The Missionary: A Novel

By Lee B. Mulder

Muslim fanatics are methodically moving forward with a plan to establish the first Islamic State of America. Millions of innocent people will die if billionaire arms merchant Mullah Muhammad Zakair Sheikh has his way. It is a brilliant scheme, the result of decades of preparation and the sacrifice of tens of thousands of Mujahadeen faithful to the cause. But one man, a lone sailor in the Caribbean who calls himself a missionary, stumbles across a vital part of the Mullah’s plot and, using only prayer and email, rallies thousands of people to meet the force of evil face to face.

The Missionary is the tale of two men who find themselves seeking significance in faith. Both are successful in the world of business but both feel there must be something more to life. Jack Malone is pushed down his path to significance with the death of his beloved wife who urges him to “follow his dream.” It was their dream, really, to live aboard a sailboat and cruise the Caribbean, but life and work and family always pushed the dream into the future. On her death bed, Anna told Jack to go, to follow their dream but he didn’t feel that would be worthwhile until a scholarly pastor suggested he could do that and also spread the word of God as a missionary for Christ. Reluctant and skeptical at first, Jack Malone soon found himself shopping for the perfect boat.

Muhammad Zakair Sheikh is led down the path following the death of his father who urges him, begs him with his last breath to become a slave to the Prophet. He is skeptical when Professor al Khalili from El Alazar University shows up at his door. But over time, Zeke the Sheikh adopts the one true faith and is anointed by one of its most respected leaders to become a Mullah. In time, he is trusted with carrying out one of the boldest plans for Islamic expansion ever devised, the take over of one of the United States to establish the first Islamic State of America as its own nation. Sheikh will put his billion dollar empire on the line in order to be the man who pushes the buttons that will bring The Great Satan America to its knees before the Prophet Muhammad.

The two paths intersect at a tiny island in the Caribbean where The Missionary discovers The Mullah using gangster tactics to control the local population.

One of these men becomes an ambassador for Jesus Christ. The other becomes an influential follower of Islam. Neither finds his path is easy. And only one will survive.

This story is global. It is frightening. And it is all too possible.

This book has been called too worldly for Christian fiction and too Christian for general consumption. In reality it includes real-world language and situations while telling an inspirational story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee B. Mulder
• Release date: Jun 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311109491

Lee B. Mulder

There are two things that drive this author. He needs to be in motion - traveling, moving, progressing. And he needs to feel productive. That last bit is the motivation for his wide variety of writing. Lee B. Mulder graduated with a Journalism degree from the University of Wisconsin at Madison at a time when the school was the epicenter for anti-Vietnam war protests. Reporting there led to a short newspaper career, then as a magazine staffer, then as a promotion writer, ad agency and public relations writer. Along the way he wrote columns for newspapers, stories for small magazines and novels. His first book "Toddler Tales: An Older Dad Survives the Raising of Small Children in Modern America" was published in 2006. A non-fiction book "They Call Me Mzee: One Man's Safari into Brightest Africa" was published in 2011 along with his novel, "The Missionary." As a ePub author, Mulder will release in 2014 a volume of poetry, several short stories with collections and maybe a novel. Raised in Chicago, Mulder now lives near a strong wifi connection. 2014 will be a breakthrough year for this author as he finally gets on Twitter. He loves to hear from his fans: email is [e-mail]

Book preview

The Hurricane, Part One

He closed his eyes just to listen. From the shelter of the pilot berth, Jack Malone concentrated, willing his mind to memorize the symphony of low moans, shrill whines and the whipping percussion of seawater and driving rain as it lashed the hull with the hurricane’s fury. He never wanted to forget the sounds layered upon sounds from every direction, the hundred separate squeaks, whistles and frantic rattlings, each emanating from some exposed part of his little vessel. For only by absorbing the mayhem could he survive it intact. As he listened with his eyes closed, his head warm on a damp pillow, the wind blew the stainless steel shrouds holding the mast aloft until they vibrated like the strings of a cello where, in an eerily discordant movement of power, they set a hum through the entire hull. Cold coffee danced in its cup. A spoon chattered in the metal galley sink.

He wondered if there were sailors out in this storm, people who were too far away from shelter or those careless enough to have ignored the signs. He wondered about the large yachts in St. Thomas that were too big to hide. Malone cringed at the thought of being caught in such a storm without shelter. The howling and the shuddering showed no signs of letting up. He wondered and waited.

