Amnay is Alex's alias. It is a traditional Berber name with the closest English translation being Rider.
The other names are all Berberian and have meanings. None, however, are relevant to the story.
"Private Amnay!" A gruff voice called out, snapping Alex to alertness.
"Corporal Ilayetmas, sir!" He didn't hesitate in rising to his feet and snapping a sharp salute. The kids he was playing cards with erupted from their position on the floor as well.
The Corporal stalked up to the four straight backed soldiers. The man didn't speak for a long moment, leaving Alex and his companions to hold their saluting position.
"Private Amnay," the man repeated, speaking in Morocco's indigenous language: Berber, "you will be accompanying Sergeant Tariq to the port station in Rabat. Report to Hanger E. Dismissed."
Corporal Ilayetmas turned sharply on one heel and strode out of the room. Alex quickly dropped his salute, snatching a small duffel bag from under his cot. His companions returned to their seated position on the floor, redealing the cards to accommodate the loss of one player. Alex gave them a swift nod farewell, which they barely heeded, before making his way out of the cramped barrack room.
Before exiting, he grabbed his army issued HK416 assault rifle off a hook by the door.
Alex walked purposefully down a series of corridors, making his way unchallenged to the deployment garage.
No one he passed stopped to ask what a child, for Alex was obviously a child, was doing in a military base. Nor was the rifle in his hands given a second glance. This place was a world away from Brecon Beacons, where his every move was questioned and scrutinized due to his age; different didn't always mean better, though. These people were no strangers to child soldiers.
Alex arrived at Hangar E in record time, spotting Sergeant Tariq easily. The Sergeant was a beast of a man; heavily built with muscles rippling under his army fatigues. The man was twice the size of anyone else in the room, though that might be because most of the rooms occupants weren't any older than eighteen.
Alex came to rest next to the group of kids, listening to the heavy thuds of people filing in behind him.
"We will be making our way into Rabat. You will all be given a section. Recruitment is priority. You will report back to the designated meeting place at exactly 2200 hours or you will be left behind. Understood?"
"Yes sir, Sergeant Tariq, sir!" They all barked in unison.
Tariq nodded his acknowledgment and led the way into the army transport van. Alex was first one in, sitting directly across from Tariq. The rest of the kids filled in in alphabetical order. The second the last kid's foot left the ground, the van was driving off.
Alex examined the kids around him. Eight, including himself; all together, there was five girls and three boys.
The youngest was a thirteen year old boy, Private Ziri, who sat at the end of the truck. The oldest, an eighteen year old girl by the name of Private Damya. The only other name Alex recognized was the girl to his immediate right, Private Basil, who was fifteen and in Alex's barrack. The other four looked to be around fifteen or sixteen, which was the average age in the base.
The ride to Rabat was uneventful, but stressful. There were no attacks on their convoy, but everyone in the van clutched their rifles tight, knowing that an attack could come. They weren't exactly in the posh part of town.
Despite the fact that it was a five hour drive, no one slept.
Everyone was on edge, bouncing in their seats with no seat belts to restrain them. Most of them looked too scared to blink for too long, let alone rest.
When they finally arrived in Rabat, Alex was given a section at the ocean tip of the Rabat-Casablanca border. On the way, Alex passed one of the many MI6/CIA stations that had been set up to keep an eye on Alex. He didn't even glance at the old, worn out market stand as he passed by.
The walk to his post was long, but mostly uneventful. Few people were out this late at night, and most of the homeless population had hideouts farther inland. It was when Alex made it to the dock where his section started that he got suspicious. Alex had been to Rabat often enough on recruiting missions, but more often than not, they stayed inland.
Rabat was one of the poorest cities in the world and had its fair share of street kids. However, the recent boom in the fishing market meant that the coastal part of Rabat had just enough money for street rats to be forced to steer clear.
Yet, here Alex was, standing next to a dock with no recruitable children in sight...
If Alex wasn't so used to being sniped at, he would have died. If Alex hadn't recognized that feeling, the prickle of hairs standing up on the back of his neck as someone stared him down through a scope, he would have died. As it was, Alex did not die. No, thanks to Alex's quick reflexes, he was very much alive; alive and floating in rubbish in the Atlantic Ocean. Bullets slammed through the wood of the dock above him as Alex slowly swam to shore.
