“Who are you?”
“You may call me Iman or Teacher. I am your advocate,” said the Iranian. He swept from the room, the two brown uniform and half a dozen Somalians in tow.
Goddamn faggot Iranians,” Melfi told Jackson. “Least they could have done was beat the shit out of us.”
“Yeah,” said Jackson.
He’d been shot in the leg and Gunny could see the pain hit him in waves. Worried Jackson might pass out, the sergeant continued to talk and joke, hoping to keep him from going.
“Stinkin’ pilot’s probably making a deal for us right now, what do you think?” said Gunny. “Bet we’ll get dancing girls and blow jobs.”
Jackson snorted. His eyes started to close.
Gunny jumped up from the bench. Ignoring the two Somalians standing near the basement steps, he grabbed Jackson by the shirt and shook him.
“Yo, stay with me, boy. Yo, you’re mine, shithead. Don’t go nowhere.”
“I’m okay, Gunny. I’m just tired.”
“Hey, you douche bags – get me a fucking doctor here, okay?” Gunny yelled to the men. “You faggot bastards, don’t you understand English? Hey! Hey!”
The door to the basement opened. Still holding Jackson, Gunny watched as a man in a long robe descended the stairs. It was the Iranian who had questioned them earlier. Several other Iranians and Somalians followed him down.
“Hey, Ayatollah, where the fuck is that doctor?”
The others rushed around the two Americans. One grabby Gunny; before he could slug the SOB, his arms were pinned behind him.
“We need a fucking doctor,” Melfi told the Imam.
“Your soldier will received what attention is available,” said the Iranian. He nodded, and two of his men lifted Jackson up and carried him away. The Marine’s head flopped to the side. “The wound does not appear serious.”
“I’ll tell you what. Give me a fuckin’ AK-47 and you can find out how serious it is.”
“Your false bravado is hardly appropriate.”
The Iman nodded again. Gunny was thrown to the floor. Before he could manage to get up, his arms and groin were pinned by heavy boots.
“This ain’t exactly Geneva Convention style,” growled Gunny.
“This ain’t Geneva, Sergeant,” said the Imam.
A man with a video-camera appeared from behind the cleric. A red light flashed on near the lens; Melfi spat and stuck his tongue out. The videographer continued for a few more moments, then snapped off the camera.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said the Imam, seemingly amused. He said something to the others. One or two of the men grinned.
“You’re a real fuckin’ comedian. Ayatollah,” said Gunny as the others released him. He rolled up and sat on the floor, watching as the Imam walked back up the stairs. Most of the others followed. A young soldier came down with a tray of rice mush similar to what they’d given him a few hours before. Gunny took the bowl, made a show of sniffing it, even though he figured they wouldn’t bother poisoning him – they’d just shoot him and be done with it.
grub wasn’t as bad as some of the crap the Navy served on their aircraft carriers. He spooned it quickly into his mouth with his finger. Like before, the soldier waited for the bowl quietly a few feet away.
“Here ya go, Sport,” Gunny said, tossing the bowl back. The kid was skinny; he’d be easy to overpower. But he didn’t have a weapon, and the Somalians near the stairs did. Odds were they’d too jumpy to hold their fire, even if he had their comrade around the neck.
“You find a beer up there, you let me know, huh?” Gunny said as the soldier disappeared up the stairs.
Hell of a jail, he thought. Reminded him of the storage room in an old NCO club in Florida. Guys used to help one of the waitress rearrange the boxes downstairs.
[I]Ooo-la-la[/b].
The door above opened once more. A pair of black boots appeared, followed by the Somalians in their beatup sneakers.
Major Smith.
Gunny tried to keep his expression blank as Smith was prodded down to the basement. Unlike Gunny and Jackson, Smith was wearing a set of manacles on his hands and legs. He walked slowly, then stood at attention a few feet away. Neither man spoke as the soldiers turned back and went up the stairs.
The instant the door closed, Smith collapsed on the floor.
“Jesus, Major, you all right?” said Gunny, not quite in time to keep Smith’s head from slamming on the hard-packed dirt.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Smith. His eyes were closed. “Where the fuck are we?”
“Jail, I think,” said Gunny.
“Upstairs looks like a school or something. We still in Somalia?”
“They had us in the back of a van the whole time,” Gunny told him. “I’m not sure. I think so. We were headed west, maybe northwest, I figure. Near the coast, but not on it. some Iranian guy’s in charge. Raghead.”
“The Imam,” said Smith.
“Looks like Khomeni,” said Gunny.
“This guy’s our lawyer or something,” Smith groaned. “Or he’s pretending to be, so we trust him.”
“Lawyer?”
Smith pulled himself forward, finally opening his eyes. “Ribs are killing me,” said the major apologetically.
“Yeah. They beat you up?”
“Haven’t touched me.”
“Us neither. Strange. They must be scared.”
“No. They’re going to put us on trial. They don’t want us hurt before then. We’re propaganda.” Smith glanced toward the two Somalians standing at the foot of the stairs. They were holding South African 9mm BXPs, Uzi-like weapons with telescoping stocks and air-cooled muzzles. “What happened to Jackson?”
“They took him upstairs. He got shot in the leg.”
“How about you?”
“Head hurts like shit,” said Gunny he pointed to the scrape on his scalp where he’d been nicked by a bullet. “Otherwise only thing that smarts is my pride.”
Gunny told Smith how Jackson got hit and went down right after they were spotted. Gunny toss a smoke grenade and went to get him. Somewhere around there another grenade went off, tossed by Jackson or the Somalians, he wasn’t sure. Either it was a concussion grenade or a dud; in any event, all it had done was slam the sergeant to the ground. When he tried to get up he found half a dozen Somalians in his face.
“I guess I got shot somewhere along the way,” added Gunny. “Lucky for me it hit my head and bounced off. Hit me anywhere else and it would have gone right through.”
“Let me see it.”
Melfi bent down and let Smith examine the wound, even thought Jackson had already said the bullet had only grazed him. The major agreed, describing it as a the sort of red singe a barber’s razor might make.
“What happens next, you figure?” Gunny asked.
“Take us to where the trial is.”
“If we done get rescued first,” said the sergeant. “Or bust out first.”