The storm was his jailer at a time when he needed the freedom to move. His stomach tightened into a stony knot because he knew he was stuck. He needed to get to St. Thomas and he needed to be there yesterday. Jorie was there, being held captive. Evil was there, mocking God’s grace. How, he thought, would he ever be able to wait it out? Even email was not an option. With antennas stowed below, his umbilicus to the satellite was out. He was truly alone with only the sounds of the storm.

When oh when, he wondered, would it ever end? He drifted in and out of prayer: Dear God, why have you hobbled your little army just as we have gathered for battle?… give us the strength to endure… please watch over Jorie… yea, though I walk… rock… through the valley of the shadow of death, thou art with me… but there was little relief.

Ah, he thought at last, Anna. Malone slipped her favorite music, a Jacques Brel CD, into the player and picked up her thumb-worn volume of C.S. Lewis essays. He opened the pages and held them to his face as he had done a hundred times before, for the paper still held a trace of her scent.

Had it really been nearly three years? Malone remembered he could hardly watch Anna without crying then. He had sat at the edge of the bed holding his wife’s limp and bony hand in his two hands. He watched her labored breathing, wincing along with her at the sudden stabs of pain. She was so weak, she needed to rest between spasms and, as much as she wanted to be awake, to be lucid for her friend and lover of 31 years, she would drift off, only opening her rheumy eyes for a moment and then drift away again. Touching her filmy skin, he could almost feel the cancer spreading, accelerating its decimation of flesh and blood, rushing like billions of mindless, fanatical warriors to overcome the enemy, without caring that victory would mean death for all.

She took a labored breath and whispered, Tell me a joke.

What? he said, lost in his memories of her, surprised at the sound.

Tell me a joke, she repeated with a hint of a smile.

The last thing he was thinking about at this moment was telling jokes. Yet it was still Anna lying here. Emaciated, pale, in pain, clinging to life by the merest wisp of a spider’s thread, she was alive. And he would do anything she asked. Really? he replied softly. A tiny nod.

Well, okay. Clearing his throat, wiping tears onto the sleeve of his shirt. His hands still clung to hers. A guy, uh, walked into a bar and sat down.

She closed her eyes then but the tiny smile remained. She had heard him open all his silly stories this way.

He ordered a beer and almost immediately heard a soothing voice say, ‘Nice tie.’ Looking around, he noticed that the bar was empty except for himself and the bartender at the other end of the counter. A few sips later, he heard the voice again. The words were crystal-clear, saying ‘Nice shirt.’ At this, the man called the bartender over and said, Hey, I must be losing my mind. I keep hearing voices saying nice things and there’s not a soul in the place but us."

Malone struggled to continue as another spasm caused Anna to suddenly suck air from the septic room through clenched teeth. Her grip commanded him to continue. He did so, struggling to sound normal, but with a quaver in his voice.

It’s the peanuts, said he bartender.

What do you mean? the man replied.

It’s the peanuts. They’re complimentary.

From the dimly lit recess of his bunk, Malone winced, now embarrassed at the hollow humor that filled the pinches of time as his wife lay dying.

But her smile had widened, if for only a moment. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye. She had heard that joke so many times, but as silly as it was, it still made her chuckle, not because of the joke but because of the joy she saw in him when he told it. She would miss that. He was such a work in progress.

Come here, Jack, she whispered. Her eyes were closed now. He brought his face next to hers. Listen to me. He started to protest. Shhhh, she said, quieting him. You are a great husband and a great dad. The best. You and I have relished being children of God together. You are a good man. We’ve touched so many lives. Now it’s time for you to live your dream. Go find that boat. Sail the islands. Take the time you have left and fill your soul. Again, he started to speak, but she stopped him with a surprisingly strong squeeze of her hand. Listen to me. I’m going to be with God. It’s my adventure. It’s my dream. I’ve been preparing for this trip all my life. I’ll be okay. Jorie is grown up now. She is strong. She’ll be okay. You need to know and understand those things in your heart. A tear cascaded down his cheek. Her eyes opened ever so slightly, as if the lids were lifted by the strength of her will alone and could only open so far. The light in them was dim. Please, Jack. Go. And know that God and I will both be with you always. He shook his head no. She slowly nodded yes. He kissed her limp, feverish lips and, with one last sigh, she was gone.

