Ranger - The Devil

Corporal,

The purpose of the military is not to build nations. It is to destroy them. Sometimes, I think differently, but I am reminded that eventually - if you have done your work properly - every imperial power is at the wrong end of a patriot's rifle.

All of us long for a delineation between good and evil. And so we question ourselves and our work at times. Only in the bleakest of worlds does what we do began to lose its imprimatur of wretchedness. Only then is the evil we perform revealed for its greater good.

I should have paid closer attention to Cody's photo. On the back, in a relatively simple code, were the coordinates. Once I arrived I only asked if we had been asked there by Ottawa. Sarge shook his head no. I don't know if Darfur was intended for his benefit, for my benefit, or for some other, unrevealed reason. If the last time I saw him he had a death-pallor, he now had a halo.

I hear Antonov in the distance, and smile. Soon the village homes will empty and the janjaweed will arrive. An observer from the Sudanese government lays in wait with us. Of course, as our guest, he has been treated to all of the comforts we have to offer. He has until recently been blindfolded and handcuffed. He has no idea who we are, but clearly knows what he is about to watch. He begins to writhe and attempts to break free of his bonds after the blindfold is removed. Though we are masked we have offered him enough of a glimpse of our light skin and pale eyes to terrify him further.

“They will not find us here.” I assure him. “And we have no intention of killing you. On the contrary, we intend that you report on what you have seen.” This comment does not seem to put him any more at ease.

Within a number of minutes, two score of armed men appear in the village. They are confused by the dozen or so individuals who appear out of their homes, expecting to find hundreds more who lived here a few days ago. Only the bravest remain. The camel riders fire their weapons, and begin setting fire to several of the homes, finding hearth fires burning but no inhabitants. Our prisoner attempts to speak.

“Did you think you were here to see these bandits destroy another village?” I asked. A few pops of gunfire ring out below and we see three villagers fall. Several of the men dismount and began approaching an old woman who told us she has been dead for over two years, since the last time she met these men. “You already know that story. Let me tell you another.” Sarge's outstretched hand signals and there is a flash of light followed by a cloud which descends over the village.

When the air clears, I remove his gag. “What?”

The camels are dead. One or two of the rapists and murderers continue to scream and twitch, rolled into the fetal position on the ground. No bullets. No burn marks. Their final cries are strange. “I assure you VX is quite painful.”

“You jihad” he asserts.

No. “Those men are no more true Muslims than I am Christian. And I am no Christian.” Sarge slammed the but end of his gun into the man’s head before his drive home. “Remember UNAMIR?” I asked him.

“I remember Dallaire” he said. Then silence.

It was an hour before he began to speak again. He told me that the Medicine Man was passing through North Kivu on his way to kill me. He told me one of Nwargo's wives had betrayed him in a moment of indiscretion. He told me more about the men you brought to Kukes. It has been a long time since I have seen him speak in such length. I am to deliver a package to Marble Arch, though for now he and I will enjoy our injera.

Jus belli

Ranger

Building Snowmen

I brought Alan and Henry to the ridge overlooking Kukes in the early afternoon. They took out binoculars and mumbled to each other while scoping out the city. The wind pushed ice floes across the narrow lake and carried banks of clouds crashing into the mountain ridge, periodically obscuring the view of the snowy valley below us. Alan turned and barked, “Wait for us here.” Henry tossed me a bottle of Vodka, “Stay and watch our packs. We’ll be back in the morning.” I grinned and opened the bottle, taking a long pull to their satisfaction.

Down the narrow ridge they set off, the setting sun illuminating their way.

There was no cover on their path to Kukes. Completely exposed, they were confident that they were safe. They had believed my ruse and their voices chided me inside my head, telling jokes of finding a frozen drunkard upon their return up the ridge: “Take one fifth of vodka and mix with one Macedonian. Allow to chill overnight. Serve in a frosted glass.”

Hubris tainted their judgment and they never looked behind to notice that a mountain sheep followed.

If they had been careless regarding me, they proved their abilities infiltrating this city of smugglers. As dusk approached they grew bolder and moved more quickly through the blocks of prefabricated buildings. They approached a dimly illuminated doorway where an old man with a newspaper smoked on an upturned paint drum. As I concealed myself in a pile of scrap metal opposite the courtyard, they handed him something. The old man disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. The two waited outside nervously, aware they were being observed and obviously uncomfortable about it.

A hand grasped my shoulder. I wheeled and snapped the offender’s neck before I realized it was an old woman wrapped in a shawl. The scrap tumbled and betrayed my location. The two were no longer in the doorway.

I barked like a dog.

There was no movement.

The babushka’s shawl smelled of piss, brown coal, and onions. I wrapped it around my head and hobbled over to the door where moments ago my quarry had waited.

The snow beneath my feet announced, “Here he comes!” In plain view I stopped and doubled over with a consumptive cough, supporting myself with her walking stick.

I knocked at the door. The old man’s narrowed eyes peered through the crack. I mumbled something and began coughing again. The door opened wider and the walking stick crushed his trachea then sent the other guard’s pistol flying. His cry was cut off with an uppercut.

No alarm sounded in the dim hallway. I followed my ears to a closed door where a heated discussion was underway. As I pressed my ear to the door, the latch failed and I fell into the middle of the room.

