Three Years Later

It was cold.

It's surprising how cold it gets in parts of the Middle East. Most people just think about the desert and the heat, but some of the mountains stay close to freezing in the winter months. It's even colder when you have a hodge-podge of thin rags for clothes, and your bed is a hard stone floor. Also, it didn't help that the guards had woken me up in the middle of the night by throwing a bucket of dirty water on me. From the smell, they had also used the bucket as a latrine at some point.

I was just assuming this was in the mountains, actually. It could be anywhere, at this point.

The last time I’d seen the outside of an enclosed room, was four months ago, give or take a week. Without a calendar, watch, or any kind of electronic device, it's hard to keep the days straight.

It was better now that they were holding me in some kind of house. The windows might have been shuttered, but they let enough light through that it was possible to tell night from day. That made keeping time a whole lot easier.

Before this house, I’d spent somewhere between six and eight months in a cave complex. The only lights were old mine lights, running off a generator. Sometimes the generator would break down, or run out of gas. I would be left in the dark, or with just a flashlight, for however long it took.

Other times the guards would shut off the lights, and then turn them on at irregular intervals. I think they liked to mess with my sense of time. They would randomly wish me merry Christmas or happy Fourth of July at weird intervals. Since they clearly didn't celebrate either of those holidays, the only point was to keep me on edge.

Of course, what was most surprising, was the fact that I was still alive! Generally, the Taliban, al Qaeda, and the half dozen other groups of insurgents operating in the Middle East only held western personnel long enough to pump them for information, and then they put on a big display of executing the soldier. Usually by an amateur who bungles a beheading.

I’d woken up in the desert three years ago, with my hands already bound, lying in the dirt. I was looking at the bodies of my friends, while the 'insurgents' searched for valuables and intel, in that order. I was certain that my life was on borrowed time. While I had been out, they had wiped out the rest of the convoy. The hillside was burning, so clearly our planes had made a pass, but it hadn't seemed to do any good. I was the only prisoner. The only reason I was still alive was that by the time they found me at the bottom of the slope below the road, whatever passed for leaders in the group had re-established enough order that they were able to keep the men from slitting my throat.

They had frog marched me up into the mountains, away from the ambush site. The first night we stayed in a village, I was hog tied and thrown into a storage room. The next day they sent me on to where I would spend the better part of six months. Dozens of men came through to interrogate me.

I would love to say I held out, that I made them kill me before I told them anything. But that is never the way it works. Everyone breaks, no matter how motivated. It's why terrorists around the world operated in separate cells, where information was extremely limited. And these were guys willing to blow themselves up for 'the cause'.

The army tries to give us the tools to resist as long as we can. Some of us, especially those like Special Forces that operate separately from the main body of the military much of the time, go to what is known as SERE school. It stands for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. God, does the army love it's acronyms! They simulate capture, and train in techniques for resisting and staying sane in captivity. Having now experienced both the training and the real thing, I will say the training is only a shadow of what really happens.

But the truth is … everyone breaks. I held out for almost four days of near constant torture. These guys were experts at it. They kept me awake for nearly the whole time. Beatings, water boarding, a broken ankle and several broken fingers later I gave in, and started to answer questions. When they realized I was hedging, giving them a mixture of real and fake data, they beat me some more, until I gave in fully, and told them what they wanted to know. I wasn't ashamed, really. Like I said; everyone breaks.

What was shocking, was that after they pulled every piece of information they could out of me, they didn't kill me. One of the members of the group that was holding me was a lateral thinker. Besides their own random mixture of weapons normally found in the region, they also had a lot of captured western supplies. These guys did not take proper care of their equipment. Weapons failure was a real thing for them. When they learned what I did for the Army; this guy, who I later learned was named Waleed Qasim, decided to keep me alive and put me to work. They always kept a guard on me, and bullets never entered the same room I was in, except in their guns. They had me maintaining their weapons, and repairing ones that broke.

