3.
Sacrifice
Peter Grant4
Father Francisco shivered, pulling his ankle-length cloak closer around him as he walked down the hill in the half-light of dawn. He watched the boats pull into Pescara’s little harbor, the rumble of their engines echoing off the stone quay and the walls of the processing sheds. Clouds of dirty smoke drifted up from their exhausts, and the slowly undulating water was churned to white froth as they jockeyed for position. Those who’d had good catches headed for the processing sheds. Those who’d been less fortunate pulled their vessels into berths further away or tied them up to a row of buoys on one side of the small harbor.
He stopped at the corner of a shed, watching as the burly skipper of a big, blue-painted fishing boat argued prices with a buyer. Their gesticulations and loud, histrionic discussion eventually subsided, and they shook hands as the bargain was concluded. The buyer gestured to his clerk, who dug out a form and began writing on it as a quayside crane hoisted the big fish boxes out of the hold and stacked them at the entrance to the shed. Teams of women wearing heavy rubber boots, long waterproof coats and protective gloves emptied them onto the sorting tables, cleaning the fish before tossing them onto conveyor belts that whisked them into the freezer plant. Gulls circled eagerly overhead, screeching their anticipation of the fish guts that would soon be their breakfast. The most daring among them hovered just above the sorting tables, pecking at the offal as the women swept it into the water-flushed gutters that would carry it into waste tanks, and thence into the harbor, where seals and other scavengers waited their turn.
The skipper accepted the form from the buyer’s clerk, scanned it swiftly, and nodded his satisfaction as he folded it and slipped it into his pocket. He half-turned away, then caught sight of the priest waiting at the corner of the shed. He stared at him for a moment, then nodded, very deliberately, and held up one finger. Father Francisco nodded in reply, then turned on his heel and headed for the café at the head of the dock. He walked through the rapidly filling dining area to the counter, ordered a coffee, then sat down at an empty table at the rear of the room.
The boat’s captain came in about twenty minutes later. His basso profundo voice rumbled as he ordered coffee and a mammoth fisherman’s breakfast, then sat down at the same table.
“You are well, Father?”
“I am, Ramon. The fishing was good?”
“It was very good—one of the best nights of the season so far, thanks be to God and Saint Peter.” The big man grinned as he sipped his steaming coffee. “That makes me laugh. You answer to the See of Peter, and we sail the sea of Peter, patron saint of fishermen.”
The priest couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Yes, but at least my see won’t drown me if I make a mistake. Yours will!”
“I suppose that’s why we both need Saint Peter’s intercession, eh, Father?” The man looked around casually, to make sure he was not being watched, then drew a small envelope from an inside pocket of his dungarees. “Abdullah made rendezvous, Father. Here is his message. He also gave me some more information for you—new things, very bad things.”
“Oh?”
A heavy sigh. “He says that yesterday morning, ten members of the Ikhwan arrived at Alsamak. They brought with them weapons, and are going to teach the villagers how to use them. They say anyone who doesn’t report for training is a traitor to Allah and unfit for jihad. They’ll be treated as infidels and apostates, to set an example to the rest. They’ve already killed three men who protested, including the Imam. They say it’s the duty of all true believers to drive out the ‘crusaders,’ as they call us. They’ve claimed this island for Allah.”
“The whole of Pescara, not just their village?”
“That’s what Abdullah said.”
“What is he going to do?”
“He said he can’t abandon his family to the Brotherhood. He asks your forgiveness for what will probably happen now. He says he won’t be able to make rendezvous again.”
The priest’s face twisted in sympathy. “God help him, then. Abdullah’s a good man, but he’s no match for fanatics. The Ikhwan have been spreading their poisonous tentacles throughout his people for years. Now they’re in his village. He’ll have no choice but to fall into line with them, or die.”
“But . . . what can we do, Father? We have no way to resist armed fanatics! Even if we had enough money to buy guns, no one would sell them to us. We’re just a poor village of itinerant fishermen at one end of a rocky, worthless island. We’re not important to anybody. We can’t ask the UEPF for help, even though we sell much of our catch to them on Atlantis, because they won’t get involved in local disputes. They even search our transport, coming and going, to make sure we aren’t smuggling contraband.”
A harried waitress slammed down a huge, heavily laden plate in front of the fisherman. “Eat it while it’s hot!” she admonished as she hurried away, avoiding the seaman’s attempted pinch with a practiced twist of her ample posterior and a playful swat of her hand.
The priest thought, while his companion took a big mouthful of food and chewed mightily. “Did Abdullah say where the Brotherhood were staying in Alsamak?” he asked.
The skipper swallowed. “He said they’d commandeered one of the processing sheds in the harbor to store their extra gear. After they killed the Imam, they took over his house next to the mosque for themselves. One of them will do the preaching from now on.”
“That gives me an idea. Go home, get some sleep, then pass the word to Dimas and Guillermo. I want the three of you to meet with me at the rectory after Mass this evening. Don’t be late, and don’t mention this to anyone else, get it?”
“Is this about the Brotherhood?”
Father Francisco shook his head. “Don’t ask me questions yet. I’ll tell you more tonight.”
The fisherman nodded slowly. “Very well, Father. We’ll be there.”
Rain was falling softly as the congregation assembled for Mass that evening. There were more worshippers than usual. Despite the priest’s injunction, word had spread of the clandestine encounter the night before. The arrival of Ikhwan fanatics on the island had set everyone’s teeth on edge. There were many tales of what had happened to other communities they’d targeted . . . none of them good.
After the service, Father Francisco took off his vestments, then opened the door of his small rectory next to the chapel to let in his visitors. The fishermen were surprised to find three more people waiting inside.
“I think you all know Zacharias, Nicolau and Esteban,” he began as they sat down. “They served in the army, as I did. I rose to troop sergeant. Esteban was a sergeant, Zacharias was a corporal, and Nicolau a lance-corporal.”
