Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

The oryx had just risen from his bed on the side of a dune where his three mates continued to lie and watch him browse among the thorny plants. His magnificent ebony horns, which curved in graceful arcs like swords over his back, flashed in the morning light. They complemented the glossy black that covered his muzzle and bold jaws, and masked his eyes. Black hair also covered his legs and grew in long strands off the end of his white tail.

The antelope had made their beds on the sand dunes, where heat from the sun had absorbed deep during the previous day, and kept the animals warm during the cold desert night. Lying on the east side of the dune kept any chill from prevailing westerly breezes off their backs.

One of the doe carried a kid in her belly. The other two had not yet cycled for this year’s reproductive season. The buck stayed close to them, ready for their next heat, meanwhile fending away predators and rival bucks.

Some Bedouins who had herded goats and hunted the dry lands of Arabia and Persia centuries ago had thought the white oryx holy and magical. Even in their Muslim faith, they kept their superstitions and myths of the past much alive, even in these modern times.

Yasir Sayf al-Din ibn Abbas al-Bayati shared those Bedouin roots and mystical beliefs. Ever since he caught that one brief glimpse of the big buck and his three doe, he dreamed of them. In those visions, he marveled at the animals from afar, watching them graze on the succulents, obtaining vital moisture for their bodies from eating the plants, much like camels do.

As he dreamed, Yasir al-Bayati felt peace. No war. A calm and goodness filled him. He longed for those days to return, as he remembered life in his childhood.

A cough and a voice upstairs awoke Yasir, who lay on the cold stone floor of the passageway, wrapped in a blanket outside the dungeon door where Jack Valentine slept in chains and had no blanket.

The old Arab jumped to his feet, and grabbed his rifle, which he had leaned against the wall when he wrapped himself in the blanket to keep warm, but had also fallen asleep quickly afterward. He looked up the stone-lined tunnel where two other gunmen under his command were supposed to also stand guard, and they, too, had wrapped up in blankets and lay snoring on the floor.

“Wake up, you fools!” he ordered, kicking the men. Then he hurried back to the wooden door that kept the Marine secure in his cell. He quietly unlocked the padlock put through a steel hasp above the old iron latch.

Carefully, Yasir pulled the door open barely a crack and peeked inside. The American lay curled in a fetal ball, his back to the door. All was well, and he sighed in relief.

“Fuck you!” Yasir heard the prisoner say, and shut the door, satisfied, despite his failure, first night as officer of the guard and chief jailer, slumbering on the job and allowing his men to fall asleep, too.

Then Yasir heard his master’s voice, up early, arguing. He climbed to the top of the stairs and listened as the two guards under his command took posts by the dungeon door.

“Please, cousin,” Abu Omar Bakr al-Nasser said to Abu Musab al-Zarqawi on his telephone, “I cannot travel to Baiji today. I must remain close to home because of the illness that has visited my household since yesterday. It is far too great a risk to everyone for me to venture such a distance. Why don’t you visit me instead? We will meet at our uncle’s house at al-Rawa.”

Zarqawi felt like shouting but kept his calm. “I understand, dear cousin. May Allah rid you of this illness before it takes its toll on your household. I will come to you this time, but you must promise to follow my advice. To not follow what I advise you could mean that this grave illness claims you and all those you love.”

“I will meet you at our uncle’s home in al-Rawa tonight. I promise to hear what you say, but I have my own ideas of how to deal with this illness. May Allah give us wisdom to follow his will, and Allah keep our families safe from further illness.” Abu Omar smiled, triumphant. He knew he held the cards and the guns to get his way. Zarqawi knew it, too, or he would never have subordinated himself to risk traveling the day’s journey to the little village on the Euphrates halfway between Haditha Dam and al-Qa’im.

Yasir nearly fell down the stairs as Giti Sadiq and slave sister Sabeen pushed their way past him, carrying breakfast for him and his guards downstairs, and a bowl of rice with beans sprinkled in for Jack, per Omar’s order.

“Watch yourselves!” Yasir scolded them, regaining his footing, then following the two girls.

At the bottom of the steps, he pulled the cloth off the tray that Sabeen carried. “What do you have for us?”

“Hummus and cheese, pickled goat meat and dates, and warm bread with tea,” Sabeen said, as Giti set their table.

“What about him?” Yasir asked, giving a nod at the closed wooden door.

“Rice with some beans, and a cup of water,” Giti said, and lifted the cloth off the tray that she had carried.

“This is much better than the food the Americans give our brothers in their prison at Abu Ghraib,” Yasir commented. “Abu Omar is far too kind to this son of a pig.”

“Abu Omar has ordered this food for him,” Giti said. “If you have issues with his feeding, you should discuss it with our master. I am happy to do as I am ordered.”

“As you should,” Yasir said, straightening up and speaking firmly to the girl.

“Will you unlock the door?” Giti asked.

Yasir took the ring clip of keys off his belt and found the one that fit the padlock. When he opened the lock, he smiled at Sabeen.

“Lovely Sabeen. How have you been this morning?” he asked the shy girl, and she turned her eyes down and blushed.

“Very good, sir,” she answered.

Jack saw Giti and sat on his stool. She gave him the bowl with no spoon. He had to rake the rice and beans into his mouth with his fingers.

“Here, not so fast,” she said in English, and gave Jack the cup of water. He gulped it down and wanted more.

“May he have more water?” Giti called to Yasir, speaking Arabic.

The Bedouin thought for a moment, came into the foul room, and took Jack’s cup. In the hall, he dipped the cup into a jar filled with drinking water and came back.

“That is all for him today,” he told Giti. “Unless he is alive to eat tonight.”

Giti looked at Jack, and when Yasir went back in the hallway and began flirting with Sabeen, she said, “Take your time. Sip the water. It is all you may get today.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, finishing the rice and few beans.

The girl then checked over her shoulder and fished out a healthy strip of pickled goat meat and two dates.

“Do not let Yasir or anyone else see this food,” she said. “Omar would kill me if he knew.”

Jack palmed the food and slipped a date into his mouth.

As he chewed, he said, “Any news?”

“Perhaps good news,” Giti whispered, as Jack pretended to eat more from the bowl and chewed the meat and dates.

Outside, Sabeen kept Yasir busy in the hallway, flirting back, while his two minions ate their fill of breakfast and drank their tea.

“Abu Omar leaves for al-Rawa this morning for a meeting tonight,” Giti said.

“Who with? Any idea?” Jack asked, swallowing the last of the meat and dates.

“I think with Zarqawi,” she said. “He argued against meeting in Baiji, which is not far from Hibhib, and told his so-called cousin to meet at their uncle’s house in Rawa.”

“Anything else?” Jack asked.

“They are discussing an illness that befell the family yesterday,” she said. “You are no doubt that illness. They both want to resolve this illness their own ways.”