If a weapon had to be test fired, they had someone else do it. I could watch the test, but only while I had my hands and legs chained together. I was searched thoroughly, several times, any day I worked on anything. And when I say thoroughly, I really mean it. It wasn't just weapons I worked on. Most of these guys were educated in Madrasas (schools which were heavy on Koran and hatred of the west, but light on anything beyond a basic education), and it was rare to find even one of these guys with any level of technical skills. The ones that had skills, were held onto carefully by the higher ups, and either used to infiltrate areas that required some kind of skill to fit in, or were used in creating weapons of mass terror.

Field level leaders like Qasim rarely got any anything beyond highly motivated young men who could do little more than point and shoot a weapon. But, as I said, Qasim was a lateral thinker; which, speaking as a soldier, was terrifying for western forces. Guys like Qasim were excellent at finding ways to nullify the West's technological advantages.

Besides weapons, he had me work on anything he couldn't get one of his guys to do. If I didn't know how to do it, I'd better figure it out, or I'd get the crap kicked out of me. You can learn a lot with the proper motivation! By this point, I was doing basic repairs to vehicles and generators … and even a tractor at one point.

The reason I was wet was that the previous day had been rough on these guys. Whenever they lost men, or when one of their forays had been unsuccessful, or even if they were just having 'one of those days'; they would come and take it out on me. Beatings, a cut here or there, or just making my life miserable; was a way for them to burn off some steam. Qasim had given strict orders not to kill me, so they kept it from getting life threatening, and tried to keep from breaking my arms and legs so I could work. But bruises, cuts, and cigarette burns were all fair game, and a common occurrence.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I had been woken when the door to the small room they kept me in was thrown open. Three of his men came storming in. They beat on me for a few minutes, and dumped a bucket of putrid water on me, while cursing me in general, and America, specifically. They knew that the combination of wet and cold would keep me miserable the rest of the night.

I wasn't just a whipping boy taking the abuse. I was biding my time, waiting for them to make a mistake. Admittedly I had been biding my time for several years at this point, but if they kept me alive they would have to slip up, eventually. I had gotten close to making a break for it, twice before. The guards had gotten lax. Once they had not frisked me properly, and another time they had not latched a window in a house where I was being kept. In both instances, one of Qasim's two lieutenants … who were every bit as competent as he was … caught the mistakes before I could take advantage of them. So … I continued to wait.

Yet another thing I found surprising, was how fast I had adapted to what my life had become. Not that I enjoyed the beatings or anything, but I made do. I had learned to remain civil with my guards, in order to avoid more beatings. Being a tough guy and showing how much I hated them only got me hurt. Plus, it didn't really give me any added benefits. While we were never friendly, I got to know my captors. Most the low level guys sent to guard me were as bored as I was, and asked questions or told jokes. I knew Arabic before that day in the mountainside convoy, and over the three years, I become fairly fluent.

Qasim also liked to come and visit me from time to time. There were not very many educated men among his group, and he liked to chat. He thought of it as 'testing his wits against the American', but really it was just petty showmanship. He wanted me never to forget that I was the prisoner, and he was in charge. Sometimes he would bring a chess set, and we would play. I wasn't particularly good; but I knew the rules, and had some ability for thinking ahead. He seemed to enjoy it.

To tell the truth, I kind of did, too. Like I said, people adapt. These breaks in the monotony of staring silently at a wall, were welcome distractions.

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I got up off the floor, dripping and hugging myself, and wishing there was a blanket. My clothes were rags, and there was no chance of getting anything else. They only gave me new clothes when the old ones literally rotted off my body. I started pacing around the room, hoping to work up some body heat. There had been no work for the last few days, and except for last night’s 'visitors', no one had come into the room, except to drop off the small portion of food and water I got each day.

I was getting restless, and was spending too much time cooped up in my own head. That's when things were the worst. Having time to think was like a rot in my soul. Working on the jobs they assigned to me, or making small talk with bored guards, kept me distracted and unable to dwell.