The room was silent. “Borka?” Henry’s confused expression mirrored his voice. Alan was not curious why his mountain guide suddenly appeared on the floor and used the distraction to grab a canister on the table and draw his pistol. Gunfire erupted in the room as I somersaulted away. Alan darted into the hallway but crumpled, still clutching the canister. Henry was screaming. There was a shot, then silence.

I entered the room and ensured that all parties to the prior negotiation were reunited at the bargaining table, joints placed at festive angles.

The canister contained Polonium.

For whom? For what?

All assembled carried multiple passports: Albanian, U.S., Russian, English, French, Serbian, German, Turkish – a United Nations of dead smugglers.

There was no time to investigate further and there were still two travelers waiting to be escorted to their destination…

The snow and Bill’s ankle had forced the two men to descend into the village. Everyone in the village knew of the two foreigners and where they were staying. Now I knew as well. I recruited a young boy to take the canister to the guests and tell them it was a gift from Borka. He dutifully marched off to the house.

At night I set the house ablaze. A steady wind caused the fire to spread beyond my intended target. The village alarm was sounded and people rushed to and fro trying to extinguish the blaze. Bill limped out into the street. I emerged from hiding to engage him and a bullet grazed my left shoulder. I retreated back into the shadows. Gene lay down an excellent cover fire while Bill limped to take up position. Gene then appeared, covered in soot, but Bill’s cover fire hindered my movement. I was pinned down. They would maneuver themselves until they had a clear shot at me. Hastily, I scraped a pile of snow together; returned fire then put my jacket and hat on my snow-doppelgaenger. Shivering, I moved back and watched bullets pierce my jacket. Gene approached cautiously. Before he could discover the ruse, I shot him. He lay groaning for a moment, then there was a flash and I was knocked back.

My ears rang as I scrambled to my feet and hid once again in the shadows. I had the advantage of mobility over Bill and I began scrambling in a half circle to put the fire between him and me as to give me a better shot.

Bill leaned against the wall and drank. His head darted left and right, peering into the shadows, searching for me.

He yelled into the night, “Who are you?”

“Canada.” I whispered into his ear as I cut his throat.

I am making my way back to Berlin as I write. The recovered canister is in my possession, although I do not know what to do with it. General Calrissian has been notified, but no orders as to its future have been given.

Stop by for Christmas Dinner if you can. It would be good to see you again, and Smitty is cooking goose.

Cpl.

A Simple Mountain Guide

It is good to be in the mountains. Here, the wind whistles as ones footsteps beat out the rhythm. Above the tree line, one sees – and is seen – for kilometers in all directions. There is a calm here that one finds only where man’s corrupting hand has not yet groped.

I am guiding a group of four US “tourists.” They call me “Borka,” and believe that I was once a member of the Yugoslavian forestry service, now an unemployed alcoholic seeking a few dollars to trade for vodka. I dutifully smoke unfiltered Russian cigarettes that cause them to cough and lead the way through the mountains of Albania.

HQ wanted me to take these “tourists” over the mountains of Macendonia into Abania. I did not know what they sought, nor do I know why HQ has assigned me to take them to their destination. An odd mission. They are obviously part of some sort of military force. They are pleasant enough chaps. They make crude jokes occasionally at my expense that I pretend to not fully understand. I tend to the fire and listen to snippets of what they say to each other. They keep their guard up. They do not fully trust me, and I respect them for it.

Last morning I stumbled upon one of them cleaning a disassembled rifle. His eyes narrowed and a low growled came from his throat as I approached. “You are wanting to hunting? Mountain sheep I show you. Many.”

He nodded, never taking his eyes off of me.

I lit a cigarette and came closer. “Nice gun.” A sniper rifle. Hunters indeed.

It was an FRF2. A French rifle.

“I hunting many times. Many mountain sheep here. I show you.” Then I walked away cursing the fact that I did not bring a weapon other than a Swiss Army Knife.

But it is easy enough to obtain weapons in Albania.

I begged them to let me buy more vodka in the next village we passed. “Bill,” the one whose rifle I had seen, accompanied me. Descending from the mountains, I led him over some loose shale. I wheeled suddenly around pointed behind him and shouted, “There!”

He twisted to look, lost his footing and his ankle bent awkwardly beneath him. He did not cry out, and for a minute I was worried his ankle avoided injury.

Wide eyed I helped him to his feet. “You have seen mountain sheep?”

He glared back but a flicker of pain crossed his face when he attempted to stand on his ankle. He grabbed my shoulder so hard it hurt and he seemed happy to have inflicted this trivial pain upon me. “Help me back to the others.”

I glanced towards the village. “No Vodka?” He only tightened his grip on my shoulder.

There was a heated but hushed discussion when we returned to the others. I am to continue on with Alan and Henry, while Bill and Gene wait here for us to return. They are upset that they are no longer together, but they are determined to press on. They asked me how much longer until we get to Kukes. They were happy with my estimate of two days.

Now I know where, and that they have a schedule to keep. But what appointment they hope to keep still eludes me.

I will remain vigilant.

There are some beautiful sand dunes near Klaipėda should you need some respite.

Cpl.