Negotiating Surrender

[McKenna]

Negotiating Surrender (closed)

The Middle East, circa 2006

Sierra Davies worked as a U.N. contractor well-versed in the subtleties of compromise and negotiation. Growing up in several international capitols around the world afforded her experience in various cultures and languages that only a handful of people could claim. At 32, she possessed a quiet confidence that was strong, but not overpowering. She most-often gained the upper hand through patience and persistence rather than overbearance; it's what made her good at her job. Damn good.

Sierra’s confidence had currently deserted her, however, and she couldn't explain the utter fear with which she prepared for this next mission: Sierra had been volunteered as a trade item in a highly sensitive hostage situation. A top military official –Sierra didn't even know for which country the man pledged allegiance– had allowed himself to be captured by hostile militants. Though the militants themselves were little more than a nuisance to the U.N. forces, the official they had captured was quite valued to the coalition. The militants didn't even know how powerful a bargaining chip they possessed, which allowed the coalition forces to make a deal for a trade. It was a trade few people knew about, though Sierra's boss was one of them, which was how she'd gotten herself into her current position.

The militants had spent years out in the desert, years with infrequent visits to villages or towns or any semblance of civilization. The hypocrisy of those involved in this particular jihad sent shivers down Sierra's spine when her boss came to inform her, in his supercilious manner, that she had been included as part of the trade items asked for by the militants in exchange for the captured military official. It seemed the militants were tired of each other’s company and required something more …feminine, instead.

Sierra had made the mistake of turning down her boss’ rather crude suggestion of a tête-à-tête on the previous mission, a rejection he took rather personal. Since that time he had treated Sierra with an aloofness that had put her instantly on edge; little did she know the depths to which he was willing to go to punish her for the perceived slight.

Sierra's attention returned to the present mission as she watched the camp with unseeing eyes. Sierra knew the odds of being raped, tortured, or worse before the Special Forces could reach her were high. A fresh wave of anger at her boss washed through her, followed closely by cold fear. She was trapped and she knew it. She had signed on for this, had entrusted her well-being to a spiteful man who did not take rejection well. She knew the dangers of her contract, and yet … she did not want to be traded as nothing more than a pound of flesh.

It always amazed Sierra how cool the desert could get once the sun went down, and tonight was no exception. She hunkered down and contemplated her nonexistent options while holding her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. It was soothing; the only soothing thing she knew to do at this most-critical moment. She felt numb to the commotion around her as preparations for the trade continued.

Suddenly, a pair of booted feet appeared before Sierra's eyes in the pebble-strewn dirt. She looked up to see her boss standing in front of her, his expression unreadable. He held a brightly-colored piece of material in his hand.

“Put this on,” he commanded, and tossed the material into Sierra’s lap. Sierra picked it up to examine it, surprised to find it was nothing more than sheer fabric, light and wispy, fabric which the slight breeze caught and caressed in Sierra’s pale hand. Her cheeks inadvertently reddened with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“NO,” she declared vehemently, standing to throw the garment back in her boss’ face. She turned and started to storm away, only to be caught by the calm, sinister depth of her boss’ voice:

“Davies, you will stop this instant. You will put this on," a pause, and then, "You will do your job.” Silence hung in the air between them as Sierra clenched her fists at her side.

“I agreed to be a pawn in this little farce, but that’s all. Nowhere in my contract did it say I have to dress like a … a…” she couldn't even finish the thought.

Her boss only laughed. “Davies, grow up and do your job. It’s what we pay you to do.” With that he walked up to her and draped the garment over her shoulder, his fingers brushing against her bare neck as he did so. Sierra shivered in revulsion.

“Bastard,” she whispered.

Her boss stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around. “I will forget I heard that,” he said softly, and continued walking. “This time.”

Sierra clenched her jaw and watched him walk away. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes. She had fifteen minutes before she needed to be at the debriefing, fifteen minutes of freedom before they prepared to take her to them. She shivered in the breeze and ducked into her tent to change. She should have known the militants would ask for something like this; actresses and belly dancers were treated with an odd sort of reverence in this culture, often consorting with the very rich who paid for their favors as one would pay for favors from a ...whore.

She held the garment up again in the dim light: The pale-green silk was infused with shimmering thread that made the garment appear alive as it slid through her hands with serpentine swiftness. The skirt, the breast-coverings, the veil, all of it was meant to entice, to seduce, to bring the man for whom she danced to the very edge of sexual tension. The thought of it all made Sierra want to retch. How could any of those around her know how uninitiated she truly was? A woman of the world, certainly, but naïve in some of the most basic, natural, normal sexual things most people experience in their teens and twenties.

Sierra sent a silent prayer to the gods in whom she refused to believe for either a swift death, or a timely rescue.


Fifteen minutes later . . .

Sierra jogged to the tent where the debriefing was to take place; she had waited until the very last, possible moment to leave her tent wearing such a revealing costume. Even then, she covered it up as best she could with a camouflage jacket and military-issue boots. Still, the green, shimmery skirt peeked out from under the hem of the jacket like a beacon; neither the jacket nor the skirt did anything to hide the pale curve of her thigh. The contradiction apparent in her ensemble nearly made her laugh, but she refused to give in to the hysteria tempting her. Instead, head held high, she walked into the tent and came face to face with her lecherous boss.

"Davies," he said as he eyed her head to toe with a malicious, lascivious gleam in his eyes. "Nice of you to join us."

 

[Ikely]

Character appearance: http://www.fashionmodel.it/data/images/zoom/ab18174520ee86a2420d34b8617f26ed.jpg

Cory Hayden finished closing the Velcro pouch on his tactical vest, which rode over the top of his plate carrier. The SAPI plates, or Small Arms Protective Insert, would stop most projectiles they might face on this operation.