I stopped my circles of the room for a moment, trying to figure out what was different from a moment before. After a few seconds, I realized the distant, not very loud drone of a generator had cut off. It wasn't overly noticeable, but it had been going for quite a while, now. It's absence made everything seem … silent.

The silence was broken a few minutes later, by people arguing in the distance. I couldn't make out what they were saying; but the rate of speech, and the volume, kept increasing for a few minutes. It was pretty clear a heated debate on something was happening.

Silence returned for a moment, followed by the door to the room I was being kept in getting thrown open.

"Out!" the guard commanded, pointing out of the room, just in case I didn't get his meaning.

Stolen novel; please report.

I walked out of the room where I was kept, into another room that had chairs a table. This was the room I normally worked in, and they kept it very Spartan in case I might happen across something that I could use to escape. Then I was led out the front door and into the cooling air. It was early evening, and was still light enough to see, but the light was rapidly dimming into twilight.

When they brought me here, I'd been wearing a hood. I hadn't been taken beyond the front room of the hut where I was being kept, since my arrival. This was my first chance to look at where I was being held. The house I had been inhabiting was in a small village build on a mountain plateau. There were maybe fifteen buildings that I could see from where I stood, and my best guess was that made up the bulk of the town.

I noticed that the house where they'd kept me in was on the outskirts of town. Now I could see a small dirt road that led out of the village, and down the mountain. It was just past the front door.

There were several men with Kalashnikov rifles (the 'go to' weapon for every third world nation and guerrilla army) wandering around. What I didn't see were women or children. No pets, either.

This might have been a village at some point, but the Aikhtar Al'Islam, the group that Qasim headed, had taken it over at some point, and had kicked all the civilians out … or killed them.

A push from behind directed me deeper into the village, and then into a shed near the center of the small collection of houses. Once in the door, it because quickly apparent what was happening.

A generator sat in the center of the room. It was big enough to supply electricity to several of the houses here, and it wasn't running.

A gun barrel was poked forcefully onto my shoulder, and then pointed at the generator.

"Fix it," the guard with the rifle said.

"I need tools," I told him.

They never let me hold onto the tools. Normally, when there was work to be done, they would take me to the outer room of the building where I'd been held. Then they would bring the tools to me, handing them to me one at a time, and taking them back when I needed a different tool. They never let me work on anything inside my room. They never let me touch more than one tool at a time, unless I could explain why I needed two at the same time.

The few times when that had happened, I had to work with guards pointing their guns at me. They took no chances that I might work out a plan of escape.

What was different, was that neither Qasim nor any of his four lieutenants were with us. One of those five were always present when I started working, and would check on me regularly. Yet, this time, none of them were in sight.

"Qasim does not allow me to have tools," I told the guard when he didn't move. "He brings them when I am required to work. I can’t fix this without tools."

The guards grunted at me, and backed up to talk in whispers. It was clear from their gestures and the looks on their faces, that the men were confused. After a moment, the other guy, the one that had not spoken to me, threw up his hands and walked out of the shed.

"Sit down," the guy left in the room said.

I sat and considered him. He had some kind of position of authority, that was clear. The guy who had left, looked as though he was getting an order and wasn't the leader.

In my head I had already started calling the guy giving the orders 'Moe', and his poor friend, 'Curly'. The second guy, who had left to fetch the tools, wasn't fat or anything (no one who lived in these mountains, was), but he was kind of clueless. I could almost feel sorry for him, except that he kept holding a rifle on me.

Ten minutes passed, and Moe was getting impatient. Twice, he walked out of the shed. It was only a moment before he came back in, but that was also a first for me. I had never been left alone, at all, before; except in my 'bedroom'.

Then it struck me. Qasim wasn't here! Nor were any of his lieutenants. There was no way they would have let Moe take me out of my cell, if they had been here. This guy wanted the power to come back on, and he didn't want to wait for his masters to return!

This was the moment I had been waiting for, for three long years!

