Raven Project

By Robert F Moore

Raven Project tracks subjects across the globe with bio-chip technology. Every conversation, location and action are captured and recorded. An eclectic group of people become intertwined by the project. From an Afghani national who endures extreme hardships, to an indebted rancher cuffed by past generation's obligations. A politician determined to capitalize on a large investment conspires with the creator of Raven' technology to make sure the program is implemented regardless of the circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert F Moore
• Release date: Jul 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452416465

Robert F Moore

Robert F Moore is a tenured investment professional who gleans elements of his thriller novels from analysis of markets, corporations, economies and business leaders. His thriller novels involve people and events which pose extraordinary socioeconomic impact to the United States and world. Characters routinely face unprecedented situations which forces them to utilize all internal and external resources."Minerva" Robert's third thriller novel, introduces the character Dax Rushmore and is scheduled for release in late 2015.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rafeeq Bayat hurried out of the cave and fell to his knees, finally reaching the light of day. He couldn’t spend another second in there, the chanting drove him crazy. Religious zealots pleaded to Allah, begging for strength. Deep into the night he heard the endless calls for martyrdom. Infidels were the target, but he hadn’t seen any.

Stumbling down the snow covered mountain, he tried to avoid soldiers and tribesman. Smoke from the feast below pierced his nostrils. The smell of cooking meat drove him crazy. Plodding farther down the mountain, he focused on the area where men were gathering. Livestock had been slaughtered after prayer, to be divided among the fighters. Rafeeq had followed along with each Morning Prayer, a daily obligation imposed by his captors. The meal, they were told, was reward for the valiant defeat of the infidels. Forced to struggle for a ration, he grabbed a portion and scurried for solitude.

Rafeeq raised the undercooked chunk of meat to his mouth, clenched his teeth and tore until a piece broke free. Stomach muscles tightened. Saliva glands secreted. It was the first substantial piece of food he’d had in days. He savored the chunk, packing it between his right cheek and gums. Other than a few handfuls of mulberries, he scavenged scraps whenever he could. Since the abduction from his village, the mujahideen fighters forced men through the treacherous White Mountains. The long trek had ravaged his body and sapped his energy.

Rafeeq spotted the mountain range where bombs had exploded earlier in the morning. None of the bombs fell near their camp. Craters littered two ridges miles away. Dense clouds would provide cover from planes which released torrents of daily bombings. At the conclusion of every evening prayer, leaders of the Jihad told fighter’s victory was close—thanks to the grace of Allah.

Rafeeq listened to the men talking while he devoured his food. Some were Pakistani; others came from the Middle East countries of Jordan, Syria and Egypt, but most were loyal to warlords in Afghan tribal regions. All their stories sounded similar. Forced from their homes by mujahideen, they were ordered to fight in the name of Allah and the Motherland. Rafeeq heard tales of whole families being slaughtered if the men refused to follow. When the fighters came to his village and held rifles to the heads of women and children in the center of town, he and other men had to obey their commands and follow. During the long journey, he had been separated from all the other men from his village. They had been ordered to follow militia leaders and were directed to other mountain ranges. Knowing where bombs had fallen, he prayed for their safety.

Looking high into the mountain range, Rafeeq spotted the cave complex where he’d heard rumors a sheik could be seen. Whenever he looked up there, he saw men dressed in pristine white robes with long beards milling in front of a large cave entrance. Men with binoculars, radios and bullhorns directed soldiers.

With the piece of meat nearly finished, he put the remainder on a rock next to him and took large gulps of water from the dirt-stained bowl. Sated, he leaned back and closed his eyes. If not for the cold air he would have fallen asleep.

Screams from afar broke the calm. Men frantically dashed across the mountainside. Those atop the mountain disappeared into caves. Frozen, unsure of what was happening, an ear-piercing whistle cued him in.

The first explosion rocked the ground. Rafeeq leapt to his feet. Another blast blew him backwards. A blinding dust cloud raced through the camp. Scrambling on hands and knees, he spotted a large boulder twenty yards down the trail. Enormous explosions drowned all sounds. Huge plumes of smoke shot into the sky.