He had close to 500 rounds of ammunition in the pockets of the tactical vest and in his 3 day assault back which would ride on his back.

He was wearing basic multi cam trousers and a multi cam rapid assault shirt. On his feet he wore the desert colored Oakley assault boots.

He did a bounce check to make sure there was no noise for when he was moving to the target.

He did one final check of his M-4 rifle and the EOTech optics and again, found the weapon ready for action. He next worked the action on the Glock 22 which would be his side arm in the Blackhawk SERPA 2 thigh holster on his right thigh.

Cory had been preforming these checks for the last couple of hours. But, in his mind, you can never do too many function checks on your weapons.

“Let’s go, LT” Senior Chief Greg Cortez said as he walked past Cory.

Cory and his team had received the warning order earlier this morning to prepare for a small unit operation to provide close protection for someone.

They would get the particulars in the upcoming briefing.

Cory’s team was leading India Platoon of SEAL Team 3. He was only taking 1 squad, Gold Squad with him on this mission. It would be Cory as OIC, Officer in Charge, Greg as AOIC, Assistant Officer in Charge and 6 other operators.

Cory grabbed his NOD’s, the Night Optic Device, and his helmet and then he and Greg pushed for the briefing, which was being held in a tent near the dining facility.

They were in place at Forward Observation Base Warrior. FOB Warrior was located just 4 kilometers from the border of Pakistan, in the Paktya province.

They went in the tent and there was talking and laughing between the guys.

Cory noted the civilian man. He was clearly not military; He wore his Ralph Lauren hiking shirt and Abercrombie & Fitch pants. He smelled of paper pusher.

The Commander called the briefing to order when the civilian man said, “Hold on a minute. We are still waiting on the main person to arrive.

No sooner than he said that, the tent flap opened and in she walked.

"Davies, nice of you to join us." The man said.

The woman was wearing a pale green, silk dress and dessert boots. It was almost funny except Cory could see she had a serious look of concern on her face. The hajib she wore also came with a veil but she had not put that over her face yet. Cory noted that she had a beautiful face and the dress certainly fit her nicely in all the right places.

“Alright, can we start now, Mr. Morton?” The commander said flatly.

The man nodded.

“Alright, Gentlemen, this is Mr. Emory Morton, with the United Nations Legal Works Project. I will cover with you why they are here in a moment. First, this is a security mission. Approximately 72 hours ago, General Fahran Kamshad managed to get himself kidnapped by Taliban militants. They crossed the border snatched the dumbass up and went back to the North West territories of Pakistan.”

Cory knew that was not a good thing. The North West territories were absolutely lawless. The Pakistani government did not even try to police the area. It was run entirely by Taliban, with the help of Al-Qaeda.

“The good general is necessary to Afghan attempts to pacify the eastern provinces. So necessary, in fact, the Afghan President will do anything to get him back. He has consulted with the U. N. Mission in Kabul and together they have come up with a plan to trade a subject for the general. Once the general is back in our hands, you guys will take back the subject that was traded to the Taliban.”

One of the team members chuckled and said, “Oh yeah, that’s a REAL good plan.” Other started laughing.

“Knock it off, Harper!” Senior Chief barked

“Let me introduce you to Emory Morton, he can fill you in with more details.” The commander sat down.

“Gentlemen, this plan is designed to get both parties back safely.” There was more snickering

“The plan is to insert you into the area around a complex located just west of the Peywar Pass. Once you are in position a helicopter carrying the person to be traded will arrive and the subject will be taken by the Taliban commander. As soon as we have word that the General is back in our custody, you will be given the order to make entry and secure the subject then bring her back.” Morton said.

Cory immediately turned and looked at the female. She was going to be bait.

“This is Sierra Davies. She is the subject we are going to trade for the general. She is a highly skilled negotiator and will be able to hold them off until we get the general. The general is to be released at a location in the Kandahar province. When we have the general I will give the order to take her back from the Taliban.”

Cory asked, “Can we make contact at any time if she becomes threatened or in danger?”

“Absolutely not. You will only insert on my order.”

“You are fuckin shitting me. You are going to let them take her, out of our sight, into a building that we have no idea of the lay out, and expect her to come out alive?” Cory said

Morton walked over to Cory and began jabbing his index finger into his chest.

“Listen, no offense, but you are just a trigger puller. Try not to think too much. Let me do that.” Morton said smugly.

His attitude quickly changed when Cory stood up.

Cory moved and placed all 6 foot 3 inches and 225 pounds of muscle well into Morton’s personal space and started jabbing his finger into Morton’s chest.

“Mr. Morton. You want to be the shot caller, go ahead. But if you ever put your hands on me again, I will dislocate your shoulder.”

Senior Chief Cortez pulled Cory back into a seat as Morton almost fell over a chair getting away from the area.

The commander did not seem to mind too much. He probably did not like Morton either.

The briefing continued and all of the particulars were covered.

They were to depart in 20 minutes. They had to be in place before a second helicopter brought Sierra Davies to the location. The helo was to be met by a party of Taliban and then she would be taken into the compound. The landing zone for her helo would be 200 meters south of the compound.

Cory and his team would monitor the situation and when the order was given, they would prosecute all targets at the location, retrieve Sierra Davies, then exfiltrate back into Afghanistan.

As his team walked out of the briefing going to the helo pad, Cory stopped next to Sierra Davies.

“Ma’am, you keep your head on straight. We gottcha.”

Cory smiled at her then walked out.