It was already clear that security was lax. They no longer considered me a risk and they didn't take me seriously. Also, they reminded me of the Three Stooges in their bumbling approach to everything. No one had poked anyone else in the eye, but compared to this groups normal routine, what I was seeing was practically bumbling.

This was amateur hour, and it was the best chance to escape I had yet seen!

Now I just needed a small 'window'.

Eventually, the guy made it back with the tools, and I got to work. Generators in this region of the world needed a lot of TLC. Sand plays hell on mechanical equipment, and it will cause a machines to seize up if it isn't cleaned out regularly. These guys had not been doing any maintenance, that was clear.

They had gotten the intake fan clogged up, limiting air from getting into the motor, and causing the generator to seriously overheat. The generator had gotten too hot, and had shut itself down. To fix it, all I had to do was tear it down into it's smaller parts, give everything a thorough cleaning, and put it back together.

Moe apparently had better things to do then watch me work, so he left his flunky Curly to watch me, and headed out.

I was just hoping they didn't know that all the generator needed, was a thorough cleaning. I took it apart as I normally would, until I was left with a generator lying in pieces. I had bent one of the pieces on purpose, when my guard was distracted. I could imagine how boring it was to watch me work.

"The motor is very dirty. It became too hot. This piece," I said pointing at the part I had bent, “warped. In the building where you keep me, in the front room where I normally work, there are some spare parts. I need one of those parts. It isn't meant for this machine, but I could make it work."

I could see him thinking. He couldn't tell me to just wait here while he went and got it, and I had understood that he and his 'friend' Moe didn't get along very well. I could see him thinking of ways to keep from having to go get Moe.

"It's not going to look like any of these parts. It would be easiest if I could get it," I was smiling and looking as non-threatening as I could.

He nodded his assent, and gestured with the barrel of his rifle for me to walk out. While I was talking to him, holding eye contact, I had palmed one of the smaller screwdrivers. When he turned to close the door to the shed I had slipped it into my pocket.

I was already starting to work out my plan, when someone yelled at us to stop.

Moe was running up to us, and Curly was looking both pissed and sheepish at the same time, which is a tough trick to pull off.

'Damn,' I thought. 'So close!'

"Where are you going with him," Moe asked.

"He needs a part from the room he normally works in. He showed me a piece which was bent from heat," Curly told him.

Moe looked thoughtful.

I was sure the gig was up, but then he said, "And you can fix it with this piece."

"Yes," I answered in my most assured tone of voice.

I had long ago learned to use as few words with these guys as possible. They took offense at the most random of statements, and a beating would slow my plans down.

"Fine, go," Moe finally said.

I couldn't believe my luck. These guys were seriously hopeless. But it worked in my favor, so who was I to complain? I turned and headed back to my destination with Curly at my back.

Once in the building I started rummaging through a storage box. In reality it had no parts in it at all, since storing it here was against the rules, but I was betting Curly didn't know that.

"There it is!” I said pulling on a heavy blanketed item that was at the bottom of the trunk. "There is a really heavy part, on top of it. Could you lift it up while I pull the piece I need, out."

Thankfully, Curly was as stupid as I thought he was. Whoever decided to put this guy on guard duty had really made a miscalculation. While I was rummaging and thought he wasn't looking, I had pulled the screwdriver out of my pocket.

I was already trying to figure out how to subdue Curly without an accidental shot going off that might bring reinforcements, when my streak of luck continued. He actually propped his gun against a wall, and walked over to me. It was all I could do to keep from shaking my head in disbelief at this guy. He was like some dumb puppy you wanted to keep from hurting himself.

Sadly for Curly, I wasn't going to let that feeling keep me from doing what I needed to do. As soon he leaned over the box, my right hand came shooting up from where I was holding it to conceal the screwdriver. I plunged the flat headed blade of the screwdriver into Curly's neck. After a few inches the metal slid across his spinal column as it sank through his neck and, thanks to it now being slick from blood, I lost my hold on the makeshift weapon.