The water was icy and dark, the shock Alex felt when he'd thrown himself off the dock had dulled to a feeling of numbness. He knew he had to get out of here and get dry, or risk hypothermia.
Alex crouched on the narrow strip of shore, still in the shadow of the dock. The cascade of bullets had stopped, he noted, but he knew they could start again at any moment.
What had happened? How had they figured out that Alex was a spy? He couldn't think of an instant when he hadn't been completely in character.
Whatever the case, he had definitely been made. He pulled up the sleeve of his army jacket, revealing a small tattoo. It was a simple design of a moon and star; the symbol of the Ottoman Empire that later became associated with Islam, which of course was the dominant religion in Morocco. The army hadn't thought the tattoo was odd or suspicious. They were, naturally, wrong. Good ol' Smithers had come through for him, as always, and hidden a tracker under the design.
Alex licked the tattoo (trying to ignore the fact that his arm was covered in garbage contaminated water) and watched the ink dissolve. The salivary amylase in his mouth broke down the chemicals of the tattoo, sending a distress signal straight to his mission handler.
Another bullet hit the water were a cloud had made a flicker of movement on the surface. Water exploded upward, light from the one unbroken lamppost hitting the droplets and refracting outward.
The cool ocean water splattered onto Alex, reminding him of just how cold he was. Time to get out of here.
Alex walked in a crouch, making his way along the edge of a sea wall. When he judged himself far enough away, he propped his rifle above the capping of the wall. He twisted the barrel, letting a bit of light catch on the smooth metal. Any sniper worth their pay would have seen the glint and shot.
When no shot came, Alex judged it safe to emerge. He placed his gun above him, then heaved himself over the wall.
The gun, thoroughly soaked with seawater, would be useless; but Alex was still reluctant to part with it. He scoped up the hunk of metal (for that's all it was now), slinging the strap over his shoulder and positioning the bulk of the gun on his back.
A meager protection against speeding bullets, but better than nothing.
Alex scanned his surroundings, picking out the sniper on the roof of an ocean side factory. The scope of their gun was trained on the spot Alex had dove overboard. Even in the dim lighting, Alex recognized the silhouette of Private Basil.
A fifteen year old girl had just tried to put a bullet in his skull.
It would be a tough journey to the last MI6/CIA outpost, but he would have to make his way there before daylight broke, or find another place to hunker down. In the sun, there was no way he would get past the highly trained, albeit young, soldiers.
Alex turned up the coast, heading vaguely north. There was a shout from behind him, a voice he thought he recognized.
Alex was being hunted.
Alex was running.
Not that that should come as a surprise, Alex spent a significant percentage of his time running.
There was a gunshot and he threw himself around a corner. Brick and concrete rained down around him as Alex lost his balance and fell hard onto the pavement. It probably saved his life too, Alex thought as another bullet whizzed overhead.
Then he was up again, putting on an extra burst of speed. Trying desperately to keep ahead of his pursuers.
His knee must've pulsed with pain from the fall and his wrists should've hurt from catching himself, but those sensations vanished in the adrenaline-induced haze, clouding and yet sharpening his senses.
They'd hurt later, if he survived that long.
As another bullet slammed into a nearby buildings brickwork, Alex didn't expect he would be surviving that long.
Another gunshot, Alex wondered if anyone could hear. Most likely they could, he concluded; they were running through a mostly residential area by now. Alex doubted, however, that anyone had bothered to call the police.
For one, most of the citizens of Rabat were more than used to the sound of gunshots. Furthermore, most of the citizens wouldn't have access to a phone. Additionally, if any of the inhabitants of Rabat had a phone, they wouldn't call the police. The police around here were as corrupt as the army Alex was infiltrating.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, "I'm so over this. I wanna go home."
Just wanted to let you all know that while I used Morocco and I did try to keep it fairly geographically accurate (thanks Google Maps): this whole chapter falls under fiction. I did very little research. Originally, I used Morocco thinking that I wouldn't bother coming up with a mission. When I did make this chapter, I was going to change the name. I decided to keep it the same (every name I came up with sounded cheesy and eww). Anyway, I hope no one is offended by the inaccuracies in this chapter!
Next: Our favourite soldiers return! K unit to the rescue!