From time to time, an especially strong gust would lift the sailboat’s clipper bow in an attempt to flip the ten-ton vessel end over end, but three anchors and a dozen lines securing him in the fabric of his little flotilla thwarted the will of the wind. With each lurch, the captain thanked God for giving him the weather signs early and two days to prepare for the storm. Out of curiosity, Jack glanced at the windspeed meter to see its indicator needle jammed against the high-end peg, frozen at 80 knots, over 100 miles per hour. It hadn’t changed position since the last time he checked ten minutes ago and, in fact, it hadn’t moved all morning. Once again, he marveled at the indescribable power of the invisible wind and compared it, as he often did, with the immeasurable power of his invisible, all-powerful, unwavering God.

Nature’s mood was so different only two days ago on a bright, sunny morning in Coral Bay at the poor end of St. John when Malone had flipped on the weather fax. NOAA radio had been warning of a hurricane named Trista, hopefully the last of the season, looping in toward the Caribbean from the south. The Virgin Islands were unscathed by storms so far this year and there was no reason to believe that this one would be a problem. But Malone watched every weather system with the wary senses of a hunted animal.

When the fax dropped from its printer, Malone knew the weather reports had been too optimistic and it was time to move quickly. A large, buzz-saw-shaped storm was clearly making its way in his direction and if he and his congregation didn’t get to the hurricane hole early, there would be no place to hide from the destruction. It seemed absurd to worry about a storm on a cloudless day, but he knew from experience just how fast the weather’s mood could change. Malone jumped into his Avon dinghy, coaxed the Mariner outboard to life and made a fast loop of his friends on other boats. The message was the same to each of them. We expected Satan to get in our way and, well, he’s just over the horizon. Time to move it or lose it. Before untethering Spirit from the sandy bottom, Malone broadcast a radio message to other vessels on their way to St. Thomas and also an email to his Brothers and Sisters list:

TO: Brothers and Sisters

FROM: Jack Malone, St. John, USVI

TROPICAL STORM TRISTA HEADING OUR WAY; THE FLOCK IS OFF TO HURRICANE HOLE AT ST. JOHN’S USVI; EXPECT NO FURTHER TRANSMISSION NEXT 48 HOURS. MAY OUR MIGHTY AND LOVING GOD WATCH OVER US AND PROTECT US AND BE WITH ALL THOSE WHO MAY STILL BE AT SEA.

Malone

The trip to the Hurricane Hole was a short one and an electric sense of adventure riffled among the colorful parade of boats, some motoring, some sailing, all following Malone. But the excitement died away like a hand over the mouth of a laughing child when the entourage was passed by a black, slippery-hulled motor yacht named The Obedient, steaming at 15 knots toward Charlotte Amalie Harbor on St. Thomas. The massive craft, a 25-story building lying on its side, glided silently past, its shadow exuding power over the diminutive little boats with their impertinent little occupants. For most of the sailors, it would take a year’s labor just to fill the fuel tanks of that beast. No one could be seen on any of the four decks or on the bridge, surrounded as it was by black-tinted windows, but Malone knew who was aboard. When he first saw the vessel approaching, he wanted to steer into its path, climb up its sides and launch a flare onto its bridge. His daughter was being held captive on that boat. The man responsible for infesting the Caribbean with a cancer of evil was aboard that boat. It was so close. He felt so helpless. He could only hope this was God’s plan being played out in God’s time. But first he must save the flock. He would deal with the Mullah after the storm.

Ah yes, the storm.

Malone was relieved to find plenty of anchoring room in the tucked-away dent called Water Creek on Hurricane Hole Bay where the water was deep enough that the boat probably wouldn’t touch bottom even in the wildest tidal surge. It was close enough to land to diffuse the full force of a wind coming from the north and the sand bottom promised good holding power for anchors weighted with chain. The hardest part of the process was stripping the boat of anything that could blow off. That meant unbending all sails and stowing them below, deflating the dinghy and stowing it below, removing any loose equipment, including the canister life raft, outboard motor, steering vane, antennas, wind generator, and stowing them all in lockers or below, which made it very crowded down below. In fact, once the work was completed, there was only room to move between the galley, the head, and the pilot berth… about six square feet of floor space.

Over the course of the long day’s labor, boats continued to trickle in to the tiny bay. The crew of each one was greeted heartily by the others, as these people had met and shared their lives, but rarely in person. These were sea-going cyber-neighbors, the informal Caribbean Congregation of the Seagoing Church of God, led by John Patrick Malone who refused the title of pastor.