Fighter jets screeched across the sky firing missiles into the mountain. Huge chunks of rock exploded and rained down on the men below. He dug himself closer to the boulder as wave after wave of jets pock-marked the mountainside. Tumbling rocks turned cave openings into piles of rubble

Rafeeq bolted from the boulder and ran for a set of caves farther up the mountainside. The high-pitched whistle made him move faster. One explosion slammed him into a tree. He used right forearm to wipe away the blood pouring down his face. More bombs hit close by. He crawled over a handful of bodies at the entrance to what was once the opening to the cave, now only a pile of rocks.

Rafeeq looked back and forth, up and down the mountain, searching for a cave and the labyrinth of tunnels inside. He spotted one farther up the mountain. Harnessing what little strength he had, he rushed toward it. The whistling started again, but he remained focused on the entrance, safety the only goal. Explosions shook the earth. The concussion slammed him to the ground. He clawed his way up the mountain until a massive bomb landed nearby, tossing him twenty feet into the air. His body slammed against the ground with a bone-snapping thud. Energy nearly drained, he lifted his head and tried to raise himself but collapsed unconscious in the Tora Bora mountainside of Afghanistan.

Chapter 2

Inside the Pentagon, Aaron Wright performed the obligatory bio-metric and retina scan before being permitted access to the hallway which led to his office. Once inside the cramped windowless room, he checked voicemail and e-mail. The only pressing issue was from his boss, a man he didn’t particularly care for. Rather than schedule a meeting, his boss commanded Aaron to report to his office right away to discuss a matter of great importance. Everything seemed to be of great importance to the man.

He tapped on the door and entered when told. John Tesser sat behind his desk, his back to the Potomac River. The rounded face wore the typical scowl.

You asked to see me? Aaron said, skipping the pleasantries. Past efforts had been met by snide remarks.

You have a new assignment. John replied.

Where’re we going?

We’re not going anywhere. You’ve been transferred.

To where?

He pushed a business card to the front of the desk. I searched the Pentagon database for the name on the card. According to our records, he doesn’t exist. You must have something they need, hotshot. Whatever you have, you certainly didn’t bring it here. They must be desperate.

Aaron shoved the card into his pocket and walked to the door.

Try to help the country, slick. Don’t be a drag on our resources.

Aaron released the knob, turned to face his boss—now his ex-boss. It’s been a pleasure working with you for the past year. You certainly know how to brighten a room. Too many times in his career he’d brushed off rude behavior. He wasn’t sure if the boring office work in the Pentagon had worn him down or life in general. Fed up, he decided to exact a piece of revenge.

You too, pal. Now take your sorry act somewhere else.

Aaron walked to a picture that hung on the wall. It showed John and an ex-president. In the picture both men were smiling.

You know I’ve always liked this picture, Aaron said. It shows a time when you took pride in your job. You seem to have an unmistakable purpose in your expression, mixed with honor and accomplishment.

Something you wouldn’t know anything about.

The only problem is the frame is cracked.

Where? John’s head jolted upright.

Aaron grabbed the picture and hurled it to the far side of the room. Glass and frame shattered before falling to the floor.

You’ll see it. He left the office to the sound of his boss screaming his name.

Aaron cleaned out his office within fifteen minutes of walking through the door. All he had were a few pictures and statues on the desk. Commendations in a file he always kept in his desk drawer along with a stack of business cards he had accumulated from associates all over the world. Contacts were backed up on a USB drive. Technology had never been a strong point, but he made an effort to embrace it.

Packing became easier with each move. Wherever he traveled within government he always kept boxes close by. The one constant in government service, you were expected to relocate quickly.

Calling the number his boss had given him, the woman on the other end asked him to report to the Department of Homeland Security building. After repeating the room number twice, along with whom he should ask for, she told him to drive safely.

The long walk across the gigantic Pentagon parking lot wouldn’t be something he’d miss. It made him fearful. Too often he had to dart between parked cars when someone on a phone or texting looked like they were going to run him over. Nope, he certainly wouldn’t miss the parking lot, assuming the next one was less treacherous.

He drove across route Fifty and pulled inside the Department of Homeland Security parking garage within twenty minutes. Though the buildings were only a few miles apart, traffic never failed to amaze him—he probably would have been able to walk quicker.

