Anachronisem (Solo)

[Drydock]

Shit!  Ok, ok, stabilized, look around.  Trim it out.  Oh Sheeeit!  Trim musta bin on the throttle column.  Airspeed-gone.  Atificial horizon-out.  Altimeter-out.  Needle ball, might be under that blood. . .Shit!  OK, can't let the damn wheel move at all.  Radio out,  squawk out.  No coms.  Mikes 'r gone. 

Oh god.  Something small and wet just hit the side of his head.  Something from what was left of that ensign co-pilot,  flung by the wind.  Calm down idiot, asess, assess goddammit!

Detach. . . breathe. . . lessee.  Little while ago you were Sky King in a P-40.  Now you're sitting in a dead mans bloody damn seat,  hands on maybe half an airplane that you ain't near half qualified to fly.  But you got lucky, got it under control for now.  Whaddya got?  No chutes.  Don't carry 'em on these birds.  Never get it on anyway,  back into the spin soon's you let go.  No coms.  Well, somebody'll miss the plane at Bahrain.  Can't throttle that engine, can you kill it?  Don't see how, either its gone or you just don't know how to find it.  So you ride it.  Navy made you wear a helmet, ear muffs and goggles, thank god.  Gloves and a coat at altitude before you slept.  Ride it.  Either that engine dies, fails or you hit something,  but you're alive until then.  And then?  Live for the present.  Hell, might be all you got. . .


Cold.  So very cold.  Cold like a physical presence,  next to him, breathing on him. "He's mister Snow Miser, he's mister snow, da-dum da dum.  He's mister icicle, he's mister 10 below."  Cheery little voice. His voice.  His voice?  He slitted open one eye,  instinctivly looking around to see if anyone was listening.
  Not much chance of that.  He shook his head,  reoriented.  Quiet, after those hours of howling wind and engine.  His breath hung before him in white puffs, final confirmation: damned if he was'nt still alive!

Overhead,  stars shown down into the torn cockpit.  A moonless winter night,  high in the mountians.  Remembering now, outlines of mountains in the evening twilight, growing, reaching for him. A high saddle between two peaks. Praying. Trying to pull back on the wheel just a little, lifting the nose, tail catching rocks, bellyflopping,  shrieking, grinding, tearing.  Propellor blades striking showers of sparks before the wing itself tore away.  Then nothing, waking up singing a childs song.

"God, I am too old for this shit."  The Chief let his head hang for a moment, then looked up to the stars  "You can take that as a prayer or curse sir,  either one'll work."

Releasing the harness, he stood, not quite erect, pain and dried blood bending him.  Stiffly he shuffled thru the wreckage.  Fusalage still intact, be good to hole up for a few days if he could get a fire going.  Grumman still builds 'em tough.  Get a little more light,  he'd see what he had to work with.  Now though, got to get that ensign out 'n buried.  Dried blood flaking from his soaked coat and pants,  he pulled the remains from the cockpit.  Gagged only once,  at the smell of emptied bowels.  A hundred yards or so from the plane he came across a shallow depression, laid the remains in it,  and began piling rocks.  The sky had the first streaks of morning in it when he finished.  "Best I can do kid".  Humping the rocks had felt like penance for the casual way he'd dumped  the pilot out.  "I'm sorry for that."  Sorry for all of it.  God forgive me, I had to do it.   

He sat on a rock,  eyes tearing.  Pile of rocks ain't enough for a mans life.  Got to have words.  Navy's got a hymn.  Don't sing worth a damn kid,  just have to say it. 

"Eternal Father
Strong to save
whose arm does bind the restless wave
who bids the mighty ocean deep
its own appointed limits keep
oh hear us when we cry to thee
for those in peril on the sea."

"Amen."  I don't remember the verse for airmen, sorry Ensign.  Reckon it works fine as is.

Time to tend to the living. Limped back, crawled inside the wreck.  Clothes first.  In the calmness of the morning he was too aware of the metallic stink of blood.  His coat, long wool, 2 dollars at a Norfolk thrift shop, was ruined, as were pants, underwear, hell, just burn all of it.  Need kindling anyway.  Working thru the fusalage, he found his seabag and garment bag, still webbed to the cargo pallet aft.  All his things had survived undamaged,  'cept what he had on.  Slowed by bruises, hurried by cold, the Chief stripped, rubbing flakes of blood from his puckered skin.

'Course it was most all historical stuff.  Hell,  mostly late 19th century military issue.   Make for some interesting looks when the rescue chopper showed up, what the heck.  Cotton long johns and a red shield shirt.  Wool cavalry trousers with a 1" red stripe.  M1874 5 button sack coat, red piped and striped, topped off with an M1872 caped great coat.  Wool socks and Jefferson bootees,  Barracks Kepi.  The last let him wrap his red wool scarf around his neck and over his head and ears.  By god, he was finaly warm!

And hungry.  Was that, yes!  2 boxs of MREs*.  Along with the case of bottled water found everywhere Americans went in the middle east.  Food first,  then he'd start on the mail bags, work thru the rest of the cargo.  Maybe a few wooden crates he could break up.

Scrabbling for his seabag had uncovered the guncase.  Maybe. . .no, not yet.  Got food,  no need to chance giving any locals the wrong idea, should any show up.   Maybe the SAR chopper 'd get here first.  Question was: where was here?  Chewing on a processed pork chop, the Chief turned the question over in his mind.  No mountians like this on the Arab penninsula.  Sun setting behind him when he crashed.  Iran.  Great.  Well, that ought to get 5th fleet out here fast.  No doubt Tehran would be howling about the Great Satan violating its airspace. . .


"No Track!"  Commander 5th Fleet was pissed.  "Explain this to me Commander!  We launch an airplane, and it fu^**^ dissapears!  This is God Damned Bahrain, not Bermuda!"  Admirals do not like bad news before morning coffee. 

The Commander had'nt had coffee yet either.  "Sir,  The aircraft had a bad transponder.  It was scheduled to be replaced upon landing in Bahrain."  How to phrase this. "Sir, they're old planes, stuff breaks, not a lot of funding.  They make do."  5th Fleet scowled. 

"Saudi Coastal command?"

"Out of range sir"

"AWACS?  JSTARs?"

"Sir, AWACs was on the ground yesterday."  Oh shit!  Well, some Air Force puke'll get yelled at.  "With the Iranian air force mostly grounded,  there's not much for them to track,  so they've been spending more time on the ground.  Saves operating costs sir.  JSTARs was over the Red Sea tracking Dhows."

"Oh just great.  Now I can tell someones Mother that I can't find her son, but I do know the position of every FU^*&^! wooden tub in the Red Sea!  GODDAMMIT!  Just what the hell do we know!"

"Sir, we have the planes flight plan.  We've got aircraft and ships searching the intended flight path.  It was a straight line from the battle group to Bahrain.  UAE and Quatar report no Radar track south, so we know they didn't overfly."  Calm down Admiral,  my hide won't do you any good no matter how good it'd look on the wall.

"Iran?"

"Not a word from them, sir."

"Well thank god for that!  Damn Mullahs be howling down the roof if the great Satan violated their damn airspace. . ."

Oblivious to all this, the night shift of an Iranian Navy coastal command radar station enjoyed sleeping in.  They'd done so for the last 2 weeks,  and had another week before going back on line.  The emitter tube for their 70s era station had burned out,  and it would be at least another week before the replacement arrived, custom made by a small Cinncinati company specalizing in parts for these old American systems. 

Their commander had, of course,  sent a memorandum to the local military council,  asking for the Army to set up one of their portable units to cover the gap.  He'd made the mistake of sending it in an envelope shared with his mens monthly Transfer Requests. (It was very boring, isolated duty)  The councilman overseeing this sector had pulled the first request, noted the contents, then "round filed" it,  as he'd done so many others. 

Ah well, nothing ever happened in this sector.


USS Bulkeley

"Combat, Bridge, Status."

Chief of the watch made a quick station check, picked up his phone. "No change Captian.  All sensor stations and PriFly report negative."  The Chief let his professionalisem slip just a little.  "Sorry, Sir."

"Bridge out."  Dammit!  No debris, no oil slick, nothing!  3 days steaming to Bahrain and back,  and nothing!

"Sir?"  The duty messenger held out a paper.  "Message from Flag, sir."

Thanking the seaman,  he unfolded the message.  5th Fleet to commanding officer USS Bulkeley.  Secure search,  proceed best speed to battle group.  Forward updated copy of members page 13 for processing. 

Dammit!  3 days.  Man gives us 23 years, we give him 3 damn days.  DAMMIT!  "Officer of the Deck."

"Sir!"

"Secure from search.  Recall the Chopper.  Upon completion of Helo recovery, set course and speed to intercept Battle Group.  I want to be on  station by first light tomorrow.  Luetenant, you have the bridge."

"Aye-aye sir.  I have the Bridge."  "Helm acknowledges OOD has the Bridge."

Captian McCoy turned "Messenger!  Have Chief Meyers Personnel Record brought to my stateroom."  He stomped out,  leaving the bridge personnel to relax, just a little.  McCoy settled in his stateroom, lit a cigar, and waited.  The polite knock came soon enough.  "Sir, the File you wanted."

"Thank you, Seaman."  Just a kid, straight out of High School, looked vaguely frightened.  "Have a seat son,  this won't be long."

"Sir."  He sat on the goverment issue blue vynel couch,  nervously fingering his hat. 
Ah well.  The Captian sat at his small desk, opening the record to Page 13,  Service members disposition upon death.  Parents, deceased.  Grandparents, deceased.  No Brothers, Sisters, no Family.  Disposition of accounts: SGLI* and all funds and property detailed in accounts listed on attachments 1 and 2 are left to the Monastic Community of Conception Abbey, Conception MO.  He flipped to Attachment 1.  Bank account, 5 (!) Mutual Funds.  SGLI alone was 1/4 million.  Ought to get him a nice stained glass window.  Attachment 2 listed personal property.  Clothes, guns, a Jeep, a Harley Davidson Road King.  Lord knows what the monks would do with all that.   He looked down at the file.  To Ranald S. McCoy.  One Shiloh Sharps #3 sporting rifle, SN #B2XXX.

That son-of-a-bitch.

He blinked. Once.  Then pulled the page 13 and attachments from the file.  Pulled a memorandum sheet: To Commander 5th fleet.  From Commanding Officer USS Bulkeley.  Reccomend offical notification be sent to the address's listed on Members page 13.  CO USS Bulkley will in addition send personal letters.  Ranald S. McCoy, Commanding.

He clipped the Memo to the Page 13, called for the Messenger.  "Take this to Com 1 for transmission to 5th fleet.  Upon acknowledgement, report back to me with the original."
"Aye-Aye sir!"  The kid scuttled out.  McCoy settled back, relit the forgotten cigar.



"They ain't comin'"  4 days, no SAR, no overflights, nothing.  The feeling was strangely familiar.  He'd felt much the same after the Chief selection board had passed him over for the 10th time.  Selected next year, it had taken the personel Chief all day to convince him it was'nt a joke.  "Sunsabitchs."  Quiet Ol' Luke Meyer done fell thru the crack of life one more time.   Like most cracks, it was full of. . .
What the hell was he complaining about.  Was'nt this what he'd wanted?  Alone on a mountain?  Wrong side of the planet, but heck!  The last few days had been enjoyable.  Small fire,  food, sleep. Listened to a wolf howl at night.  Did a little exploring, not too far,  did'nt want to miss that chopper.  Had a good start on that US Grant beard he'd always wanted to grow.  One MRE a day, still had 2 weeks worth left.  He laughed, loud sound on the mountian.  The Ultimate camping trip!
No locals had shown. No patrols,  no search partys.  Guess the plane had somehow gone unnoticed.  Wonder if the Navy had declared him dead yet. 

That could be bad.  Yep,  a serious consideration.  If the Iranian Military found him,  might not be worth the trouble to give him back.  Might just shoot him and be done with it.  One less of Satans Minions to deal with.  Might be time to start moving, work down the mountian, strike for the coast.  Find a place to hole up,  figger out how to live.  Steal a boat maybe?  Too far ahead.  THink tomorrow.  Tomorrow night he'd start down. Travel at night, use less water. The valley to the west had a hint of trail running thru it.  Fleck of green here and there.  Maybe even a stream at the bottom.  Thank God it was winter.  Place be bone dry any other time.  Even now it was fit only for bare subsistance herding, if he could judge.  Never had eaten goat.  Pack up, make a blanket roll.  Got a knapsack, and an 1870s field pack.  Going all out for the costume contest had paid off. 

The gun case.  Damn.  He sat,  ran fingers thru his hair.  You open that,  you've pretty much declared war on the state of Iran.  Patrol see's you with a weapon, you get shot.  Or. . . Go unarmed,  a state declared dead man, maybe get youself put in a cage for 20 years.  If they let you live.

Old argument.  Die quick,  die slow.  Slow way you still got a chance to get out.  Maybe.
No.  Some poet, Tennyson?  He'd wrote, the best any man can hope to end,  is a grave filled with honor,  wept over by beauty.  Well, there would be no beauty,  but he could fill it with some honor, if only his to himself.   Maybe. . .maybe he wanted it.  That grave filled with Honor.  He shook his head.  Gawd you can be a morbid bastard!  Too much thinking! Damn classical education!  Pick up your gun and go home!  Damn anyone who trys to stop you!  Home may be in the states, or a grave here, but you're going, damn you!  Chief Master at Arms Lucien T. Meyer rolled back onto his mail sack, laughing, mostly at himself.

He slept off and on most of the next day.  As evening came on he finished packing.  It would be a 19 century pack, filled with 19th century kit.  What few "modern" things he had provided no advantages, so he took none.  Full pack, topped with a blanket roll wrapped in his black rain poncho.  A dusty black slouch hat hung from a back buckle.

Went well with the guns.  The Colt Single Action Army .45 was still a reasonable weapon.  A powerful cartridge in a light, easily handled side arm. 7 1/2" barrel, cavalry spec.  Now the Carbine. . .By any measure the single shot Springfield M1873 "Trapdoor" carbine, Caliber .45-70, had been obsolete 100 years previous.  Still, it was light, simple, rugged, the round powerful.  The Chief knew it as well or better than any modern weapon he'd quallified with.  Ammunition was 50 rounds each.  30 Carbine cartridges in a tent canvas cartridge slide, over a sabre belt.  20 pistol cartridges in a fleece lined "Dyer" pouch hung on the belt.  Balance of the ammo in the pack.  A flap holster and Bowie knife finished the belt.  2 bits of whimsey, if you don't consider the whole exercise whimsical.  In the bottom of the pack lay a pair of brass military spurs.  Be damned if he'd leave those to scavengers.  The same for the Ames M1862 light sabre strapped to the side of the pack, the blade muffled with rags.  The 2 tins of Cornell and Diehl "Blockade Runner" pipe tobacco, with a couple of corn cob pipes, vital neccesities.  A canteen slung from one shoulder, haversack with food from the other.  Ready. One last look around the wreck in a deepening twillight.  Nothing left, but to go.

The first night he spent working down the mountian.  It was rough, barren, heavily cut by wind and storm.  What ever rain fell here, literaly cut and ran.  The great many arroyos and draws would make for good hiding, though he'd guess most were blind, shelter and trap together.  He'd spent the first day out sleeping in one such draw,  in the shade of a rock ledge.  No fire, a cold camp, haversack for a pillow, covered with a wool blanket and greatcoat. 

It had been a hard walk, but not as hard as he'd feared.  The gear weighed less than the body armour and pack he'd carried in the Tigris-Euphates Delta, running patrol boats during Gulf War II.  Long as he took  his time.  Time would be the key.  Time measured in water.  What he carried figured to last, 4, maybe 5 days.  He'd need a source before then.  Water ran downhill, had to collect somewhere.  Had to.  He'd seen no life other than a few tufts of dried weeds,  a lizard now and then.  But he'd heard a wolf cry that night. Wolves, lizards, weeds all needed water. 

The 2nd night he found a trail.  Narrow, running along the edge of a verticle sided wash.  The wash looked around 4 foot deep.  He'd jumped down, scratched at the bottom,  found some dampness, no liquid.  Water had passed here,  perhaps not long ago.  He climbed up, walked on, keeping just off the trail so as to not leave tracks.  It warmed some at the lower altitude, enough to roll the greatcoat into the bedroll, swap the scarf for a red neckerchief.

He'd lost track of time that 2nd night.  For a man walking with Death he was having a damn fine time.  Magnificent quiet, mountains sharp against a starry sky.  It felt like walking back in time,  perhaps he'd walk out of these mountians into the 19 century.  Fine thought, slipping into imagination of what that would be like.  So the first pale light of dawn caught him by surprise.  Oh hell, got to find someplace to hole up.  It was a bad spot, a long gentle slope leading down to the wash. A couple of miles back there had been a place. . . No, there!  A hole, a horizontal crevice really, rock strata seperated by time.  Just big enough to crawl in and lay down.  Close though, only 50 yards or so from the trail.  He'd pile a few rocks in front to sheild it.  It'd do. 

With his rocks set, blanket spread, the Chief crawled in,  lay his weapons close to hand, and slept.

[Drydock]

He awoke to an argument.   Hell.  The Chief rolled over, checked his weapons, then peeked over his rock pile. 

100 yards or so down the trail forked, one path crossing the wash.  Some clever fellow had leaned 2 slabs of rock against each other, forming a culvert for water flow.  On either side of this inverted V he'd piled progressivly smaller rocks, finaly forming a roadway across, just wide enough for a small cart.  On the far side of this construct a small herd of goats milled about a donkey cart,  from which an old bearded man shouted, waving a stick.  Facing the cart was a soldier on a nervous stepping roan horse,  shouting just as loud,  shaking a finger in the old mans general direction.  Across the bridge another soldier sat a rather large black horse, pinching the bridge of his nose in the classic "I'm getting a headache" gesture.

Lovely.  A middle eastern traffic jam right on his front porch.  C'mon people, swap insurance cards and move on.  He slid the carbine forward, sighting on Nose Pincher.  Just to the right of the sight ladder,  Old Man hopped off his cart, advancing on Nervous Horse.  Nervous Horse oh SHIT pulled a pistol, shooting Old Man.  Old Man went down in a swirl of goats.  Nervous Horse moved forward, lining up for a finishing shot.

He never remembered shifting targets, could never recall making the decision to shoot, nor squeezing off the shot.  Suddenly there was a blast of powder, the slam of recoil, bloom of smoke.  Nervous Horse jerked, the pistol rolling out of his hand.  The roan reared, the body sliding off, bouncing, falling into the wash.

Hammer cocked, flip the breech open, smoking brass spins away, grab a round, thumb it in, slap the block shut.  Nose Pinchers big black is head down, charging, rider hanging on?  Sights center mass, time the horse head bob, squeeze it.  Nose Pinchers mouth opens in shock, then he slumps forward, head nearly on the blacks mane as the horse slides to a stop.   No more'n 10 or 12 seconds for all of it.  Damn!  He'd done it.  Shit!  What in hell had he just done?

He'd just killed 2 men.  Why?  For what?  Some old man who'd probably spit on him?  Oh hell, the old guy.   The Chief pulled a first aid kit from his pack and hurried down the slope.  Old son of a bitch better be alive.

The Old Son of a Bitch was setting up, holding a bleeding arm.  Eyes widening in fear (oh, NOW he's afraid) he groped blindly for his stick, never taking his eyes from the approaching man.  The Chief slowed, holding his hands up, palms out, First Aid kit in the right.  He pointed at it, then at the bleeding arm.  Holding the mans eyes, he slowly knelt, keeping his hands out front and visible, began to examine the wound.  Lucky man.  Straight thru, 9mm looks like.  Missed the bone.  Dampning a piece of gauze,  he cleaned the entry and exit holes, letting the fresh blood well up.  Sprayed on disenfectant, Old guy never winced.  Pads over the holes, wrap the arm with gauze, clips to hold.  Looking back into the mans face, he found fear replaced by suspicion.  Fine, the Chief thought.  Beats bleeding to death.

