Jack Terral - Battlecraft (2006)

An hour later, however, the odds caught up with him, and Mike was in a situation where it looked like escape would be impossible. At least two dozen merchants and shoppers in one market place objected to his passing through their neighborhood, and an impromptu mob situation quickly developed. They advanced in a disorganized phalanx, encouraging each other through sheer weight of numbers while shouting insults and threats. Once more Mike went to the knife as he backed down the street. Several times one of them would prove to be a bit braver than the others, and move toward him. In those instances, he had little choice. If he was going to die, Mike was determined that he sure as hell was going to take a few with him, and he made ready to fight with no intention of begging for quarter or giving any. He stopped in his tracks, assumed an aggressive fighting position, then lunged forward, bringing his knife to bear. These counterattacks caused the bolder individuals' courage to fail as they stumbled back to the safety of their buddies. This gave Mike a chance to put a bit more distance between him and the crowd, albeit by walking backward. Eventually, the throng's numbers began to lessen, and the threat slowly subsided as he moved out of their turf.

At that point, Mike was close to abandoning his mission, finding a taxi, and going back to the American Embassy in Islamabad. A reunion with Brannigan's Brigands never seemed so good.

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1100 HOURS LOCAL

MIKEAssad wasn't hungry enough to consider the situation critical, but he knew that in another twenty-four hours, he would begin to experience a physical weakness and fatigue that would get worse before it got better if he didn't take in any nutrition.

He reached what seemed to be an active thoroughfare with both motorized and animal-drawn vehicular activity. He walked to an intersection that showed some promise. There were street signs in both English and Urdu that identified the site as the meeting of Adamjee and Kashmir Roads. Mike glanced down the street and sighted a mosque. He hurried toward it and entered through the gate, exploring the interior until he came to the rassal area. This was where the faithful washed before going into prayers. He went over to a bench and sat down. Here was a chance to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

"Asalam aleikum "

The voice startled him, and Mike leaped to his feet and turned around. A young cleric with a pleasant smile regarded him in a friendly manner. Mike nodded and replied, "Wa aleikum salam," as he had been taught in the al-Mimkhalif camp. "Arabi? English?" he asked.

"I speak English," the cleric said. "I am called Zaid."

"I am called Mikael."

"So your father named you after the archangel, did he?" the cleric asked. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mikael? You seem to be distressed."

"I seek amniyi ," Mike said, asking for sanctuary.

"From whom do you flee, Mikael?"

"I am an Arab-American," he explained, knowing that he had no choice but to turn to his cover story and hope for the best. "I have escaped from captivity in the American Embassy." He pulled back his sleeve and revealed the handcuff locked around his left wrist.

'This is extraordinary;' Zaid the cleric said. "How did such an unusual event come about?"

"I left America to return to the lands and faith of my forefathers to offer up my life in a jihad," Mike said. "I am a mujahideen and fight with al-Mimkhalif. I was captured during an attack on a Pakistani police post. When they discovered I was an American, they sent for people from the United States Embassy to take me back to America for punishment. But I escaped and I am now lost."

"So you are in peril from infidels, la, Brother Mikael? In that case we will help you. What is it that you wish?"

"I desire to return to al-Mimkhalif to fight again," Mike said. "My band is in the mountains of Baluchistan Province." He shrugged apologetically. "And I am very hungry."

"Come with me," Zaid the cleric said. "We will give you food, and I shall send for a hiddad --a blacksmith--to remove the restraint from your wrist."

"Allah will reward you for your kindness," Mike replied properly.

He was taken into the interior of the mosque, where other clerics came to meet him. Zaid left to send for the blacksmith, and Mike was invited by the others to sit at a table where he was served with gosht and ghobi . This combination of mutton and cabbage took the wrinkles out of his stomach. He ate three large helpings, washing it all down with a milky tea called dudh cha. He had learned during his SERE training that if you are in a situation requiring long hours of tough physical exertion, you should eat and drink as much as you can to build strength for the ordeal ahead. Mike Assad followed that dictum to the letter.

By the time his appetite was appeased, a blacksmith with hammer, chisel, and hacksaw was brought in. It took the man only ten minutes to free him from the handcuffs. The smithy gathered up his tools and departed without a word, passing Zaid, who entered the room with an envelope.

"Here are bus tickets and a little money, Mikael," the cleric said. "You will be able to leave the bus station on Haider Road early tomorrow morning. It will take you to Baluchistan Province. After that you will be on your own."

"Shukriya" Mike said.

The cleric laughed. "At least you can express your gratitude in Urdu, Brother Mikael."

"I have picked up a little in the camp."

"Perhaps you will know much more when we meet again, if Allah wills it," Zaid said. "We have something else for you." He handed Mike a chador. This was the wool blanket used by Pakistani men as shawls, coverings, and pillows as the situation might dictate. 'This will keep you more comfortable during the cool nights."

"Allah ikafik anni --may Allah reward you for me," Mike said.

"Perhaps Allah shall," Zaid the cleric said. "Now we will find a place for you to sleep. Do not worry. You will be awakened early enough in the morning to catch your bus."

A wave of fatigue suddenly swept over Mike Assad at the mention of rest and relaxation. Now he could sleep undisturbed for a few hours. Between that and the food he had eaten, he would be in excellent condition for the ordeal ahead.

He felt like a SEAL again.

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PATROL BOAT 22

INDIAN OCEAN

VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 100deg EAST

1615 HOURS LOCAL

THEPhilippine Navy vessel cut through the waves with her throttle set at full speed. She was fast on an interception course with a slow-moving signal on the radarscope. The boat's new skipper, Lieutenant Commander Ferdinand Aguinaldo, knew exactly what vessel the blip on the screen represented. It was the SS Yogyakarta of the Greater Sunda Shipping Line on one of her regular runs across that part of the ocean.

This was more than just a routine mission as far as Aguinaldo was concerned; this was the day he would begin a concentrated program of harassment to avenge the death of his best friend, Commander Carlos Batanza.

"Closing in fast, sir," the radar operator reported. "Estimate visual contact in ten minutes."

Aguinaldo put his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon to the direct front. The waves were placid that day, allowing the patrol boat to attain more than the usual speed. The new skipper spotted the smudge of the target within eight minutes. He considered that a good omen. He picked up the intercom to the radio operator. "Contact the ship on the international frequency and order her to heave to."

"Aye, aye, sir!" The radioman turned to his set and began broadcasting the demand.