“I didn’t know you were a soldier, Padre,” Guillermo said, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
Francisco shrugged. “It was a long time ago, but we all remember our training. If we’re going to face Brotherhood fanatics, the four of us will have to teach the rest of you how to defend yourselves.”
“With what?” Dimas demanded. “We have no guns!”
“Not yet.”
A sudden silence fell around the table as they looked at him. At last, Ramon said cautiously, “Father, you’re a priest now, not a soldier. Priests aren’t supposed to be men of violence.”
“In normal times, you’d be right, my son; but these aren’t normal times. Besides, violence isn’t always ungodly. Didn’t our Lord say to his apostles, ‘When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own palace, his goods are in peace’; and again, just before His crucifixion, ‘He who has no sword, let him sell his cloak, and buy one’? That was to his apostles, mind you: the future founding bishops of the Church. If it was in order for them to be armed, it must also have been in order for them to use their weapons. The one implies the other.”
“I . . . I suppose so. What is it you have in mind, Father?”
Three nights later, two of Pescara’s larger fishing boats put out to sea after full dark had fallen, to prevent prying eyes from seeing what they were about. At the northern tip of the island, three hours later, farewells were shouted across the gap between them. Guillermo turned his boat to the west. Her holds were filled with barrels of extra fuel, and her crew quarters stuffed with food and other supplies for an extended voyage.
“Do you think the authorities in Castilla will listen to him, or the bishop to your message?” Ramon asked softly as they watched his vessel fade into the night.
Father Francisco heaved a sigh. “I truly don’t know. That’s why I gave him the second message, to a friend in Balboa. If the authorities won’t listen, he will.”
“Let’s hope someone will help, not just listen!”
“From your lips to God’s ears, my son. How long to Alsamak harbor?”
“About two hours, Father.”
The priest took his pipe and tobacco-pouch from a pocket, tamped down a bowlful of tobacco, lit it, and puffed contentedly as he thought about what was to happen tonight. With luck, nothing would go wrong . . . but he’d learned the hard way, and far too often, that military operations seldom went according to plan. At least he and the other three wouldn’t be coming at this cold. They would need every bit of their prior training and experience if they were to succeed tonight.
He ran his eyes over the rugged terrain of the island as they chugged along, a few hundred yards offshore. It was almost barren, growing nothing but scrubby, tangled thorn bushes between its rocks, and had no other resources, which is why no major nation had ever bothered to claim it. It rose steeply from the coast to a jagged, uneven ridgeline, forming a spine running the length of the island. Pescara was at the southern end, Alsamak at the northern. Both had been founded to serve fishermen during the summer, and were almost deserted at other times.
As they drew nearer to Alsamak, Esteban joined him in the stern. “Ready, Padre?” he asked softly, taking a sharp bayonet from its sheath at his belt and testing its edge against his thumb.
“I am. Be careful with that thing. Remember, we want no casualties tonight if at all possible, on their side or ours.”
“I hear you, but the enemy gets a say, too.”
“Too true!”
“Did you bring your little souvenir along?”
Francisco patted the left chest of his bulky jacket. “It’s in my shoulder holster now.”
“What made you bring a pistol with you to a fishing village?”
“I suppose it’s the same thing that made you bring that bayonet. I’d have felt lost without it.”
“You know the planetary authorities have declared guns contraband out here, so close to their observation post at Jebel Musa?”
“What gun? You said it yourself. It’s just a souvenir of past times and good company.”
“Sometimes not so good, as I recall, but who am I to argue with a priest?” They laughed softly together as he handed over a heavy, tubular object. “Here. Wet sand in a sock. It makes a handy cosh. We all have one.”
“If we need any weapon at all tonight, let’s try to use these rather than something more lethal.”
“If you say so, Padre, but those Ikhwan bastards won’t be so kind-hearted if they see us coming.”
“If they see us coming, we’re beaten before we start. Pray they’re fast asleep.”
“They should be by the time we get there, unless they’ve left a sentry at the harbor.”
“We would, if we were in their shoes. Don’t assume that just because they’re extremists, they’re also stupid.”
Ramon throttled back the engine when they were a mile out, and they coasted slowly towards the small fishing harbor. The skipper and Father Francisco scanned the port carefully through night glasses as they approached, the big binoculars gathering every scrap of moonlight and concentrating it in the optics. No movement was visible, and only two boats swung at the buoy line.
“The rest are out on the fishing grounds,” Ramon murmured, “taking advantage of the full moon. It’ll bring the fish to the surface.”
“When do they return?”
“The last moon sets at zero-four-thirty or thereabouts, so they’ll start back soon after that. They should begin trickling in at about zero-seven-thirty. We’ll be long gone by then. I’ll go back round the other side of the island, so they don’t notice us.”
“Very well. I’m worried that the Brotherhood may have left a sentry to guard their gear. Esteban and I will row ashore in your dinghy, and make sure there’s no one to sound the alarm. Wait offshore until we signal you to come in, then make as little noise as possible.”
“Do you know how to row?” the skipper asked, surprised.
“We both trained with paddles and inflatable boats, once upon a time. We’ll each take an oar, and paddle your dinghy the same way.”
The fisherman shook his head. “Sounds daft to me, but I’ve never rowed like that. Good luck to you.”
They hauled in the dinghy, towed astern of the fishing boat, and climbed over the side, settling themselves on the thwarts and picking up the short oars, holding them like paddles. The boat towed them to within half a mile of the harbor entrance, then released them to cover the rest of the distance under their own steam. They began plying their paddles, moving slowly and carefully so as to avoid splashing and making a noise.
By the time they were halfway to the entrance, both men were breathing heavily. “Damn, I’d forgotten how much hard work this is!” Esteban whispered.
“I hadn’t realized how out of shape I’ve become,” Father Francisco admitted sotto voce. “Our assault training instructors would fail both of us on the spot, if they could see us now.”