 

[McKenna]

Sierra listened attentively as the commander and her boss detailed the plan to recover General Kamshad. When the soldiers snickered and voiced their doubts about the efficacy of the plan, her stomach fluttered nervously. Christ, she thought. If even they think this is a risky plan, how the hell am I supposed to have faith in it?! She bit her lip nervously and took measure of the group assembled as Morton droned on. The soldiers looked intimidating; very much so. But then, who wouldn't look intimidating carrying all that weaponry? It wasn't just the firepower, though; these men looked hardened. Toughened not only by their training, but by their experience as well. It was evident in the way they held themselves with such nonchalant confidence. It was probably that nonchalance that strangely comforted her. She knew from her years of working as a diplomat that only those who knew what they were doing, who had extensive experience, who understood the intricacies of their job could pull off such nonchalance. It wasn't affected; it came naturally.

Sierra’s attention switched immediately to Morton when she noticed him jabbing one of the soldiers in the chest. For the umpteenth time she wondered how this man had ever been successful in the field of diplomacy, considering he had none. Suddenly the soldier stood up and moved into Morton’s personal space. Sierra recognized the tactic for what it was: intimidation. If Sierra felt intimidated by these men when they were sitting down, it was a completely new level of awareness when they were standing up. This man appeared huge as he shrugged off the nonchalance he wore previously and purposefully hammered his finger into Morton’s chest.

“Mr. Morton. You want to be the shot caller, go ahead. But if you ever put your hands on me again, I will dislocate your shoulder.”

Sierra blinked. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. Her ass of a boss being put in his place, for once. In other circumstances she might have smiled as the scene played out; as it was, she could only watch, dumbfounded, as Morton nearly tripped over a chair in his hurry to get away from the man.

The rest of the briefing passed in a blur. Sierra listened to the things that pertained to her, but the tactical details flew over her head. She was a diplomat, not a soldier. As such, she had to trust these men -who looked more than capable- to pull her out of the compound as soon as Kamshad was safe. It was a strange feeling, this faith and trust she put in them; but not unfamiliar. It wasn't dissimilar to diplomacy: One had to have faith in the equanimity of others in delicate situations in order to obtain a goal beneficial to both.

The men passed Sierra on their way out of the tent; all of them made eye contact, but only one of them addressed her:

“Ma’am, you keep your head on straight. We gottcha.”

Sierra nodded in reply, then listened as a few moments later their helicopter took off. With a short delay, hers would be next. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, centering herself in the moment. It was a tactic she used before entering into any sort of diplomatic congression where tension and stakes were high; it helped her to remain focused on the end goals and the best possible way to achieve them. At this point, her country’s goal and her personal goal differed slightly. Her country wanted General Kamshad safe. She accepted that, even agreed with the intrical part he played in reshaping this area of the world. His loss would set them back months, if not years. She, on the other hand, was not so intrical; in fact, she was expendable, and that’s where their two goals differed. Her goal was to survive.

“Sure you don’t want to give me a little preview of what’s underneath?” Morton intoned suggestively in Sierra’s ear, tugging at the edge of the jacket she wore.

Sierra opened her eyes and took a step back, jerking her jacket out of Morton’s hands. She’d been a little too lost in her thoughts or she’d have heard him approach. Morton quirked an eyebrow and continued, “Come on now, don’t you know those boys up in the hills are going to want to do more than just look?”

“You are despicable,” Sierra spat, and evaded another attempt from Morton to open her coat.

Just then the commander poked his head through the tent flap, “Ms.Davies? We’re ready.” Sierra only hoped he drew the correct conclusion as his eyes took in the scene before him; she was flustered and she knew it showed. Morton, on the other hand, looked pleased with himself as he reached down and made an adjustment at his crotch. Sierra glanced at the commander as she hurried from the tent, but could not decipher any judgment in his eyes, good or bad.

Sierra made her way to the helicopter and never looked back. As the helicopter took off and out into the night, she simply sat with the nerves that seemed to congregate in her stomach. She focused on breathing in and out. She focused on the stars in the darkening sky. She focused on the mountains growing larger on the horizon. She focused on anything and everything and yet nothing at all. She had no idea how long it actually took to get to the landing pad at the compound. It could have been twenty minutes; it could have been two hours. Sierra was too focused on taking one breath after another to pay much attention to the length of the trip. Too soon it was over; the helicopter first hovered, then touched down on the pad.

Showtime, Sierra thought, and made her way over to the open side of the helicopter. Before she disembarked, she carefully peeled off the jacket she wore. She contemplated slipping off the military-issue boots, too, but she had nothing else to wear and the ground here was rocky and rough. I doubt they’ll be interested in my footwear, anyway, she thought wryly. With trembling fingers she pulled the veil over her face and fastened it to the decorative hijab. Taking one last, deep breath of freedom, she took the proffered hand of the soldier at the door and made her way to the ground.

On the outskirts of the pad, Sierra could see a handful of Afghan men waiting. They wore the traditional shalwar kameez and perahan tunban, a long shirt over a pair of loose-fitting trousers. Some had scarves draped over their shoulders, while others used nothing. On their heads were a mix of turbans or pakul caps. They all stood ramrod straight; each of them carried at least one weapon, and they all looked incredibly dangerous.

They’re out there, Sierra comforted herself, thinking of the team waiting to bring her home. I have to believe they’re out there. She cautioned herself from looking towards the hills as if to see them; instead, she lowered her eyes to the ground and clasped her hands in front of her, affecting a demure pose.