He helped the Old Man Up, gave him a leg up on the cart.  Neither one had spoken.  For a minute the Old Man stared at him, fear, suspicion, confusion passing across his face.  Then he shrugged, the gesture somehow ancient and all encompassing.  From his perch he made a slow survey of the landscape: Where did you come from!  Shrugged again, reached down with his good arm, pulled out a water skin, tossed it to the Chief.  He then held out his hand. Oh, the stick!  The Chief handed it up.  The Old Man nodded, then tapped the placid donkey.  Cart, man and goats rattled down the trail.

Turning, the Chief saw a small furry lump on the bridge.  A kid goat, horse stomped. He thought:  So thats What It Was All About.  Hands beginning to shake, reaction setting in.  2 men dead, another wounded, for THAT? I killed for that! 

Idiot!  Soft headed fool!  Could'nt let it go, had to jump in.  2 dead men, and a live witness.  Got nice and close, let him get a good look at you.  Dark glasses might help, shoulda covered his face.  Too late now.  Absently he'd drifted over to the wash, found himself looking down at the first dead man.   He lay on his back, front covered with drying blood.  Bullet had gone high, musta clipped the aorta from the look of all that.  Your fault.  Had to shoot that old man.  Bastard.  See you in hell.

Proably won't have to wait long.

How long he stood there, he was'nt sure.  Had to let the shakes pass,  swallow the bile from the back of his throat.  Learn to live with it.  He'd stood on a battleship, the Missouri, long ago, watched and felt those 16" rifles fire in anger,  killing at 20 miles.  That had been a job.  This had been personal. 

He walked back across the little bridge, back toward his hide hole, water skin tucked under one arm.  Got a few more days water out of it anyways. The sun was low, time to move on.  Should he try to hide the bodies?   Doubtless that old man'd be telling one heck of a story, and the horses would head for their stables. That would get the military searching.  Leave 'em be. Maybe the wolves would help him out.  Best use the time to get as much distance as you can.  For all the good it'll probably do. . .

A loud snort jarred his thoughts.  Up ahead, that big black still stood, dead man still in the saddle.  Except the black had turned to face him.   Damn, thats a big horse!  The Chief began sidleing off to the side, go around, give the animal plenty of room.  The big head swung, following him,  large black eyes unblinking.  As he reached halfway, the big horse knickered, stamped a forehoof.  The Chief froze.  If that big thing charged. . .The horse snorted, shook his head.  "What?"  Did it want something?  Lessee, If I was a horse with a dead man. . .Oh.  "Easy now."  He slowly walked up, hands down.  He'd read once that a raised open hand might frighten a horse, looks like a predators upraised paw.  "Easy."  The body still slumped forward, very little blood.  Looked like a center hit, right thru the heart.  Must've bled out internaly.  He eased the left foot out of the stirrup, slowly pushed up until the body rolled off to the right.  The right foot twisted out of its stirrup on its own, thank god.

The Black stood quiet.  The Chief slowly ran his hand over the massive shoulders.  A beautiful animal. Not a hair on him but coal black.  Big, did'nt know how much a "hand" was, but he was a lot of them.  Had some draft horse in him, had those lovely "feathers" on the legs.  Looked like a Shire he'd seen at a steam tractor show once.  That had been a huge beast, yet so gentle, giving rides to little kids.

It could use a good brushing.  Mane tangled, feathers dirty.  Dead man should've taken more pride in a mount like this.  He picked up the reins, looped them over the pommel.  Patted the massive neck.  "Git on home boy." The Chief turned back to his little camp.

The hole still smelled of black powder smoke.  Not much to pack at least.  Roll up the bedroll, pocket the used brass.  He'd clean the carbine at his next camp, if there was one.  Those soldiers had been carrying M-16s, should he grab one?  Had'nt done them much good.  Never liked the 16 anyway, he'd stick with what he had.  Foolish maybe.  Hell with it.  He looped on the haversack and canteen, shrugged into the packs shoulder straps.  Pulling a Tootsie roll from the sack, he turned, and found himself nose to nose with that big, black, horse. "Shit!"

They stood that way for a few seconds.  Maybe it wants some of that tack removed.  He reached for the headstall, only to have the black jerk back his head, snorting.  "Allright.  I ain't got time to fool with this.  GIT!"  The Chief stepped to the side, then moved off down the slope to the trail.  Where to go now?  Old Man went down this trail.  Logical thing to do is take the other trail, get distance from the witness and his stories.   Perhaps the expected thing.  To survive, seperate expectations from reality.  Right then.  He'd take this trail.  Follow the Old Man.  That old guy was  heading somewhere,  maybe somewhere with water, food.  Stay out of sight, let the shepard lead him in, let the story he tells lead the pursuit away.  Wonder what goat tastes like?  Absently he peeled and chewed his candy.

Behind him sounded  steady, repetitive thuds.  Horse that big does'nt clop, it thuds.  The damn horse was following him.  Following him!  He turned to find it maybe 10 feet behind him.  "Git!"  Of course it just stood there.  "Look, go home.  I don't know what you want, I've got nothing you can eat, go!"  Now he was trying to have a converstation with it.  Lovely.  "Hanging around me is a good way to get shot.  GO!" 

He turned and began walking.  Few seconds later, the quiet thuds began again.  Maybe if he ignored it.

For perhaps 1/2 a mile he tried to ignore the Black.  The horse ignored his ignoring.  10 feet behind,  massive, patient.  At every rise the Chief would stop, pulling an antique spyglass to check the trail ahead.  The Black would come quietly up, head nearly hanging over his shoulder, as if to ask: See anything? 

In final exasperation he turned.  "Goddammit, I'm a sailor!"  As if that explained anything to a horse.  The Black bared his teeth, as if pleased at getting a rise out of the stubborn human.  The Chief took off the kepi, slapping it against his leg.  He was literaly looking  a gift horse right in the teeth.  What the hell. Resetting his cap, he walked back to the Black, stuck his left foot in the stirrup, left hand barely reaching the Pommel, heaved the right leg up and over.  Right foot found the stirrup, he stood to check the length.  Little short, have to adjust them the next time off.  He settled into the saddle, noting the wieght of the field pack off his shoulders as the bottom came to rest on the cantle.  It was a mounted rig.  It all felt right.  The leather m-16 scabbard held the M1873 carbine as if made for it.  "All right,  but don't neither one of us get used to it."  Come morning he'd have to hole up,  he'd leave the Black free, maybe it would wander off.   

The Black knickered, blew.  The Chief lightly tapped his heels, and they moved off into the night.

[Drydock]

"I do not know where he came from!"  The Old Man waved his good arm about  his head, as if to scatter the confusing thoughts.  He stood in the doorway of his village headman.  That worthy individual raised his own hands.  "So you have said, Reza.  Would it not be better if you were to come inside to say these things?"   Reza stumped in, awkwardly seating himself on the carpet.  A low fire burned on the hearth, bathing both men in yellow light and shadows.  The Headman sat. "It is late, and  you have traveled far, Reza.  Would you like tea?"

"Pah!  I need no tea!  There is great trouble.  Learned man, do you not see this?"  He indicated the bandaged arm.

"I await a better telling of your story." 

Reza leaned forward, the light of an exciting tale in his eyes warring with fear.  "I had bought new animals from the next village.  Lovely, one ram has color meant for the weave. . . Ah, yes, last evening, at the high wash bridge, I met 2 soldiers, both mounted.  Fine mounts, one especially. . ." The Headman held up one hand.  "Reza, was one a Roan?"

"Yes, but. . ."

"A Roan came down the trail a few hours ago, mane and withers covered in dried blood.  It is tethered behind this house now.  It has caused great concern here, as it bears the brand of the Army.  I take comfort in that it is not your blood?"

"No learned one, but that is little comfort.  It is the blood of a Soldier.  The one who did this!"  Reza indicated his bandaged arm.

"Reza, surely you did not. . "

"Most assuredly I did not!"  Reza settled back.  "Teacher, the Roan had stomped one of my animals, a kid.  I demanded fair payment from the rider."

The Headman shook his head.  "You mean to say, you argued with him.  Old fool!  You value your life so little?"

Reza looked down.  "It would have been for my granddaughter."

"Go on."

"I approached him.  He shot me as you see. I fell, he pointed his gun at me again,  to kill, of that I am sure.  Then blood poured from the bottom of his neck, and I heard a boom, much louder than that of the soldiers gun.  The Roan reared, throwing the rider, allready dead I think.  The Roan ran away.  Then I heard another boom.  I was down amidst my animals, and could see nothing.  I finaly rose, and saw a man coming toward me."

The Headman now leaned forward   "The other soldier?"

"That one was gone, I know not where, but I think the 2nd boom was for him."

"What of this man?"

"He came to me, hands held up, holding a medical kit.  He pointed at my arm, then cleaned and wrapped it as you see.  I was in great fear I admit to you."

The Headman snorted.  "Fear came late to you, I think."

"This I know well enough, Teacher!"  Reza snapped back.  It was his story, was it not? 

"Forgive me Reza.  Go on, what sort of man was this?"

"I would have to say, he was not from around here.  Tanned, lightly bearded, not an arab.   A western man perhaps.  He was dressed strangly.  It seemed a type of uniform, but I have never seen the like.  It was blue, trimmed in red, and he wore an odd, flat topped cap.   He wore a black belt, with a covered holster.   And, ah, there was a bright red cloth tied about his neck."

"You think it was a soldiers uniform?  Why is this?"

"It had stripes on the sleeves like that of a soldier, but much larger."  Reza considered.  "Learned one, I am an old man.  Long ago do I remember when the English were here, and I perhaps remember seeing a uniform such as this, but red, not blue."

"Indeed.  You think he was English?"

"I know not.  Neither one of us spoke." Reza looked into the fire.  "He helped me onto my cart, and I gave him water.  I drove off, not looking back."   Reza brought his eyes to those of the headman.  "Teacher,  Two soldiers are dead.  The Army will come, will it not?"

"Yes."  The Headman stood,  clasped his hands behind his back.  "They will come.  Perhaps they will find little.  You have strong sons?"  Reza nodded.  "Send them to the high wash bridge.  Find the soldiers, bury them deep.  When the army comes, we will say, yes, they were seen,  but we have seen them no more.  I think perhaps they were unlucky men.  It has been a hard year,  the scorpions plentiful, the wolves hungry.  I do not lie."

"And the other?  Do we tell of  him?"

"He saved you, did he not?"  Reza nodded.  "I do not think that he is an enemy.  I do not know that he is a friend.  Surely he has moved on.  We will say nothing.  May the one God shelter us all."

Reza moved to go, then turned. "What of the horses, learned one?"

"We will butcher the Roan tomorrow, destroy the saddle and tack."

"There was another, a Black."  Reza thought, then decided to say it.  "It was a Horse of Alexander."

"Indeed"  Surprising, the Headman thought.  "No doubt the Army stole it.   It has not been seen."   He considered.  "Such a horse will not act as others do.  We will wait, we will watch.  We will pray, no doubt."

No doubt indeed, thought Reza. 

 
For 2 nights the path had wound thru broken, jagged hills, gradualy trending downward.  As it did, plants became more numerous,  an occasional gnarled tree breaking thru the rocks.  No garden spot, but enough to support an passing animals.  Still the path remained narrow, offering no passage for any kind of modern vehicle.  That old mans cart must have been a tight fit.  He came to a small rise, beyond which the path dropped steeply into a cut, giving a glimpse to a valley beyond.  He dismounted, stretched, butt sore.  Not as bad as he'd feared.  20 years since he'd horsebacked this much.  Reckon some things you just don't forget.

The Chief left the black in a small wash, climbing up to the rim of the valley for a look.  A crescent moon offered some light, enough to see the path following the cut to a stream bed, then down the center of a gently sloping valley floor.  It seemed a bowl surrounded by rocks, into which centurys of weather had poured sediments.  There were faint outlines of fields,  a few flocks moving,  In the center, a small gathering of dim lights indicated a village. Thru the glass the lights had the yellow glow of fire, oil lamps maybe, no electrical power.  In the daylight he was sure it would appear pastoral, even idyllic.  Dammit all to hell!  No doubt the Old Man was there, telling his story.   Dammit!  Can't go thru there.  But down there was water,  other supplies.  Maybe he could find somewhere near to hole up,  Maybe the next night he could sneak down, fill canteens, steal something to eat.  MREs were not going to last much longer.  Resupply, then try to move around the valley.

As he came back down, he noted the Black where he'd left it.  From ground level the wash had appeared short, boxed.  But from a particular angle above he could see a narrow crevice running back into the rimrock.  Down in the wash he mounted, then moved back into the wash, feeling for the cut, there, a blind turn around a crumbling outcrop.  Very tight, maybe a hundred feet back, then suddenly opening to a circular opening overhead, with overarching rock forming a partial ceiling.  It was a sinkhole, back in the ozarks they'd called these glory holes.  Caves where the roof had collapsed. 

For the first time since the crash, he felt lucky.  Pure dumb lucky. Louis L'Amour lucky. There was wood!  A few dead trees, tumbled from  the holes edge when their roots broke up the rock beneath them.  A few patchs of grass,  a seep of water from limestone.  No sign of men.  Why come here, why look here, when the valley was just beyond.  It would do.

He stripped tack and saddle from the black.  In the saddlebags were, would you believe it, American MREs.  Surplus on the international arms market.   A nose bag, grain, comb and brush.    The grain was in daily ration bags.  He poured one in, then slid it over the Blacks nose.  Black crunched contentedly.  No brushing though.  "Sorry boy."  You need to look unkempt, abandoned.  He piled the tack on a limestone bench.   Rummaging in his pack he pulled a Ranger tomahawk.  Makes a good little axe. 

Sitcks, bark, deadwood made a small, smokeless fire.  Setting in the flickering glow,  he lit his pipe, watching the black, bag now off, ruminating thru the weeds.  Thought of, not home.  There had been no home, not since he'd left those Missouri hills 23 years ago.  Ships and barracks.  Good places, good living, but no more permanent than what he had here, now.  A fire, a pipe, a horse in the backround.  Like some old west encampments he'd been to.  The crash, the killings  were another world.   

[Drydock]

The Black loomed over him when he awoke that evening.  "Goddammit!"  Really the answer was obvious: It was raining.  The partial overhead gave good shelter here.  "Can't blame you for that."  He stirred the ashs of his fire, finding a few coals,  heaped on some twigs and bark to restart.  Good thing he'd made a pile.  Setting a tin cup at the fires edge, he poured in water and a pack of instant coffee.  A nudge in the back.  The Chief turned to the Black.  "Y'know, you don't have to stay."  He reached out, ran his hand down the long head.   The Black blew and chewed.  "Said I would'nt, but what the hell."   He picked up the brush and comb, began working the mane.  Something to do while the water warmed.  Yeah, right.  "Might be stuck here a while.  Won't tie you.  You leave any time"  Lonely men and horses.  Well, long as he don't start talking back.

It poured for a while.  This time of year, this side of the gulf, rain comes hard and dirty, mixed with the dust blown off the Arabian pennensula.  The dust carries on a hot wind, sweeping across the gulf, picking up moisture off the water, slamming into the southern mountains of Iran.  Any man with sense would be inside.

Some time later, the Black brushed and grained, the Chief sipped his coffee, watching the water tumble thru the cracked rock overhead.  Steady, dirty rain.  Grey light fading to black.  It would be a good time.   He belted on the holster, sheathed the Bowie.  Draped the black cavalry poncho over all of it.  The little fire burned low, he left it as it was, walked out into the wet dark.  Half expecting the Black to follow.  It did'nt, just stood there, watching as he entered the cut.  Smart, that horse.  He was'nt going to be the dumbass in the rain.

He worked down the trail into the valley.  The cut roared with water sluicing down off the mountians.  No need to hide or avoid tracks.  Not even to stay off the trail: no percentages in it.  Darkness, noise and rain would be enough.    It was just under a mile he reckoned, to the bottom, perhaps another mile to the village.  The trail was hard packed and rocky, little mud.  Still he could feel the wetness creeping thru the boot seams.  Well, water won't hurt you.  Could use a bath.   He walked on, peering thru the rain, until the first faint light wavered before him. 

From the glass he recalled the layout:  A road town, huts aligned along the trail as it widened to something of a street.  Shacks and fences behind.  The Chief left the trail, into the fields to the right, swinging around "Behind" the right side of the village.  It suddenly occured to him what a stupid risk he was taking.  You forgot about dogs!  These are a herding people.  Too late now, pray they're inside, pray the rain holds down your scent.  Move along, reconnoiter.  Look for a chance. 

Chance showed itself at the third hut.  The fenced area behind was filled with small sheep. Quietly bleating, standing miserable in the rain as he was.  He approached, shakeing out a rein he'd tucked into his belt.  Leaning over the low fence, he slid the rein around the animals neck, tying it off.  Then reached down and heaved the placid animal over.  The ewe let out a single, surprised bleat.  As if in answer, the sky opened to another downpour. Thank you God.  He moved off, the animal following without protest.  Maybe it thinks I'll get it out of the rain?  The Chief moved fast, jogging, counting on the rain to cover.  When it slowed, he'd slow. 

It gave him 15, maybe 20 minutes, before slacking off to a steady drizzle.  As the rain slacked, a foggy mist seemed to rise.  Fine, just keep raining enough to wash out any tracks.   How long to butcher a sheep.  Few days to cook and jerk what he could, then move on.




"Wife, I thought we drove 34 sheep in here before the storm?" 

"You thought!  The boy counted them for you!  He is 7, It was raining, a mistake was made.  Doubtless you could not count past 10 at that age."

"I could indeed. . .if I were barefoot."  They both laughed.  The boy pointed. "Look! Riders come!"

The man shaded his eyes.  Yes, 3 riders coming down the eastern cut into the valley.  Tiny figures, yet sharp at this altitude,  were they. . .he was almost sure of it.

Soldiers.

His wife percieved his worry before he spoke.  "Move the animals into the north cut.  I must go see the Teacher.  Stay until I come for you."


They called the Village Headman "the Teacher"  as long before his parents had sent him from the village,  all the way to the British University in Teheran, to learn of the world, and to escape into it.  He had done so for 20 years,  had traveled, seen much.  Only to return to this small village of his childhood, to teach other children, to give back.  Give others the chance he had.  Though intent on being a teacher, he soon found himself elevated to defacto mayor of his little community.  This he accepted with easy resignation: how could he refuse?

So another 20 years had gone.  Wife passed on, daughter in America now.  Perhaps when this goverment fell like so many others, she might return. . .

"Teacher!"  They had called him that so long, he hardly remembered his own name.  "3 soldiers, riding in from the east."

Ah yes, they had come.  Rather quickly at that.  "They will come to me."  Others gathered at the news.  "Be easy my friends.  I will speak to them, they will move on I am sure.  Be friendly, offer them food.  Go about your work."

The small group dispersed, he sat on the bench before his home.  Said a few prayers,  fiddeled with his ancient Meerschaum pipe, bought so long ago in England.  Ah, England.  It would be raining there now, cold and soft. . .

"You are in charge here!?"  Time had passed.  A leutenant, a sgt and a private if he remembered the insignia correctly.

"Nothing so formal as that, young sir.  They come to me, I tell them what they may do, sometimes they do it, sometimes they do what they want.  My power is just a little knowledge they may use."

The Leutenant dismounted.  "Old one, it is knowledge we seek.  Two men, a patrol, were in this area.  They have not reported in for several days.  Have they been seen?"

"Two men, mounted as you?"  The young officer nodded.  "I believe they were seen,  yes, a shepard mentioned seeing two mounted soldiers in the high valley, to the east, perhaps 4 days ago?"  He looked at the Lt. "Do you not have radios?"