Chuckling softly, they plied their paddles with renewed vigor.
As they drew near the entrance, the priest whispered, “Let’s land on that patch of sand outside the breakwater and walk up round the back of the processing sheds. That way, if anyone’s patrolling, they won’t see us enter the harbor.”
They pulled the dinghy up onto the sand, stowed the oars carefully, then took a moment to recover their breath before walking up the rocky slope to the edge of the breakwater where it joined the land. They looked around carefully, but saw no one. However, the biggest and most distant of the processing sheds showed a light inside, visible through a small side window.
“That must be it, Padre.”
“Don’t speak too soon. There are five sheds. Let’s check each one in turn, very carefully.”
Slowly, moving with agonizing care so as not to make any sound, they checked the nearer sheds. All were empty. By the time they came to the largest shed, the clock had ticked past zero-one-hundred.
“We’ve not got much time,” the priest whispered. “We’ve got to be out of sight of the port before their fishing boats come back.”
“Do you see any movement?”
“Not through the side window. We’ll have to go in. Let’s use the back door.”
They crept around the shed to a rough-hewn wood door, looking as if it had been knocked together from the planks of derelict fishing boats. Esteban grasped the handle and turned it carefully, then pulled the door open. They both winced as the hinges squeaked and squealed an urgent protest at being disturbed.
A voice came from inside. Both men could understand the gist of it, having studied Arabic during their military service, it being the language of their most likely opponents. “Is that you, Akbar? Couldn’t you sleep, or something? You’re only supposed to relieve me at four.”
The priest thought fast, and mumbled aloud, “Yes, it’s me,” as he stepped inside, trying to disguise his voice as he drew the pistol from its concealed holster. Behind him, Esteban slipped through the door and to one side, moving behind the cover of a row of crates.
“What are you chewing?” the other demanded, drawing nearer. His footsteps sounded from beyond the crates. “Did you bring some for me?”
The priest lined his pistol as a man appeared around the crates. He was young, his long black hair and unruly beard making his face look shaggy and unkempt. An automatic rifle was slung across his chest. His eyes widened for a brief, incredulous instant, then he drew in a sharp breath as his hands snatched at his weapon—only to slump as Esteban stepped out behind him and swung his cosh viciously against the back of his head. Francisco jumped to catch him before he could hit the ground, lowering his body silently so that his rifle didn’t clatter on the concrete floor.
“Nicely done, compañero!” he praised.
“De nada. He was careless. He should have been more alert.”
“I’m glad he wasn’t. Watch him. I’m going to make sure there are no others.”
The priest paced slowly and carefully through the big shed, finding no one else present. A dozen big wooden crates were piled just inside the open loading dock, facing onto the quay. His eyes gleamed as he saw them.
He hurried back to Esteban. “The weapons are there. We must hurry if we’re to load them and get away before his relief gets here. I’ll signal the boat.”
Esteban nodded as he took the sentry’s rifle and slung it over his shoulder. “What should we do with this cabron?”
“We daren’t leave him here to tell the others what happened. He has to disappear, to add to their confusion. We’ll take him with us.”
“Where are we going to keep him? We have no cells.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Drag him over to the crates.”
The priest hurried out of the loading dock, looking seaward to the faint bulk of the fishing boat, half a mile offshore, but visible in the moonlight. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, he aimed it at the boat and pressed the button three times. He sighed with relief as a single flash came back. The boat’s bow swung towards the harbor as it began its approach.
Francisco spun around as the noise of a scuffle came from within the packing shed. He ran back inside, to find Esteban standing over the sentry, puffing and panting. His left hand was locked tightly around the man’s neck, and his right held a bloody bayonet.
“What happened?”
“This bastard tried to jump me. Luckily, I got my fingers around his windpipe, to stop him shouting. I was able to get my bayonet out while he struggled to pull my hand off his neck. It was him or me, Padre.” As he spoke, the figure at his feet gave a final shudder, and went limp.
Francisco felt a chill run up and down his spine. The Brotherhood would never forgive or forget the death of one of their own. He knelt, laid his hand on the dead man’s forehead, and prayed silently for a moment. Even though the sentry had been of another faith, and probably guilty of many crimes, he would not willingly see any man in Hell, to be punished for all eternity. If it is possible, Lord, let his sins be forgiven him, he prayed mentally. May he be washed in the blood of the Lamb, and find mercy—and may we, too, be forgiven for what we have done this night. I don’t think we could have done anything else . . . but forgive us, too.
He rose to his feet. “Make an act of contrition, Esteban.”
The other bowed his head. “Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Father Francisco spoke the formal words of the absolution, making the sign of the Cross over his comrade as he did so. “This is to take care of things if we should meet more trouble tonight. See me for confession as soon as you can when we get back, and we’ll do it properly.”
“Thank you, Padre. What about him?” He indicated the body on the floor.
“Wrap him up in that tarpaulin. Tie it securely with plenty of turns of rope, up and down its length. Make sure there’s no blood left on the floor, or any sign of a struggle. Get his ammunition and empty his pockets before you wrap him up. We’ll take it all with us, and bury him at sea. Find something heavy to tie to his feet, to make sure he sinks and doesn’t come back up.”
While Esteban went about his grisly task, Francisco lifted the lids of a couple of crates that had already been opened. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw the rifles and ammunition inside. As soon as the fishing boat tied up alongside the quay, he hurried aboard and told Ramon what had happened.
“I want every crate loaded, quick as you can. The guard’s relief will arrive in two hours, and we’ve got to be out of sight before that happens.”
Ramon nodded, clearly shaken by the news. “They’re really serious about this? They brought so many weapons to attack us?”
“Yes, but they’ll have to get more before they can continue with their plan. Meanwhile, I and the others will train our people to use these in our own defense. Oh—load those cases of soap, too.” He pointed to two big cardboard boxes containing cartons of powdered laundry detergent, stacked next to a washing machine.