A well-built serviceman at the security desk escorted him to the basement. The soldier stood behind him as he lowered his face to the scanner. When the flush metallic door slid open, he waited for the soldier to lead.

Restricted area, sir. I’m not permitted to go any farther, the soldier said.

Aaron glanced down the brightly lit hall. From what he could tell, there were no doors on either side of the long hallway. He looked back at the soldier.

I assume someone will meet me down there? Aaron pointed.

From what I’ve been told. Yes, sir.

Thank you.

As he entered the hall, he heard the door swoosh closed. After two left turns down shorter hallways, then a right, he stood in front of an elevator door. He pressed the only button on the wall and the doors opened. One button inside the elevator eliminated all guesswork. Once the doors closed, he felt a sudden drop and the doors opened moments later.

He peeked out, initially overcome by the mustard yellow round room which he found ugly at first, but then it had a semi-soothing effect once he stepped out of the elevator. The woman at the other end of the room jumped to her feet and hustled over.

Mr. Wright, a pleasure to meet you, she said, as she shook his hand. Her gleaming smile looked authentic for the elderly, late sixties receptionist.

Thank you. And your name is?

I’m Betty, though some call me ‘The Caretaker’. I think they’re toying with me.

She pulled his arm and led him back to her desk. She excused herself and picked up the phone. Mr. Wright is here. She smiled at him as she spoke.

There wasn’t much to look at in the room, so he focused on her as she listened to the person on the other end. She hung up, Mr. Giles will be right with you. Can I get you something to drink?

No, thank you.

A sliding door which blended into the wall slid open and a man walked out of the concave hole. Tall, the bald man had a wrinkled scalp that looked like a pug dog. He wore a pair of Dockers and a button down golf shirt. Based on how tight the shirt fit him, it looked like the man spent considerable hours in the gym. Tight biceps and barrel chest, large lat muscles pushed his arms farther from his body. Only the crow’s feet belied his age. They showed deep cracks when he smiled. The rest of his jovial face looked pampered, as if facials were common therapy. Aaron, Jack Giles. They shook hands. Follow me to our lounge.

Aaron followed close behind as they walked down the hall. They passed a few offices enclosed in glass and Aaron saw the faint outlines of people standing behind large desktop computer screens.

What department is this Mr. Giles? Is it FBI?

The man stopped. No formalities here, Aaron. Call me Jack.

You got it, Jack.

That’s better. You’ll find there are few formalities here, except when it comes to getting our job done. Then it’s real serious. Other than that we try to operate closely, on a personal basis, so we get to know each other better.

Is that the departmental motto or mission statement? Aaron asked.

It should be a life motto, but I don’t have the ability to change that, at least not yet. Jack pulled the handle on a glass door and they walked inside a dimly lit room complete with sofas, recliners, lounge chairs and ottomans. There were even a few cushion-padded rockers.

You guys like your comfort. I’m surprised none of your employees are lounging in here.

I’m surprised too, Jack said. We usually do.

You’re serious?

Of course I am. A refreshed mind is an effective and thorough mind.

Aaron waited for him to say something, but he only smiled. So—why am I here?

"Aaaaahhh yes, let’s get down to that. Jack gestured for him to sit. Aaron chose a stiff fabric sofa in the middle of the room. He sat on the left side, and Jack on the right.

You have an interesting array of skill sets, Aaron. We thought we could help put them to better use.

Which ones are you talking about?

That’s a great question, Jack laughed and slapped his leg. You see most people would have assumed they knew which ones I was speaking of. But your skills are too diverse to fold into that trap.

Aaron nodded his head and waited for Jack to continue.

Did you like your old job? Jack asked in Arabic.

His mind switched gears, a new hard drive being accessed and slapped into play mode. Not really. Too much bureaucracy.

Chiefs who don’t know how to get their hands dirty, Jack said in Russian.

Aaron hesitated, a new disk flipped and he said in Russian, Exactly, everyone wants to be in the Politburo, dismissing the reality of being closer to serfdom.

How would you describe yourself? Jack asked in Spanish.

Aaron thought about it for a moment and rattled in Spanish, I’m mission oriented. The faster I understand what I’m meant to do, the quicker we can stop wasting each other’s time.