"They work poorly in these mountains."  The Lt. pointed "To the east, where we have just ridden?  We saw no signs."

"Who can say.  Many have become lost in these mountians.  They did not pass thru here.  Why are you mounted?  Does the army not have vehicles for you?"

"None that can manage these trails."  The Lt. was starting to show some irritation.  "Old man, where is this shepard?"

"He has moved on with his flock.  Some valley out there."  He waved his hand at the mountains before them.  "Always a different one." He shrugged. "He is a sheperd."

"No one else has seen them?"

"No one.  You may ask, our  homes are open to you.  Perhaps you would like a meal?"

The Lt. spun, mounted, then looked down at the Headman.  "No, I think not.  We must ride on, make our own reports.  You will watch for them?"

"We will."

"Very well then.  Good day to you."

"And to you, Young sir."



They rode on, moving to the western end of the valley.  The village behind them, the Sgt turned in the saddle.  "That is all sir?  You ask no more, we do not search the village?

"To what use Sgt?  They have not been seen, we will find nothing."

"So that old man says sir.  You believe pagans!"

The Lt. kept his eyes fixed on the trail. "I believe they are sheep Sgt.  Sheep do not lie to the wolf, unless they are sure the lie will hold.  These are not bold people.  If they say we will find nothing, it is because they know we will not."

"And did we not lie too, sir?"  The Sgt dug in a pocket, retrieving a piece of 9mm brass. "We did find sign.  At that little bridge.  This was fired not long ago, You agreed it may be one of theirs."

"I did, and I do."

"Then why do we ride on!"

The LT. reined up, turning in his saddle to face his Sgt.  "Sgt!  We ride on to make sure that our men have not been seen further down this trail!  If this is so, then I will know that their trail ends here, with that piece of brass!  I will then take that knowledge to headquarters.  If the answer is here, it lies not in those peoples homes, but in their minds.  Higher ranking men than I will determine how it is to be found.  I have my orders, and you will obey them, Sgt!"



Atop a ridge to the east, the Chief slammed the antique spyglass shut.  "Dammit!"  Damn that greasy mutton that was taking so damn long to jerk.  Should have been gone by now.  What the hell was going on here?  Patrol comes in from the east, rides into that village, then heads further west?  Not back to the bodies?  You'ld think they'd found nothing, been told nothing.  Is that possible?  How could that be possible?  He was missing something here.  What? 

Whats the worst case?  Maybe the old man soups up his story with every telling, next thing you know there's a whole regiment of oddly dressed strangers ambushing patrols up in the hills.  Junior officer rides in, gets the wild ass version, rides the hell out for reinforcements.

Great.  Assuming thats the worst case (Well, the worst case is you get dead, but you allready assume that)  there may be an organized military sweep thru here in a few days.  Not just the local constabulary chasing a lone bandit.  Time to move.   Back down the ridge, back to the glory hole.  At least the food was about ready.  He was rather proud of that.  It was amazing how much he'd remembered from 25 years ago.  He'd saved all those salt and pepper packs from the MREs.  Cutting the mutton into strips, he'd kneeded the spices into the meat, then lay the strips out on a scrubbed, flat piece of slate, lain on the fire.  Another rock chip on top, then build a fire on top.  The whole assembly tilted just a bit for the grease to run.  It worked well, but it seemed to take forever for the grease to bubble out.  Venison would have been a lot faster.   Burn't in places, unevenly pressed, but edible, and it would keep long enough.  It had taken 3 nights so far, a lb at a time with his small fire, could not risk a bigger one.  Had to forage for wood a couple of times.  Be done by morning hopefully, he'd move out the next night.

[Drydock]

"Wiiinnnssstttonnn!"  The young girl chased her disobediant black dog up the trail.  Her teacher had named the flat faced little mutt, having observed "an english looking face, with a lengthy opinion on everything!"  Well he was certianly was talking long and loud now.  Her parents would be very angry with her if they knew she was up  here.  Winston was in for a good spanking, if she could just catch him!

Following the barking, she rounded into a small draw. "Winston!  Bad do. . ."  She froze.  It was such a big horse.  By far the biggest animal of any kind she had ever seen. And so black, so dark.  It had swung its head to look at her, freezing her.  Now it returned its attention to the small black dog dancing about its hooves.  The great head lowered, nose to nose with the dog.  The little dog now stood, quiet.  They seemed to regard each other for a few seconds,  Then the great horse snorted, blowing in the dogs face, and stamped a great forehoof.  Winston yipped, spun and scrambled back to his mistress, fetching up behind one leg as the horse regarded them both.

She bent and picked up her trembling little dog. Wanting to soothe and protect it.  Yet when she straightened the black horse had turned away, walking back into the draw.  It went around a crumbling outcrop and. . .was gone?

Her foolish brother might have followed, but she was not that daring.  And it would be dark soon.  Winston wriggled in her arms.  "Silly dog!  We go home!"  She would tell her father of the horse.  It was like a horse out of the stories her teacher told of their ancestors,  so very long ago.

She ran most of the way back, as only a child can run.  Mother would be calling for supper soon, she must not be late!  As she jogged up the street she saw her teacher, on his bench before his house, smoking his odd shaped pipe.  Of course!  She would tell him!  He was the smartest man in the village, certianly the smartest she knew (though she knew her parents were very wise indeed.)  "Teacher!"

He looked up from his thoughts to see Pahlavi's daughter.  Such a lovely child.  Soon the boys would look at her and walk into walls.  Intelligent too.  Her parents hoped someday to send her off as he had been.  "Yes Child?"  He saw she held her little dog, the one he'd named after Winston Churchill in a lighter moment.

"Teacher, I was chasing Winston up the trail."  She frowned.  "He was being bad again."

"He was being Winston, I would say."  Winston, clearly knowing he was being discussed, whined irritably.

"Yes Teacher"  A flash of a smile, then another frown. "But teacher, I saw such a horse!  A great black horse, like the war horses of the storys!  A horse like Beucephalas, from the storys of Alexander!"

He sat up "A great black horse, child?  Where did you see such a horse?"

She pointed up to the eastern cut.  "Up there teacher, just up the trail, in a draw on the right side."  She hugged her dog tighter.  "Winston found him,  Then he looked at me, and dissapeared into the draw."

"Dissappeared?"

"Yes Teacher.  He went into the back of the draw, around some rocks, and was gone!"  She looked down.  "I did not look.  He was so very big, and I was afraid, and it was going to be suppertime soon."

He stood. "You did well child."  He bent and hugged her,  whispering in her ear.  "Tell no one of this.  It will be our secret.  I will go and see this horse, and see why it is here.  Can you do this?"  She nodded.  "Then go.  If you are late, tell you're mother I stopped you to talk.  It is true, is it not?"  She nodded again, smiling.  "Now go, peace be with you, little one."



The light was fading as the teacher moved up the trail, carrying an old oil lantern.  If this was the horse old Reza spoke of, it must be found.  He could only pray that it did not carry the brand of the Army.  A brand would only leave one solution: Destroy it.  Yet to destroy a Horse of Alexander did not bear thinking.  Pray that the Army stole it unbranded, pray that it would accept a harness, become an innocent farm animal.  Did not their ancestors break the land with plows drawn by such horses?

It was easy enough to follow the childs tracks, the paw prints of her dog.  Entering the eastern cut he paused to light his lantern, for shadows now darkened the narrow valleyed path.  Darkness would drop like a curtain here, with no moon this night to relieve it.

Curse the legs of a child, how far can it be.  I am too old. . .No, here, this draw,  let it be here.  Search the ground, yes, she stood  here, and further on. . .Dear God, the size of that hoof!

Old fool!  Would it not have been better to have brought younger arms and backs to handle such a beast?  Pah!  Too late now.  Holding his lantern aloft he followed the tracks back into the draw, only to have them dissapear onto hard rock.  Still, he had some knowledge of tracks, should not steel shoes leave some mark?  Yes, there, a lighter scratch on rock.  Perhaps past that outcrop.

Amazing!  It appeared to be a split in the wall of rock, a fissure perhaps, opened by some movement of the earth long past.  He'd never heard of this, he'd grant no one else in the village had either.  Clearly the horse must have passed this way.  If it was safe he must bring the Children up here.  The rock strata were so clearly defined.  Perhaps 100 feet or so in,  it suddenly opened up.  He stood at the entrance, seeing nothing in the darkness outside the small circle of his lantern, save for a few stars beginning to show overhead.  He lowered the lantern, letting his eyes adjust.  The remains of a fire were in his nose,  noise of an animals breath.  . . .Eyes, there, high and large.  He moved forward, slowly, speaking soft words.  The horse stood quiet as he approached.  He could see a halter now, reins hanging.  Gently he stroked the great, soft nose, then reached for the reins.

The Horse raised his head, took a step back.  "So, you do not fear me, but you do not trust my hand."  Who do you trust?  The remains of a fire were at his feet.  He bent, passed his had over, ashs still hot.  And a scent of. . .Tobbacco?  What is this, an empty tin with a picture of an old steamboat?  Someone had been here.

Was still here, judging by the knife at his throat.  A hand grasped the lantern handle, pulled it away.  "I mean you no harm"  No reply.  He tried again, in english.  At that he was pushed away from the circle of light, into the darkness where a voice whispered in his ear.  "I don't want to kill you, and you don't want to be dead.  So give me good reason to let you live."  The briefest hesitation. "Please."  American!   


Behind the old man, cloaked in darkness, the Chief groaned inwardly: Had he really quoted from "Silverado"?  Well at least it was Danny Glovers line, not that whiney Costner. 

He'd watched from the shadows as the old man had approached the Black.  Debated to act, or remain  hidden.  The saddle bags had just been loaded, everything on the horse.  Still he might have let him try to take the black. Let him assume the horse still carried a dead mans pack.  But dead men don't make cook fires, or leave forgotten tobbacco tins.  He'd moved, hardly thinking.  To hear the man speak the Kings English had surprised him, with his reply too quick, too glib.  Better had he kept his mouth shut.

"We hid the bodies!"  What did he say? "What!?"

"Up the trail, the two soldiers, we hid them!"

"Why?" Talk fast now old man. He relaxed his grip slightly, but stayed behind, bowie still to the throat.

"Because the soldiers would think we killed them!"  Huh?  "Why would they think that?"

"Because they want to!"  Now just a cotton pickin' minute here.  Back off a bit.  "And this concerns me. . .?"

"I am no fool, American!  You ride a dead mans horse!  You killed them, before they could kill an old friend of mine."  The old man took a deep breath  "Now it is for me to ask, why?"

Damn damn damn!  He pulled the knife away, let go.  The old man spun to face him as he slammed the bowie into its scabbard.  "Because they shot an unarmed man for no reason, were about to shoot him again."  He sought the mans eyes across the darkness.  "Now what?"

The man glared at him for a moment, then turned and stomped over to his lantern.  He picked it up, setting it on a rock shelf, then seated himself beside it.  Made a great show of stroking his beard, tossing off a few long whiskers cut by the bowie.  "Now, I should think, we talk."

The old man leaned forward, elbows on knees as he contemplated the darkness.  "You have asked: Why?  Why have we done these things?  An excellent question from a man in your position."  They both smiled, tightlipped.  " So I will tell you.  Iran, as you know, is an Islamic republic.  A theocracy, a state of religion.  Very well.  But we, my people and I, are not of that religion."  He leaned back, arms clasped across his chest.  "Does this surprise you?  There are not many of us I grant.  We are Zoroastrian.  A small sect, I doubt you know of us."

"You might be wrong, old timer."  The Chief still stood just outside the lanterns circle of light, features indistinct. "Followers of the Greek phrophet/philosopher Zarathrustra, postulated the existance of a single god some 3500 years ago.  Not too popular in Greece at the time."  He took off his cap, scratched his head.  "Was a religious student some years back.  As I recall,  some think Paul learned to preach to the gentiles at the feet of the Zoroastrian elders of Antioch."

The old man leaned forward, fingers steepled.  "Amazing!  You are Christian?"

"Catholic"

"The Church of Rome teachs this!"

"I reckon we're a lot more open minded than we usta be."

There was sadness in the old mans voice.  "The world moves on, it seems, everywhere but here."  The grey head shook. "There has been no such tolerance in Islam since the Mongols destroyed the Calphiate 600 years ago.  You at least are a Person of the Book, as they say.  We are Pagans, filth.  They wish us gone from these lands, or buried in them.  They seek only an excuse.  One you may have given them!"  He stood now, angry, shaking a finger at the man in the dark.  Anger flared, then died.  "You could know nothing of this."

Hat in hand, the Chief studied his boot toes.  "Don't make me feel any better about it."

"Pah!  An old mans ramblings.  You did what needed to be done.  Saved an old fool who should have known better.  Perhaps nothing will come of it."  The old man sat again.  "It is nothing new.   It has been so for centuries." 

"You ever think of moving on?  Just curious sir,  on account of religion, my family got run out of Germany some hunnert fifty years ago, found a better place." 

"No!"  The old man started to rise again, then sank back.  "No, some have left.  My own daughter is in America.  Some place called Texas.  You know of it?"

He laughed.  "Sorry sir, Texas is a real big place."

"Yes.  Some have left.  Most stay.  We are too stubborn, too proud."  The voice rose.  "We were here first!  We made this land our own!  We are the descendents of great men, soldiers of Alexander the Great!  Alexander himself gave our ancestors this valley, tribute for honored service.  3000 years we have strode this land,  yet these latecomers would have us gone, for not bowing to Mecca 5 times a day."  Suddenly the old man looked embarressed.  "I am a teacher,  I have no desire to give angry lectures."  He studied the dim figure. "So, I have told you why.  Now I would have your story."


"Not near as much to tell.  Was on a plane, went down in the mountians few weeks back, east of here.  No one alive but me.  Trying to get to the coast, get home.  The soldiers you know about."

"An American military plane, you are in the American Military?"

"Sir, I don't think my answer to that would do either of us much good.  Sir I am  not your enemy"

"No, I suppose not."  The old man stood, wanting a better look at this man. He must be military, to use "Sir" as he did. "Nor would your name be of any use to me, I gather."  The Chief shook his head.  "Do you even know where you are, the name of these mountians, this village?"

"If I remember right, these are the Zagros mountians.  Don't want to know your towns name. . . . nor yours. . . If I get caught . . ."

"A noble sentiment."  The teacher rubbed his beard. "Why no search,  no rescue planes?  Not even our own army seems to know of this crash?"

"I don't know sir.  I suspect my people think the plane went down at sea."

"Odd.  Perhaps we may be of some use to each other?"

"Sir?"

"You have helped one of our people.  We can help you.  You wish to leave.  We wish you to be gone."  A smile in the bearded face.  "We have friends, relatives in a few coastal villages.  Dhows and fishing boats are known to cross the Gulf in search of commerce.  One  more man would be no great burden to them."

The Chief walked to the Black, ran his hand along the great neck.  It sounded so easy.  "Sir, with all respect, I don't know you.  I don't know if I can trust you.  You tell a mighty fine story.  Seems to me you could solve a lot of your problems by turnin' me in."

"Indeed!  The thought had not occured to me,  though there is truth in it."  Suddenly the old man strode toward the Chief, stopping just before the Blacks nose.  "Would it not be well for you to kill me now?  Come, I am an old man, unarmed." He flung his arms wide. " It would be easy enough.  Gun, a knife, a rock if you would not bloody your blade."

The Black snorted, making the Teacher step back.  "Could just tie y'up."

"Bah!  Too risky, too much I can tell.  Of course, I might die before some one found me." The Teacher considered. " You cannot afford to let me live.  A rock would be best.  Look like an accident perhaps."

"Shit!"

Chuckling, the Teacher strode back to his rock shelf, sat down.  "No, you would not do this. Many so called soldiers have I seen.  You are not such. I think, perhaps, that you are a warrior, in the truest sense of an abused word.  The Horse alone tells me this. You would face armed men.  Kill in battle, kill to save another, kill in rightous, justified anger, this you could do.  Simple Murder is beyond you. Even to save yourself."  He rested his chin on his thumbs, steepling his fingers.  "I think you had better trust me."

Now, the Chief stepped fully into the light.  "Reckon so."  He slapped on the crushed kepi, pulling the peak low over hard eyes.  "A lie is a fine weapon old man. If you're lieing, I'll kill you."

"It is a fair exchange."  The old man had not so much as blinked.  A good sign?  He would not dare to hope. . .

[Drydock]

"You dress strangely"  The Teacher waved a hand at him.  "I do not pretend to know western fashion, but this seems. . .odd? Archaic perhaps?"

"It is an historical costume, a hobby of mine.  Not much else survived the crash."  A reasonable explanation, mostly true.  No way he'd explain all of it.  "Now Teacher, " for the first time he used the title of his thoughts "Just what is it about this damned horse?" He pointed at it.  " I see the way you look at it, and speak of it.  You came looking for it, not me."  To his surprise the Black stepped forward, as if sensing the turn of conversation.  

"Ahh."  A smile lifted the beard.  "The war horse sides its warrior."  The Chief looked down, embarressed to be called, again, a title he did not feel deserved.   "The old man you saved, he told me of this horse.  With the bodies gone, the other horse, the roan destroyed, it could be evidence of the shooting, even should you be gone. It is a distinctive animal."   The teacher spread his hands   "You seem a well read man.  Do you know the story of Alexander and Beaucephelas?"  The Chief nodded.  "A legend, but based in fact.  The Macedonians, root stock of Alexanders armys, were great warriors.  As well they were great horsemen, and breeders of horses.  A 1000 years they bred horses, War Horses, to carry armored men to the sound of battle.   Horses such as this."  He indicated the Black.  "When Alexander granted his  men lands, their horses remained with them.  Such a horse eventualy comes to choose his warrior, and will ill serve another.   I suspect the man who rode this horse before you found him an unruly mount."

The memory flashed unbidden, the Black charging, reins slack, rider gripping the saddle with both hands just before the bullet hit. . .

The teacher had continued  "Like my people, the breed dilutes, the blood thins.  We are no longer warriors, but farmers, shepards, our horses small, simple draft animals.  But once in a very great while, the old blood rises, comes forth, and a horse such as this is created.  A Horse of Alexander, we call them.   A horse of war, seeking a warrior to carry to the clash of arms.  Oh they will do other duties, pull the plows and carts of our people,  But always they look for that one they were meant to bear.  This one has found his."

The Chief looked up, seeing his reflection in the great dark eye.  Spoke more to the horse than to the man.  "I'm no warrior."

"He thinks so.  And he is a better judge than I."  The Teacher stood.  "That is the story, I tell it well do I not?  Believe what you will.   I return to the village with much to do.  I would have you remain here. Not long after sunrise I will return, wearing a red shirt so you will have an easy target."   He picked up his lantern and walked into the darkness.


-Shiraz, Southwestern Iran-

The desk appeared to be teakwood, topped with gold inlayed italien marble.  Rather ostentatious for a Man of God, the Colonel thought.  The Colonel also thought descretion was the better part of survival, and kept his thoughts to himself. Atop the desk were but two objects: a leather bound, gilt edged copy of the Koran, and a fired 9mm case.  Across the desk sat the Iman.  Gaunt, white bearded, cold eyed, rotating a gold Cross pen thru long fingers.  The pen stopped, pointing at the empty cartridge.  "My compliments on the Luetenants report, Colonel.  Your thoughts?"

"He is a good officer.  He found what there was to find.  He speculates on what may have happened, but draws no conclusions.  That is for us to do."  The Colonel hid his irritation.  The damned Lt. should not have speculated at all.  Probably thought it was what the Imam wanted to hear.  In that he was probably correct.

"What would you do now, Colonel?"

"Sir, I can have an infantry company into that area in 48 hours.  Along with a helicopter to scout.  We will find them, or their remains, and can then proceed. . ."  He stopped at the Imans raised hand.