“But we have enough of our own.”
“We’ll need that for washing our clothes. We’ll use this for something else.”
Willing hands loaded the crates and boxes onto carts and dollies, wheeled them out to the fishing boat, lifted them over the side, and lowered them into the empty hold. They had to use the hoist on the boat’s mast to handle three of the heavier crates, cursing as the wood creaked under the strain; but no lights appeared in the houses farther up the hill, to suggest that anyone had heard the noise. Esteban slung the guard’s corpse over his shoulder and deposited it at the stern of the boat, along with a heavy steel mincing machine that would make a good sinker.
It was after three by the time they finished, the setting moons providing light for their efforts. “Hurry up!” Ramon hissed at his crew as the last crate was swung aboard. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
As soon as the lines were cast off, he put the engine slow astern, backed away from the quayside, swung the boat around and headed for the harbor entrance. Despite their urgent need to get out of sight, he held the speed down to what seemed like an agonizingly slow crawl until they were half a mile clear of the harbor entrance, so as to minimize the noise of the engine. Only when he was sure it wouldn’t be noticed did he advance the throttle, first to half speed, then, when they were a mile away, to full speed ahead.
As the vessel approached the headland, where the sea deepened as the bottom fell away steeply, Father Francisco tied the mincing machine to the corpse’s feet. Esteban helped him drag the body over to the rail. He intoned a short prayer, commending the dead man to God once more, then they rolled the weighted body over the side. It entered the water with a splash, and sank swiftly out of sight.
By zero-three-forty-five, the boat had disappeared around the corner of the headland. Alsamak slept on beneath the fading moonlight.
They reached Pescara at dawn. The other fishing boats were on their way back, and the women were preparing the processing sheds to deal with their catch. They ignored the blue vessel as it tied up near the uneven road leading up the hill to their houses.
“We’ll use Urbano’s shed,” Francisco decided. “It’s not in the harbor, so if they try to steal back their weapons, they’ll have to carry them further; and we’ll lock up the carts and trolleys when they’re not being used, to make the job harder for them. Esteban, run and ask Urbano for the key while we move the crates up to the door.”
When everything was inside, the priest thanked the fishermen for their help, and dismissed them to get some sleep. Esteban had woken Nicolau and Zacharias, and they helped lever the tops off the crates to examine their loot.
Zacharias whistled softly. “They were really loaded out! There’s enough weapons and explosives here to support a platoon in the field for a month!”
“Not so much ammunition, though,” Nicolau pointed out. “I don’t know how they expected to teach their villagers to shoot. They only brought about two hundred rounds per rifle. That’s nowhere near enough for training, let alone a fight.”
“No,” Francisco agreed, “but they probably weren’t going to teach them to be marksmen; only how to work the trigger. A group of people charging forward, shooting as they come—even inaccurately—will draw attention away from trained people moving in behind them. The villagers would have been no more than cannon-fodder. The Ikhwan have done that elsewhere.”
“So what do we do next, Father?” Esteban asked.
The priest heaved a sigh. “Will you all take my orders—not as a priest, but as a troop sergeant?”
The three nodded in unison. “I will.” “Yes, Father.” “Of course.”
“Very well. Esteban, take a few of the young men. Teach them how to use these.” He pointed to one of the crates, which contained a dozen two-way short-range radios. “I don’t know this particular model, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I want two people on watch on the ridge above the village at all times, day and night, to warn us if anyone approaches. They must watch the sea approaches as well as the path. Tell them to use their radios on the lowest power setting. It’ll be enough for short-range line-of-sight communication, and it won’t carry the length of the island to where the Ikhwan might overhear it. We’ll also teach them how to use a rifle, and arm them as soon as they’re safe with a gun, so they can protect themselves if necessary.
“Nicolau, I’ll assign a couple of men to help you. Cut the tops off some of the old fuel barrels stacked behind the processing sheds, and clean them out properly; then dig them into the ground at the base of the defile leading down from the ridge, to cover the path. Make wooden covers for them, loose-fitting, but secure against wind and weather.”
Nicolau began to smile. “I think I know where you’re going with this.”
“I daresay you do. That’ll take you two or three days before the next step. Zacharias, while he’s doing that, you and I will clean all these rifles, load all the magazines, and check out the rest of the crates. I want us to draw up training plans for every able-bodied person in the village. We’ll pick a dozen of the best shots for more advanced training.”
“Got it. Mind if I make a suggestion? You’ve seen the young men with their slings, right?”
“Yes.” The youngsters competed with each other to hit impudent seagulls with pebbles as they tried to steal fish from the sorting tables. The stones were too small to hurt them badly, but stung enough to make them back off.
“Why not teach a few of the older, stronger ones to sling heavier rocks, the same size and weight as a grenade? If they get that right, we can give them some of these. They’ll reach out further with them than we can by arm strength alone. We can hold on the spoons with loops of twine or cloth, so they’ll only fly off when the slingers release the grenade.”
“That’s a really good idea! Well done, my friend. Yes, do that.”
Esteban grinned. “I wonder what those extremists are doing and saying right now?”
“I imagine they’re furious with us, and blaming each other. Let’s hope so, anyway. They’re sure to send a boat to the mainland to get more weapons. I reckon we’ve got no more than a few weeks to prepare.”
“If I were in their shoes, I’d want to hit back at us. If they still have their personal weapons, some of them might try something—maybe even to steal back their weapons.”
“I think you’re right. That’s why I want sentries on the high ridge.”
Problems soon emerged. The priest was summoned to an urgent meeting of the village council.
“How are we supposed to earn enough money to carry us through the winter if you insist on taking everyone off the boats for training?” Pablo, the council chairman, demanded.
