Chapter 7
"A conventional army loses if it does not win. The guerrilla army wins if it does not lose."
- Henry Kissinger
- 1923 -
It was almost exactly a month after that final lesson with Samir that John stood an informal watch beside Holland's body through the long, cold night wondering if he'd die from exposure or thirst before he was captured. He knew approximately how far he was behind the lines and that the Taliban and their supporters would be all over the wrecked choppers like stink on shit looking for anything of value as well as survivors.
He didn't have to wait long after the first rays of dawn appeared to lighten up the area. Five enemy soldiers abruptly stood up from a few yards away. John had been hungry, thirsty, hurting badly from his injuries and exhausted by the adrenaline rush of what he'd hoped would be a rescue and then the crash of both his helicopter and his spirits when Holland died. He'd been so inwardly focused on what he should do next that he never knew they were there. He realized afterward that they'd simply stopped short of coming in closer to capture the Americans whose trail they'd followed and wrapped themselves in their robes, keeping watch. They must have been waiting for enough light so they could see how well armed the American soldiers were.
There was, of course, no point in even pretending to put up a fight. They all had AK-47s, but some of the handguns were also Russian, old Tokarevs mixed in with captured 9 mils, all aimed at him. In spite of the desert backdrop this wasn't a western and even though John was an excellent shot with his Beretta, he was most sincerely not a gunslinger. John was disarmed casually and patted down for the extra clips. They took his bolt knife from his belt and John realized that this was not their first rodeo as they gestured for him to hand over the smaller hold-out knife in his right boot. After a little muttering, which John couldn't make out, they even gave him water. The water came out of a skin bag that was warm and tasted like whatever had originally been wearing the skin. It was delicious.
Two of them checked Holland's body, making sure he was dead before taking a few things from his pockets they thought might be useful. John had already secured Holland's dog tags and arranged his body carefully as a gesture of respect if not friendship. He resented the rough handling of Lyle's corpse and attempted to intervene. As a result, he was promptly thrown down in the sand and had his ribs re-tenderized. After they got that out of their systems John remembered that it would have hurt way more if the men doing the kicking had been wearing boots instead of sandals.
As John turned over to regain his breath, two of the soldiers finished their search of Holland's uniform pockets then they hauled John back up and tied his hands together with a thick strip of leather in front of him so he could keep his balance and marched him off to an unknown fate. John only tried to turn around once for a last look but he was yelled at and shoved roughly forward. He didn't try to turn around again.
TBC