Fair enough, Jack replied in Mandarin. One last question though. Are you a dedicated family man?

Aaron paused, Yes…I am.

The smile on Jack’s face faded and he got up from the couch. Follow me, Jack said in Pashto.

They walked to the end of the hall without saying a word. Aaron followed him through two sets of doors and into a room that resembled a planetarium. He stared in awe at the humongous screen in front of him, images of the world mixed in a variety of colors.

Impressive, isn’t it? Jack said softly.

Chapter 3

Irving Silverstein left the senate floor and hustled back to his office. The last thing he wanted to do this morning was engage in another useless conversation with lobbyists who wanted him to champion a bill or rally support for pending legislation. Interns gawked as he strode by. To most he was a celebrity, a label prompted by numerous television interviews, known for outspokenness against colleagues who disagreed with him, and candor for legislation in which he had a vested interest. Silver truly enjoyed heated arguments and the chance to berate anyone who got in his way.

As a Senator from the sunshine state, rising to power with ruthless tactics and an Ivy League education he established deep roots into the hierarchy of government. He staunchly supported the community and expected to be reciprocated for his efforts. Many peers in the Senate held exemplary military records and endorsements from defense corporations. Silver recognized the military as a necessary tool to further the opportunities of America, but held disdain for those in service. Feeling there had to be a higher calling, something more important than laying down your life for a country and people who would sooner rifle through your pockets than provide medical assistance if you lay dying on the street.

He heard someone shout his name, but hustled his pace. Less than a hundred feet from his office, his sanctuary, he heard the person yell louder. Two people in front of him gained his attention and pointed down the hallway. He gave up, leaned against the wall and stared at the atrium. He pulled his slacks up and tightened the belt. Nothing could conceal the large paunch he’d developed over the past few years. Rather than exercise, he threw in the towel. It was too late in life to bother with physical fitness, plus he enjoyed eating whatever he pleased. Freshly shaved head and irritable expression, his small body slumped against the wall and waited impatiently as a man approached.

Senator Morgan tried to catch his breath by the time he reached Silver.

What is it? Silver asked gruffly.

We don’t have the votes for Raven.

Who turned?

There were a few, Morgan said. When they saw the amendment to the bill, they said the increase in expenditures was too much.

Give me the names.

Morgan pulled a pen and paper from his pocket, scribbled the names, and handed the sheet to Silver.

When Silver saw the names, his face tensed. Same pricks as always.

If we change our votes on their appropriations bill, perhaps we can sway them to fund Raven.

I’ll run it by them, Silver said. If they vote against it, how many votes short are we?

Four. Assuming no one else turns.

I’ll get four of them to reconsider. Let me know if you hear of anybody else floundering.

I will. Gaston walked back down the hallway.

Silver watched for a few moments before shifting his attention to the artwork on the walls. Too often he lost vision of why he came to Washington. The Hart Senate building, one of the newer buildings in the Capitol housed state-of-the-art communications equipment and sophisticated computer networks. Perhaps someday Raven would pierce the hallowed walls and yield precious details on the inner-workings of the baseless government.

He stared at a picture of Pompeii. The painting wasn’t anything spectacular. The only reason he was drawn to it was because of the history and emotions evoked by the Roman Empire, his favorite period in history. He reflected on what could be accomplished through force and power, unaltered and unquestioned power. Since more serpents had shown their head, he vowed to defeat them by any means possible.

He walked into his office, tossed the sheet of paper and attaché case on his desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number. While the number rang, he focused on the names. We have a problem with Raven, Silver said, when the accomplice answered.

Chapter 4

Twenty minutes after walking into the enormous room called the observatory, Aaron excused and himself and went down the hall to the bathroom. He needed a few minutes to digest everything he had just seen. Throughout his career in Homeland Security, CIA, and the Navy, he had hands-on access to sophisticated surveillance technology. From what he saw on the immense wall screens, this technology appeared vastly superior.

When he finished washing his hands and threw water on his face, Aaron left the bathroom and practically walked into two men standing outside the door.

Please, let us know if you need to use the restroom, the taller man said. Guests need to be escorted in the facility.

I didn’t realize that was your policy. He studied their expression as they backed away and motioned for him to lead. He wasn’t sure if they were security guards. They dressed casually, similar to everyone else he had seen.