The helicopter took off in a whir of noise and dust; the forceful movement of air around her pressed the silky dress to her clammy skin, clearly outlining every inch of her body for all those assembled to see: Full, plump breasts, barely contained in the bra-like top she wore (she was sure Morton grabbed something he knew would not only be mortifyingly revealing, but also two sizes too small); a full, diaphanous skirt hugged low on her hips, revealing her belly button and lower abdomen; the hijab and veil, traditionally meant to convey modesty, but with this outfit, it enhanced everything but traditional decorum; and finally, glittering armbands encircling her upper arms that trailed the same, diaphanous silk as the skirt.

It was cool, yet Sierra felt hot with trepidation. As the noise from the helicopter faded into the distance, the occasional Pashto word or phrase reached her ears from the gathered militants. She understood “beautiful,” and “lovely;” it was the more crass statements punctuated with curse words that she had trouble understanding. Her Pashto was reasonably good; she understood everyday vernacular, and sometimes deeper topics in context; it was the slang and colloquialisms she had trouble with. Still, her knowledge of the language was, in part, the reason why she was selected for this mission.

Looking up through her eyelashes, Sierra saw one of the men break away from the group and walk towards her.

“You! Come with us,” he said in a thick accent. Sierra’s heart thumped painfully in her chest and she froze in place. “Now!” the man barked. Still Sierra felt frozen in place. Impatiently the man grabbed her by the arm and jerked her forward, pulling her up against him, hard. Sierra looked up then, and quickly wished she hadn't; she did not like what she saw in the man’s eyes: It was a mix of lust and appreciation countered with an odd gleam of loathing. Painfully, the man’s grip tightened on her. Sierra nearly cried out, but then he turned swiftly and began pulling her toward the waiting tribesmen.

 

[Ikely]

Cory and his squad did the final checks on their communications systems and computers. The computers were small; almost tablet type computers that would allow them to see what the now orbiting UAV drone saw with its various cameras.

They loaded into the RAH-66C Stealth helicopter and when the engines spooled up, the sound was deadened by the buffers. Instead of making the usual “WHOOMP WHOOMP WHOOMP” sound, the engines gave off a buzzing sound, like an insect.

They were soon traveling at 165 knots and the expected flight time was 30 minutes. It could not be fast enough for Cory because the C model, which in theory was designed to carry personnel, was incredibly cramped on the inside.

The pilot gave a call over the internal communications system to Cory advising they had crossed into Pakistan airspace. He called out, “Time on target is 10 mikes.”

They were 10 minutes from touching down.

The red lights were extinguished and the team activated the night optics.

In this part of the world, there were no street lights or any kind of man made lighting so it was very dark. The stars in the night sky were brilliant.

The stealth helicopter was now 10 feet above the surface and travelling over 100 miles per hour.

The doors on the side opened and the wind blew through the compartment.

Suddenly the nose of the craft lifted up and the helicopter settled softly on to the ground.
The team exited the craft and took up a defensive perimeter as the helicopter lifted off spun around back in the direction they had come from and slipped into the darkness.

Everyone held their positions.

Soon the sounds of the night returned.

Cory reached up to the switch box attached to his left shoulder and keyed up.

“Corona, Razorback 1 actual, we are down and pushing to target, how copy over?” Cory called to command to tell them they were moving to the compound.
“Razorback 1 actual, Corona, solid copy.”

Cory gave the hand signal to the swim pair facing south; they were now on point and would be leading the way.

Everyone else fell in at safe distances behind them.

They moved silently and were on target in good time.

Cory watched as the team spread out taking up their positions to cover the compound.

He called command and advised, “Corona, Razorback 1 actual, we are on station at target Delta.”

From his position, maybe 100 meters up the side of the closest mountain, he could see the compound, which was surrounded by a mud wall, maybe 3 meters tall, was a total of 5 buildings. One of them was very large and went almost the entire length of one wall. The other 4 buildings were much smaller.

Cory noted that there were clothes hung on a line running between the only 2 trees on the compound. That was a woman’s work. Cory started scanning the grounds inside and outside.

Then he saw it.

There was a toy truck lying against the side of one of the small buildings.

Switching to the team frequency Cory said, “All unit, be advised there are women and children on target. Proper fire discipline…”

Cory next advised command.

Cory thought that he would cave in the entire left side of Morton’s face when he got back.

How do you run an operation like this one against a location with women and children?

The shithead had just pulled this plan out of his ass and had done none, zero, reconnaissance.

Soon the sound of the Blackhawk carrying the woman to be traded could be heard echoing off of the mountain side.

The Taliban men poured out of the compound and loaded up into a beat up Toyota SUV.

The SUV roared to life then sped away and drove to the Southern side of the compound.

Cory and the radio operator were on the North side of the compound so they had to use much enhanced binoculars and scopes to see.

“Razorback3, Razorback, 1 actual, do you have eyes on?”

All Cory heard back was a mike click. The Taliban must be so close that he could not speak into the throat mike.

The Blackhawk came roaring over Cory’s head. Cory and the radio operator flipped on the computer and could now see down into the whirling storm of dust and rocks the helo was throwing up. The drone’s camera zoomed in close and little white boxes, squares and rectangles appeared showing any movement.

Cory watched the screen as the woman was helped out of the helo. On the screen, Cory could see the silk dress wrapping tightly around her fit legs. Cory wanted to launch the assault right then. He was certain the poor woman, who might be a trained negotiator, was in for a long night of rape, torture and maybe death. Cory still was not 100% confident he could get to her in time. But he damn sure was going to try. He just did not want to see the video on the internet of the woman having her head sawed off.

“Razorback 5, Razorback 1 actual, do you have a shot?” Cory called his Designated Defensive Marksman team. A DDM is what most people called a sniper.

“Affirmative, we can take them all out…” He replied.