“How much of a living can you earn if you’re dead?” Francisco riposted. “You’ve all seen the weapons those fanatics brought to Alsamak, and you heard what Abdullah said they were going to do with them.”
“What if he was wrong? What if they’re just here to set up a base, and not bother us?”
“Why would they need a base so far from any major center? That makes no sense. Wherever they’ve gone, they’ve made trouble. They’re sure to be getting more weapons, even as we speak; and when they arrive, they’ll be coming for us. Our fishing boats can’t carry all of us, plus enough food and fuel to get us to safety. We’re stuck here until the freighter arrives at the end of summer. We can submit to death or slavery, or fight back. If we fight, we need to know how to fight and how to use weapons, which is what I and the others with military experience are teaching you—but we can’t do that if you’re all busy fishing. Make up your minds.”
After much debate, a compromise was reached. The council would allow a dozen men to join the four military veterans and receive training. The remaining three dozen or so able-bodied men would continue fishing, and share their catch with those learning to defend them.
“However, that’s only for the next four, maybe five weeks,” Pablo warned. “If there’s been no attack by then, I don’t think there’ll be one at all; so I’ll want them back on the boats. We can’t afford this distraction.”
“The man’s a fool!” Esteban fumed when the priest reported back on the discussion.
“No,” Francisco replied with a heavy sigh. “He’s just faced with a situation he’s completely unequipped to handle. He’s denying it, rather than dealing with it. There are many like him. He’ll learn soon enough—that is, if he isn’t killed in the process.”
“So who are they giving us?”
“I got them to agree we could have the younger men, those who weren’t as experienced on the boats, and who won’t be missed as much.”
“That’s good for us,” Zacharias observed. “They’re fitter, and more willing to learn than the old farts. Also, by the time they’re trained, Guillermo should be back. Hopefully he’ll bring us some more help.”
“Yes. We’ll divide them into six teams of two for the time being. Each morning, I want one team on the ridge as lookouts; one or two helping Nicolau prepare our defenses; one or two on the shooting range, training with their rifles or throwing rocks with their slings; and two teams sleeping after sentry duty the previous night. During the afternoon, we’ll rotate them among those duties, and the sleepers can join in. Every night, two teams will mount guard on the ridge, with their rifles, some grenades, and a radio to warn us if they see anything. We four will continue to divide our time among the teams; check out all the weapons, cleaning and preparing them; and work out the next training sessions.”
A few days later, the priest accompanied Esteban and the two guard teams for that night on the arduous climb up the ridge. Panting and puffing, they arrived at the lean-to shelter they’d constructed for the guards against the back of a large boulder. The team coming off-duty had built a fire to make coffee. Francisco frowned as he noted the thin wisp of smoke.
“Didn’t I tell you not to do anything that might give away your position?” he demanded.
“Yes, Father, but there’s no one here to see it. We’ve been looking all afternoon, and seen nobody.”
“Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”
The two shuffled, rebellion plain on their faces. “But it’s cold up here! How can we stay alert without coffee?”
Esteban tugged at Francisco’s sleeve, and muttered, “There’s no point in yelling at them. They’re not soldiers. They don’t understand military discipline.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The priest heaved a frustrated sigh. “On the other hand, there’s no reason we can’t take advantage of their mistake. I reckon those Ikhwan fighters will have been sneaking around, to find out what we’re doing. They must have seen that smoke, which means they know where our sentry post is. What if we stay up here with the teams tonight, and prepare a warm welcome for them if they try something?”
Esteban began to smile. “Why not?”
They spent half an hour examining the terrain in front of and around their position, selecting new locations from which to fight. “I think anyone wanting to creep up on the lean-to from the front would have to use that shallow draw,” Esteban said, indicating it with a pointing finger.
“I think you’re right. There’s also that clump of thorn bushes—they can get between it and the rocks behind it, masking their movements.”
“Yes. I’m glad there’s no moon tonight. They won’t see a tripwire until they hit it.”
Staying low to avoid detection, they strung two lengths of fisherman’s twine across the approaches at ankle height and attached them to fragmentation grenades. Francisco carefully pulled the grenades’ pins, then wedged them between rocks to prevent the spoon flying off and arming them until they were needed. They then sited the two teams of watchers in new locations overlooking the lean-to shack, warning them to stay awake and alert, and took up their own position covering the booby-traps. They took it in turns to keep watch while the other slept.
The priest was dozing when an explosion jolted him awake. He seized his rifle and shuffled up alongside Esteban as the other peered out into the night. “That was the grenade behind the bushes,” he said tersely. “They didn’t take the easy way in, down the draw.”
A moaning cry in Arabic came from the darkness. “Fawzi! Help me!” There was no reply, and the voice switched to English. “Hey! You up there! Help me!”
One of the youngsters half-stood in his concealed position, turning to look at the two senior men. He called, “I’ll go and—”
Before they could yell a warning or tell him to get down, a burst of full-auto fire came from the darkness. The young man screamed in agony, spun around, and fell across a rock. His rifle clattered as it struck the stone. Even as he fell, Francisco and Esteban instinctively lined their rifles. They could tell from the enemy’s muzzle flash that he was too far away to reach with a grenade. Each triggered five rounds rapid fire towards and around the position from which the shots had come. A muffled cry indicated a possible hit, but they didn’t move towards it. Instead, they crawled sideways, vacating the position they’d just revealed by their own muzzle flashes, trying to move silently, straining their ears to hear any sound that might indicate the enemy’s movements.
The radio at Francisco’s side vibrated silently, warning of an incoming transmission from the others in the village, but he made no move to listen or respond. He’d already turned off the speaker and the display, so that no untoward sound or light would betray them.
After a few moments of silence, the injured fisherman moaned, and his partner called in a panicky voice, “Rodrigo’s hurt! We must help him!”
Esteban whispered a vitriolic curse next to Francisco, but didn’t reply or make any movement. The priest squeezed his forearm briefly, then returned his attention to the darkness. He knew the youngster was giving away his position. If there was another enemy out there . . .