Each crew undertook its own personal dismantling process and each secured its own anchors. By the end of the two days, each had rigged spring lines to boats alongside and other lines fore and aft, forming a flexible, well-fendered island of craft firmly fixed in place. Those nearest the shore were secured to rocks, trees or anchors buried in the land. A satellite photo would have shown two dozen boats caught in a spider web of yacht braid, nestled in a tucked-away cove with Spirit at the center. When it seemed everyone was nearly finished with the work, Malone yelled, Storm check, everybody, storm check! This was the last task, the insurance dance, where the Captain of each vessel tramped over decks and rigging to check the lines and anchors of every other vessel. It was an arduous, exhausting chore, but if one loose line or poorly set anchor allowed the wind to set one boat in motion, it would destroy them all. No one could afford to trust that his neighbor had been flawlessly thorough. Invariably, adjustments were found to be necessary and were made without comment. This was, after all, an exercise in survival.

As the sky thickened with black cumulus and the wind rose, the congregation of nearly 90 souls -- men, women and children of all ages gathered together across the decks of several boats. Malone placed his arms around the shoulders of the people next to him and everyone else did the same. Dear great and merciful God, he prayed loudly in the gusts, We come to you as your children to thank you for this day and for the warning of the impending storm. We ask you to be with us, protect us and give us courage. Let us take this time waiting out the storm to ponder the greater work that lies ahead, that we follow your call to confront the forces of evil. We love you Lord. Help us to revel in your power, your grace and your glory. Amen.

Then great, huge drops of rain began to pelt the people and splatter against the decks and everyone scurried for the fragile shelter of his floating cocoon. Malone felt death in the air. If only he could survive…

Beirut

The boys at the American Academy in Beirut, Lebanon unanimously agreed: The best day of school is the last. Upper classmen had departed days ago. It was now the sixth through tenth graders who mingled and jostled amid the boxes and luggage in the courtyard, each one of them looking every bit the miniature adult in his blue blazer, white-shirt-and-club- tie with gray slacks and shiny leather loafers. The boys with ties askew kidded one another with pokes and jabs, like young lions practicing their pounces, but only to pass the time, for each of them thought only of noon when cars would come streaming through the tall iron gates to take them home.

Muhammad Zakair Sheikh knew the instant his father’s navy blue Mercedes-Benz sedan entered the compound for he could hear the diesel engine rattling its way toward him. As the car came nearer, he shook his head in disbelief, for it was followed closely by its ever-faithful blue cloud of exhaust. The engine had barely clattered its final rales when his father, a stout, balding man in a brown suit jumped out of the car to run around and embrace his son. They kissed each other on both cheeks and the older man held his son by the shoulders at arms length. Haamed, let me look at you, he said. You are almost a grown man. I am so proud of you.

Papi, I just saw you two weeks ago, the son said, secretly glad of his pending maturity and his father’s delight in it. I can’t have changed that much.

Oh yes you can, Yassir ibn Sheikh said. Zamira, what do you think? The boy’s mother, dressed in the black abaya and shayla of the devout Saudi Muslim wife, waited patiently until the men were finished with their greetings and then it was her turn.

She reached for her handsome son. Haamed, my son, she said warmly smiling, holding him to her. There were no other mothers dressed this way in the compound today and, though he loved being close to her, relished her scent and the sound of her voice, he was embarrassed to be seen with her in public. Yet he endured.

Can we go now? he said.

Yes, of course, his father replied. Let me get your bag. Is this all of it? No books?

No books, Father, the boy said, smiling at their private joke. Haamed remembered when he first went to boarding school, his luggage was so heavy his father accused him of taking nothing but books with him. Later, as his classes became more complex, he did indeed carry books home for the holidays, making his luggage even heavier. See, the father had said, the boy makes me haul luggage heavy with books. Every time the father lifted the son’s suitcase these days, he made some comment about the books. Haamed would be disappointed if he didn’t.