Cory just clicked his mike, and then stared at the screen of the computer. Since the helo had departed the area, Cory could clearly see the Taliban grabbing the woman and walking her…no dragging her towards the SUV.

God, I hope she is as good as advertised. Otherwise, it was going to be a long night for her.

 

[McKenna]

It all happened so fast, Sierra didn't have time to acclimate. This was not the type of situation in which she usually found herself; she was used to dealing with men of a different social strata, a different demographic. That didn't mean she couldn't handle this, it just meant she needed to switch gears. Now. She firmly planted her feet and pulled her arm free of the man dragging her towards the compound. In negotiation situations, she’d learned that one taught others how to treat oneself; if she allowed them to control her now, with the simple act of walking towards the SUV, they’d be far less likely to listen to her later when she started negotiating her way out of this situation.

“No,” she said quietly and firmly. The man turned swiftly and raised the butt of his rifle as if to strike her with it. Sierra flinched, but did not back down. She met his incredulous gaze steadily. I cannot control the fear, she spoke the mantra in her mind, but I can control how I act in spite of it. “No,” she repeated.

The men around her started speaking rapidly back and forth. She understood a few words, though it was hard to concentrate with so many speaking at once: “Western woman,” and “does not know her place,” were the terms she caught, and then, “Wait until Wasim gets a hold of her.” This last one was followed by raucous laughter. The man lowered his rifle and joined in with a snicker. He turned to her then and said, “We go. This way. Auto.” He motioned with his head to the waiting SUV. This has to be Hamasa Morad, Sierra thought to herself; from the briefing, she'd learned that Morad was the "second in command," so to speak, next to a man called Padshah Wasim. Morad was also the only one known to speak any English.

Sierra nodded at Morad, and he motioned for her to precede him. She walked with her shoulders back and her head high. She had to affect some sort of confidence or else she knew she’d never gain a negotiating precipice, let alone a stronghold. She planned to stall any ...physical activity.... for as long as it took for that team of SEALs to come get her, and that would take keeping all her wits about her.

The man grabbed her arm again when they reached the SUV, and shoved her roughly into the back seat; he took the seat beside her. All the others crammed in or simply stood on the sideboards while the driver started the truck, and drove towards the compound.

At the compound, another man pulled her from the SUV. She glared at him once her feet touched the ground, and again yanked her arm free from a strong, male grip. The man only smiled at her, revealing several missing teeth.

“Stop staring, Bahram, and bring her in.” snarled Moard to the man in Pashto. The man, Bahram, motioned with his weapon for her to precede him, which she did, reluctantly. She watched as the others filed in through the doorway of a mud hut. Even though Sierra was cooperating insofar as marching her way to the door, Bahram still felt the need to push the muzzle of his weapon into the small of her back. A trickle of fear slithered down her spine, but she continued. The sadistic bastard is probably hoping for some kind of reaction, she thought, just like her ass of a boss, Morton.

When the man didn’t get the desired response, he trailed the muzzle of the rifle lower, down over the globes of her ass and up into the crevice between her cheeks. Taken unaware, Sierra stumbled and fell to her hands in the rocky soil; bent over, rump in the air, she suddenly felt the muzzle of Bahram’s gun slide between her thighs and prod her nether lips, seeking entrance. She skittered away as quickly as she could. Bloody fucking hell! she spat, and stood up straight, whirling to face Bahram.

Unbeknownst to her, Morad was waiting in the entryway watching the scene play out. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her bodily through the door, sniggering maliciously in her ear as he did. Sierra panicked, and started kicking and hitting as she fought to get loose. She felt someone try to grab her arms from the front while Morad held her tightly to his chest. She kicked out, found purchase in soft skin, and was rewarded with an “Ooomph!” and another curse. Meanwhile, Morad managed to wind his other arm around her shoulder and across her chest. Sierra didn't even stop to think; she was in fight or flight mode, and as such, she acted on instinct and instinct alone: She quickly bowed her head and bit down as hard as she could into the fleshy forearm covering her breasts.

“Yeouch! Fucking witch!” Morad bellowed as he threw her from him with enough force and speed that Sierra went sailing across the dimly lit room. The hijab she wore fell away from her face and head while the long, lustrous hair she’d taken pains to hide beneath the covering tumbled free. A murmur of appreciation flowed about the room as the men jostled each other to gain the better vantage point. Sierra sat on a colorful rug which covered the dirt floor of the hut; she was panting hard, her breasts heaving in the tight-fitting bra. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and several more along the thigh and leg that lay exposed, peeking out from the slit in her full skirt. The men all watched as Morad stormed up to her and viciously backhanded her across the cheek.

Sierra cried out at the pain that exploded in her head and immediately pressed a hand to the sore cheek. She looked up at Morad, no longer the diplomat, but rather like a cornered cat with hatred spitting from her eyes. Diplomacy? Negotiation? How the fuck did one negotiate with a goddamned terrorist?! she thought, while her mind scrambled to find some way of regaining even the slightest bit of control of the situation.

Moard's face was flushed deep red; he looked absolutely livid. Sierra glanced at his arm and was surprised to see she’d broken through the skin with her bite. Good!, she thought.

Suddenly, the men parted to Sierra’s left, and Morad looked to the man making his way towards them. Padshah Wasim, Sierra thought. This had to be him. There was no denying the complete and utter arrogance with which he strode into the room.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded of Morad.

“She bit me,” Morad replied, gesturing to his arm.

Wasim looked at Sierra. Briefly, his dark eyes met her pale green ones; Sierra saw the surprise that registered on his face at their unique color; it was not an unfamiliar reaction Sierra observed. His eyes glittered suggestively then, and began to slide over her in an icy caress: He started at the crown of her head, studying the long, brownish-red hair splayed over her pale shoulders and breasts, down over her bare tummy and thighs, and ending, with surprise, on the military-issue boots she wore. Then, he smiled. It was not a pretty sight.

