Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“Hurts like a motherfucker, doesn’t it!”

Jack moaned, and shut his eyes while he caught his breath. His worst nightmare had come true.

“What shall we do with you, Gunnery Sergeant John Arthur Valentine? That is your name,” Omar said. “Of course, we will execute you for the world to see. But before that. What shall we do with you? Do you have a suggestion?”

“How about I stick my foot up your ass,” Jack snarled. “Take these chains off me. I’ll show you what hurts like a motherfucker!”

“Oh, I am sure you would,” Abu Omar said, rocking back in the chair. “You know, Jack… You don’t mind that I call you Jack, do you? Certainly not.

“Anyway, I have to give you credit. You are an amazing man, surviving as you have done, such a long time in the desert. Resisting an entire army single-handedly, as you did to allow your men to escape. Commendable!”

“Kiss my ass,” Jack said.

“Oh, Jack Valentine,” Omar said. “In so many ways, it is a sad thing to see you die. But I assure you, it will be a glorious death. A tribute to you. A once-great warrior, defeated, humbled under a more powerful sword. My sword!”

“American jets took me down, asshole, not you,” Jack said, looking at the man in the rocking chair holding the cattle prod across his lap. “That’s the truth. You never had a chance at me until I had a run of bad luck. A few more steps, I’d be home free.”

“Perhaps,” Omar said. “But Allah handed you to me, nonetheless. In a few days, you will surely die under my sword. That I promise you!”

“You know. You’re a bunch of fucking cowards. Strip a man naked and chain him to the floor. How tough is that?” Jack said. “You’re a fucktard. A fat-assed old goat fucker.”

“Fucktard?” Omar laughed. “I have not heard that expression before. I shall remember it. As for your clothes? They shredded to rags from the bombs your planes dropped on you. I am amazed that you lived! Hardly a scratch on you! Most remarkable.”

The old graybeard leaned back in the rocking chair, shaking his head.

“I do wish your equipment had fared better,” Omar sighed. “I truly want one of your Remington model 700 rifles. I hoped I might obtain yours since you will no longer need it.

“The blast literally bent the barrel of the Marine sniper rifle you had on your shoulder. And the other one? The Vigilance rifle, another nice gun. It broke into three pieces! Can you believe it? Snapped in three pieces.

“Your backpack, and everything inside, confetti. Truly amazing that you live. Not even a broken arm or leg.”

“Divine providence,” Jack said, rolling onto his butt and managing to sit up with his hands between his ankles. He looked at Abu Omar on the level, eye to eye, and spoke in a soft, certain tone. “You won’t cut my head off, either. I’m getting out of here, and I will kill you. That I promise!”

“Ha!” The al-Sunnah boss laughed and rocked back. “You are a bold man, Jack Valentine! I like you!

“I thought I would hate you, and I did hate you, but now I like you. You have, as your Marines say, very large balls!”

Jack smiled at the old man in the rocking chair.

“I will walk out of here, and I will kill you.”

Abu Omar laughed again. “I look forward to the coming days, Gunnery Sergeant Valentine. You are quite something. Your confidence. Your certainty, despite everything that surrounds you. A man in chains, in a dungeon, held prisoner by a thousand guns, and you boast of killing me. Amazing.”

Then the graybeard shouted upstairs, “Giti! Miriam! Come tend to this filthy beast. Wash him, and put some clothes on him. We want the infamous and humbled Ash’abah al-Anbar presentable for our video cameras.”

The girls brought Jack Valentine a milking stool to sit on while they washed him. He said nothing but winced as Giti took a cloth soaked with iodine and disinfected the dozens of bad scrapes, cuts, and bruises across his back, butt, and legs.

“I am sorry if this burns, but you were cut to pieces along with everything you had on,” the girl said, speaking English with almost a British accent.

Jack looked at her. “What happened to them? My clothes and my gear?”

“Your clothes?” Giti said. “We took what was left of them off your body. I do not know about any equipment.”

“So the old goat with the filthy mouth told the truth. My kit and guns blown to shit,” Jack said, and noticed that Miriam put her hand over her mouth and hid her laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Jack said as both girls rubbed soap in his hair, on his face, chest, legs, butt, crotch, even the soles of his feet and palms of his hands. Almost a ritualistic cleansing, as if preparing a body for the grave.

Giti smiled, and said softly, “Our husband, the old goat with the filthy mouth. Miriam finds that amusing, because it is true. His mouth is repugnant.”

“I thought he was your father,” Jack said, looking at the young girls. “You’re both his wives? You’re just kids.”

“Not by choice, and Abu Omar has two other wives in addition to Miriam and me,” Giti answered in a low voice, so that no one outside the cell could hear what they said.

“You’re like slaves then?” Jack said.

Giti nodded yes. “We are slaves. Truly.”

“Your English,” Jack said. “Where did you learn to speak it so well? You sound British, in fact.”

“Miriam here, and our sister in Christ, Amira, and I studied English, along with French at the Presbyterian Christian School in Mosul. In addition to being a very good farmer, my father taught language at the school,” Giti said.

“So you’re not Muslim?” Jack asked, looking at the scarves that covered the girls’ heads and necks, and the plain Muslim dresses they wore.

“We are Christians but have accepted the Muslim way, as our master, Abu Omar Bakr al-Nasser, requires of us,” Miriam said, and looked at her sister. “Giti is with child, and our husband will soon disown her and give her to the men. They will rape her and kill her.”

Miriam began to cry and lowered her face, taking a rag from the clear water and beginning to rinse the soap off Jack.

“That’s true, Giti?” Jack said. “You are Christians, and your name is Giti?”

She nodded yes. “Giti Sadiq. We come from the village of al-Shirqat, halfway between Mosul to the north and Baiji to the south. Abu Omar murdered my father and brothers, cutting their heads at the throat with his long knife. Then because my mother and younger sister would not submit to Islam, he shot them both as they knelt at his feet.

“He murdered Miriam’s father and mother and sister the same. Amira’s parents and brothers, too. We were afraid to die, and Abu Omar found us attractive, so we put on the scarves of Muslim women and submit to him.”

Miriam wept as she washed Jack. “I have prayed so much that Jesus will come and claim me. Take my life. I should have gone to Heaven with my mother.”

Giti shot her elbow into Miriam. “Don’t say such things. We did not deny Christ; we only put on these clothes. Do not forget that we still pray to our Savior, and the Holy Spirit of Jesus still takes care of us.”

Jack let out a huff.

“You don’t believe in Jesus?” Giti asked, genuinely surprised. “All Americans are Christians. You do not believe in our Lord Jesus?”

Jack laughed. “I guess I do. I did in Sunday School a long time ago. And I have my holier moments from time to time, feeling the spirit, so to speak. Mostly when I need God’s help.”

“But you do not take your faith seriously?” Giti asked.

“I guess no more than most people,” Jack answered. “We have our exceptions. My colonel. Elmore Snow. He’s a pretty serious Jesus guy.”