G.I. BABY (26 page)

They were bringing him to Raqqa, at their headquarters. He wondered if the
khalifa
himself will do the honor of loping his head off with a machete. That would be monumental.

He had the feeling this was a huge event they’d been preparing for since last week. They intended to show more force by beheading an American fighter pilot live on the internet. The air strikes had hurt them pretty bad, he knew that now as he was seeing the damages firsthand from the ground. It was a brilliant way to sow more terror after the Paris attack and a symbolic display of the extent of their power, too. They had felled an Eagle, America’s long-time icon of aerial supremacy.

That would make him immortal in a thousand internet pages, too.

His son would read about that one day.

It must NOT happen.

They travelled for roughly two hours by his mental calculations.

It would have been the longest ride of his life but he was calmer than he thought he would be. He was done grieving for the memories that he will never experience with his son. With his woman. With his sister and neices. In that stinking pit where they’d kept him prisoner, he’d cried in silence, for the sweet smiles and hearty laughter that he will no longer see, for the kisses and hugs that he will no longer feel, for the love that he can no longer express.
 

He will spend these last hours of his life relieving beautiful memories.
 

He’d thought he’d had the worst childhood, but that didn’t seem to matter now as he faced imminent death. He cannot blame his parents for what he had become. They had their faults and shortcomings, and they did fail him in a lot of ways, but what he had become as a man was entirely his choice. He could not blame his parents forever for his bad decisions, not even for his loneliness all these years. He was just glad he had the chance to change into the man he had always wanted to be even just for a brief period of time. And if he will be given the chance to continue being that man, he will never take the gift for granted. If not…he just hoped he’d die like a real hero for his son. Not a helpless victim. A fighter till the end.

——*****——

The ISIL announced the execution of
Craig like a premiere of a movie to be watched worldwide.

He would be beheaded via live stream at twelve noon tomorrow.
 

Andi’s head might just explode at the very thought. How can she ever recover from this? She couldn’t think beyond this.
 

She’d stopped watching TV.

She was numb with grief. Beyond rage. Beyond begging God that he’d be spared.

She only felt helplessness now. And resignation.
 

So she stopped being selfish. She stopped praying for Craig to come back to her, only that he will die without suffering. She started praying that they will just kill him swiftly. One clean bullet in the head.
 

Not like THAT, oh God, please have mercy, not like that.

She prayed while holding their son, asking for strength to survive this tragedy for Richard’s sake, because that was what Craig had asked of her, to be brave for their son.
 

She will not fail him.
 

——*****——

The truck finally halted.

Raqqa.
 

Time for reckoning.

Somebody grabbed the front of his dirty flight suit and hauled him out of the vehicle. He lost his balance and fell facedown onto the ground.
 

They untied his legs.

His upper arms were grabbed by two men, pulling him up to his feet. That caused tremendous pain to his bound wrists.
 

They guided him to walk for a few yards until his boots touched concrete.
 

They were inside some building now, he could tell.

A few more yards of walking and turning left and right and finally they stopped.

He heard people talking. Men.
 

The chatter faded as his blindfold was removed.

He slowly opened this eyes.

He was standing in the middle of an illuminated stage within a square room.
 

Beside him was a wooden chopping block. It looked newly cut. They gave him the honor of first use.

There were several cameras aimed at him manned by people in black. No doubt they were connected to the internet as this would be live-streamed. Maybe he’d be more famous than JFK after today.

Quit dicking around. You’re two minutes away from becoming a headless chicken. Think.

In front of him were probably two dozen men, some wearing camouflage uniforms in full-battle gear, and some in black robes with Kalashnikov magazines criss-crossing their torsos. At the periphery were armed men, their rifles ready.

His execution was made into a live entertainment for some of the ISIL’s highest officials in Raqqa. He was going to be their dirty finger to Uncle Sam. Sweet.
 

They looked relaxed and waiting for the big moment with anticipation. They were not wearing ski masks. He recognized some of them from the Most Wanted files of the FBI but they basically all looked the same bearded men.

He was disappointed not to see the
khalifa.
He was really hoping he’d at least grace his execution. Wishful thinking.

Then he saw the Muj leader again, the fucker who fed him then told him he would be beheaded live. Sadistic bastard. He was wearing a long, black robe and loose black pants. This one didn’t want to show his face to a dying man. He was also holding a machete.

Oh fuck, the man was his executioner?

He was already starting to like the fucker for allowing him to take a dump like a normal human being to spare his already wretched-smelling flight suit the additional stink of his own shit. His life was indeed a bundle of contradictions all the way to the end.

Somebody spoke, gesturing at the wall clock.

12 o’clock.

Showtime. He was the star and this was most likely his last show on earth.

God, help me, I don’t wanna die like this.
 