"An effective military operation Colonel.  But I think something else may be needed here."  The Iman stood, turned his back to the Colonel to stare out a window.  "You are aware of the situation in Teheran?"

"Sir, I have heard. . ."

"I know what you have heard.  It is far worse than that.  Apostates fill the streets, while our leaders cower in their offices, waiting for revolution to sweep them away.  The sword of Allah cries for blood, but they have not the courage to draw it!  So they will fall, and power will pass to apostates, pagans, infidels, aithests!  Even royalists proclaim themselves openly, crying for the restoration of the Peacock throne!  And the Americans sit on their ships and laugh! It WILL happen Colonel.  But Praise Allah not here!

He wheeled, pointing a boney finger at the Colonel. " I have told them to act, and they will not listen!  They banish me here instead.   So much the better!"  The Iman folded his arms.  "As the prophets went into the desert to purify themselves, so I have come here.  Here will I create an enclave.  Here will the pure come, the soldiers of Allah, to create an army to reclaim the land.  Here will the Caliphate begin again."  The Colonel nodded, thinking of his Swiss bank account number.  The south of France would be an excellent place to retire.  The old fool was still ranting.  "Long have I detested this pagan nest in our midst.  Teheran would do nothing, for fear of the West, of losing their dollars.  I have no more fear of Teheran, and you have given me reason to act!  I will make an example of these pagans, cleanse their filth from our land."

The Iman took his seat.  "Maintain your men in readiness, but look to the north.  I will use others better suited for this task.  Have the Kuh-e-Bari camp commander report to me."

THAT got the Colonels attention  "The Afgan Arabs!  They are no soldiers!  They are butchers, terrorists!"  The Colonel pulled himself back, fearing to have said too much allready.  "Sir, they will draw too much attention,  when discretion is needed to give time to build our forces."

"They are what is needed.  But you speak well Colonel."  The Colonel inwardly relaxed.  "I will instruct them to minimize, if possible, the blood shed.  Destroy their homes, drive them to the sea.  It will be enough."  A pause for breath.  "For now."



The Teacher had returned, wearing the promised red shirt.  With him came another, a large, bullet headed, smiling young man, of a type found bending horse shoes with bare hands in country fairs across the world.  "This is, well, we are agreed names are not important.  He will take you to the coast, to a cousin with a Dhow.  He knows enough english to get by, and hopes for you to teach him more."   He brought clothes as well, baggy trousers, coarse shirt, vest and head wrap universal to these lands.  A small donkey completed the party.  

They had packed the latter in sad silence.  There was no place for the Black on the trail to the coast, nor on the dhow.  Nor in his life, truthfully.  The one thing he would miss from this episode, that magnificent horse.  It would remain with its people.  

He missed it still, 3 days walk down the trail.  They had set an easy, rambling pace, the massive young man in no hurry, the donkey stolid, pokey.  At night they chewed dried meat and dates around a low fire, learning each others language.  Bullet head  had no interest in mountians, farms or religion.  The first night out he had shyly produced from his pack a much turned copy of "Surf Illustrated"!  God knows where he'd gotten it.  He wanted to know about California, palm trees, and yes, those were real women. . .

Third night out, meal finished, they sat pouring over their textbook.  "Hal-ter top.  Halter top.  You say it."  "Halll-terrr. . ." Bullet head suddenly turned, looking east.  Now he heard it, a rattle of hooves, a horse at a fast canter.  Bullet Head hurridly stuffed the magazine into a sack, then went to the donkey, where the carbine the Chief had taught him to shoot lay hid in a blanket roll.  The Chief slid back from the fire, into the dark, his hand in his pack resting on the butt of the Colt.

The hooves neared, slowed to a thudding trot.  Familiar sound.  "Son of a bitch!"  The Black stepped into the firelight, sides glistening with sweat, breath steaming in the cool air.  No rider, but saddled and bridled, the saddle old, worn, one he'd not seen before.

He went to it, catching up the reins.  Tired as it had to be, it held its head up, looking down on him.  It seemed, angry. "Look!  Look here!"  Bullet Head had come up, was pointing at the left rear hip.  An ugly red crease ran horizontaly across the hip.  He traced it, maybe 6 inchs, to an exit wound.  From there another 6 or 8 inches, to a puckered entrance hole.  Looked to be 30 caliber, 7.62.  Hit, ran under the skin, emerged to burn the crease.  Painful, but not immobilizing.  Angry himself now, he carefully looked the Black over.  A notch in the right ear.  Nothing else, thank God.

Someone had shot his Black.  With a Kalishnikov he'd bet.  Why? God damn you, you know why.  The Black trembled, wanting  to go, to run.  Back.  No, no, you need rest and grain.  He stripped the tack, began rubbing the horse down with his sleeping blanket.  Bullet Head filled a nosebag with grain, then began packing the donkey as the Chief walked and watered the great horse.  The wounds were washed and greased.  2 hours of waiting, preparing.

He rode all that night.  Bullet Head and the donkey left far behind.  At the canter, slow gallop, 10 minutes an hour walking alongside, easing his mount.  Beneath him the Black somehow radiated anger, accusation, no longer the friendly companion of earlier days.  How do you apologize to a horse?  Explain leaving it to face an enemy alone.  Now where would it carry him, to what future did they ride?  No future at all.  That much was certian when he'd let the Black head east, away from the coast.  Only a present of fire and death, on a path marked by a Kalishnikov bullets bloody trail.  He smiled in the dim light of an old  moon.  Such dramatic thoughts.  

The Black ate distance at a rate he'd hardly find credible.  8 hours found  them topping a rise, looking down into the valley he'd left on foot nearly 4 days ago.  To the east the first traces of dawn were beginning to chase the stars.  He could not make out the village, but the place felt different.  The Black pulled at the bit, wanting to go.  He let it.  What ever had happened here, had moved on.

15 minutes later he reined up in the center of the village.  Sadness became anger, turning to rage.  So little wood here, the houses had been made of stone, carefully cut and piled.  All gone, blown apart.  He could still smell the faint ammonia stench of explosives.  Perhaps thats what made his eyes tear.  "Ahh"  He wheeled, Colt hammer clicking back.  From behind a tumbled stone wall the Teacher emerged.  Dirty, face bruised.  "I suspected you would return, if the horse survived.  I am glad of that."  The old man limped forward, laying a hand, then his forehead to the Blacks neck.  The Chief holstered the Colt, dismounted.  "What happened?"

The Teacher shook his head, still resting on the Blacks neck.  "I should say, I am glad the horse survived." He pushed away from the horse to face the Chief.  "You should not have come back."

"He didn't give me any choice."  He looked up at the great head with its angry eyes.  "I'm startin' to think he mighta killed me if I didn't."  He took the Teacher by the arm, leading him to a boulder to sit.  "Now old man, my name is Lucian Tippecanoe Meyer.  Most folks call me Tip.  What happened here?"

"So now we have names?  Would you know mine?"  Tip shook his head.  "I would'nt risk that yet"

The teacher glared thru narrowed eyes. "You are too dramatic for one your age.  You think only to be remembered? I think you underestimate yourself.  As well I think you have no buisness being here!"

" I reckon you've done enough thinkin'.  Tell me what happened."

The Teacher stood.  "We will walk, and I will tell the story."

"Walk where?"

A grim smile. "I must thank you.  Your hiding place is now ours."

Tip jerked his thumb over his shoulder.  "Git on the horse."

"I am no Invalid!"

"GIT on the DAMN horse!"

For a second they matched stares, then the old man shrugged, and limped to the Black.  Tip gave him a hand up.  The Teacher ran his hand thru the mane.  "He is angry."

"Reckon you'ld be too if you'ld been shot in the butt."

The grey head shook.  "Americans"

Tip took the reins, leading the horse east.  "Your story."


"Yes, well.  There were 8 of them.  They came from the East, on foot, heavily armed.  They dressed like cinema bandits, festooned with bullets and grenades.  3 pack animals, at least one carrying explosives.  They walked into the village and shot the first man they saw."  A hand fisted on the pommel.  "It was old Reza, the man you defended at the bridge."

Tips oath was long, heartfelt, descriptive as only a sailor can make it.

"Yes, I quite agree.  They herded us into the street, to one end of the village.  Then began blowing up our homes.  Their leader lectured us on our sins,  telling us it was the mercy of Allah that we would live to move on."  An angry pause.  "With but a few examples to hurry us on our way."

"Examples."

"Reza was one.  For another they pulled a woman from our midst, to pleasure themselves.  Her husband charged them, and was shot.  They cut her throat after."

"GODDAMMIT!"  The Black sidestepped at the bellow.

"It does no good."  There was a tremor in the voice.  "They stayed one night, leaving late yesterday as they came,  with the warning to be gone lest they return."  Now came a grim smile.  "But they did not leave unmarked."  He pressed his hand to the Blacks neck.  "They found this one, saddled and bridled him to take.  When they opened his stall, he crushed the skull of the man before him, then galloped to the west.  They fired weapons at him, with no effect."

Tip smiled at the minds image.  "Will you go?"

"I do not know.  Our flocks, our fields are still here.  Our little group is devided.  Some would leave, some would hide in the hills.  Our ancestors have done so in the past.  Yet such casual cruelty is new to us."

"They were not soldiers?"

"No.  But we have heard of such men.  They are called "Afgan Arabs", from a camp north of the Kuh-e-Bari mountian."

Tip stopped, jerking the Black to a halt.  "Afgan Arabs" was a well used code phrase in military intelligence.  It meant terrorists, trained in the Al-Quieda camps of Afganistan, until driven from that land.  And that camp was known.  He faced the Teacher.  "You're sure of this?"  The old man nodded.  "Did any of them mention  "The Base", or "The Source?"

The Teacher cocked his head, wide eyed.  "Yes!  Their leader did say that "The Source" would know if we did not leave."

Tip turned, began the walk to the east once more.  "You have said I have no buisness here, Teacher.  You have said it's not my fight.  You're wrong.  It's not your fight." A teeth grinding pause.  "Its my war."

The Teacher made to speak, but remained silent.  The grim visage of the younger man made it clear his words would be wasted.  They walked on.  Their entry into the draw was marked by a sentry atop the rimrock, who ran back and signaled down into the glory hole.  Emerging from the fissure in the morning twilight they found themselves facing a small crowd of villagers.

Tips eyes swept the faces before him.  The men sullen, women sad, sleepy children bewildered, yet curious.  They stared at him, silent.  Disappointed.  This was no broad shouldered warrior fit for their great horse.  A little taller than most, slope shouldered, salt and pepper hair, crows feet under crooked brows.  Too common, a tired middle aged man.  And for this too common man their homes had been destroyed, friends killed?  They don't think I'm worth it, he thought.  Hell, I don't think I'm worth it.    

He was tired.  Anger and adrenline had carried him this far, but now his strength faded with the night.  He helped the Teacher down, then leaned against the Black.  Started to tug at the cinch when the old mans hand fell on his arm.  "Go, sleep, we will see to the horse."  

Pulling the blanket roll from behind the saddle, he walked to the familiar rock shelf.  Shrugged off the pack, rolled out the blanket, stretched out, head pillowed on the pack, and slept.

It was late afternoon when he woke.  He sat up, eyes still closed, back stiff.  Swinging his legs off the shelf, he rubbed his face in his hands, elbows on knees, then looked out between his fingers.  Before him stood 2 small children, staring.  A girl and boy, 3 and 5 respectivly, he'd guess.  American military men since the revolution have always reacted the same in these situations.   Tip looked about and saw his gear had been piled by his pack.  He pulled the haversack from the pile, dug through it and came up with 2 Tootsie Rolls from an MRE.  One for you, one for you.  Candy in hand the children dashed across the hole to a woman stirring a pot over a small fire.  She in turn snatched the candy from them, examining it carefully, before lifting her eyes to him.  Tip did his best to look harmless.  She stared for a moment, then smiled, a sad, lovely thing, and gave the children their treats.

Tip stood, stretching.  Seeing him, the teacher hurried over.  "Ah, you awake.  There has been much talk while you slept, and I fear. . ."  Tip held up a hand.  "Sir, tell them I'll be gone by sunset."

"You must not blame yourself."

"Sir, I do blame myself.  But there are others I blame more."  Over the mans shoulder Tip saw the Black, well rested now, head up, still proud, still angry.  "Sir, I need to change my outfit.  Would your folks mind saddling the horse?"

"Some of the men would do it just to hasten your leaving."  

Tip smiled.  "It'll do."  He shouldered his pack and walked to the back of the hole, to a partially secluded alcove, stopping to dip a cup of water from the seep.   20 minutes or so later he emerged, aware of the stares at his change of appearance.
He'd shaved, that had taken most of the time.  Back in his boots, red striped sky blue mounted trousers.  He now wore an M1859 Mounted Artillery Shell jacket: a short waist coat, dark blue, with nearly 20 feet of red tape edging, and 20 polished brass buttons.    A black campaign hat with a red worsted wool tasselled cord.  The usual red neckerchief.  Sabre belt, holster and sheath.  His "Dress" uniform.

[Drydock]

They looked for a bit, then returned to the work of packing the Black.  They had saved the Military saddle and tack first used.  It fit better than the old rig he'd rode back on.  He stood just outside his alcove, pack at his feet, watching.  Became aware of someone next to him.  The woman who'd smiled at him earlier.  She smiled now, that same sad, lovely smile, and held out a bowl, stew of some sort.  He took it, nodded thanks and ate. It was very good.  She stood there, watching him in the way women have of watching men eat.

She was younger than he had first thought, 30s maybe. Quite pretty.  He finished and handed her the bowl.  "Thank you."

"You are quite welcome."  She smiled at his astonishment and walked away.

"Odd, I would have thought. . ."  Tip turned to find the Teacher on his other elbow.  Dammit, now everybodys sneakin' up on me.  "Sir?"

"She is the sister of the woman who was killed.  The children you gave the candy were her sisters as well."

They were both silent at that.  Then the old man faced him.  "Most impressive.  You wished to be buried in this?"

Tip said nothing.  One of the men led the Black to them, placing the reins in the Teachers hand.  His eyes swept Tip hat to boots, then he stalked off.  Tip slung his pack, then held out a hand for the reins. 

"You will pursue them."  A statement.

"Yep."

"I would not dissuade you."

"Nope."

The Teacher sighed, handed him the reins.  "Then God go with you."

"No sir."  Tip looked past the man, into the fissure.  "Hell goes with me."  He led the Black into the narrow opening.

Emerging into the draw, he stopped, stepped around to the front of the Black.  Anger still burned in the dark eyes. "Right then."  Unslinging his pack, he dug deep, bringing out those polished brass military spurs.  Strapping them on, he reslung the pack, then mounted.  "All right you son of a bitch, lets see you run."  And put those spurs to the great horse.  The Black cried out, leapt and ran.

In his anger he pushed the Black hard.  He knew the spurs further infuriated an allready furious animal, but he wanted that fury, feeding on it even as the horse converted its own rage to energy pounded into the trail. One full day afoot they were ahead.  One full day he wanted to make up, catch the bastards while still in the high mountians.  Catch them tonight.  He rested the horse to his tactical advantage, easing only where he could use his glass, walking to find sign.   His first dismount, he half expected the Black to try something, a kick or bite.  It did nothing, holding itself proud, aloof.  He thought he understood it.  Angry as it was, the Black knew he was taking it where it wanted to go, and at the end of this ride this man would prove himself, yea or nea.   

Prove himself how?  A blind charge into an armed camp?  25 years ago he'd been taught better than that.  25 years ago he'd been taught to ride, to fight.  How to kill, with knife, tomahawk and hand.  Read sign, but remain invisible, how movement draws the eye.  By some of the best.  Odd that he'd learned all that while studying for the Priesthood.

He laughed, though not with any joy, and let the memories come, drawing from them.  A student at a Seminary College, attached to a Benidectine Monastary in northwestern Missouri.  Wonderful men, those Monks, who also ran a misson among the White Mountian Apache of the desert southwest.  Students who so desired could spend their summers there, doing odd jobs, general help, maybe a little student teaching.  The monks were well liked among the Apache, as they tried to convert no one, simply taught the children,  and held open services.  Conversly they converted quite many.  The students in turn were encouraged to immerse themselves in the culture, and were often adopted by families for the summer.  He'd stayed with the same family 2 summers,  3 generations together on a small horse ranch.  Grandfather ancient, revered, wheelchair bound.  Son a silent Vietnam veteran,  superb horseman and manager, his wife an ageless beauty.  The Grandson in the Marines, saving for college, with a daughter allready in the University of Arizona on a barrel racing scholarship.  They raised Paint horses, beautiful spirited animals.  He'd asked, why Paints?  The Old man had piped up "White woman pay heap much for pretty horse!" and cackled.  The Grandaughter had admonished Grandpa for speaking TV indian.

But the real education had begun when he'd commented on the old Marine Ka-Bar knife hung above the mantle. Grandpa mentioned the 1st Marines, and Guadalcanal.  He was pleased when the white student wanted to know more.  He'd not had such an attentive audiance for a long time.  So he'd told the storys of the Teneryu river, of Bloody ridge.  A proud warrior, he'd killed many japanese with that knife, always the favored weapon of the Apache.  And he taught as well, how to carry, cut,  thrust, bring a sentry down in silence.  The son had observed the interest, and had shown him the moves the old man spoke of, and a few of his own, used in the jungles of Southeast Asia.  As well he'd been shown how the Apache of old could hide in plain sight, use movement, misdirection.  How to use the terrian, live off it.  Read sign, erase your own.  For a white man, he learned pretty good.  Or so they humoured him.   Visiting on leave, the boy had declared him "almost good enough to take his sister."  She in her turn had been playfully indignant. . .

Near midnight, a distant fire interrupted his memories. Them. Had to be.  Camped right on the trail.  There were a few trees here, a patch of stunted grass in the bottom of a narrow steep sided valley.  It ran north to south,  framed by a high peak to the east, the west side a narrow undulating ridge.  A careful man walking a sure footed horse could work along that ridge, to a position above their camp.  Tip would be a careful man. 

The night was moonless, the stars hid by clouds rolling in from the west.  So damn dark he probably could have walked along the peak of that ridge unseen.  Still he worked along the blind side, using the better part of an hour to get the position he wanted.  It was a saddle between two small hills, sloping down into the campsite.  The slope itself was hardpan strewn with boulders, leading down into the small copse of trees.  It was a natural campsite, probably used for thousands of years by passersby.  Might be a firering down there older than the Parthenon.  He ground tied the Black well back, moved to the crest of the saddle to observe.  7 men, 3 pack animals, around a too large fire.

As a campsite it was natural.  As a defensive postion it was tacticaly miserable, thank you.  Too easy to get close, too much cover an attacker could use.  The Afgan warlords who had once commanded these men (and who had profitably switched sides later) had commented bitterly on the poor military virtues of these "Afgan Arabs".  They could parade in front of a video camera, shouting slogans in admirable unison.  In a line of battle they had no discipline, no manuver capability, no stomach to face incoming fire.  They proved useful in one thing: They excelled in terrifying villages to obtain tribute/supplies.

He moved in slow, observant.  No pickets, no one looking outward.  50 yards away, peering over a stone outcrop thrusting out from a small bluff, he could see 3 men asleep.  The other 4 sat conversing, passing around cigarettes, a pot steaming on a rock next to the fire.  They faced inward, night vision ruined.  He watched for some 15 minutes, thinking of a next move.  Sweating in the cold air. Wiping his palms on his red neckerchief. He smelled. . .Urine?   Movement!  One man got up, began walking back toward the outcrop.  Said something that brought a laugh from the others.  Weaving a bit.  Maybe those were'nt exactly cigarettes?  Tip pressed himself back into the darkness,  froze hard against the rock wall.  Right hand on a wood handle.   The man stopped at the edge of the outcrop, dropped his trousers, braced one hand on the rock, and squatted.

