught the man right on the Adam’s apple. Jim felt it go deep into the throat, heard something inside snap once, twice. The larynx, then the hyoid bone that protected the windpipe, thin and brittle like a turkey’s wishbone. The Syrian seemed to hang above him momentarily, eyes bulging, tongue out, and then he rolled slowly to his right with a horrible gurgling cough, collapsing onto the ground as Jim got his leg out of the way just in time.

Jim sagged backward, then heard Denise shrieking, “Get up, Jim! Get up!” He knew he had to, if another guy rushed him while he was on the ground, he knew it would be over. His strength was fading. “Get up!” she screamed again. But the voice, it sounded different.

It sounded like Suzy’s voice.

He got back onto his feet, staggering a bit, and looked around. Nobody was coming at him. The men on the perimeter looked stunned, angered, but none of them were stepping into the arena.

Afghanistan

The cheering was loud now, soldiers were giving each other fist bumps and high fives, but Mark was tense. His elation at his brother’s stunning victories evaporated when he saw him struggle get up. Jim had to be exhausted, and it looked like his bad knee was giving him trouble. He couldn’t possibly last much longer.