The other man called again, louder, “We have to help Rodrigo!” His last word was punctuated with a flash of light and a blast of sound. He screamed, a short, sharp, agonized sound, and fell silent. Both men knew a grenade had found him. Almost instantly, they heard the scuffle of rapidly retreating feet, followed almost instantly by another explosion from the draw and a cry of pain.
“The bastard hit Emilio, then ran for it and hit our other booby-trap,” Esteban whispered.
“Sounds like it. We’ll wait right here until dawn. No sound, no movement.”
“Got it.”
Francisco used the radio’s keypad to send a text message to those below. “Stay there until we call you.”
The night drifted by almost interminably. They dared not smoke or talk. They listened to two sets of faint moans and gasps from out in front of them, and one from the position occupied by their team, which died away after a couple of hours.
As the faint half-light of dawn began to suffuse the sky, the priest signaled those below to begin ascending the slope. By the time it was light enough to see through the gloom, Nicolau and Zacharias joined them, along with four more of the young men under training. They waited until they could see far enough to cover each other, then Francisco and Esteban moved out to check on the sounds they’d heard overnight.
The two young men who’d so unwisely called out from their place of concealment were both dead, one from three bullets in his chest, the other from blood loss caused by grenade fragments that had sliced through his neck and opened the blood vessels there. Esteban spat grimly to one side. “We told them what to do, and they wouldn’t bloody well listen. We’d better make sure the others see this. They need to learn what happens if they don’t obey.”
“I agree. It’ll be hard on them, and on the families, but we have to do it.”
“What about the enemy?”
“We heard three of them, but there may have been more. We got at least one with the first grenade, and I think we hit a second with our rifle fire. The third hit the second grenade. I don’t know how badly they were hurt, so we’d better check very carefully.”
“All right. You’re our leader, and we need you alive, so let me go first. Cover me.”
Before Francisco could object, his partner moved out from the rocks, crouched low, rifle ready, scanning the rocks and scrub as he moved slowly forward from cover to cover. Francisco followed him, moving cautiously. Both men kept their eyes open for anything that might provide cover or concealment from incoming fire if necessary.
The first victim they reached lay in the draw. The grenade had blown off most of his left leg, and his blood had soaked into the ground around it. He’d tried to tie it off using his belt, but clearly hadn’t been able to stop the bleeding, which had eventually killed him. They secured his weapons, then moved towards the clump of thorn bushes.
The second man was still alive; they could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed. They took cover, and Francisco called out in Arabic, “Don’t move! You can’t escape. Raise your hands and surrender!”
The man slowly, painfully, turned his head towards the rocks from which the priest was speaking. “Who says this? Show yourself!”
“I’m not that stupid. Come on, show me your hands—and there’d better not be a weapon in them!”
The man half-smiled, half-gasped, “We thought you were all fishermen down there. We didn’t know you had soldiers among you. I—”
He suddenly hurled a grenade, but he’d lost so much blood that his throw was weak. It bounced off the rocks and rolled back as Esteban fired three rapid shots into his torso. The man cried out, then the grenade went off with a deafening bang. Pieces of shrapnel whined in all directions. Francisco and Esteban ducked, then peered over and around the rocks.
“Did you get him?” the priest asked.
“I think so. Let me make sure.”
Esteban lined his rifle again, this time more deliberately, and put a round through the man’s head. Francisco nodded grimly. He could only approve of the precaution, given the extremist’s last act. You couldn’t afford to give such an enemy an even break.
They checked the man’s body, then tried to find the third fanatic, the one at whose position they had fired. There was no body, but a rock had traces of blood on it.
“Looks like he wasn’t hurt too badly,” Esteban said unnecessarily. “He got away.”
“Yes. If he isn’t already back at Alsamak, he soon will be, and he’ll tell them we’re armed and alert. They’ll be more careful next time, and better prepared.” Francisco stretched wearily.
“Funerals this afternoon?”
“Yes, before the boats go out. I want the whole village to see this, and understand what just happened. If any of them doubted what those fanatics were up to, they’d better think again!”
Over the next two weeks, the four veterans trained their remaining young assistants, and strengthened the defenses of the village as best they could. The rugged terrain provided only limited approaches from landward for attackers. The draw leading down from the ridge, being the most likely attack route, received special attention. Zacharias supervised as a mixture of marine fuel, fish oil and vegetable oil was poured into the open-topped barrels that had been dug into the dirt at its sides and base, concealed by rocks and thorn bushes. When each had received its ration, boxes of laundry detergent were stirred into them, creating a sticky, sludgy mixture. Meanwhile, Esteban dismantled several satchel charges, separating the blocks of explosive each contained. He fused each block, waterproofed it, dropped it into a drum, and led a firing cable to a switch in a central fighting position at the base of the draw. When all was ready, the loose-fitting wood covers were replaced over the drums, to protect the fuel inside from rain and dust. The edges were sealed with grease to prevent leaking.
There was no shortage of rocks for ammunition, so the slingers were able to practice every day. Before long they could drop a grenade-sized projectile within a couple of yards of their aiming point, inside a radius of up to eighty yards, depending on the individual’s strength. When each had demonstrated proficiency, Francisco allowed them to throw one live grenade as a reward. Their feral grins as the blast rang out, and the training targets were riddled with shrapnel, boded ill for would-be attackers.
They were ready only just in time. Early one morning, Francisco was roused from his sleep by an urgent shout. “Padre! The sentries report a crowd of people advancing along the ridgeline! They’re still a couple of miles away, but coming towards us.”
Cursing to himself, splashing cold water on his face to wash the sleep from his eyes, the priest grabbed his rifle and a satchel containing spare magazines and grenades, and set off on the climb up to the ridge. He had to admit, it was much easier now, after several weeks of daily trips up and down. All of them had become a lot fitter and stronger.