But the damage was done. Curly grabbed at his neck making raspy sounds that were barely audible. Blood was pouring out of his throat and he slumped down over the open chest. I wiped my bloody hands on the back of his shirt, and grabbed his bag of ammo. Then I reached over and grabbed his rifle. Walking by the chest I pulled the now bloody blanket out from under Curly's body.

I couldn't go out the front door, there was too much of a chance I would be seen. Thankfully, Moe had offered me a nice little tour of his village. I went through the door to the room they had held me in, and popped open one of the windows. I seriously hoped no one had heard the sounds, when I had struck the window with the butt of the rifle. I had muffled it as best I could with the blanket, but it was still louder than I wanted.

Not that it mattered. At this point, I was committed.

Looking out the window, it was already almost fully dark. Thankfully there was a full moon out, and not a lot of light pollution to offset its light. Actually, there was no glow at all of lights, so I guessed the generator that went down was the only one in the village.

That was a good thing. It would make it harder for them to see me.

I tossed the rifle and ammo out of the window, and pulled myself out after it. That was a lot harder than I thought it should have been. Between the built up damage done to my body, and the years of barely enough food, I was a lot weaker now than I used to be. Pulling my body weight with my arms felt next to impossible. Thankfully, I had enough adrenaline pumping through my system that I made it out the window.

Grabbing the rifle and slinging the ammo bag over my shoulder, I started a maddeningly slow descent down the side of the hill. I couldn't use the switched back roads, at least not for a little while. The mouth of the road, from what I had seen on our walk to the generator shed, was too visible.

It wasn't a straight drop, but the hill was close enough to vertical, that I slid more than I walked. Below the plateau, the mountain was covered in a small brush forest, with thin trees sprinkled about. It didn't really give me much in the way of cover, and if anyone looked down the side, I would be pretty well screwed.

But, again, I didn't have much of a choice.

Using the scattered trees as handholds I made my way down to the first part of the road that and switched back and headed back from a turn just down from the village. The way the road wound back and forth, I would probably be crossing it many times on my straight line descent down the hill.

Unfortunately, that is where my plan hit it's first roadblock, almost literally. When I came down the slope and stepped on the roadside, I could see the silhouette of two men. Both had slung AK's on their shoulders and were walking directly towards me.

As they started reaching around for their weapons I pulled my rifle up, resting my other hand on the stock and fired two, quick single shots, hitting each man in the chest. It was good to know my ability to use a gun hadn't been compromised at all.

As soon as they were down, I started running down the road. The idea of heading straight down was too slow, now. There was no way the people in the village above were going to miss those gunshots. I had only gone a few feet, when I heard shouts drifting down to me.

I made it to the next turn before anyone looked down from the village. The only reason I know they looked down is the puff of dirt ten feet ahead of me where the first bulled impacted. As more bullets followed I had to make a decision. Staying on the road would get me killed. They were just spraying bullets down at me wildly, but as more of the fighters got into the game, one was bound to find me. There was only one fast way down this mountain.

I turned and headed down the slope, trying to do a controlled but fast slide down to the flat valley at the bottom. It was close enough to see, but as I started to bounce off rocks, my control as I slid on my butt and thighs, was becoming tenuous.

That was the moment the bullet found me, smacking into my left shoulder just in from my arm. It burned like fire as the metal ripped through the back of my shoulder and out the front in a diagonal path.

I lost my focus, caught my foot on a fairly big rock, and went over, changing from a slide down hill to an almost cartwheel. I felt my left elbow smack into a rock and pain shot up the arm as the joint was pulverized. This was the same side that had just taken a bullet, and the two injuries made me nearly black out all on their own.

I then ricocheted off a tree, smacking the side of my head into it's bark hard enough to rip chunks of bark off of it. My tumble came to a stop in a small ravine that was, thankfully, dry. I took a moment to be amazed that I had somehow held onto my weapon, before my vision blurred entirely.

And then the world went black.