A good throwing tomahawk has a counterbalenced blade, to give truer flight.  In most cases this counterweight is a spike, 3 to 4 inches long.  In Veitnam, Spec ops troops using these weapons called this spike a "Sentry Silencer".  Tip took one step out, swinging horizontaly.  The man looked up just as the spike drove into the left side of his neck, punching thru his jugular to dump most of his blood into his lungs.  His last act was to open his mouth, but nothing emerged save blood.  He fell forward, Tip using the still impaled spike to drag him fully behind the outcrop.  Yanking it out, he checked the group.  No reaction.  How long before someone comes to check?  Could he do this again?

Was about 10 minutes, someone called out.  Quietly, didn't want to wake up anybody.  A man got up, grumbling good naturedly, and stumbled back to their agreed on latrine.  Tip took a chance,  standing against the bluff face across the body from the outcrop.  He would be exposed as the man came round the outcrop, but he figured on darkness, complacency and ruined night vision. 

Sure enough, the 2nd man came around the rock.  Seeing his friend face down, he kicked him, bending over just far enough for Tip to drive the spike into the base of his skull.

Tip wiped the tomahawk on the mans shirtback, then moved back up the hill.  Maybe he had 5, maybe 10 minutes.  He crested the saddle, now running to the Black.  Grabbing up the reins he brought it forward, over the crest into the bouldered slope. Reins tucked into his belt he yanked out the carbine, dropping down, one knee grounded, elbow braced on the other, sight centered on the fire.  Perhaps 80 yards?  Another voice, quietly calling, then a figure stood up, fatter than the others. Tip centered the sight, squeezed the trigger, closing his eyes as the sear released.

In the still darkness of that night, 70 grains of black powder from a 22" Trapdoor carbine barrel must have looked and sounded like artillery fire.  Embers still drifted as he leapt to the saddle, the Black blessedly untroubled by the shot.  Throwing the carbine into the scabbard, he grabbed the pommel as the Black charged, not waiting for the spurs.  Tip recovered, leaning forward into the saddle as the horse bounded down the slope, pulling the Colt as they swept around the copse to the fire. Fat man was down, keening.  One man stood, trying to force a magazine into an AK-47.  Tip leveled, fired, missed clean as the man yanked on the bolt handle.  His 2nd shot struck mid chest as the muzzle came up, and the man fell back, 30 rounds ripping into the sky.  Two others had ran.  He felt the Black shift under him as he swung the Colt in search of the next man, only to hear him die screaming beneath the hooves. 

The last runner had doubled back as the Black swept past.  Tip reined up and kicked free of the stirrups, grabbing the carbine as he dropped off the slowing horse.  He moved back to the fire, reloading the carbine as he ran,  shouldering it, muzzle sweeping for a target.  One still standing, sobbing, bent over, beating on a rifle.  Jammed, too fixated to find another as Tip came up on him.

He saw Tips boots, looked up, eyes slightly crossed focusing on that .45 caliber muzzle.  Dropping the -47, he went to his knees, hands up, mouth open.  Beardless, a god damned teenager!

Enraged as he still was, Lucien Meyer had a message to send.  Jamming the front sight under the boys chin, he lifted him to his feet.  Held him there.  Take a good look at me you little bastard. The boy avoided his eyes, fixing on that bright red neckerchef.  Using the barrel Tip spun him around, searching for weapons.  With the muzzle between the boys shoulder blades he pushed him onto the trail, facing Northeast, and said one word, in clear,  Ozark hills English.  "Run."  The boy ran.

Tip stood there, listening to the footsteps fade into the night.  Run you. Tell them it was no villager that did this.  Tell them. . .Oh shit, thats only 6!

The 7th was back at the fire.  IN the fire. Luck again.  Damned if the bullet that gut shot Fatty did'nt pass through to punch #7 right in the face. Guess he'd been crouched across the fire, and had fallen into it as the back of his head blew out.  405 grain slug carries a lot of inertia.  The Fat man was still alive, but groaned and died as Tip walked back to the fire.  He stood for a moment, letting the stink of blood, offal and burnt flesh drive off the last of his anger.  Behind him he could hear the Black walk slowly in.  He faced it, and it stopped, 10 feet away.  Proud, silent, hooves shining with blood.  He went to it, slipping the carbine in its scabbard, then buried his face in the long mane, twisting a hand into it. "Damn you, is this what you wanted?  Is it?  Damn us both, Is it?"

The Black knickered, head lowered, submissive, anger gone.  Tip pushed off, ran his hand down the long neck a few times.  Bending down, he pulled off those brass military spurs.  The Black gave a low rumble as Tip heaved them into the darkness,  clattering into the rocks.  "Well, lets go find someplace to sleep."

[Drydock]

"NIGHTLINE"

". . . Welcome  back.  Once again, we have with us the deputy commander 5th fleet, Rear Admiral Issac Paulding. 

Admiral, we've all seen the video coming out of Tehran, the mass demonstrations, the seeming ineffectual response of the Goverment.  But in truth we've seen this all before.  Why is this different?"

"Well Ted, we have some obvious differences.  With Iraq stabilized and the beginnings of the democratic process underway, Iran can no longer hold the threat of that regime over its people.  That our troop numbers are going down also mitigates any claim of an external threat.  This gives the Iranian populace more reason and opportunity to question the domestic policies of their goverment. 

But perhaps the most significant difference is we are starting to see indications of unrest in the countryside,  outside of the major cities.  The rural areas have traditionaly been a stronghold of the fundementalist regime, yet even they now show signs of breaking away."

Here the Admiral leaned back with just a hint of a smile.  "For instance, we have recieved some fasinating intercepts.  The information of a few I can share with you, as they were sent in the clear, no coding."

"Military Intercepts?  Radio transmissions?"

"Yes.  Plain language radio transmissions.  These in particular concern an area south of the city of Shiraz, in the Zagros mountians.  Seems at least one patrol was ambushed, with a follow on recconasaince party decimated.  And in conjunction with these incidents, there have been several references to someone called, (and here the Admiral smiled)  "The Redneck""

"The Redneck."

"Yes.  Initial reading of these intercepts seems to indicate a person acting alone,  but we think perhaps this refers to some sort of brigand leader, or perhaps to a group itself. 

The host had a somewhat strangled look "So you're saying that the Iranian Goverment is having trouble with a "Redneck" or "Rednecks"  in its  rural southern mountians?"

The Admirals smile grew broader.  "Yes, it does seem that way."

A voice from off camera.  "Well hell, doesn't everybody?"



"THE TONIGHT SHOW"

". . .Now I've sure you 've all heard by now of the "Redneck" trouble Iran is having in its southern countryside?"  A ripple of laughter went thru the audiance.  "Well the United Nations is very concerned.  Sooo, they've assembled a crack team of inspectors to go into Iran to investigate the situation.  Heading this team will be the former chief law enforcement officer of Hazzard County, Sherriff Rosco P. Coletrain. . ."

After the laughter had died.  "In his first interview, Sherriff Coletrain announced "Its them Duke boys, ah jist know it!"


-SHIRAZ-

"FOOL!  IDIOT!  Tell me, can you not HEAR the Americans LAUGHING!"

The Colonel thought the Holy Man in a fine high rage this day.  He was only too glad not to be the recipient of such glorious vitriol.  That honor belonged to the Al-Quieda commander now standing before the Imans impressive desk.  The Colonel sat to one side, basking in reflected fury.

"I have YOU send YOUR PEOPLE out to run off a few miserable PAGANS,  only to have YOUR MEN slaughtered like so many EWES by some COSTUMED BRIGAND!"

The Al-Quieda man was doing his best to appear non-plussed.  "Sir, we cannot be sure there was only one. . ."

"YOUR MAN reported only ONE!  And did it in PLAIN LANGUAGE over the FIRST radio HE came to!"

"He was young, inexperienced, he could not. . ."

"YOU seek to assuage me with THESE words!  YOU send out young, inexperienced FOOLS to do my bidding!"

The Al-Quieda man shook his head.  "Holy one, your anger is well justified,  but this leads us nowhere."

The Iman threw himself into his seat.  "And just where should we be going?"

"Sir, we seek resolution.  Swift and final."  The Iman indicated a chair, the Al-Quieda man seated himself.  "My man was young, inexperienced, this is true.  But one must gain experience somehow, and the mission described to me seemed ideal for such a purpose.  6 of the 8 sent were in fact highly experienced in these types of operations.  Obviously there were factors here that none of us were aware of."

"Factors."  The Iman leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped.  "And just who do you think this red neck clothed "factor" was?  Your "Boy" said he spoke english.  American?"

"He is not sure.  He has only heard Americans on the Television, and the accent did not sound as such.  But I myself think it most likely was an American, perhaps one of their "Special Forces"."

"Why is this?"

"My man said the first shot fired killed 2 men.  The Americans are well known for sophisticated and powerful weaponry.  He also said the weapon held on him was like nothing he'd ever seen.  He admits he mostly just saw the muzzle, but it seemed far too large for a simple rifle."

"And what of this odd clothing?"

"American operatives are sometimes noted for having eccentric dress in the field.  In recent campaigns, men of their so called "Cavalry" units have been seen wearing cowboy hats while riding tanks."

"Indeed.  So Commander, how should we deal with this man, or perhaps men?"

"I think perhaps we have a 2 man team here, Learned one.  I intend to send my best men back into this area. They will not be caught unawares as the first team was.  My organization has long considered these "Special Forces" overrated, and I believe we will soon run these to ground."

The Iman turned to his so far silent army Colonel.  "Have you anything to add, Colonel?  Any objections?"

The Colonel had two lines of thought:  First, the contempt which most any regular military man felt for such as the Al-Quieda commander before him.  2nd,  the American special forces community had an almost legendary, yet hard earned status.  He'd seen the British SAS, and the Americans were thought to be at least as good.  Particularly the Seal units most likely to be operating in this part of the world.  If this fool wanted to send his amatuer butchers after such men, so much the better.  "I have no objections to this."



Unaware of the furor brought on by his choice of neck wear, Tip had begun moving northwest, parrelleling the spine of the Zagros.  Before leaving the dead mens camp, he'd appropriated one of their pack animals:  A mousey colored mule with a disposition straight out of a 19th century army manual.  The animal had still been loaded; evidently these folks had been too lazy to unpack when camped, adding to the mules allready sour nature.  He could almost hear it sigh when he unloaded it toward morning.  It carried grain, meat, dates, more MREs!  (The damn things were everywhere)   They moved at night, guiding on the stars as he'd learned on so many ships bridges over the years.  He stayed to the hills, picking his way over the rough backbone of the land. 

He had a map, from the airplane, and a rough Idea where he was.  He wanted to go to Kuh-e-Bari.  By the map, Kuh-e-Bari was the higest mountian in this region,  50 miles or so south of the city of Shiraz.  There was his enemys camp, and there he would go, on the principle of keeping his enemies close.  Tip was'nt really sure what he'd do when he got there, but he figured he had a good little war going here, so he'd just keep coming on.

3rd night, toward morning, it had started to rain, so he'd found a rock overhang back in a ravine.  Long and narrow, the animals could stay dry if they stood nose to tail.  He took one end, the mule the other, the Black in between.  If the mule did not like him, it did seem to respect the horse.  Each got a grain ration, while he sat down with some jerky and his canteen.

Almost from the first he'd called the mule Sam.  For some reason he'd thought of Samual Langhorne Clemens,  a man who'd become embittered by the burdens of life.  Seemed to fit.     Seemed too the horse ought to have a name.  Other than "Black".  Horse like that ought to have a war name.  Tip got up, went to the Black, ran his hand down and thru the silky mane he'd brushed earlier.  "You want a name?"  The Black said nothing, just cumped away at his grain.  Cumped?  Odd made up word.  Cump. . .  Ol' Cump.  Tip grinned.  Ol' Cump.  William Tecumseh Sherman.  War is all Hell.  Named for the Indian warrior whose dream of nationhood had died at the battle of. . .Tippecanoe.  A battle one of his ancestors had fought,  who'd begun the tradition of naming a child after the greatest event of his life.  "Reckon I could call you Tecumseh."   The horse gave no sign of disapproval.  Tip dug through the MREs and found a pouch of spiced apple slices.  He gave a few to Sam, the rest to Tecumseh.


The next night they crossed a valley to the west, heading for the next ridge.  If he was reading the map right, this ridge would lead northwest , ending at Kuh-e-bari.  A sliver of new moon overhead watched his progress.  He caught himself humming, spent a few minutes trying to remember the song.  Oh yeah, Conway Twittys "Moon Song".  "I talked to the Man in the Moon. . ."  Yeah, Beverly had liked that song, before he'd enlisted.  Before she'd thrown his ring back in his face.   

Now that was a hell of a memory to bring back.

He pushed it away, thought of the future, the next few days.  What would be sent out to kill him?  The Army, or another Al-Quieda squad?  He'd bet on the latter.  Terrorists had their pride like anyone else.  Or so he hoped.  He'd most likely end up dead either way, but he figured on trying to kill a few more of those bastards.  Tip was an honest man.  He was an amatuer, in someones elses country.  He had some skills, and had been shot with luck so far.  But numbers alone dictated he would lose sometime.  Hell, nobody gets out of life alive anyway.  What would it be?  A bullet, or would he get his head cut off.  Wonder what that felt like.

Tecumseh grumbled and bobbed his head.  Tip patted the great neck.  Do horses sense thoughts?  "Sorry,  old fiances bring out the worst in a man."  They were climbing now, angling up the slope to the north.  Had any pursuit been sent out yet?  So far every man he'd seen here had been trail bound.  If they continued that, if they stuck to the trails, the valley floors, maybe he could stay above, get behind them. 

People always think everyone thinks like them.  Here no one seemed to think anyone would travel off the paths, above the valleys.  It made sense.  The high country was rough, barren, slow.  Surely a hunted man would want to move fast.  If he had wanted to escape, he probably would be down there, running for the coast.  Even the military virtues of high ground were largely lost in an age of ariel recconisance.  Now there was something to be feared.  Especialy helicopters.   A few of those could mess up any plan.

Still, the Iranian air force fixed wing assets, as well as their helicopters, had shown little night capability.  Keep traveling at night, worry about other things.



As he made his way back up the trail, the Teacher could scarcely credit the storys he heard.  How much was truth, how much was the embellishment of bored travelers.  Still, even the wildest tale carries knowledge for those who can sift the words.  And she would want to know.

Most had left.  Some never to return, many to relatives or friends in other villages, to stay until this time of violence passed.  Only two remained in the Glory Hole.  Himself, a man with nowhere to go, no wish to leave, and the woman Helene.  She who's sister had been murdered.  The children had been sent on to the willing arms of their grandparents,  yet she remained.  Why he could only guess, but he feared he could guess accurately.  A woman of fierce will,  a nurse who could have been a doctor but for the predijuice of the current regime.  Like him, she had returned to the place of her birth, to teach and heal.  A woman also of rare beauty,  ivory skinned, red haired; a throwback to their greek ancestors.  At her birth, her mother had exclaimed with joy at her flame headed daughter, naming her for the Helen of  legend.  Yet for all her beauty she had grown up a serious, somber woman.  It was her dark, younger sister that had been the joyful light of their family.  One who had loved, been loved, made a family.  Helene devoted herself to studies, then service.  Stronger of will than any man who approached her, she had rejected them all.  She had made the village her life, her family.  Now it was gone.

She waited for him now, seated before a small fire.  He smiled at the sight.  She refused to let him cook, claiming not to trust a mans hand in the soup pot.  It was soup this day.  She ladled him a bowl, then waited until he sat.  "You have heard something."

She was perceptive.  "I have."  Arms crossed, she waited for him.  "But how much truth is in the story, I cannot say."

"Tell it."

"If the story is true, He found them."  They both knew who "He" was.  "6 of the 7 were killed.  He let one live, deliberatly by the story, disarmed him, sent him running back to his people."  The Teacher looked down into his soup.  "I should have thought he would have killed them all, if he could."

She stood, turning her back to the fire.  "No.  He would want them to know who did this.  He would have them pursue him,  leading them away from us."

"It may be as you say."

They said no more, finishing their meal.  Afterword he lost himself in his pipe and a book,  a recent translation of an American author, Mark Twain.  "Huckleberry Finn."  Such odd names. . .He looked up to see Helene lead out her white mare, saddled and packed for the trail.  She must have gone out this day, finding it in the fields.  And he knew. . ."My child, you cannot. . ."

"Teacher, I am no child,  nor am I yours."

"I would have you tell me why!"

"No one else will."  She mounted.

He grabbed a rein.  "You cannot know where he has gone."

"He goes to them.  He goes to Kuh-e-Bari"  She looked out over the mares head.  "He will seek to close with his enemies."

"Then he goes to die."

She reached forward, gently removing his hand from the rein.  "Then I will bury him."



It was near sunrise when he saw  2 small fires on the valley floor.  He'd bedded the animals for the coming day, beneath a rocky escarpment on the west slope, before climbing  the adjoining peak.  From here he could observe the land beneath as the sun came over the east ridge.  The tiny lights were still further up the valley.  They had flared up while he watched.  Breakfast fires perhaps.  Thru his glass he could make out shadows of men as they crossed before the lights.  Tip bellied down on his perch and waited for the sun to reveal more.  IF his estimate was correct, those below were a day's ride from Kuh-e-Bari,  which he took to be the impressive peak to the north-north west.  A big if.  He'd seen no other travelers yet, and if these were moving south. . .

Sunlight revealed a breaking camp.  8 men, mounted on small local horses, 4 pack animals.  Going south.   They moved out in two loose groups of 4, 2 pack animals each.  2 squads, military?  Hard to tell at this distance, but the clothes seemed to vary.  Lot of black though.  The "ninja" look seemed to be popular among the terror folks.  Irregulars then.  Al -Quieda, had to be, coming after him.  But no outriders.  No scouts.  They seemed loose, careless.  Probably thought him a lot further south.

He watched for another hour, straining to pick up details.  Definatly armed.  They rode single file, not bothering to spread out even when the terrain allowed for it.  Too bad he didn't have the Sharps.  He pulled back, back down the reverse slope to his camp.  Sleep now.

3 nights he tracked them.  He let them pull ahead as he slept, then came up on them in the night, finding their new camp in the small  hours before dawn.  In the 2nd day they turned east, deeper into the mountains, following the trail of the earlier group.  They also began posting a sentry, just one, in a position overlooking their camp.  The rotation appeared to be 6  hours.  Long time for a man to just sit there.  The whole outfit still seemed sloppy.  Probably tighten up when they reach the  first ambush site.  Well now maybe he just did'nt want to wait that long.

That 3rd night he left the animals maybe a mile back, well hidden.  The camp was in an open pass.  Well sited, hard to approach.  But the sentry, now he sat on a ledge halfway up a steep slope to the west of camp,  The ledge overlooked a good  75 foot drop to a rocky slope.  A fine position, a man up there had an excellent view of the north/south approachs, as well as directly across the pass.  Had the mountian to his back.  Tip was on that mountain, working his way down.  Slow,  the last 500 feet took at least an hour.  Tip figured he still had an hour until sunrise when he finaly came up behind the sentry.  The man was seated near the edge, slumped forward, staring down at the camp below.  A few feet behind him now, Tip raised a large rock over his own head, a good 5 pounder. He stepped forward, swinging the rock downward. . .

. . .watched openmouthed as it slipped from his hands to pass just over the sentrys head.

Tip grabbed for his Colt.  Had the gun half way out before realizing the sentry had'nt moved.  Then the clatter of the thrown rock in the boulders below caused a slight stir.  Instinct and desperation combined to plant Tips boot in the middle of the sentrys back.  Still half asleep, the sentry pitched into the darkness. his scream ending abruptly with a wet thud.   Tip scrambled up and back, maybe a hundred yards or so, checking only to see he'd left no tracks.   Here he bellied down on a narrow shelf, waiting.