When he reached the door to the observatory, he turned his head slightly to see if the men intended to follow. Instead, they stood ten feet behind him with their backs turned. With a quizzical shake of his head, he walked inside.

The men who had briefed him earlier were in the same position as when he left. He sidled up to them and listened as they discussed radio wave capabilities and fidelity of voices in crowds.

Ahh, there you are, Todd Brekmeyer said. One of us should have gone with you.

Is it protocol?

It is here. Todd excused himself from the other men and placed his hand on the small of Aaron’s back. Without asking him to move, Todd gently nudged him to another section of the room. Aaron went willingly.

Todd seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say. A balding man with nervous motions, he stammered when speaking too quickly. His diminutive stature, thin features and pale complexion convinced Aaron that Todd spent an inordinate amount of time away from the sun, probably most of it here in this room.

We have a certain way of doing things, Todd said, head shifting nervously. If you need anything, let me know and…I’ll get it for you.

Jack marched from the far side of the room. When Todd saw him, he hustled back to the computer terminals where men analyzed a recording.

Did they get to show you around? Jack asked, with a wide grin.

They did, they’ve shown me a lot. Now I have more questions than answers.

That’s good. Curiosity breeds creativity. It’s one thing we need more of in our line of work.

This is impressive technology you’ve deployed. How do you analyze the vast amounts of data you capture?

Our analysts decipher what’s important, and what we can discard. We try to categorize our intelligence into four buckets. The first, and most serious, is a clear and perilous threat, one that needs constant surveillance and intervention because the threat becomes an imminent danger to America’s sovereignty.

Aaron waited for Jack to continue, but instead he folded his hands in front of him and smiled.

You were saying? Aaron prompted.

I’m afraid I’ve spoken in haste. You’re not even on board with us and I’m divulging secrets about our operation. For shame, shame on you Jack. He smacked himself on both thighs rapidly. I need to find out a little more about you. Besides the brief time we’ve spent together, the only other things I know about you are what I read in your personnel file. And I hate that stuff, it’s so impersonal

What do you want to know?

Well, there’s so much. I’m not sure where to begin.

Try the first question that comes to mind.

Are you satisfied? Jack asked.

With what?

With your career. Are you happy with the work you do?

I used to be?

I didn’t ask if you used to be satisfied with your work. I asked, are you satisfied with your career, now, not yesterday, right now? Jack tilted his head to the right and waited for an answer.

No. I can’t say I am.

Why not?

He searched for an answer, yet wasn’t sure what the man was looking for. Did Jack want to hear how fed up he’d become with the bureaucratic bullshit he’d endured over the past few years? Or maybe he wanted to know about his eagerness to pummel politicians who aimed to hack the defense budget for no other reason than to grandstand on network news. Perhaps if Aaron told him of his desire to be in the field, adrenaline pumping, unpredictability of completing the mission, making split-second decisions with lives in the balance and the uncertainty of surviving to see its success. Should he explain how he longed to travel overseas again, mix with foreign cultures, infiltrate groups bent on destruction and target them for annihilation? Even if Aaron wasn’t sure what he was looking for anymore, one thing he knew, Homeland Security left him empty, desiring a sense of accomplishment and self worth.

I’m not sure of my purpose, Aaron answered.

Do you love your country?

Yes, I always have.

You’re an altruistic man if my instincts serve me right.

I guess so.

Come, come. Don’t be so modest. You have an extensive military career, served your country in various capacities. All while maintaining a balanced family life and raising three children.

I credit Sue with the last part.

Of course you do.

Jack walked away and went to a bank of computer terminals a few aisles down. A few quick keystrokes and the monitor changed, along with a portion of the huge LCD monitor on the wall. Both showed the same image. A cluster of men bent in worship in a field enclosed by high walls, silent except for a low rumble of prayer. The image captured from above. They stared at the screen, waiting for something to happen. After a few minutes, an Imam walked to the head of the group and began to speak.

Tell me what he says, Jack said.

Aaron listened. He had trouble deciphering the dialect. It sounded Persian, but a hint of Farsi broke through occasionally. Within a minute he fell into the groove and relayed virtually all of what had steadily become a rant.