“Boots?” he laughed sinisterly. “You’d think the Americans could afford proper footwear for their women!” The men joined their leader in laughter, laughter which was quickly cut short when Wasim commanded quietly, “Strip her.”

Oh God, Sierra thought. Oh God! They’re going to do it right here. Right now! She had hoped to have a little more time to stall them; however, there was no way to anticipate what these men would do unless one anticipated the very worst at every turn.

Two men grabbed Sierra by the arms and yanked her up on her feet. Another came at her with a long, sinister looking knife, which quickly checked the kick Sierra was ready to deliver. Oh God, she thought. Oh God, oh God, oh God! It was the only thing running through her mind as the man slowly slid the tip of the knife into her navel. He’s going to gut me, she thought, and was almost relieved at the thought of a quick death rather than a long rape. But no, the man toyed with her navel, then drew the knife up so fast, Sierra didn't realize what had happened until her breasts fell free of their too-tight casings.

Sierra did look up then, and noticed Wasim watching intently, arms folded in front of his chest. He looked pleased; Sierra felt sick. Again the knife-wielder slid the tip of his blade against the sensitive skin of Sierra’s abdomen, and again, just as quickly, sliced downward; Sierra felt the skirt fall away from her hips and land at her booted feet.

“Get those boots off her,” Wasim barked, “They look ridiculous.” The two men holding her arms yanked her abruptly off her feet. Sierra landed with a soft thud on the carpet, legs splayed in front of her. Immediately, the knife-wielder went to work on her boots, this time with his fingers instead of his knife; Sierra didn't hesitate, she kicked out viciously and planted her foot in the man’s chest, sending him careening into Wasim.

Pandemonium ensued for the next few seconds as both Wasim and the knife-wielder fell to the ground in a heap. Quickly, two others jumped to Sierra and held her legs down while another ripped off her boots. Meanwhile, Wasim got to his feet and slowly wiped a bit of dust from his tunic. Sierra noticed he must have cut his lip in the fall, for a slight trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Wasim noticed Sierra looking at his mouth; he reached up and wiped his lip, then stared at the blood on his fingertips in fascination. “Get my whip,” he said quietly into the deafening silence.

A frenzy of activity erupted: Sierra was violently dragged outside the hut and across the darkened compound. She felt hands all over her body, some holding her wrists and her ankles; others fondling her breasts and pinching her nipples. She cried out -more at the violation than at the pain- and listened, helplessly, as the men encouraged each other with vulgar comments to continue their assault. When she felt a hand slide roughly over her pubic hair, she bucked her hips violently; her action was met with sinister laughter and more ribald comments as the men took her to a lone, vertical pole that stood off to one side of the compound.

One of the men bound Sierra's wrists tightly, then tied them to a long spike high above her head on the pole; two others positioned her legs wide, then made quick work of securing her ankles to the two stakes positioned there for just such a purpose. Sierra had never felt so exposed; it wasn't just that she was completely naked in front of so many fully clothed men, it was that she was laid bare in this spread-eagle position. She felt vulnerable, and much too accessible.

Just then, Sierra felt a hand wrap roughly into her hair as the cool blade of a knife tickled her nape. “No,” she heard Wasim speak from behind her, “Leave it. I might have use of a handhold … later.” More raucous laughter, followed by the unmistakable sound of leather meeting palm in a steady, sadistic cadence: Whap. Whap. Whap.

Sierra squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what was coming, and she knew why. She’d managed to draw blood on Wasim, the leader; this was a serious affront to his Arab masculinity, especially from a mere woman -and a captive Westerner at that. Sierra would pay for her effrontery, and pay dearly. Again the sound of leather slapping flesh sounded close at hand, but as yet Sierra did not feel it lick her skin. She shivered in apprehension. He wants to see me afraid, she thought, and struggled to bring her reaction under control. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but she didn't think she’d hold out for long once that whip touched her skin.

The man who meant to cut her hair quickly grabbed the thick mass and bound it with a piece of leather. She felt its heavy weight slide over her shoulder and land on one, bare breast. She shivered from the cool breeze that skittered over her skin. Her back was now bare and completely exposed to Wasim. Please hurry, she thought to herself, thinking of the SEAL team waiting in the hills; unbidden, the memory of the large, intimidating soldier who’d spoken to her in the tent came to mind. “We gotcha,“ she remembered him saying. Please, she thought again, Please do.

 

[Ikely]

“LT, it sounds like a fight is going on inside the main building where they took her.” One of the team had a 4th generation shotgun microphone and audio enhancing computer and was able to monitor every sound coming from the compound. “She is putting up one hell of a fight.” He said

“All elements, stay frosty. Do not let them move her.” Cory said into his radio mike.

Cory watched the building continuously for another 15 minutes then, the door to the main building flew open.

Some of the men flowed from the building and then another man, gripping the woman by the elbow.
Cory could see that the woman had been stripped of all her clothing.

The dragged her out and across the courtyard to a post.

Her hands were tied to the top of the post, then her feet were spread apart and tied to stakes in the ground.

Cory could see the last man come out. He recognized him immediately. It was Padshah Wasim, and he held a leather strap in his right hand.

Cory could hear him yelling in Pashtu.

“Razorback 4, can you hear what he is saying?” Cory called out to the one member of the team that had a working knowledge of the language.

“I can’t get the total context. He is calling for the women and children to brought out to witness. He is saying something about punishing disrespect…that is all I can pick up.”