The rock had been to ensure the sentrys death before he went over the edge.  He could only hope the fall had done the job.  Hope also no boot print was left on the mans back.  15 or 20 minutes had passed when another  figure appeared on the ledge.  This man picked up the AK-47 still lying there,  did a 360 degree sweep of his surroundings, shook his head, calling out something to those below.  He slung the rifle and headed back down.  Below, the gathering men began piling rocks on the body.

Damned if they had'nt bought it!  Tip levered himself up, began moving back up, another hundred yards would take him out of their line of vision.  He wanted to be over the ridge before the sunrise.

[Drydock]

That next night he moved again to follow.  Here the landscape was severely cut, forcing him to move further down slope than he'd like.  Still he was well behind, had yet to see any sign of his pursuers looking over their shoulders.  Looked to be around midnight, and Tip was hungry.  He leaned back in the saddle, reaching for a piece of jerky from a saddlebag.  As he did, 2 Kalishikovs opened up to his left.

Odd what goes thru a mans mind.  Even as he kicked the left stirrup free, throwing himself off to the horses right, he marveled at the passing "FWIP" of the bullets.  Was that the sound Winston Churchill remembered when he wrote of being "Shot at without result"?  All this passed in thought as he fell, pulling his revolver free as it did.  Then thought stopped as Tips head bounced off a rock.

Could not have been out long. He was face down, head ringing, the Colt in his hand beneath him.  He became aware of the crunch of approaching boots.  Sam snapped at something, there was an arabic curse, followed by three rounds of 47 fire.  The mule screamed, falling heavily. Shit, what do you do, what do you do.  Then a boot toe slid under his ribs, rolling him over.  Tip simply extended his arm, shoving the barrel into the mans belly, and fired.  Dropping his rifle the man staggered back, clawing at his smoldering stomach.  As he did  he stepped on the boot of the man behind, also stepping back, to clear his weapon.  This man fell, then sat up, trying to bring his rifle to bear. Tip shot him in the face.  He got to his feet, head pounding.

The first man was on his knees, clutching his belly with one hand, reaching for a 47 with the other.  Tip kicked it away.  The man wore a ski mask.  Tip jerked it off,  revealing a young arabic face, light bearded.  Tip leveled the Colt on him.

The man spit blood at Tips feet, gasped.  "Go to hell."

"Where's your friends?"

"Fool!"  The man groaned. spit more blood. "I tell you nothing. . .you die soon enough. . .scream. . . like mule."  He bent over, one hand to the ground.

"Zat so."  Tip walked to Tecumseh, pulled the saber free.  "Got a message for your friends."   Hours of boredom and an oilstone had brought a shaveworthy edge.  It whispered thru the mans neck in a single smooth pass.

He'd barely realized what he was doing, and now stood shocked at what he'd done.   And yet the shock was only at the method, he felt nothing at the mans death.  Nor had he felt anything pushing that man off the shelf earlier.  What was he becoming?

You think too damn much.  He hurried to the dead mule, began stripping what he could from it.  "Sorry Sam, figgered you'ld end up pulling someones wagon."  He stuffed what he could into Tecumsehs saddlebags, slung a couple of sacks over his withers.  He mounted, surveyed his surroundings.  He could see no movement.  What had these two been doing here?  Maybe they'd been suspicious of the first sentrys death, left two to cover their back trail.  Maybe some one had figured out that, so far, everyone had died at night.  Maybe they were starting to move at night.  That would make sense.  Two up, two back, 3 with the pack animals. 

Surely someone had heard the gunfire, was moving back. So he'd move back now, back the way they came, see if they'd turn back.  Now they would know someone was behind them.  Down to 5 now.  2 to scout, 3 to hold the camp and animals. He could lay an ambush, maybe. 

So far, every mistake he'd made, someone else had died.  How much longer. . .


"Did you hear?  Did you hear?  We must go back!"  This man was inexperienced.   The detail commander raised a hand.  "This is true, but not before we have with us the lead scouts.  We will wait."

As if in response, a black clad man emerged from the darkness.  "Did I hear shots?"

"You did."  The commander peered over the Scouts shoulder.  "Where is your partner?"

"He comes."  The man grinned.  "He brings a guest."

[Drydock]

Tip moved back, straight down the trail.  He needed distance, fast.   An hours hard ride, then, for what ever reason, he was through running.  He pulled Tecumseh into a side canyon, an east leading cut, off the main valley.  Here he stripped the great horse, stowing stores and tack among the rocks.  With the horse free he began to move back toward the valley, stopping when he heard Tecumseh follow.  How do you explain to a horse. . ."Stay!"  Lord, its not a dog.  He walked back, stroking the great, soft nose.  "Look dammit, I may not come back.  Just. . .wait.  But not too long."  Tip laid a hand between the large dark eyes, then turned and walked away.  Tecumseh did not follow.

The valley floor was a collection of huge, jumbled boulders.  It was a treeless, grassless Devils Den.  The original Devils Den was a boulder strewn field outside Gettysburg PA., where 2 opposing divisions had wrecked each other one hot July day.  One commander had been impetous and out of position, the other blindly aggressive.  Which was he?

He climbed one high rock pile, then bellied down to wait.  Before him he lay his carbine, cap and revolver.  In the cap were 2 carbine rounds, for easy, quick access.  He'd be lucky to get those off before he had to move.

He still lay there when the sun began to filter over the eastern peaks.  Where the hell were they?  Tip figured they'd be furious, eager for the chase, for vengance.  Yet nothing moved.  They had changed their pattern the night before.  Did they change it again?  Why?  They'd been successful, had flushed him.  Losing 2 men had been dumb luck on both sides.  Why had they not come in the night?

The morning light cast the valley floor into a crazy quilt of shadows.  That could be useful. . .there, on the edge of his vision, a shadow  moved.   He held it there, on that edge, where the eye best saw movement.  He tried to relax, hold down the adrenaline.  He wanted at least one more.  And there he was, almost dead center in front.  Just a flash of black, but after a month in these fields fear and paranoia had trained his sight well.  They were too close together he'd judge, probably thought they needed to support each other this way.  So very slowly he trained the carbine on the further of the two.  It was allready cocked, had been all night. 

They were smart, tacticly sound, moving from shadow to shadow, in quick rushes. Clearing the field.   But that made them predictable.  Tip slid the sight crossbar up the ramp to the 200 yard step.  He wanted 150, would hold low.  Had a slight left to right cross wind.  C'mon, move to that next rock.  Good, back to the rock, sideways to me, lay the sight blade on his butt against the boulder.  Squeeeeze. . .

The idea was that if he missed, he'd miss left, with a good chance the bullet would deflect off the rock into the man.  He almost did.  But almost turned out to be a hell of a shot, as it impacted the mans spine, the heavy bullet blowing one vertabrae clean out of the mans back.  He collapsed like a sack of wet laundry.  The second immediatly emptied a magazine at what he thought was his enemy, but the rounds impacted well to Tips right?  Tip figured it out as he reloaded the single shot carbine.  The stubid SOB was shooting at the cloud of Black Powder smoke drifting downwind!   Out and shooting, the man was a clear target around 100 yards.  Tip sighted and fired.  The man spun with an impact high in one shoulder.  Dammit!  The sight was still at 200.  He reloaded, held low, and caught the man before he could crawl back to shelter.

Slapping his empty cap on, he slid off his rockpile, Colt holstered and carbine loaded.   Trying to breathe steady, easy.  He would move lateral, look for a flank.  Someone was yelling. . .Yelling?

"AMERICAN!. . .AMERICAN!. . .YOU ARE VERY GOOD I THINK.  GOOD ENOUGH THAT I WILL NOT COME IN THERE!   I THINK INSTEAD YOU WILL COME TO ME!"

He moved left,  ignored the call.  Distraction maybe, still others might be in the rocks.

"AMERICAN!  WE ARE ALL FOUR TOGETHER!  LOOK TO THE SOUTH, ON THE TRAIL.  I WOULD MAKE A DEAL WITH YOU!"

Oh hell.  He went left again, to a shelf jutting from the hillside.  From here he could make out a group on that southern trail.  Snapping his spyglass open, he focused.  Four people.  Why four? There should not be four dammit!   One began waving, pointing at Tip.  At this a second pulled a scarf or headcovering from a third, then stepped back, pointing a pistol at her head. That hair, it could only be a woman.   Oh god.  I am so tired.  Of all this.  Tactics fought with misplaced backwoods nobility, and lost.  Tip got down off the shelf and began walking south.   Still, as he walked, somthing familiar, disturbing, beckoned in his thoughts.   Halfway through the field he climbed a large stepped boulder, peering over the top at the clutch of figures.  They were closer, clearer.

It was THAT woman.  The one with the stew. The Smile.  Hair disheveled, one eye blackened.  Clothes torn.  What in gods name was She doing here?  Dammit, why was'nt she back at the village, with those children. Goddammit!  He barely noticed the anger building.  But it did build, resolution building with it.  Got to do something.  What?  Bastards!  Trapdoor's too slow for this.  Grab a 47 off one of the two dead?  No, not selective enough, they'd never let him get close with it anyway.

And then he knew.  Risky.  Stupid even.  They could shoot him as soon as he stepped out.  But maybe not.  Maybe they wanted a surrender.  Alive, his head on a block.   Small chance, but a chance.  He'd probably get hit, but all he wanted was the woman clear.  A good, simple goal.

Toward the edge of the boulders he left the carbine.  He tucked the holster flap into his belt, then stepped out, hands up, walking slowly up to the little group.  To his left was a large fellow with a 47, paratrooper version with the folding metal stock.  On his right a smaller man, also with a 47.  Before him stood a bearded man, holding the woman before him, pistol at her right temple.  50 feet. . .. . .30 feet. . .20 feet. . .10 feet.  He stopped.  They stared at each other for a few seconds.   Beard spoke first.

"I thought, from the tracks at the mule, only one of you.  What are you?"

Tip kept his voice level. "Just a sailor."

"A sailor?  A SEAL?"

"No, I used to work down in the engine room"

Beard frowned, translated for the others.  They laughed, the weapons lowering a bit, relaxing.  Beard snapped.  "Well, no more.  I would have your weapon, now!  And very careful!"

Tip nodded, reached down, easing the Colt from the  holster.  It lay in his open hand, butt forward, as he slowly extended his arm to Beard.  The woman tried to catch his eyes, her own wide, and maybe angry?  Good, that was useful.  Beard fixed on the antique revolver, then shoved the woman at Short Guy, reaching for the Colt, lowering his own weapon.

[Drydock]

America is a different place.  Its legends are recent, the hero's, common laborers.  No nobility, no princes.  Wandering cowhands,  poorly paid lawmen,  the cavalry that rides to the rescue composed of 15 dollar a month failures.  The heroines they rode for rewarded not with castles and titles, but with lives of rural labor on farms and ranchs.   Odd really.  Odd too the weapons they carry.  Alone among the worlds cultures they carry no blades, but firearms.  One type in particular, a superbly balanced belt sized single action revolver, made by a company named Colt, of a series beginning with the 1851 Navy model, culminating in the Single Action Army contract model of 1873.   With these unique weapons came unique skills, known only within their own culture.  Among the students of the gunfighters art, these movements are as distinct, graceful and purposeful as any sword drill.  The Fast Draw, the Border Shift, Butterfly roll, forward and reverse Spins, Sliphammer, Hi Cavalry Twist.   Outside the United States,  the word "fanning" means to move air in some manner.  Say it to an American child with a Cap Pistol, and see what happens.

So its a good bet that the man before Tip had never heard of, or seen,  anything called an "Open Handed Road Agent Spin."  But Tip Meyer had practiced this move many times, though always with an empty gun, over his bed should he drop it.  The bed was to keep the weapons finish from being damaged.  A drop here, well. . .

His hand jerked to the rear, sliding out from under the gun.  As it did the trigger finger curled up to hook the trigger guard,  rotating the revolver upright, the weight of the barrel causing it to rotate down and forward, letting the butt clear the hand as it rotated 90 degrees counter clockwise.  Tip then pushed forward, looping his hand slightly, causing the butt to settle into the palm as his thumb swept the hammer spur down and back.  All this took maybe a 20th of a second.  The average human reaction time is .25 seconds.  So Beards eyes were just starting to widen when the bullet entered his forehead.  Tip swung left, thumb sweeping the hammer spur as the barrel came down out of recoil.  Big Guy stood slack jawed, grip tightening on the 47, muzzle just starting to lift when the bullet entered his mouth.  Tip kept rotating left, left hand sweeping across the revolver to fan the hammer back. 

The bullet struck him just as Shorty came into view.  It entered his left side,  half way up the rib cage, between 2 ribs.  It traveled through the back muscles encasing the ribs, deflecting off a rib, breaking it, before exiting his back just to the left of the backbone.  Tip had once heard a bullet wound described as "Gods own branding iron"  and that was as good a description as any.  The impact dropped him to one knee, side on fire.  It also helped finish his turn toward Shorty.  But why only one bullet?

Because the woman had grabbed the 47 barrel even as Shorty had fired his first shot, pulling it away from Tip, rounds going left.  With strength born of rage she wrenched the gun from the smaller man, spinning around to hammer the weapon into the side of the mans head.  Screaming, crying, she beat him down, first to his knees, then on his side.

As Tip got to his feet, she threw down the rifle, looking about wildly.  She pounced on Beards dropped pistol, pointing it at Shortys head.  But it was shaking now, reaction setting in.

"Lady."  She turned, pointing the gun at him, only for a second, then turned back to the groaning Shorty.  "Lady, you don't want to do that."  Holstering his Colt, he reached out, slowly closed a hand over her automatic.  She lifted her eyes to his.

"No, I don't."  She released the pistol, then ran a few steps away, back to him.  "You cannot let him live."

"I know"  He fired one round into the mans head, the automatic making a dismal pop compared to the roar of the Colt.

Dropping the gun, he walked over to her, feeling the blood running down his side and back, vision beginng to gray.  He reached out, touching her arm. "Lady, I. . ."

"DONT TOUCH ME!"  She screamed, wheeled, striking a fist against his left arm, pinned against his wounded side.  His vision went white, then black.   

[Drydock]

He heard a baby crying.  The thin hiccuping cry of a tired infant wanting to be fed, or changed.  He pushed up, through a blackness swirling with dim images, feelings, wanting to open his eyes, to see, to move.  So much death, this was life, crying out.  He slitted his eyes, seeing only dim orange light.  Opened them fully.  He saw a bare ceiling, one unlit bulb.  Through high, small, dirty windows came an orange, sunset glow.  The baby was quiet now, comforted by someone, thank you.  In place of its cry were the sounds of people, talking, pans rattling for an evening meal, traffic.  Traffic?   He tried to push up on his elbows, wanting to see more.  The pain in his side slammed him back down, forcing a croak from dry lips.  This brought the sound of small feet running.  He turned his head to see a small, asian woman come through a door.   The woman regarded his newly opened eyes, crossed herself, muttering, then turned, moving to the far corner of the room, bending down to waken someone.

It was Her.  The woman from the trail.  The smile.  He'd love to see her smile again.  She stood looking at him, somber and distant. The bruises starting to fade.  He tried to ask her to smile, but croaked again.  The asian woman darted out, returning with a coffee cup.  She made to hand it to the lady, but she stepped back, shaking her head.  The asian woman muttered, was that Tagalog?  She went down on one knee, holding the cup to his lips.  Water.  He took a little, swished it around his mouth, then drank the rest.  "More."  She brought another cup, helped him drink.  She said something to the Lady, then left, muttering.

The Lady  (that was how he thought of her)  pulled up a small stool and sat.  He noticed she was just out of arms reach.  "You have questions?"

Important things first.  "Could you smile?"

The smile was quick, involentary, pale similie of those earlier, but he'd take it.  "You want me to smile?"

Too late lady.  "Thank you.  Hair looks good in this light."  It did, seemed to glow from within.  Her hand jerked upward to touch it, then she grabbed the forgotten veil from her shoulders and wrapped it about her head. 

"This is silly!  This is not proper!"  She seemed to withdraw a little.

"Sorry."  Blame it on blood loss.  Ask the right questions.  "Where?"

"Just inside Sheraz, in the basement of an old hotel run by and for Philipino house workers.  I know someone here.  They are all Catholic."  She hinted at a smile.  "They like your medal.  St. Christopher is it?"

"Yes."  Damned appropriate.  "Sheraz?  IN Sheraz?"

She leaned forward, reaching out a hand, then pulled it back, as if she'd forgotten. . ."You lost a lot of blood.  I cleaned and bound your wounds, and then your horse came."  There was some small wonderment in her voice at that.  "We rode north as fast as I dared.  It took a week to get here."

"A Week!  I was out a week?"

"You drifted in and out.  Sang songs, said the most amazing things."  She looked at the floor. 

He was afraid to ask.  So he did'nt.   "Why here?"

She kept her eyes downcast.  "I knew, the army would come, and they have, filling the hills with soldiers, helocopters.  I thought they would not look here."

In the city.  Unexpected.  Illogical.  He liked it.  But. . ."My horse?"

"This is a poor neighborhood.  Maybe you would call it a slum.  Many here keep livestock, sheep, chickens.  Your horse and mine are in a shed not far away."  She lifted her eyes to his.  "These people have heard of you.  They risk much."

"No more than you."

She stood, hands fisted.  "You were stupid!  They should have killed you when you came out.  I kept waiting for them to shoot, but you walked right up, then did your, your, trick.  And still you nearly died.  Why?  For what?"

"I. . ."  He did not know what to say.

"Your stupid chivalry.  There is no chivalry in these mountians, only living and dying.   So we lived, and they died.  Should I thank you?  Thank you for letting me live, for making me nearly beat a man to death." 

"You did'nt kill him."

"No, you did.  You kill very easy, do you not?"  She was so angry, it just poured from her in waves.

"It had to be done."  He was so tired, starting to fade.

She sat, suddenly spent.  "I know."  Then a small, hesitant voice.  "My name is Helene."  She looked up, studying the fading light in one small window.  "I will bring something to eat."

"My guns?"

"Under your cot."  She stood.  He closed his eyes, so very tired.  But an odd memory forced itself to the fore.  "Helene?"  He heard her turn.  "Yes?"

"Did it rain?  I remember rain drops."

She exhaled, then left the room, the door closing. 

[Drydock]

When he woke, it was much darker, the sun gone, light bulb still unlit.  What light there was came from the door.  He turned his head to see Helene jump up, run up the stairs.  She returned with a cup and spoon.   He tried to sit up, but no part of him wanted to change position.  "Help me sit?"   She stood there, hesitant.  "Please?"  Setting the cup on her stool, she came to him, sliding her hands beneath his arms.   Head turned away, eyes closed.  The cot sat along the wall, head into a corner.  They got him sitting up, back against his pillow and the wall.  She backed away quickly, then held out the cup.  "Thanks."  He took the cup, sipped.  Broth, chicken probably.  Warm, not hot. 

"How did you get me here?"  She looked up, startled.  He sipped, watching her.  "Helene, how did you get me here?  I was'nt much help."

Her eyes were on his hands, the cup.  "You did what you could.  And your horse. . ."  Again the small note of wonderment.  ". . .He would lie down, so you could get on.  We traveled at night.  During the day, we hid in canyons, I would clean and wrap your wounds.  I am a nurse you see."  She looked at her own hands.  "I had some medicines, a small pack, for infections mostly.  Nothing for pain.  When I pulled the old wrappings off, you would sing."  She looked up, meeting his eyes for a second, then down again.  "What is "Old 97"?"

He laughed.  It hurt.  "It was a Train."

She smiled, just a little.  "There was another, about "Wicked Felina".  I understood that one."  She shook her head.  "Once, when the ground was very rough, and we had been riding for a long time, you sang a song about, whiskey for your men, and beer for your horses.  Do you give beer to horses in America?"