He arrived, puffing and panting, to be met by Esteban. “It looks like the villagers and fishermen from Alsamak,” he reported. “I recognized some of them through the binoculars. They’re carrying rifles, so I guess the Brotherhood must have sent replacement weapons. There are several men in uniform moving behind them. I think they’re the Brotherhood people, using the villagers as cover.”
“That’s what they’ve done elsewhere,” Francisco commented as he lifted Esteban’s binoculars to his eyes. “Yes, I see Abdullah in the front rank. He’s carrying a rifle. He’d never be there like that unless he’d been forced.”
“You trust him that much?”
“As much as I trust anyone who isn’t one of us. Don’t forget, he warned us about the arrival of those Ikhwan fanatics. Without that, they’d have taken us completely by surprise. We’d have been defenseless.”
“The fact that we aren’t is to your credit, Padre—hey! What the hell is that?” He pointed over Francisco’s shoulder, out to sea.
Francisco spun around. A small freighter was on the horizon, steering straight for the small harbor. She was moving at a brisk pace, to judge by the white water kicked up around her stem. He focused the binoculars, peered, and frowned. “She’s wearing the Balboan flag!”
“What would she be doing here?”
“I gave Guillermo a message to a friend there, in case he couldn’t get any help for us from the authorities. He owns several ships. This may be one of them.” There was new hope in the priest’s voice.
“Let’s hope so! They’re still an hour out. We’ll have to hold off this lot until they get here.”
“Yes. Take command up here, Esteban. You’ve got the four sentries from last night, plus the two who came up to relieve them. The seven of you should spread out into fighting positions. Don’t shoot until they get inside five hundred yards, and even then, shoot only if they don’t stop. Aim high at first, to give the villagers a chance to take cover. I expect they’ll duck out of the line of fire, and expose the extremists behind them. If they do, nail them.”
“Got it. Two of the boys are slingers, too, and we have a dozen grenades here. I’ll use them if they push closer.”
“All right. I’m going down to the village, to alert everyone and tell them to head for the fishing boats. If these bastards push down the ridge, we may have to hold them off while the rest get away as best they can. Perhaps that freighter can take some of them.”
Esteban sucked in his breath. “If we do that, we may not be able to get away ourselves.”
Francisco looked at him. “Yes, but I don’t see any other way. If you can’t accept that—if any of you can’t—you need to get down to the village at once.”
Esteban’s face stiffened with resolve. “If you can face that risk, I can too. Don’t worry about me, Padre, or any of us. We’ll stand firm.”
The priest embraced him. “I know you will, brother.” He looked around at the others. “All of you, make an act of contrition.” As they did so, he gave them the general absolution for those in danger of death. “God be with you. Remember, you’re defending your families and loved ones down there. Be strong in your faith, and have courage.”
They were already spreading out as he headed back down the slope. He blinked back the incipient moisture in his eyes. He knew that, if worse came to worst, few of those on the ridge would live long enough to retreat to the village.
He found Pablo and the council waiting for him at the uppermost houses on the steep slope. “What’s going on?” the chairman demanded.
He explained briefly. “Esteban and the others will hold the ridge as long as they can. I’m going to marshal the others to delay them on the slopes, if they come down. You see that ship coming in?”
“Yes. We don’t know who she is or what she’s doing.”
“She’s a Balboan freighter, and she’s headed towards us. Send out a fishing boat to meet her, and ask whether she can take our people on board. Send a radio, too, so the captain can talk to me. Start putting the rest of our people aboard fishing boats, and get them out to sea.”
“But we don’t know if we need to evacuate! You may be able to hold them off!”
Francisco cursed openly, causing the councilors to look at him in bewildered amazement. They weren’t used to their priest using such language. “You’re a damned fool, Pablo! If we wait until they break through our defenses, we won’t have time to get the families out! Get them aboard right now! Tell them to leave everything behind except food, water and medicines. Nothing else! No furniture, no pets, no prized possessions. The boats will be overloaded as it is. It’ll take you an hour or two to get that done, and we’ll be fighting long before you’re finished. If it turns out okay, we can come back when it’s safe. Now move, damn you!”
The councilors scattered like chickens being chased by foxes, yelling at the tops of their lungs. “Everyone to the harbor! Take food, water and medicines—nothing else! Move! Now!”
As the other armed men hurried to their preassigned positions, Francisco ducked into the small church for a moment. He knelt before the tabernacle, looking up at the gold vessel that held the consecrated Sacrament, and tried to remember an old warrior’s prayer. “Lord, you know how busy I will be today. If I forget you, please don’t forget me! I . . . I’m sorry if this is wrong, Lord. I’ve done my best to be a good priest; but sometimes a shepherd has to protect his flock from the wolves. I don’t know any other way to do that, here and now. Please help us!—and if today should be our last, receive our souls into Your mercy. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
He crossed himself, rose to his feet, and opened the tabernacle. He hurriedly consumed the consecrated hosts in the chalice. There was no point in leaving the Sacrament to be desecrated by the fanatics, if they won here today. Closing and locking the tabernacle, he headed for his position at the base of the draw.
He’d only just settled into it when his radio crackled. “Padre, this is Ramon. I’ve talked to the skipper of that freighter. Guillermo is aboard her. He says he asked for help, but they had no men or weapons to spare. However, your friend sent this ship to collect us all and take us to safety. She’s not very big, but she’ll do. The captain says he’ll load us aboard, but we have to hurry. His radar shows boats heading this way from the other side of the island. I reckon some of those Ikhwan bastards have commandeered fishing boats, and are planning to attack the harbor while their friends come down the mountainside.”
Francisco cursed again, and keyed the microphone. “Does the captain have any weapons to hold them off?”
“No, he doesn’t. He asks if you can spare some of your men. They can take cover with their rifles behind the gunwale, and use slings to toss grenades at the Alsamak boats.”