He’s calling upon them to serve Islam and to perform martyrdom.

Against whom?

Zionists. No specific country or nationality, only the blanket statement. How did you get this tape?

Tape? Jack burst out laughing. This is no tape my good man. This is real, it’s happening before our eyes.

How?

Jack tapped a few commands on the keyboard again, the screen faded, and a numeric code appeared in its place. When he accessed the code, the description and name of a young man appeared on the screen. The text quickly flipped from Arabic to English. It described the man as twenty-three years old, of Syrian descent, and currently residing in Egypt. Extensive lists of contacts, religious and political affiliations filled smaller boxes.

Is he an operative? Aaron asked.

You could say that. Only he’s not aware of it.

How do you track him?

We know where he is twenty-four, seven. In minutes we can find out more about him than he knows about himself—the time he eats, bathroom cycle, and typical routine when he awakes. We have it all in our database.

Who else do you track?

I don’t have the time to list them all. Jack studied him. Tell you what, why don’t you tell me what part of the world you’d like to see, and I’ll check if I can match you with a subject.

Moscow.

Russia?

Not Idaho.

Jack went to the computer, sat and typed. Again a series of numbers appeared on the screen, then a description of a person, initially Russian then flipped to English. Listed as forty-seven, the single man worked for the communist party. Aaron read the biography of the man. Yustev spent his career in the military. Interests included chess, backgammon, vodka and prostitutes. Under family, it listed one known sibling—a sister who lived in Turkey. An image of the man sat in the bottom right corner, underneath the picture, the address of his residence. Jack typed and a blue light flashed on the screen.

We can’t get video, only audio, Jack said.

Why not?

He’s indoors. We don’t have surveillance in there. We do have audio though.

Let’s listen.

Jack turned up the volume and the sound of Tchaikovsky filled the room. Within a couple of minutes of hearing nothing but music, both grew bored.

Is he an operative, or are you tracking him for another reason? Aaron asked.

He’s level four. Not high priority, but someone who could become one, based on his advanced position within the Communist Party.

Jack turned to the computer, banged out some commands, and a wall screen divided into a dozen smaller ones. All showed the picture of a man or woman. Aaron didn’t know which part of the world the people lived in. The small print below each picture was too tough to read. Jack typed another command, the screen split again. Twice as many people filled the screen, but only half the size. He ratcheted through the same function a few more times until Aaron couldn’t distinguish if the images were people or something else. Hundreds of dots filled the large screen.

Some of the people you see on this screen, Jack began. pose a grave danger to America and her allies. It’s critical to contain and track them.

Why not eliminate them?

Then someone else takes their place. Like the adage goes; keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

So you want me to be a spy.

It’s not that simple, my good man. What you have seen is the foundation of our operation. The intricacies go much deeper.

Jack exited the program and the people disappeared. He sat on the long desk next to Aaron.

When they locked eyes, Jack said, When you leave here, I want you to think about everything you’ve seen today, and imagine what we’re about. Then you need to ask yourself two questions. He paused and made sure Aaron’s eyes didn’t waver. The first thing you need to ask yourself is do you want to change the world?

Jack hopped off the desk and walked away quickly.

What’s the second question? Aaron called out.

Jack didn’t stop, nor did he look back. Aaron hustled after him but was not able to reach him before he exited the room. Once he barreled through the door, he sprinted down the hall and grabbed hold of Jack’s arm.

What’s the second question?

A blank expression filled Jack’s face when he turned around.

You said there two questions I needed to ask. What’s the second question? Aaron demanded.

Would you lay down your life to make your family safe? If you answer yes to both, I’ll see you tomorrow. If not, you’ll remain in your current position.

Aaron stood there pissed as he watched Jack walk away. He’d fallen for an old manipulation trick, making someone chase after you. It made him realize how desperate he’d become and how his skills needed to be honed.

Chapter 5

Rafeeq opened his eyes, unsure if it was another dream or reality. The two had intersected many times over the past few days; he had trouble distinguishing one from the other. The uncomfortable ground made his body ache, the right side of his face covered with sand. He struggled to wipe it away and realized his arms were locked behind his back. He tried to move his legs, futile, his hands and feet were bound together. The limbs would have to move in conjunction with one another. Something in his mouth impaired breathing, forcing him to suck air through sand-laden nostrils. He tried to spit it out, but it didn’t budge. Pushing with his tongue was useless. Scraping his mouth across the ground caused pain in his cheeks. A strap around his head held the object in place.

