Page 23 of Scar

The terrorists were all carrying AK-47 rifles, though two also had handguns in their waistbands. One had a bandolier filled with grenades across his chest. The Kevlar vests they were wearing were likely taken from Julian and his brothers. All five had extremely long beards and black turbans on their heads. The harshness of their living conditions aged them, but Julian would guess that none were older than thirty.

Julian was trained in Farsi but the dialect they were speaking was different. Possibly Luri. He picked up maybe one word out of every dozen.

Little Tyke, though, was following along enough to speak to them. Two of the men started towards Little Tyke. One trained his weapon at Little Tyke’s chest as the other reached for his manacles. They had one of Little Tyke’s wrists free before a third man stepped forward. He said something to the man undoing the manacles. Little Tyke spoke again, even though neither man was talking to him.

When they started to put Little Tyke’s wrist back into its manacle, Julian demanded, “What’s going on? What are they saying?”

Little Tyke said something else in their tongue before turning to Julian. His voice shook slightly. “They don’t want to use me yet. They said they need me to translate.”

The relief that filled Julian at the knowledge that Little Tyke would be spared was quickly replaced with fear and guilt when the men moved onto Sparkles. Even with his bum shoulder, he fought against the terrorists as soon as his wrists were freed. One of the men slammed the butt of his rifle into Sparkles’ face, causing Sparkles to collapse to the cave floor.

He was dragged to the center of the cave and placed on his knees next to Lamb Chop’s and Patriot’s corpses.

Two other men approached Julian’s side of the cave. He thought they were coming for him until they stopped in front of St. Nick. Helplessness swarmed him as St. Nick was dragged to the center as well.

The two Deltas were positioned with their hands tied behind their backs facing each other. Sparkles was more hunched over than St. Nick. The hit to the head had been so hard that he was bleeding from one eye and he was having trouble breathing.

The two Taliban men with the handguns removed them from their waistbands and placed the barrels of the weapons at the backs of St. Nick’s and Sparkles’ heads.

The man with the bandolier approached Julian. When he spoke, Julian caught the staleness of his breath.

“He says to give him the code or your men will die.” Little Tyke’s voice shook as he translated.

Fuck. How the fuck had they known that Julian knew the code? For that matter, how had they known which of them Julian was?

“I don’t know the code,” Julian lied, not looking away from the man in front of him.

The Afghani’s eyes were so dark they looked black. He spoke again. Julian caught one word he was positive meant ‘sunrise’ but did not understand anything else to glean the context.

Rather than translate, though, Little Tyke started talking back to the man. There was a plea in his voice, but not as if to beg for his teammates’ lives. From the way Little Tyke used his pointer fingers above his head to keep pointing at himself, Julian suspected the kid was trying to negotiate, to trade his life for that of his brothers’.

The lyrics started out so low that Julian could barely hear the words over the sounds of Little Tyke’s and the leader’s voices.

March along, sing our song, with the Army of the free.

Count the brave, count the true, who have fought to victory.

We’re the Army and proud of our name!

St. Nick’s voice rose in volume. He was certainly not a vocalist by any means, but the man’s voice held strength and determination.

We’re the Army and proudly proclaim:

First to fight for the right,

And to build the Nation’s might,

And the Army goes rolling along.

“He says to talk or they die!” Little Tyke shouted, his eyes and translation frantic.

Proud of all we have done,

Fighting till the battle’s won,

And the Army goes rolling along.

Then it’s hi! hi! hey!

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