Oh God.  "Only if they ask."

She smiled again, this time reaching her eyes, sad and lovely.  Then it vanished.  "Once, after I had changed your bandages, you asked if I would weep over your grave, made me promise that I would."

Goddamned Tennyson.  "I'm sorry, I don't remember."  Just those damned raindrops.  He drained the cup, handed it to her.  She ran up the stairs, came back with it refilled.  "Please, you need more."  Tip realized, with the taste of food in him, that he was ravenous.  There were chunks in it this time, rice and chicken.  He chewed greatfully. 

"Helen?"  He did not realize he was using the english version.  "Why. . .what were you doing there?"

She stood, her back to him.  "I was looking for you."

"For me."

"I thought you might be hurt, or most probably dead.  I was going to bury you."  She hesitated.  "I brought a shovel."

He damn near gagged.  She wheeled, eyes blazing.  "You bastard!  You stupid. . .Man!"  The flare died, she sat.  "You make others stupid!  Made me stupid!  I rode at night, like you.  I rode right into them.  The big one came out of the rocks, grabbed my reins.  Took me back to their camp, just to hear you kill the others."  She jumped up, arms crossed, pacing the small room.  "When they found the others, the one you cut the head off, they went wild.  They were going to run after you, chase you."

"I wanted them to."

She stopped, pressed against the far wall, in the darkness, as far away as she could get.  "The older one, the bearded one, he knew this.  He had to stop them, calm them down, make them wait."  She slid to the floor, buried her face in her knees, weeping.  "He let them have me."

For every mistake he'd made. . .Hell was not going to be hot enough.

[Drydock]

-US CENTRAL COMMAND-

The Air Force Colonel leaned over the Sgts shoulder.  "Damn, thats a lot of troops out in the middle of nowhere.  Scattered to hell and gone too.  Lookin' for something?"  He reached out and tapped the display, a downlink from a stealth recconasiance drone over southwest Iran.  The Sgt. yanked out a tissue, wiped off the officers fingerprint.  "Hands off my display sir!"

The Col. grinned. "Sorry.  So, do we know what they're looking for?"

"Gotta be the Redneck, sir."

"Oh c'mon Sgt. You really think he's real?  A few damn intercepts that could mean anything."

This particular Sgt. had been taking bets all week on that subject, and was about to make it pay off.  "Sir, I've been doing some research, on my own time, an' there's some things I want to show you."  He called over a Spec.4 to watch the display, then led the Colonel over to another monitor, linked to a wall display.  "Sir, we've had a lot of KeyHole passes over the area the last few weeks, NSA's been letting us pirate the data."  The Sgt. hammered the keys, lining up the windows he wanted to open.

"Goddammit Sgt.!  Are you cleared for this?"

That got a smile.  "Sir, in this room I'm cleared for everything."  He positioned his mouse, clicked.  On the wall appeared an overhead shot of a mountain saddle.  The Col. leaned forward.  "What?  A bunch of rocks."

"That was 10 weeks ago sir.  Now this. . ."  He clicked open another window.  ". . .was 7 weeks ago."

"What the hell!"  The Sgt moved his mouse, showing what looked like. . ."That looks like a crash site!"

"Yes sir, on the same rocks you just saw."  The Sgt. moved his mouse again, paused with one finger over the button.  "Sir, I got this off a pass from last week.  Just found it a couple of days ago.  Took me till last night to get the resolution I wanted."  He clicked.  The display flashed another image, another valley.  Small figures littered the image, looked to be horses and men.  The display flashed the longitude and latitude of the image in a bottom corner.  "Due west of the crash site." 

"Yes sir, now looky here."  The Sgt. opened a sub window, zooming in on the image center.  A clutch of 5 figures resolved itself.  "Sir, those 3 gotta be dead, but these two. . ."  He indicated 2 figures a little ways away.  "Ennything strike you about that feller layin down?"

"Sonofabitch!"  A bright red neckerchief, plain as day. Some kinda red stripes on the sleeve too. The Col. pointed at the standing figure. "Who's that?"

"With that hair?  Gotta be a woman sir."

The Col. scratched the back of his neck.  "What the hell goes on here?"

"Ain't no answering that sir, but look here."  The Sgt. changed the display again.  Same location, 1 day later.  "Sir, here you got 3 stiffs, and no one else."  The Sgt. turned in his chair, surveyed the rest of the room, then back to the Col. "Sir, If I was a bettin' man, I'd say thats the Redneck, he got hurt, the woman hauled him off, now a good chunk of the Iranian armys lookin' for them."

"This is a hell of a lot of speculation Sgt."

"And we're not through yet sir!"  The Sgt. had visions of another stripe.  "Remember that Navy plane dissapeared a while back?  Declared the crew MIA, published the names."  Here the Sgt. got up, walked over to a backpack sitting on the floor next to his former chair, pulled out a CD.  Brandishing it, he walked back to the Col.  "Got this off the internet.  THIS guy was on THAT plane."  The CD slid into the computer.

"What in hell is this?"

"This is a Cowboy Action Shooting website.  Buncha 19th century reinactors.  They held a memorial service for this guy.  Lookit that picture."

"Sunofabitch!"

"Yessir, same neckerchief, same sleeve stripes."  Rubbing his hands together, the Sgt continued.  "Sir, you got a missing plane with a 19th century reinactor aboard.  I showed you a crash site, and a guy dressed up like a 19th century reinactor.  And Sir, this guys a Master-at-Arms, a Cop.  Good with guns.  I think he's trying to get home, raisin' some hell along the way."

"Well gaddamn Sgt., If he wants to get home, why all the fuss?"

"He's been killin' mostly terrorists sir.  Reckon he's having his own little war."

"Gawd Damn!  I gotta go upstairs with this!  Can you get this all together?"

The Sgt pressed the eject button, slid out the CD.  "Got it all here sir."

"Sgt, if I can confirm any of this, you just made E-7"

"Why thank you sir."  He'd also made about $200 off everyone else in the room.

[Drydock]

Third day he could set up by himself.  The two women had changed his bandages, then left.  He'd pushed himself up, then swung his legs out, feet on the floor for the first time.  Felt good.  He reached beneath the cot, felt around, found a bundle, pulled it out.  Clothes, bound up with his saber belt.  Colt in the holster.  Been a week since he'd cleaned it,  but it was a dry enviorment, should not have hurt it any.  Cleaning kit was in his backpack, maybe one of the women could get it.  He slid the cylinder out, held it up to the light.  Damn, looks like. . .

"I cleaned it."  Helen was at the top of the steps.  Tip grabbed the blanket, yanking it over his bare legs.  She shrugged.  "I've seen far more of you than that."   She came down the stairs, sat on the stool,  as always just out of reach.  "You asked me to do it the first night, told me what to do.  Said it was very important."

"It is."

She tilted her head slightly.  "I'd never held a gun before,  until I pulled the rifle away from. . ."   Her voice trailed off.  She stared at the gun in his hands.  He looked at her, bruises faded, seeing, somehow, a beautiful, empty shell of a woman.  Fought the urge to touch her, knowing she'd pull away.  "Helen, I am so sorry. . ."

"Show me what you did."

"What?"

"Show me what you did, the trick, with the gun.  I never really saw it.  Show me."

"I. . ."  He opened the loading gate, rolled the cylinder to check it empty.  Shut the gate, then held the revolver out over the cot, did the spin.  Did it slow first, then fast.  She nodded.  "Now I see.  They thought you had given up, then when he pushed me away, you did, that, and killed the first one, then the 2nd one.  But the 3rd one, the short one, he shot you.  You were too slow for him, why?"

He slid the old revolver back into its holster, closed the flap over it.  Slid the bundle back under the cot.  Stared at his hands, powder stained.  Black powder stains get into the skin, take a long time to fade.  "I'm thirsty?"

She tilted her head the other way.  "Why. . .?"   She shrugged.  "They have tea upstairs."  He nodded.  She got up, went up the stairs.  Had the door open, then shut it, came back down, eyes wide, hard.  "No."  She stood that arms length away, he could feel her eyes on him, with his own focused on her feet.  "No, you were fast.  Fast as any man could be.  No one would be fast enough for the 3rd man."  She was breathing faster.  "I have called  you stupid, but you're not.  You knew.  You knew, no matter how fast you were, even if everything were perfect, that 3rd man would shoot you.  You knew!"

"Yes."

"You could not know what I would do."

"No."  She waited for him.  "I knew I would get hit,  but I figured to last long enough to kill him, then you would be clear."  He lifted his eyes to hers.  "You saved me."

She ignored him.  "Is this your chivalry again?  You could have gone on.  You came out, knowing that you would probably die.  Tell me why."

"Damn you woman, don't you feel sorry for me!  There's no chivalry here, just reality.  There's a whole village back in those mountains needs you.  No one needs me.  No one!  You've called me stupid!  You had any brains at all you'ld be out of here.  You don't want to be anywhere near me when this all falls apart!"  He cursed, vulgar, ugly words.  "Go back to your people, find someone you can be close to, without blood on his hands, damn you."  She spun, ran up the stairs.  Tip sagged forward, face in his hands.  Just great.  Idiot.  Now what, you gonna go out and whip Tecumseh until he leaves?

"Your tea."

She stood before him, holding a mug.  "Take it."  He took it.  She crossed her arms, a woman chiding a small boy.  "I am a nurse, you are my patient.  You NEED me.  I decide when I leave, no one drives me off!"  She turned away, then back.  "And don't be so quick to throw your life away.  There are many here who think they need you.  If they did not, you would indeed allready be dead."  She leaned forward, eyes to his.  "LIVE with THAT."

[Drydock]

For 2 more nights they rarely spoke.  Guilt, fear, uncertainty left them largly silenced.  They kept to his nocturnal schedule, sleeping days.  He on his cot, she on her pallet in the far corner.  Always she maintained that armslength distance, closing only to change his bandage.  He looked forward to that now, twice a day,  painful as it was.  Evidently the exit wound was pretty bad.  She thought maybe a piece of bone had blown out with the bullet, leaving an  ugly hole.  In a good hospital they'd probably done a skin graft.  Here they could only disinfect and cover, letting the scar tissue fill in.  End up with a good divot back there.  So she'd unwrap him, inspect his back, fingers gentle, murmuring to herself,  then rewrap.  He'd hold things for her, bottles, bandages, gauze,  enjoying the rare closeness, the smell of her.  God she smelled good.  He chuckled.  Been a long time since you let a woman get this close. . .

"Why are you laughing?"   Had he done it out loud?  "Ah, just remembering something. . ."

"What?"  She wanted to talk?  He was not ready for this.  "Um, how far are the Horses?  I'd like to see the Black, get out a bit."  He was up and walking,  feeling confined in the small basement room.

She finished the wrap, stepping away, withdrawing.  "Its not far.  It is, what, 2 in the morning?  A good time.  I will take you.  Wear the clothes I brought."  She handed him a bundle.  "One of the boys said the horses were restless.  It would be good to see them, brush them."  She sighed.  "My little mare has never been this far from home." 

It was a bright night, with a high 3/4 moon.  Behind the shabby little hotel the ground fell away, sloping down to a small wash.  This was fenced, with a collection of dilpidated sheds housing a respectable number of chickens.  At the lower end was a larger shed.  She pointed at it.  "They used to have cows here.  There are 3 stalls inside, for milking.  We put the horses there."  They neared the fence.  "They are well cared. . ."  A crash from the shed stopped her words, accompanied by the blacks trumpeting bellow.  "What. . "  The door exploded outward, with Helenes white mare darting into the chicken yard, scattering hens.  Tecumseh charged out after her. 

"Oh damn!"  The stallion was aroused, fully extended.  "Is she in season?  I'd think it was too early. . ."

"She's always been erratic, we've never successfully bred her."  The two horses circled warily, nose to nose.  Temcuseh reared, trumpeting, hooves slashing, striking air.  Helene paled, tried to climb the fence. 

Tip wrapped his arms around her, pulling her off, ignoring the knifing pain in his back.  "Goddammit, you can't go in there!"

She struggled, tried to push away.  "You bastard!  He'll kill her!  He's going to kill her!"  She cried out something in Farsi, calling to her mare.

Why were there tears in his eyes?  "No, Helen, please no.  We're not all like that."  Where in the hell had THAT come from.  Please Darlin', its gonna be all right."  He hugged her tight to him.  "Look."

Whinnying, satisfied with the stallions display, the mare had turned, presenting herself.  Tecumseh mounted her with a gentleness belying his size.  Helen cringed as he took the mares neck in his teeth, but it again was gentle, only to steady.  Then it was over, the two horses side by side, flanks heaving, the stallions great head looped over the smaller mares neck.   The four of them stood silent, letting the moment pass.  Tip realized he and Helen were breathing as though. . .well. . .damn.   He let his arms fall away.  For a second she still stood, back pressed against him.  Then she took a sudden step away, turning.  "We can take them back in now."  They walked to a rickety gate, then in.  Helen stepped warily around Tecumseh, reminding Tip of the first time he'd dealt with the black.  She stroked the mare, talking to it, then drew it off, out from under the stallions neck.  The two horses whinnyed to each other as she led the mare to its stall.  Tip walked up and stroked the great black nose.  "Well hell, I hope it was good for you."  Tecumseh shook his head, snorting. 

The next afternoon found them both asleep in their respective corners, with both awakened by the philipino womans rattling combination of Tagalog, Spanish and Farsi.  Helen had been teaching him her language, and he'd made enough port visits to Manila to let him roughly figure out between the two that someone was coming.  Dressed in a long night shirt, Helen came to him.  "You must go, you must go now!" 

"No time! No time!"  The Philipino woman waved her arms over her head, then ran up the stairs.  Helen repeated.  "No time."  She jerked off his blanket.  He was wearing boxers and bandages.  "Get under the bed. Please, now, hurry!"  He rolled off, then under the bed, pillowing his head on his bundled uniform.  The Colt slid from its holster.  Helen franticly shoved clothes, rags, paint cans against him, pinning him against the wall.  Thru a gap between 2 rag bundles, Tip saw her nightshirt hit the floor.  Then. . .

Once on a port visit to Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates, he had walked thru a newly constructed 3 story shopping mall.  The whole 3rd floor had been filled with shops selling nothing but every possible variety of womens lingerie.  Made a man wonder what went on under all those plain smocks and black abayas.  The red lace confection that now dropped to the deck confirmed a lot of suspicions.  She kicked it sliding into his little gap.  Then the bed sagged with her weight, the blanket dropping over the side.   Heard her whisper.  "Whatever happens, whatever you hear, do nothing!  Please!"

It could only have been a few minutes, but it seemed just short of forever, when the heavy tread of boots sounded on the floor above.  The little philipino womans familiar screech rattled in the kitchen upstairs, then a pair of boots came down the steps.  He heard the chink of the overhead bulbs pull chain, saw the light come on, now the blanket was pulled back.

Helen screamed.  Bloody damn murder she screamed.  The whole place seemed to explode with voices.  From upstairs came a demanding bellow, along with the philipino womans voice running right up the scale.  Helen shouted insults, while an aplogetic voice climbed back up the stairs.  From the kitchen above now came two male voices in argument, aided by the little philipino ladys demanding shrieks.  The whole mess trooped outside, then faded away.  Then came a small, now exausted voice from the top of the stairs.  "They gone."

Tip laughed.  Oh but it hurt, but he laughed.  Pushed his way out from under the bed, still laughing.  Helen was laughing, the philipino lady sitting on the top step, cackling, wiping her eyes.  Helen sat on the bed, wrapped in his blanket, still smiling, trying to reach her underwear.  He'd pushed it away when he'd crawled out. Tip picked up the red lace, handed it to her.  What must it have cost her to let a man see her like that.     

Standing now, the philipino lady fired off a string of Farsi too fast for Tip to follow, shaking a finger at Tip.  Helens smile vanished.  Tip turned away, letting her dress.  Imaging red lace and silk. . ."Ah, what was that all about?"

Helen sighed.  "You can turn around."  She was back in her ankle length nightshirt.  No evidence of red anything.  "That was the religious police.  They sweep through here now and then, checking on the non muslims."   She fidgited with a sleeve.  "They think I might be some kind of prostitute, though they have no proof.  I am to be gone by next week." 

[Drydock]

She straightened, threw her shoulders back.  "We need a new place to hide."

"No."

She blinked.  "No?  But. . ."

"No more, Helen."  He sat on the bed, pulling on a shirt from the pile on the floor.  "Too many people are getting caught up in this.  Too many people are gonna get hurt. Hell, too many have allready been hurt."  He reached out for her, instinctivly.  She stepped back.  He dropped that hand to his knee, looking down.  "You've been hurt enough, Helen.  Enough.  I need to get out of this country."

Her voice was tinted with anger.  "You say that, but how?  We are here because soldiers search the mountians.  You cannot go to the sea.  Even if you made it there, they look in every boat."  She stood, one arm across her breast, the other waving about.   "Teheran to the North, snow beyond that.  Salt desert to the east.  All ways to die I think." 

"I don't know, maybe I could get back into the mountians again, hole up. . ."

"Oh very well!"  Helen snapped out the words.  "Perhaps I should have left you there.  Would have saved me a great deal of trouble!"   She turned her back to him.  "They'll kill you.  They won't give you back to America, they won't send you to prison.  They will give you to those Afgan bastards, let them saw your head off with a dull knife."  Her voice faded.  "Even if you made it, back into the mountains, how would you get out then?"

"I don't know."  Tip ran a hand through his hair.  "But I'd be alone, no one else to get hurt."

She spoke to the wall.  "And then I'd have to get my shovel and find you again."

He grinned.  "Maybe you'ld finally get to bury me."

Helen turned, back to the wall, sliding down to sit on her pallet.  "You bastard."  She sounded as though about to cry.

"Oh hell."  He breathed out, leaned back against the wall.  "Dammit, I'm sorry.  Look, I don't know, maybe I could steal an airplane or. . ."

She sat up.  "You can fly airplanes?"

"Well, yes, I've got a pilots license."  Useless information.

"What kind?"

"Small ones, propellor planes, Cessnas, that sort of thing."

It was as though he'd flipped a switch.  Helen jumped up, began to pull off her nightshirt, then glared at him.  "Look the other way!"  He did, listening as she hurridly dressed.  "All right."  He turned back, to find her standing before him.  She was looking down at her hands.  "Please, we have a few days.  I think. . ."  She tentativly reached out, touching his shoulder.  "Just rest, I want to try something.  Please?"  He nodded.  She wheeled and dashed up the steps.


For 2 days, he only saw her sleeping, or when she changed his bandages, other than that, as the philipino lady said when he'd ask,  "she gone."  The third day, in the afternoon, the philipino lady shook him awake.  "She come, bring someone.  Say for you to, ah, put on, ah, uniform.  Yes, uniform."

"She wants me to put on the Uniform?"  Huh?

"Yes, Yes.  No!  Wait!"  The tiny woman ran up the steps, then came back down with a blue bundle. "Wear this one.  I fix.  I clean."  It was the sack coat, shirt, and mounted trousers, blood stains mostly gone, bullet holes visibly patched.  Smiling, he took the bundle, then gave her a quick hug.  She screeched, then ran back up the stairs.   Laughing, he dressed, reaching under the bed for his boots, cap and gunbelt.  Where was the neckerchef?  He pulled another from his pack.  Helens voice came down from the kitchen.  "Are you ready?"

For what?  "Uh, yes."

Helen came down the steps.  "There is a man upstairs,  He is a Hindi, a cab driver in the city.  He has a brother who is a security guard at the airport.  They can help us, but he wanted to meet you first."  She met his eyes, a challenge.  "I believe you can trust him."

"Helen. You've had my life in your hands for some time now.  I trust, you.  Bring him down."  She nodded, called up the steps.  Down the steps came rattling a small, non descript man.  He took a good look at Tip, the battered uniform, the faded blood stains.  He seemed uncertain.  Helen echoed his expression.  "He is not sure. . .