The priest hesitated, then made up his mind. It was critical to get the families away. If some of the defenders had to protect the evacuation, so be it. He looked around.
“Zacharias! Take these four trainees, a case of grenades, and extra rifle ammunition. Get aboard a fishing boat and head for that ship. You must defend it against boats from Alsamak while our people get aboard. Aim for the helmsmen in their wheelhouses, so they can’t safely steer. That should keep them at a distance. If they get closer, use slings to throw grenades at them.”
“But what about you, Padre? How will you get away?”
“Never mind me! The ship must be kept safe! Go! Go now!”
Zacharias hesitated, then snapped to attention and peeled off a salute that would have gladdened the heart of a drill instructor. “I hear and obey, Padre. God be with you!”
Francisco looked around. Only he and Nicolau were left now, to defend the upper slopes of the village. “I guess it’s up to us now, my friend,” he said heavily.
“Oh, well. I always used to enjoy a good fight. Looks like I’ve got one of the best coming my way!”
They smiled shakily at each other, and set about preparing their fighting positions. Francisco laid out grenades and magazines where he could reach them easily, and checked the detonator switches for the napalm barrels dug into the sides of the draw. Nicolau moved to the other side of the draw, and settled down behind some rocks.
Scattered shots sounded from the ridgeline above them, a few at first, then more and more, until the sound of firing became a constant rattle. As the advancing enemy drew closer, a few grenades began to explode. The radio next to the priest crackled. “Francisco, are you there?”
He snatched up the microphone. “Yes, Esteban, I’m here.”
“The Alsamak villagers tried to duck as soon as the shooting started, just as you thought they would; but the extremists began to shoot at them, forcing them to stand and run forward. I’m sorry to tell you that Abdullah was one of the first they shot.” The priest closed his eyes, murmuring a soundless prayer for his friend’s soul as Esteban continued, “They’ve kept coming. We’ve hit two or three dozen of them, including three of the uniformed men, but they won’t stop. Two of my men are down. The enemy is only a hundred yards away. What should we do?”
“Come down! Send your people down in twos, and cover each other’s retreat.”
“I’m on my way. Carlos, Elias, down the hill! Move! Ignacio, Cornelio, you’re—aaaah!”
Francisco’s heart froze at his friend’s agonized cry. “Esteban! Esteban! Are you all right?”
A barrage of shots and the sound of multiple grenade explosions came from the ridge. Two figures showed themselves, leaping down the slope as fast as they could. There had been seven villagers up there . . . but no more appeared. Instead, half a dozen brown-uniformed men appeared and began chasing the two survivors, shooting as they came.
Francisco steeled himself. “It looks like that’s all there are left, Nicolau. Let them get through the draw, then we’ll take on those chasing them.”
“I hear you, Padre.”
He cast a glance behind him. The crowd of people that had thronged the jetty and quayside in the harbor had grown much smaller. Fishing boats were heading for the freighter, figures crowded on their decks, while others that had already unloaded their human cargoes were on the way back for more. Faintly he heard the sound of shots as Zacharias and his men fired at three Alsamak fishing boats. They appeared to be circling aimlessly, a few hundred yards from the freighter. He nodded approvingly. Rifle fire from the steadier platform of the larger freighter should render their wheelhouses untenable, making it impossible for them to get closer. Now, if they could just get the last of the villagers to safety . . .
He felt cold inside as he reached for the microphone. “Zacharias, do you hear me?”
A brief pause, then, “Yes, I hear you, Padre. We’re holding them off.”
“Good. Listen, Zacharias. When the last people are aboard, tell the freighter to get out of here. Don’t wait for us. We won’t be able to break contact long enough to get aboard a boat and reach you. Save the villagers at all costs. Don’t try to rescue us.”
“But, Padre! We can’t just abandon you!”
“Do as I say! God bless you, my son. I’m switching off now.”
He heard Zacharias’ voice squawking from the speaker as he laid down his microphone, reached for the power switch, and flicked it off.
The freighter’s skipper listened as Zacharias reported the priest’s instructions. He nodded slowly. “You’ve got one hell of a pastor there, brother. I wish we could get him out, but he’s right. If we tried, we’d simply make ourselves targets for those Ikhwan bastards, and we’d probably lose everyone who tried to reach him.”
There were tears in Zacharias’ eyes. “I don’t reckon the Church will recognize him as a martyr, but in my book, a sacrifice like his is right up there with the greatest of them.”
“I’ll not argue with you.” The captain picked up his binoculars, and scanned the harbor. “The last fishing boat’s coming out now. That’s everyone who’s coming, I guess.”
He trained his binoculars on the slope above the town, watching as the two survivors bounded down the draw and ducked into prepared fighting positions. A man in black—he presumed it was the priest—half-rose from a central fighting position, peering up the draw, then pressed something beside him. Gouts of flame and fire spurted out from both sides of the draw, immolating three of the brown-uniformed attackers. The three behind them screamed their anger and frustration, charging forward, throwing grenades and firing. The captain cursed as smoke from the burning napalm, and the dust thrown up by exploding grenades, drifted across the scene, hiding it from view.
As the last of the villagers came aboard, the smoke and dust began to clear. He could see no movement at all on the slope. The black-clad man had fallen forward over the rocks that had protected him, almost touching the last of the attackers, who had collapsed with his head down the slope.
He laid down his binoculars with a sigh, and called down to the deck. “All right, that’s it. Cast off that fishing boat. We can’t take it with us. Everyone get below!” He turned to the helmsman. “Full ahead, hard a-starboard. Let’s go home.”
As the freighter began to turn away, he cast a last, long look at the slope, and the bodies that lay there. Quietly he murmured, “God rest your soul, Padre. You surely were a shepherd to your flock this day. I hope they appreciate it, and remember you. You deserve that much at least.”