Cory knew his team mate was a bit distant from the scene but it was the best he had.

Cory then moved his binoculars back to the female hostage. He saw her naked body stretched, with toned muscles of her shoulders flexed from being pulled into an upright position over her head. Her toned legs were now spread far apart and the position left her nether regions very exposed. He saw her chest heaving. She must have put up a serious fight but was overcome by numbers. Now Wasim was going to whip her in front of the Afghan women as a display of his control.

Wasim stepped to the female hostages left rear, then let his lash drop out of his left hand while holding the other end in his right hand.

Wasim moved his right hand back then, then unleashed the first lick with ferocious force and speed.
The leather strap struck across both buttocks fully and the sound of the leather whipping the flesh echoed loud enough for Cory to hear it.

Cory swallowed. He wanted to unleash all the firepower on these people and get her down off of the whipping post.

CCCcccrrrraaackkkk! The second lick came in and Cory could clearly see the welt marks appearing on her buttocks.

Shit, Cory thought, as he gripped his rifle.

The 3rd lick came in and Cory could see the female hostage go up on her toes and try to dance away. Her butt cheeks were quivering and Cory thought he heard her yell out but he could not be sure because some of the Afghan women were crying.

“Fuck this…” Cory hissed, the switched to the command frequency. “Corona…Razorback 1 actual, they are torturing the hostage at this time. Request permission to go hot, and secure the hostage.”

There was a long pause, then “Negative Razorback, the other team has not secured the General. Stand by, Corona, out.”

Cory hissed another curse and watched as the leather strap left another streak over her trembling butt cheeks.

 

[McKenna]

“FUCK!” Sierra grunted, and then sucked in a painful gasp. Wasim had let the first and second lash fall with incredible speed and accuracy. Sierra’s bare ass burned painfully at the abuse.

By the the third CRACK! Sierra was rising up on her toes, trying to get Wasim to hit another area of her bottom rather than attack the same area over and over. She could already feel the tender flesh starting to swell.

“Bloody fucking HELL!” Sierra roared, then grit her teeth as the fourth and fifth lash fell. She wrapped her hands tightly around the rope used to tie her hands to the pole and hung on, pulling herself up on her toes or lowering herself back down to the pads of her feet in an attempt to distribute the lashings to more than one spot. By the tenth, she was panting, breathing through the pain and gritting her teeth, waiting for the next hit to find its mark. Tears fell down her cheeks. She could see some of the men gather closer, watching intently as Wasim continued to abuse her. She felt nauseous when one of the men reached down to his crotch and started rubbing himself through his tunic.

WHACK! Again the lash fell. Sierra's ass burned as the blood pooled near the surface of her skin. She had goosebumps trailing up and down her entire body; her nipples tautened. She realized with humiliation that there was tell-tale wetness between her thighs. It hurt, it fucking HURT! So why was her body reacting this way? She wasn't aroused, but her body seemed to be. "Defense mechanism," she forced herself to find a logical explanation, "it has to be a defense mechanism." CRACK! Sierra grit her teeth as yet more pain washed over her. She felt like the star in some fucked up Red Light District show; not only abused, but humiliated, too, especially by her body's own reaction.

Again and again the leather strap found its mark. Sierra occasionally cried out at the pain, though she tried her hardest not to give Wasim the satisfaction of her audible distress.

Sierra hoped she’d pass out. She’d seen the women and children file out of the compound, and somehow their witness of her whipping was more intense than that of the sadistic men who’d fondled her. She could hear the women weeping; she could only imagine what the children were thinking. “No one should have to see this kind of abuse,” she thought. “No one.”

WHACK! Again the thick leather strap fell across her ass. WHACK! This time it fell across her upper thighs.

“OH. MY. GOD,” Sierra groaned in pain. “Where the fuck are they?!” Surely the second team had recovered the General by now. They’d timed the exchange down to the second. Why hadn’t Morton given the order to rescue her? She’d anticipated the SEAL team would let all hell break loose before Wasim got to this point. She’d lost count. Was it 20 lashes? Or 30?

Her ass burned. So did her upper thighs and lower back. She wondered if she’d have scars; she wondered if rape wouldn't bet the lesser of the two evils. She wondered where the SEAL team was, where that giant of a man who’d oozed self confidence was; did he see her? Did he not see Wasim abusing her? How could he stand there and watch, and not interfere? How could any of those gathered stand here and not interfere?!

Suddenly, the whipping stopped as quickly as it had started. A cool breeze slid across her bare, sensitized skin. Sierra drew an unsteady breath. She sensed Wasim move closer to her, but was still surprised when she felt his hand slide down over her cherry-red ass. He leaned in close to her then, his lips touching her ear.

“Fucking Western whore!” he murmured in English. Sierra wasn't surprised; usually those higher up the chain of command had at least a working knowledge of English, but they only seemed to use it when doing so would not compromise their position. “You are only good enough to ease a man’s ...needs," she felt his hand slide up her waist and along the side of her breast, "but never good enough to bear his children,” he finished, and took his hand away. Sierra braced herself for more lashings, but it was not the leather of the whip she felt; rather the wooden handle as Wasim slid it slowly up the inside of her thigh.

Oh my God, she thought, and started pulling furiously at her ties. Instinctively she knew what Wasim would do next: She was not surprised when she felt the tip of the wooden handle spread her tender nether lips.

“Do you feel that, whore?” Wasim asked, switching back to Pashto. His breath slid over Sierra’s damp cheek and she curled her lip with revulsion at the acrid smell. “Imagine that is my cock. Imagine my dick sliding inside your wet, willing, Western pussy,” he said, “Like this.” And with that, he shoved the wooden end of the whip into her vulnerable opening. He pushed past the resistance of her nether lips, but stopped, surprised, when he met the slight resistance of her hymen.