The family’s home was only a short drive away on the outskirts of Beirut, in a walled compound near some lemon groves. Many would find it odd that a man would send his son to boarding school in the same town where he lived, but Yassir ibn Sheikh spent little time at home. He owned a business that negotiated contracts between oil producers and distributors throughout the Middle East and Europe and, though he had an office full of assistants, he insisted on negotiating every deal himself. After 20 years in the business, both buyers and sellers were pleased to have him negotiating the terms of a contract, for somehow, everyone seemed to win when Yassir chaired the meeting. Unfortunately, such a business required him to spend most of his time traveling. Before Haamed was born, Yassir ran his enterprise out of Riyadh. Later, he opened and then closed an office in London. When King Farook ran Iraq and Haamed was born, the family lived in Baghdad with the comforts of a royal family. But then the army took over and, ultimately, Saddam the Madman. So, for now, they lived in Beirut. And though Yassir found the city to be cosmopolitan, he told his wife, I cannot leave the education of my only child to public schoolteachers under your supervision. You simply cannot understand the thoughts and distractions, the needs and desires of this brilliant young man that is my only son. Zamira did not argue.

Haamed, I have a surprise for you, his father said at the evening meal. The boy had shed his school uniform, chased the family dog around the house, spent an hour in the swimming pool, and now felt cleansed of the academic dust he had accumulated over the last nine months. At the moment, there was nothing else he wanted. He slipped a bit of lamb to the black Cocker Spaniel. Of course it begged for more.

And don’t feed the dog at the table, the father ordered, trying to be stern but not really angry. When you’re not here it slobbers all over my leg thinking I’m as nice as you and of course, I’m not.

You were saying, father?

Ah, yes. The surprise. His father’s dark eyes beamed as though he had been holding back the greatest secret in the world. I did not want you to be bored this summer, so I have made arrangements for you to go to camp.

Puzzled, Haamed put down his fork and stared at this father. Camp?

Yes. Camp . . . in America, his father said excitedly, waving his hands, clearly ecstatic with his choice. In the State of Maine. They have everything there, and you will enjoy yourself very much.

In shock, Haamed continued to stare at his father. He swallowed hard, unable to comprehend the thought of going far away to a distant land.

Your English is very good, his father blurted. You should have no problems. And, just think, it will be much cooler there than here. You will love it.

Haamed swallowed hard again. A wave of fear washed over him. How much time must I spend at this . . . camp?

That’s the best part, the father said, beaming. It is only one month. Middle of June to middle of July. And then… and then... He had to take a drink of water before continuing. "You don’t fly home, but to Athens where you and your mother and I will spend three weeks in Greece, in Athens and Corfu. I will actually stop working for three whole weeks in a row to be with you. Now, what do you think of that?"

I don’t know, Papi, the boy replied weakly, not wanting to show disappointment. America is awfully far away. I won’t know anybody. I think it’ll be…

Ach! the father said, slapping his palm against his forehead. "I am so stupid. I forgot to tell you one important fact. Your friend, Mahmoud Delharba is going too! His family will also with be with us in Greece.

Haamed leaped from his chair. Well, why didn’t you SAY so? the boy yelled. I’ve must telephone Mahmoud. Papi, this is fantastic. America, really? Where is this Maine? You are the best! The boy jumped from his chair and ran around the table to hug his father. He quickly hugged his mother as well, who had been silently smiling during the entire exchange. Yassir laughed out loud at his success and clapped his hands. The dog barked and Haamed ran for the phone.

Two weeks later, Haamed and Mahmoud flew on commercial aircraft for the first time in their lives, from Beirut to London, London to Boston and Boston to Augusta in Maine. At each gate, airline personnel greeted them by name, guided them through customs and kept them company while they awaited the next flight. At Augusta airport, they were met by camp directors David and Lynn Novack who signed for them like precious cargo. The boys were pleasantly surprised to find Camp Tamarack was a getaway in the woods designed to be a place where children from substantial families around the world met to enjoy the pleasures of summer in America. The property had its own lake, its own buses, its own soccer and baseball fields and also its own security force with surveillance cameras every 50 feet scanning the 12-foot high cyclone fencing topped with barbed wire… designed to keep people out, not in, the Directors said.

The camp was also co-ed.

After two weeks of organized enjoyment, Haamed, who, by that time, had been nicknamed Zeke by the Americans and Brits in his cabin, was bored with the daily routine. It was all too cheerful. Fun had never been one of his goals, yet this place offered nothing but some American’s idea of endless, mandatory pleasure for teenagers. To Haamed, it was a waste of time and it was driving him mad. He and Mahmoud, who was now called Mike, secretly plotted in Arabic their escape from the jungle prison to go see the real America.