Tip never claimed a quick draw, but he could do a decent Cavalry Twist.  The small man found himself suddenly faced with a .45 caliber muzzle.  "Tell him to make up his damn mind right now."  It was a deliberate snarl.  The mans eyes flared, then narrowed with understanding.  He spoke before Helen could translate Tips demand.   Helen grimaced.  "My Hindi is not the best, but he is saying, 'yes, yes, you could only be him.'  He wants to shake your hand."

"Yea, sure."  Tip flipped the Colt into its holster, then extended the same hand, to have it seized and rapidly pumped.  "He says, it is honor to shake the hand of the one they call 'the Redneck'"

Tips head snapped in Helens direction.  "They call the WHAT?"

"Redneck."

"They call me the Redneck!?"

Helen was NOT conversant in American slang.  "Well, yes, I suppose because of your neck cloth."

Tip rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  "God, I hope they never hear of this in the States."  He regarded the now smiling man.  "Why's he so happy?"

Helen shrugged.  "You are an embarressment to the goverment.  All the Third Country Nationals love that.  Especialy the non islamic ones."

"Well heck."  He smiled at the man. " All right, what can he do for us?"

Helen offered the man her stool.  Tip sat down on the bed, surprised when Helen dropped down next to him.  He was still getting used to that when the man leaned forward and began talking in a low, serious voice.  "He says, You look for small airplane, one propellor maybe?"  Tip nodded.  "He says, my brother, he guards a building with 2 such airplanes.  One very pretty, the other very. . ."  Helen stopped, seemed to question the man.  The man shook  his head, spreading his hands.  "I am not sure I'm getting the word right, but he says the other plane is very, angry?"

"Angry?"

She shrugged.  "My Hindi is not the best.  He probably means something else.  It is not important."  She asked another question.  "He says both are ready to fly.  His brother will be on duty tonight if you want to look.  He will take us in his cab."   An odd note entered her voice.   "Could, would you fly out tonight?"

She was excited, and a little scared it seemed.  "When does his brother work?"

She asked, the man answered.  "He says, noon to midnight tonight."

Tip sat up.  "Dammit!"

"Is that bad?"

Tip rocked back.  "I'm gonna need daylight.  To do this I've got to take off at first light.  Dammit!  Ask if he ever works midnight to noon."

She asked.  "His brother starts that shift Sunday."

He leaned forward, elbow on knees.  "OK, we go tonight for a look,  see if I can even fly one.  If it looks good, well, we'll see."  She translated.  The man jumped up, smiling, seizing Tips hand for a final shake, spoke to Helen, then ran up the steps.  "He says he'll pick us up at 9."

"All right HEY!  Wait a minute, whats all this we and us?  You are not going!"

Helen smiled at him. Sweet, benign, a hint of steel.   "You need a translator."

"Dammit!  Look. . .Dammit!"

"Lucian."  He stared at her. She avoided his eyes.   "You need me.  And you can't protect me."


That night found them in the back seat of a well worn, yet servicable Isuzu Trooper.  Good thing, as the hanger turned out to be at the far end of the airport, well past the end of any paved access road.  It sat in a corner of the airport perimeter fence, some distance off the taxiway.  The driver happily chattered, with Helen translating.   "He says this is the old part of the airport, left over from the war.  World War 2 he says.  Not much left but this one old hanger, leased to the owner of the planes.   The Air Force is at the other end,  with the passenger terminal in between.  He comes out here often, to bring food to his brother, so no one suspects him of anything."  Here the driver reached down in front of the front passenger seat and brought up a cardboard box.  "He says to give this to his brother."  Helen asked a question, getting an enthusiastic reply.  "Its Chicken Curry, his own recipe, very good."  She giggled.

Lady, you're enjoying this just a bit too much.  They got out, walking toward a rusty, chained gate, Tip carrying the Curry.  Nearing the gate, he was suddenly blinded by a large, multi-D cell flashlight.  "So, you carry my dinner.  You would then be the Redneck?"

Tip turned a cocked eyebrow on his "translator".  "He speaks english."  She shrugged.  "You knew this."  She shrugged again.  Tip turned back and addressed the flashlight.  "Thats what they tell me."

The flashlight chuckled.  "I understand in America, this is not such a good name to have, yes?  Well, you are not in America."  The light dropped, leaving Tip blinking, listening to the rattle of a padlock and chain.  "My brother was impressed.  You seem to him to be something out of a movie."  The gate swung open.  A large shadow loomed forth, with one hand taking the dinnerbox, the other grasping his right hand in a firm shake. "I think, perhaps you are a man of some skill, some luck,  and fortunate in friends."  He nodded to Helen.   "For myself, if you get out of this country alive, I will be impressed.  Come."  Flashlight closed and locked the gate.  "My brother will wait.  Come."   They walked to the side door of the hanger, yet another chain and padlock.  Tip put his hand on the door.

"Mister, before you open this, I've got to know, why?"

"Why would I let you steal one of these airplanes?"  The big man smiled.  "Like you, I am not from here.  This is not my home.  But I must work, and this is where the job is.  These people know this, and use it against us.  To guard these planes is an extra job, an overtime job.  But they will not pay.  And we cannot make them."  His voice dropped to a low rumble, odd with the sing-song Hindi accent.  "I do not guard these planes for their owner.  I guard them because they are beautiful planes worth guarding."

"But why?"

"I think there is a revolution coming.  One you are helping along.  So I will help you along.  As I have said, I do not guard these planes for their owner.  I think you need one more than he does."

You had to admire that.  "But will you get in trouble?"

"Were you a common thief, surely."  Here Flashlight leaned forward with a stage whisper.  "But you are the Redneck!  You kill men by the dozens, then disappear into the night.  I will be lucky to live, yes?"

Tip laughed.  "Open the damn door then."

Flashlight chuckled, unlocked the padlock.  Swinging the door open, he reached inside and brought out 2 more flashlights.  "Use these, the building lights might attract attention."  Stepping inside, Tip lifted the light, revealing an angular wingtip as well as. . ."Oh my friggin god. . ."

Helen was opened mouthed.  "That is no Cessna."

Flashlight rumbled happily.  "It is beautiful, is it not?"

"Its a god damned P-51!"  He played the light over the legendary fighter, scarcely noticing as Helen ran around the tail to the far side.  Bubble canopy,  looks like a D model.  "Gawd damn.  Wonder if this is the pretty one, or the angry one?"

"It is the pretty one."  Helens awed voice piped up.  "The angry one is over here. . ."

[Drydock]

The ride back was subdued, silent.  Even the driver, curious as he had to be, sensed his passengers mood, and asked nothing.  His brother would tell him of what transpired, soon enough.  At the hotel, Helen thanked him, told him they would soon call.  She watched him drive off, a man happy with his role in a great conspiracy.  We are all children, thought Helen.  Deadly as the game is, it is still a game, children playing hide and seek.  Turning, she saw Tip walking down the hill, down to the shed, the horses.  She followed.  Inside she found him brushing the black horse, hands moving in long, gentle sweeps.  She found her own brush, began working the Mares mane.   For a few minutes they worked in silence.

"What does "Tecumseh" mean?"

He paused, bent to look beneath the horses neck at her.  "What?"

She continued combing out the mares mane, back to him. "The horses name, Tecumseh.  What does it mean?"

Tip resumed his brushing.  "It was the name of a great native warrior in America.  Its in a lanquage called Iraquois, I don't know the actual meaning of the word."

"I see.  A warriors name.  It is a good name for such a horse, I think."  She worked the lock between the mares ears.  "This one is named "Moonlight".  She was born at night, in the field,  there was full moon."   Should she braid the mane?  No, she had always liked it loose, flowing.  "Can you fly one of those airplanes?"

The turn of conversation did not surprise him.  "I don't know.  Theoreticaly, yes.  But really, I just don't know.  I was not expecting anything like this."  A few weeks ago, if someone had asked him if he could kill a man, he would have answered the same.  "I have some experience, a very little, none in taking off and landing.  Not in this kind of airplane.  Best I've got is 20 hours of aerobatics in an old navy trainer."  He ducked under Tecumsehs neck, leaned against the stall fence.  "There were no others that you could find?"

"None."  She worked the mares withers.  "It was luck that I found these."

He was curious.  "How did you find these?"

"I have a friend, a woman who married a taxi driver in this city.  It took me a while to find her.  She had wrote me letters, told me how taxi drivers know where everything is in a city.  How to find anything.  Her husband knew of this man, and his brother."  She went round to the far side of the horse.  "They said there used to be other planes, but that the military here does not like them, made them go away.  I do not know why these are still here."

Tip turned away, began working Tecumsehs mane.  "The guard told me that.  The owner is an air force Colonel, commands the base on the other end of the airport.  Said the planes came from a museam, closed after the Revolution.  The Colonel  "confiscated" them, had them restored,  uses the Mustang," Tip grinned, "the 'pretty' one, as his personal plane.  Has some connections in the oil industry here, has plenty of money." 

"Does he not fly the "Angry" one?"  They both liked that name.

"That one just came back from the restorer, some place in England.  The guard thought the Colonel was a little afraid of it.  Its a harder plane to fly."

"You will take the pretty one then."

"Yes."  He'd sat in the cockpit, learned the controls.  Tip could feel her eyes on his back now.  "I've got to try, I guess."  He turned, found her looking at him across the back of her mare.  "Your friends, how much do they know?"

"Only that I sought a small airplane.  I did not tell them why, they did not ask."

"Good"  He climbed into the mares stall, rested his hands on the white horse.  "What will you do after I leave?"

She looked down, eyes fixed on the brush moving down the mares side.  "I will go home.  It will be safe enough.  The soldiers will not bother me I think, and the arabs stay in their camp for now.

"Helen. . .  Will you be OK?  I mean, those men, that night. . ."  His voice was rough.

"I am not pregnant, if you mean that."

"You're sure?"

"I am sure."  She smiled, eyes bright, sad.  "We could have a foal though."  Moonlight tossed her head.  "She knows we speak of her."

Behind him, Tecumseh grumbled, arched his head into the stall to nuzzle his lady.  "Perceptive animals."

Helen tucked the brush into a saddle bag.  "More than most people."  She climbed out of the stall.

"Helen."  She stopped at the door, back still to him.  "I. . .You should not have come after me."

"I know."  She walked out, closing the door.

"Dammit!"  He turned to the mare, stroking her soft nose.  "No use wishing things were different, hey Moonlight?  Things are what they are."  But he did wish.  Maybe everything he ever wanted, right there in front of him.  But to possess the dream would be to destroy it.  To keep her alive he had to leave her.  Maybe someday, if he lived.  No.  Don't lie to yourself.  There's no life for you here.  You starry eyed sonofabitch.  You don't know for sure if she even likes you.

[Drydock]

Well after midnight he climbed the slope to the hotel.  You had to go through the kitchen to get to the basement.  She was there, sipping tea, seated at a battered formica topped table, the kind with metal legs and a metal trim strip around the edge.  Tip remembered his mother having one like it in her kitchen, back in the 60s.  He filled a chipped blue mug and sat down across from her, chair sideways to the table.   They drank in silence.   He got up for a refill, indicated her cup, was gratified when she held it up for more.  Seated again, silent, neither wanting to spoil the quiet with words.  But words will only be held back so long.  "Where will you go?"  Helen studied her cup.  "Will you go back to your Navy?"

"No, I'm done with that.  Was getting ready to retire, 'fore this happened."

She lifted her eyes.  "Retire?  You are not that old."

He saluted her with his mug.  "Thank you Miss.  I'm 45.  Been in the Navy 23 years.  After 20 you can retire on 1/2 pay and go do something else."

"What else will you do?"  She lifted her cup with both hands, sipping, fingers woven around the old china.  She had lovely, slender fingers.

"There's a place, up in the mountains of western America,  a town called Silverton, in the state of Colorado.  They have old steam trains there.  I hope to work on them, live in the mountains."  He sipped.  "Live quietly."

"That would be a change."  They both smiled at that.  "Are those mountains, like these?"  Her hand pointed south, to her own land.

"No."  He shook his head,  trying to form the image with words.  "They are higher, and green, so very green most of the year, covered with trees and grasses, fields of wildflowers.  In the deep winter months there is snow.  It falls very thick, sometimes so thick you have to dig your way out of your house.  Better to stay inside with a fire, a book and something warm to drink."  He lifted the mug.  "Like this."

"It sounds beautiful."  She looked off at a peeling plaster wall, but seeing his mountians.

"All places have their own beauty."  Her head scarf had slipped down, letting him study her hair.  "Where you there, you would think of your own valley, and know it was just as beautiful."

"Your words are kind."  She kept looking at that wall, looking for those mountians.  "Is your family there?"

His mug descended to the table with a clack.  "I have no family."

This surprised her.  Her own family was vast,  parents, grandparents,  most of the village had been related by blood or marriage.  "None?"

"Nope.  All gone I'm afraid.  I was a late child, they all got old pretty fast."  He shrugged.

"You never married?"

He could see her eyes start to soften.  "Oh no now, don't. . .Look now.  Women just don't put up with me for very long."  She gave him an odd, long look.  "Believe me, when people ain't shootin' at me, I'm a real jackass."

Helen studied her cup.  "So you say."

Stop this right now you fool.  "Its time to change this wrapping, I think."

"Oh, yes."  She hopped up, purposeful,  retrieved her things as he pulled off his shirt.  It was a simple wrap now.  2 turns, with a good sized pad in the back.  She cut it away, with a good twinge felt as she pulled the pad off the back wound.

"Hows it look?"

Her fingers were light, tracing the bruised path of the bullet.  "The one on your side is closed up nicely.  The back is still filling, still has some drainage.  It will bleed badly if you strain it much."  She cleaned it, sprayed his back with disinfectant.  He shifted his shoulders, feeling the wound burn.  "You will have someone look at it very soon when you land?  You will tell them what I have done?"

"First person I talk to will be a doctor, I promise." 

"Good."  She had him hold the end of the gauze as she wrapped it over a new pad.  "Try to sleep on your stomach today."

"Gonna be hard to sleep." 

"Please, sleep.  I will take care of everything else.  You must rest."  She pulled away,  getting her distance back.

Nodding, Tip picked up his shirt, went down into the basement. 

[Drydock]

"Lucian."  The hand was gentle on his shoulder.  "Lucian, it is nearly time."

He'd slept fitfully, on and off all that day, finaly falling into a deep, dreamless slumber toward evening.  Now he sat up, a bit disoriented as a deep sleep will leave a man, rubbing flakes from his eyes.  A cold edge of metal against his back startled him.  Oh, sissors.  One last change of bandages.  "Evenin'."

"Hold this."  Helen slapped the sissors into his hand.   Her fingers were rougher, quicker.  Cleaned, slapped and wrapped.  "Get dressed, there is food in the kitchen."

"Yes Ma'am."  He dressed in the local clothes she had given him, then went up to the kitchen.  A single plate was on the table, a chair before it.  He sat.  From a pot on the battered gas range she ladled a bowl of something, brought it to him.  It looked, smelled familiar?  A spoonful confirmed.  "Hey, you've given me this before."  Another spoonful.  "Its good.  What is it?"

Filling a bowl for herself, she sat opposite him.  "It is seasoned kid, with potatoes and vegtables." 

Tip smiled, a small, tight grin.  Goat stew, his local experience was complete.  Chewing, he thought there was something long familiar. . ."You put sweet paprika in this, don't you."

It surprised her.  "Yes, you know it?"

Such an odd memory,  bet she'd like it.  "My father loved chicken gizzards."   That got a look.  He held up a hand, made her wait for it.  "My country was mostly settled by poor people.  We made delicacys from things other folks threw away.  Anyways,  Dad would roll gizzards in flour mixed with sweet paprika, then deep fry them.  Could eat those all day long."  He studied his stew, swallowed another spoonful.  "Sweet paprika always makes me think of that." 

"It is a good memory.  How will you remember me?"   

There would be no remembering her.  She would exist on the surface of every thought.  "I reckon every time I have a backache."

She frowned.  "I would have preferred paprika."   The meal finished in silence.  Pushing away from the table, he stood.  "I'll get my stuff together."

"I've allready done that."  Reaching across the table, she took his bowl, stacked it with hers, took them to the sink.  "All your things are on my pallet."

"Thank you." 

"It was not much.  Perhaps you would like to go down, say goodbye to your horse."  There was soapy water in the sink, the bowls and plates rattling as she cleaned them. 

"No, I did that last night."  Standing next to her now, he pulled down a dishrag and began drying.  "Gonna miss that horse."

Tires on gravel sounded outside.  She ran to the door.  "It is him."

They carried his gear to the Trooper.  The cab loaded, he faced her.  "I have'nt got the words, Helen.  You saved me."  Voice a little rough.  "I'm sorry for everything thats happened to you."

"You always apologize to me.  I chose to be there.  I choose to be here.  We do what must be done."  Her shoulders set, she faced him squarely.  "Go with God."

He nodded, turned, got into the cab.  Then a hand reached through the window, grabbing his.  "Lucian."  He brought his other hand over, cradling her hand in both of his.  Then met her eyes.  She pulled off her veil, shoving it through the window at him.  "I took one of your neckerchefs.  Take this." 

Releasing her hand, he took the veil.  "Goodbye Helen."

She ran to the other side of the cab, said something to the driver.  He bobbed his head in agreement, then dropped the Trooper into gear.  She watched the taillights until they turned at the end of the street.


Flashlight was waiting at the gate.  "So, you have come.  It is good we have some time, there have been changes."

"Changes?"

"I show you."  He led Tip to the door, allready opened.

"Its gone!"

"Yes, the Colonel took this one yesterday, flew to Teheran.   I do not know when he will be back."  Flashlight slapped Tips back.  "But you still have the other, yes?"

"Dammit!"  He cursed under his breath.  No more waiting, he had to go today!  OK, ok, you can do this.  Different mindset.  Trickier to fly,  harder to land, but all you got to do is walk away.  You really wanted this anyway.  Just being practical when you picked the Mustang.  Gripping the back of his neck, Tip stared at the ceiling.  Well hell, Is there anything "practical" about your life since you crashed in this country?

Flashlight went outside to continue his rounds.  Stripping off his local dress, Tip pulled out the mended, bloodstained shirt, sack coat and trousers.  Gotta have some style.  Started to buckle on the saber belt, put it back down, picked up Helens veil.  It was light blue, gauzy.  He folded it in half, lengthways, then wrapped it around his waist like a sash, buckling the saber belt over it.  Romantic fool.  Cap and neckerchef. 

Pack slung over one shoulder, blanket rolled carbine cradled in his arm, he went round to the far side of the aircraft, to a small cargo panel 1/2 way up the fuselage.  So many pictures he'd seen, he knew exactly where it was.   Played the light about inside, looking for leaks.  It all looked factory new.  He secured the pack and roll with the leather straps inside.   On the wall behind him, above a workbench, a clock gave him 3 hours until sunrise.  Time enough to figure this out.  Dredge up those memories.  One leg up, onto the wing root.  Hoist yourself up.  Swing one leg, then the other into the cockpit, lower yourself into the seat.  Flashlight in his left hand, he reached out with his right.  Cowl flap, high right. Primer, starter.  Magnetos, lower center.  Master breaker.  Throttle column on the left, throttle, boost and propellor control together. Behind the throttles, two black rotors, one horizontal, one vertical, rudder and elevator trim.  Flaps to the left of the seat.  Landing gear controlled by a pump handle on the right.  Down here. . .He grinned.  6 covered arming toggles.  One for each gun. No that there were any guns.  He reached down, lifted each cover and flipped the toggle.  Live the fantasy.

Here was the Manufacturers ID panel.  He ran his fingers over the metal tag with its stamped letters and numbers.  Curtiss-Wright Aeronautical Corporation.  Model P dash 40 N 40 C U.