They dragged him to the center of the stage.

The executioner walked towards him.

One of the officials went up the stage and faced the audience. He spoke in Arabic.
 

Craig had no idea what the man was babbling about but he heard his name mentioned once. Maybe he was being sentenced to death.

Whatever! Think! You cannot die like this, Walker!

“Do you have any last words?” The executioner asked him, his voice, soft and calm.

He swallowed hard, willing himself to accept his fate with open heart now. But a part of him still screamed in denial.
I don’t wanna die!
 

He can’t still be in denial. He’d made peace with himself and the world last night.
 

This was his destiny. He must accept it. He must!

“I have,” he finally responded.

“State it now before you are silenced forever.”

The Mujs did have some honor, after all. “I wish to recite my pledge of allegiance and salute my country. For the last time.”

The executioner glanced at the officials and spoke in Arabic. There was a brief exchange wherein the executioner seemed to be defending his last wish. The officials at the front finally nodded. Somebody cut off the ropes binding his wrists.

This is it. Only chance.

He slowly put his hand over his heart.
“I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America… and to the Republic for which it stands… one nation… indivisible… with liberty…” He inhaled deeply. “…and JUSTICE FOR ALL!!!”

He dived like a quarterback toward his audience, landing on the men at the front row.
 

They toppled to the floor.
 

Pandemonium erupted in the room.

As he’d calculated, nobody open-fired at him for fear of hitting any of their officials.

But in a matter of seconds they would recover from shock and subdue him and end him in the most gruesome way.
 

He grabbed a grenade strapped in an official’s uniform and shouted, raising his hands. “Nobody move!” He unpinned the grenade, gripping the safety lever.
 

Everyone froze.

“You have a fucking dead man here already! Don’t make me nervous or I’ll send us all to the Creator sooner! But I’m ready! Are you?!”

Nobody dared to touch him.

The room was packed with enough gunpowder to equal a strong bomb. He just needed to ignite them. He needed to release the lever now.
 

Now.

He closed his eyes.
 

Andi…

Someone jumped him from behind.

His world turned upside down.

CHAPTER
18

SOMEBODY WAS DRAGGING HIM.

Craig coughed violently. His throat was filled with sand, his vision, hazy.
 

He couldn’t breathe.

What the fuck happened?

“Move your ass, Major, c’mon! They’re waiting!”

He looked around dazedly. That was the executioner talking, minus the Arabic accent.
 

What the fuck…? Was he dead?
Who were waiting? And why did the fucker suddenly sound like a Briton now?

“C’mon, buddy, wake the fuck up!”

The executioner slapped his face hard.
 

His vision cleared. The shell-shocked synapses in his brain connected again, bringing him back to the present. The executioner was no longer wearing a black robe but a camouflage uniform of an ISIL soldier.
 

It was Craig now who was wearing the black robe, his face covered by a ski mask. No wonder he couldn’t breath properly. He was garbed like a fucking Muj.

“Let’s go, brother. Time’s running out.”

Brother? Did he just call him brother?
 

The man helped him to his feet. Pain ripped through the side of his leg. “Shit, I think I’m hit.”

“Here.” The man handed him a small automatic rifle and a round of ammunition.
 

He stared at the weapon, then at the man.
 
“Who the fuck are you?”
 

“Ask me again later. C’mon! They’re leveling this place and we don’t wanna be here when that happens in like…” The fucker looked at his watch,
 
“three minutes.”

“Who?”

“The Ruskies. You know how they are.”

“Fuck…!” He grabbed the gun and ammu.
 

“Exactly. Let’s go!”

——*****——

Russian MiG 29s rained X-29 missiles all over Raqqa.
 

Craig had experienced all kinds if G-forces in space but the earth shaking was an entirely different experience. The ground vibrated as if a major earthquake was rocking the entire city.
They might just be collateral damage soon if they didn’t get out of there fast enough.

The executioner who turned out to be his savior led him towards the mouth of what looked like a dug-out. But he found out seconds later it was a tunnel. An underground tunnel. “Shit, these are the tunnels I’ve heard about! They’re real!”
 

His “savior” grinned. “Yeah. Don’t worry, you’re a Muj today. But keep your face down. Your eye-color will give you away. If anyone makes a double-take and stops to investigate, shoot and run.”

“I can do that.” He raised the little automatic rifle he was holding. His new friend was fond of Israeli gadgets, though he wouldn’t trust the fucker completely yet. But why would a captor give his prisoner a gun?
 

They crawled into the tunnel that was probably 4 x 4 feet. It got bigger as they advanced inward until they could stand up and walk.
 
He was amazed at how the ISIL had built their escape routes effectively. No wonder they were able to survive massive airs strikes everyday. They went underground, with electricity, too! Lamps illuminated the tunnel.