From where he lay, a chain link fence surrounded him, curled wire on top. There were other fences farther away, but he didn’t see anyone near them. He rolled onto his stomach, and then his left side and pain ripped through his shoulder—his scream muffled by the object in his mouth. Tears streamed down his face. Rolling onto his stomach and crunching his knees closer to his chest, he lifted his weight onto them and leaned backwards.

When he looked down and saw the orange clothes he wore his memory flashed back to when they were put on. Rafeeq tilted his head back and looked into the crystal blue, focusing on puffy clouds drifting lazily across the sky. The air was warm and smelled sweet, much different from the mountain range and desert village to which he was accustomed.

Someone spoke, but he didn’t understand the language. Turning his head to the left, he saw a soldier walking alongside the fence. The soldier dragged a club against the fence creating a metallic twang sound. He stopped in front of Rafeeq’s cage, shouted something as he pointed the club toward him

Rafeeq studied the man—the soldier looked similar to the people he saw in his dreams, or nightmares, or perhaps reality. He struggled with memories from an episode aboard an airplane.

A loud hum of the aircraft engine had awoken him. The plane was an enormous open container with equipment down the middle and a single row of men shackled to each side of the fuselage. Most men were fast asleep, others lolled their heads lethargically.

Although not positive, he was fairly certain it wasn’t a dream. There was a period when he had pretended to still be unconscious, but watched as soldiers checked the shackles of the prisoners. One of the prisoners, dressed in an orange jumpsuit similar to what he now wore, lunged forward and bit a soldier on the arm. The prisoner shook his head violently as the soldier screamed and tried to free his arm from the clenched jaw. Two soldiers rushed to his rescue and beat the prisoner repeatedly with the butt of their rifles until he let go.

Rafeeq lifted his head upright and watched as the soldier who had been bitten grabbed hold of one of the rifles and struck the prisoner in the face repeatedly with the stock until the man’s head slumped forward. A steady flow of blood poured from the prisoners’ face, down the jumpsuit, turning it redder than orange before it pooled between his legs. They released his lifeless body from the shackles, dragged him to the back of the cargo hold, tied some objects to his body and threw the prisoner out the opening at the back of the plane.

Rafeeq watched the prisoner disappear. He could see the blue of the ocean below as he looked through the opening. A soldier, stopped in front of him, slammed Rafeeq’s head against the metal fuselage and held it steady, then plunged a needle into his arm. Unconsciousness soon followed.

Three soldiers, with the same uniforms as the ones on the plane, now stood outside the fence. They unlocked the gate, walked in, and one soldier stood on each side as the third unlocked the restraint which bound his arms and legs, and lifted him to his feet. They placed a thick plastic collar around his neck and pushed him forward using the handle on the back. He had trouble walking initially. The shackles prevented normal steps, only permitting him to shuffle. One soldier walked on each side as the other controlled his pace and pushed him along the sandy path. He felt the warm sand between his toes.

He spotted other prisoners in pens with the same orange clothing. Prisoners lay on their side, either unconscious or asleep. There were a few empty cages and he wondered how long they would stay that way.

The soldiers led him into a building, then down a hall before they stopped in front of a door, opened it and shoved him inside. The force caused him to stumble and crash to the floor. A soldier lifted him to his feet with a yank of the plastic collar. Once he stood, the soldier slammed him head-first into a wall. Dazed from the blow, he stumbled backwards and landed on his back, arms pinned beneath. They pulled him to his feet again and stood motionless next to him.

Resist an you’ll regret it, the soldier behind him said in Pashto.

The soldier on his right walked behind and unlocked the shackles. A soldier on his left stood a few feet away pointing a weapon at him. It didn’t look like any gun he’d ever seen. A red dot shined on his hest from the pointed weapon. A soldier yanked his head backward, held it firmly as another unfastened the strap, ball attached, and pulled it from his head. With the ball removed he felt instant relief as he opened and closed his mouth

Take off your shirt, a soldier commanded.

