R. Cameron Cooke
Rise to Victory
For Eva
Prologue
"Would you like another cigarette, Ahmad?”
That’s what the unsuspecting fatigue-clad youth had said to him only moments before. Now, Ahmad had the youth in a submission hold from behind, one hand covering his mouth, the other thrusting the serrated knife through the perplexed young man’s throat with little difficulty. The handle vibrated as the blade sliced through flesh, tendon, arteries, and cartilage, emerging from the other side in a spat of dark blood, painting the side of the tent and the damp jungle floor almost black in the night.
Ahmad had always wondered how it would really feel to cut a man’s throat, and now he finally knew as his victim’s teeth and fingernails, previously imbedded in his forearm, started to weaken and the blood and breath quickly escaped the doomed body. As the body went limp, he rolled the head back to check the upturned dead eyes just to be sure. As the head came back, one last grotesque gasp of smoky air was expelled from the severed windpipe, the remnants of the cigarette the two had been sharing mere seconds before.
It had been three years since he had last killed a man, but that was with a gun from a few feet away. He had always wondered how it would be with a knife, whether he could bring himself to actually do it. And now it was done, just like he had been trained to do all those years ago.
The dead boy’s eyes glimmered in the moonlight and seemed to stare back at him.
Just a foolish boy, Ahmad thought. Will your mother know you met your end in some jungle on the other side of the world? Did she care when you went off to follow Musa?
A mere boy, but the youth must have been at least eighteen years old, and educated, or at least it seemed so from the conversation they were having before his knife had mutilated the boy’s throat. Ahmad had seen the boy around the camp a few times. He was typical of all the others, angry and full of hate.
Full of emotion, Ahmad thought. That’s the key. That’s what threw him off balance and allowed me to kill him so easily.
In the moonlight it was hard to see just how much of the boy’s blood had run down his arms and legs, but he could feel it. It wasn’t the cleanest maneuver and he mentally reprimanded himself for not using better form. He dragged the body through the jungle, skirting the camp’s perimeter, until he came to a thick copse of trees adjacent to the supply tent. He wasn’t overly concerned about the body being found. He knew that it would be found. When morning came, the camp would awaken and discover both sentries missing, and they would know what had happened.
Musa would know. Musa had been suspicious for the last two weeks at least.
Musa and his men would see the blood on the tent and on the ground the next morning. They would find the boy’s body, then rant and rave, praying to God that the infidel Ahmad would burn in flames. After that, they would grab their rifles and grenades and come looking for him.
Ahmad tapped the left breast pocket of his fatigue jacket and felt the square object inside. It was still there. Musa might have suspected him for the last two weeks, indeed had been watching his every move, but not closely enough to prevent him from making this one last disk.
Now to get away with it.
A Kalashnikov rifle hung loosely from the dead boy’s limp arm, and Ahmad briefly considered taking it, before he reminded himself that speed and only speed would save him now. Wiping his bloody knife on the boy’s pants, he sheathed it, then stood back and stared at the dead boy for one last moment.
The boy was an Arab, just like him. He didn’t hate the boy, or Musa either, for that matter. It was all just business.
The first indication that the boy’s body had been found came an hour later as Ahmad ran through the moonlit jungle on the path he had carefully selected over the past few weeks. From one of the few barren hilltops he looked back in the direction he had come. Several miles away across the densely covered valley he saw two, then three flares appear over the spot where he knew the camp to be. The flares hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, bathing the foliage beneath them in a flickering white phosphorescent light until their small parachutes finally carried them down beneath the living canopy and they disappeared from sight completely. Moments later they were replaced by three more. In the distance, he thought he heard a faint whistle. The camp was mustering.
Damn! he thought. They had found the body sooner than expected. Some late night pisser must have tripped over it.
Undaunted, Ahmad pressed on into the underbrush at a comfortable pace, conserving energy, hopping a log here, ducking a frond there. The path was difficult, but he had deliberately chosen it because it was impassable to vehicles and any pursuers would have to follow him on foot, and he was in much better shape than anyone else in the camp. It was a daunting trek, but he had already run four miles through the obstacle-laden jungle and was making good time. He was still quite fresh, too, and patted himself on the back for having had the foresight to do a discreet carb-loading the night before. Despite his excellent progress so far, he knew the real challenge lay up ahead.
He only hoped Musa did not anticipate what he was going to do, how he was going to escape. If Musa could think straight after finding the boy’s mutilated body, he might figure it out. If he did, then the jig would be up. Musa would certainly block his escape route long before he could get there. Musa was smart, and indeed his intellect was one of the reasons for this abrupt departure tonight. Musa had been growing much too suspicious of late. Dangerously suspicious.
Ahmad chugged along through the forest putting mile after mile behind him, never looking back. It was dark, but the path was burned into his memory and he jumped, skipped, and ducked invisible obstacles that he knew to be there.
An hour passed with no sign of his pursuers. He kept running, fighting the urge to rest, knowing that any fanciful notions that Musa had forgotten about him were simply fantasies conjured up by his fatigued mind.
Then he heard it, a thundering in the night. He stopped and caught his breath for a moment, squinting to see the starry sky through the high jungle canopy. A low vibration filled the forest. A heavy staccato pulsation that was getting closer with every second.
Musa had decided to use the Huey to come find him, and it was a move Ahmad had not anticipated.
Musa must be pissed off! Ahmad thought, as his mind scrambled. He’s taking a big chance flying that thing around here!
The Huey’s rotors pounded the night air and filled the forest with their intimidating throb as the helicopter grew closer. The foliage was thick and Ahmad could see no more than the small sliver of sky directly above him. Likewise, one would think the men in the helo would have a tough time spotting him, too, especially at night. But Ahmad knew better. He knew there were at least a dozen sets of infrared headgear in the camp, and the men in the helo would almost certainly be wearing them.
The sound grew progressively more deafening. The Huey was obviously heading in his direction. Could Musa have guessed his escape plan? Could Musa have known about his secret jungle path? Maybe someone had been watching over the past weeks as he had mapped out the trail. Either way, the Huey would be on him in a matter of seconds.
He had to find some mud! Cold mud worked best for hiding from infrared. Ironically, Musa had taught him that. The ground beneath his feet was too firm, no good. He scampered around the jungle floor desperately searching, trying to find a small stream, a gully with some water in it. A fucking puddle would be enough!