“A virgin?!” he asked, incredulous, looking around to his comrades with a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, well, well,” again, all in Pashto. “A gift of a virgin is indeed, special,” he enunciated his words carefully, though he couldn't have known that Sierra understood every word he spoke. “Allah has given me a virgin, and I will accept such a gift with my cock, and only my cock.” He spoke loudly, loud enough for every man, woman, and child to hear.

Raucous applause erupted from the men; the women began gathering the children to them, and made their way hurriedly back into the compound.

"Thank God," Sierra thought. "Thank God they won't have to see this."

When the women had disappeared from Sierra's line of sight, she turned her head slightly and raised her chin, looking Wasim directly in the eye. "You are a disgrace to Islam," she said slowly and succinctly in Pashto.

Surprise flickered in Wasim's dark eyes, followed quickly by rage. Sierra braced herself for what would come next. Wasim grabbed a handful of hair and roughly jerked her head back.

"You will wish for death long before we finish with you this night, whore," Wasim growled low in his throat. "And you will not have it. You will not have the sweet release of death until every last man in this camp has had his fill of you, multiple times, in whatever hole he wishes to fill," he sneered viciously.

“NOW!” Sierra thought, thinking of the SEAL team waiting in the hills as panic filled her chest. She should have resisted the temptation to insult Wasim, but she was so sickened by this man and his actions, the insolence slipped from her lips without remorse. “Please... come get me before he... before...” Sierra let the thought trail off, her mind and body starting to shut down at the abuse she’d already experienced, and for the abuse that lay ahead. Sometimes the only way to survive, she thought, is to refuse yourself the ability to remember...

 

[Ikely]

Cory watched with his jaw open.

“Holy Shit…” was the only thing he could whisper as he watched the lash fall, again and again, against the woman’s tight ass.

He heard her cry out periodically, and Cory was beside himself. He could not let this go on.

He called again and was again told to hold his position.

The view was disgusting…yet…he found he could not stop watching as the woman was taking the punishment.

“Fuck, we got to do something.” Someone called out over the tactical net.

Then command called and advised they had secured the general.
Cory advised them they were now going to push out and rescue the woman.

“Negative, Negative, Razorback 1 Actual. You are directed to hold your position.”

“The Taliban are still holding the female! We cannot leave her!” Cory now was disregarding all noise discipline.

There was a long silence, and then Morton came on the radio. “Lieutenant, you are now ordered to abort this mission and return to base.”

“Negative. I will not leave that woman here.”

“You will leave her and you will follow your orders. Return to your base, NOW!”

“Morton, here is what you do. Come on out here and make me return to base.”

Cory’s commanding officer came on the radio and said, “Lieutenant, I am issuing you a lawful order and commanding that you RTB.”

Cory could not believe it. They were going to leave this woman to a long, slow, painful death.

Not while he was in tactical command.

“Commander, you are weak and unreadable. I do not copy. We are pushing to rescue the female hostage at this time. Razorback 1 Actual, out.”

Then Morton came on, “DON’T YOU DO IT HAYDEN!! YOU RETURN TO BASE NOW!! SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL RUIN YOUR CAREER…” Cory turned the radio to the tactical frequency and did not hear the rest of what the douche bag was going to say, “All elements, green light, I say again, green light. Execute.”

Cory called the sniper and told him to prosecute the roving guards.

Cory watched as one, two, and then the third guard all fell to silenced rifle shots. He then gave the hand signal to his radio operator and they moved quietly to the entrance gate at the compound. They were joined immediately by all the operators except the sniper and his spotter who were going to provide cover.

One of the operators pulled bolt cutters and cut a link in the chain which locked the gate.

They opened it and slipped in silently.

The team stacked, to the right of the door on the main house. One operator pulled out of the stack and planted the breeching charge on the hinges of the giant wooden door.

There was enough explosive in the charges to blast the door off of the hinges and give everyone on the inside a good headache but should not kill any one.

That was going to be the entry team’s job.

The demolitions were in place and the operator got back in the stack.

The last man in the stack tapped the man in front him on the shoulder, then he tapped the man in front of him. That signal went all the way up to the man in front. Everyone was in place and ready to go.

Cory gave the signal and demolition operator nodded. He then clicked the detonator.

The quiet of the night was replaced by the explosion.

 

[McKenna]

Sierra raced back from the brink of unconsciousness when the blast shook the compound and surrounding grounds. Her body sagged with relief. It has to be them, she thought. Has to be.

The men all around her dispersed like wildfire. She heard them shout directions at each other, but it seemed they didn't know whether to run toward the compound or away from it.

Sierra pulled at the bindings on her wrists and ankles, testing their strength, hoping she could break free and find someplace to hide. "Not so fast, whore," Wasim grunted in her ear as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tender, aching behind hard against his body. Sierra whimpered in pain. She thought he'd disappeared with the rest of the men, but apparently not.

"You come with me," he growled in her ear. Sierra watched as he cut her wrists free with one quick slash of his knife Sierra wondered vaguely why Wasim would even bother with her when his compound was under attack, but she dismissed the thought as soon as she felt her ankles freed from their bindings. She immediately tried to make a break for it. Had Wasim not been holding her she'd have fallen, so weak were her legs at the awkward angle in which they'd been positioned, not to mention the beating her tender flesh had taken.

Wasim grabbed a handful of her ass and squeezed hard, causing Sierra to cry out at the excruciating pain. "You're not going anywhere," he growled ominously, and started to drag her away from the whipping pole.