Rafeeq obeyed. He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor. Two ropes hung from the ceiling and each soldier grabbed an arm and slipped a hand through the loop, then fastened the knot tightly around his wrists. The ropes were tied to large hooks in the ceiling, his arms yanked upward.

Another set of ropes attached to the floor lay in a pile. A soldier from behind tore the Velcro strip around his waist and the pants fell to the floor. They made him lift his legs and threw the pants next to the shirt. No underwear, he stood naked as the soldiers secured his legs at the ankle with ropes. When the knots were tightened, they left without saying a word.

Never had he felt so vulnerable. Restrained and unable to cover himself, thoughts swirled and he wondered why he’d been subjected to this treatment. When the soldiers had first yanked his left arm to the ceiling pain shot down his back. As time progressed the pain subsided. Rafeeq looked around the room. Besides the ropes which bound him, a large rectangular box with a long thin board stood in the corner of the room.

Time passed and he remained alone. No one came in to check on him. His legs tired and he slumped forward causing pain in his arms, especially the left shoulder. The ropes had little slack, a few inches at best and prevented him from leaning more than a few inches backwards or forward. He nodded off, but awoke to shooting pain in one part of his body or another. The warm room sucked water from his body. His dry mouth, unable to muster enough saliva to moisten his lips, fear of dying from dehydration overwhelmed his thoughts.

When the door slammed, Rafeeq jumped. He stood upright, unsure how long he’d been asleep. A woman in khaki shorts and white button down shirt stood in front of him. Her olive complexion and black hair tied in a ponytail made her look like women from Afghanistan. She placed a bucket of water next to him and wrung out the sponge.

My name is Hayat, she said.

He nodded. When he tried to speak, his dry mouth prevented the words from coming out. She knelt, opened the burlap sack next to the water pail, pulled out a bottle of water, stood and held it to his lips. A small amount passed over his bottom lip. He swished it around his mouth, moistened his tongue then used the rest to wet his chapped lips before swallowing the remainder.

Why am I here? Rafeeq asked.

You were captured in Afghanistan.

I didn’t do anything. They made me follow. I had no choice.

Who told you to follow?

The fighters who came to our village—they made us follow. If we didn’t obey, they would kill our families.

Who, the Taliban?

I don’t know who they were.

Hayat knelt, dunked the sponge into the bucket, lifted and wrung it out. She walked behind him and rubbed the sponge across his neck before moving it down his back. Rafeeq became embarrassed. He tried to cross his legs to cover himself but the ropes held him firmly. No one other than his wife had seen him naked, and she only caught occasional glimpses, never the way he stood now.

When the moisture of the sponge dried, she went back to the bucket and soaked it again. An exhilarating feeling enveloped him when she placed it atop his head and squeezed. Cool water flowed down his body and washed away dirt. A few times her soft hands touched his body. She sponged the inside portion of his thighs and blood rushed to his crotch. The steadily rising organ contrasted with his emaciated body.

I didn’t mean to do that, she said. Her sultry voice and the faint smell of perfume mesmerized him. Hayat rubbed the freshly moistened sponge against his forehead, around his cheeks, then down his chest.

Where in Afghanistan are you from? she asked. Head tilted, eyes gazing into his, she continued rubbing the sponge against his chest while smiling seductively.

Jangalay—near Spera. May I have more water?

She grabbed the bottle and raised it to his lips. He took a few gulps and stared at her smooth legs.

She guided the sponge across the last portion of his chest. He felt his crotch throb again. Her leg rubbed against his and he closed his eyes as the sponge glided across his pelvis.

Who were some of the men you were with? she asked.

From my village?

No, the men who made you leave the village.

"They never told us. One was named Abu, and another Bakri. We were too far ahead to hear their conversations.

How far did you walk to get to the mountains?

I think it took us nine days. We were very hungry and tired—so tired by the time we got there.

What villages did you go through to get to the mountains?

Rafeeq named the villages. Some he knew, others he didn’t. Naming them brought back harsh memories of the journey. It also made him realize how much he missed his wife and children. He considered asking about the other men taken from the village, but didn’t want to raise more questions.

Can you help me get out of here? I didn’t do anything.

"I’ll try, but