That all changed one day when, after the evening meal, Senior Counselor Blaine explained that everyone was invited to participate in a game called Capture the Flag. For each age group, he explained, there would be two teams, one with the flag and one without. It was up to the team without the flag, the seekers, to find it and take it to the finish point at the center of the soccer field. The team with the flag could capture and thereby disqualify the seekers. The seekers could have spies. Were there any questions? Zeke drove the counselor to the brink of frustration with his questions: How many spies can the seekers have? Can the disqualified people be captured back? Are there any boundaries? Any time limits? What do we win?

Blaine spluttered a conclusive reply. Just play the game. You’ll see.

Zeke and Mike were assigned to the team without the flag. They had 15 minutes to meet with their 10 collaborators while the other team went to hide the flag.

Zeke assumed immediate control. Using a piece of chalk, he quickly drew a map of the game area on the dining hall table. He placed an X in the woods, just off the soccer field. This is our command post. Mike is in charge. All messages go through him. Juan, you are our spy – this is the most important job in this game. Go now and mingle with the enemy. Tell them whatever you need to gain their confidence, like… we threw you out… or you’d rather be with them, whatever. When you learn where the flag is, get a message to Mike.

Juan, the sharp-eyed son of a Mexican attaché living in Washington, DC nodded and left.

Zeke turned to the others and stated seriously, As I see it, this is a game of information and disarmament. We need to find out where the flag is hidden and also disable the enemy from capturing us. Here’s what we’ll do… He looked at each of his teammates to make sure he had their attention. Instead of wasting time looking for the flag, we will look for the enemy. When found, we will make them tell us where the flag is hidden. And, by the way, torture is fair.

Some of the team members stared wide-eyed with surprise at Zeke’s plan, but no one spoke.

Each prisoner, Zeke continued, will be given the choice of becoming a spy for us or being tied and gagged until the end of the game. We tell them if they choose to spy and still remain loyal to their original team, there will be dire consequences.

We seekers must be ruthless, he said. The goal is to win. If any one of you isn’t comfortable with this plan, you can sit out with the spies."

After a few worried glances and some mumbling, all but one of his team agreed to join the flagless army.

At the whistle, Zeke’s team fanned out across the woods and combed the edge of the soccer field to find the enemy. Mike manned the control center. Oliver was the first of the enemy to be spotted by Geoffrey, who was scouting with Zeke. The two easily brought down the obese mama’s boy who claimed to be just wandering in the woods. He knew nothing, he said. No, he didn’t want to be a spy. Zeke quickly tied his hands behind him with one of the boy’s shoelaces. He shoved one of Oliver’s own socks in his mouth and held it in place with the other shoelace tied around the back of his head. Geoffrey, the commander said, Go tell Mike of one enemy is down. Then come back. Geoffrey had a look on his face like he had just been commanded to eat dog droppings, but he nodded and ran off. Zeke resumed the hunt.

Coming around the trunk of a large oak tree, he saw someone, a girl with long, brown hair in a ponytail, waiting in ambush behind a thicket, watching the path. He stealthily snuck up from behind and, grabbing her around the waist with one arm and putting his hand over her mouth with the other, fell backward into the leaves, his body pinning her to the forest floor. It was Melanie, the long-legged brunette from someplace called Michigan. At first, she was terrified by the surprise, but when she saw who it was, she laughed behind his hand and he released her.

"What do you want?" she said playfully. Her hair splayed in the leaves.

You have a choice, the commander of the seekers said seriously. You can be a spy for my team or you can be bound and gagged until the end of the game.

Oh, I’ll be a spy, she said without hesitation. She then took his face in both her hands and planted a luscious, long and syrupy kiss on his lips. The tip of her tongue sought its way between his lips and touched his teeth. Then she playfully pulled her face away, saying Matter of fact, I know where the flag is. Let’s go. Stunned and disoriented, the commander was instantly disarmed, the war momentarily forgotten. "Come on, bonehead, she prodded. Do you want to win this game or not?" Zeke watched her run off through the woods, with long tan legs flashing and ponytail bouncing from side to side. He scrambled to his feet and followed.

Through the woods, Zeke could see only one person guarding the flag but when they neared the position, Zeke’s breath caught in his throat with shock and anger, for there, sitting on the log, was his team-mate Geoffrey. He wondered, was this guy a double-agent or traitor? It made no difference, he decided. Zeke whispered a few words into his companion’s ear.

Melanie sauntered over to the log with a friendly wave and sat closely by a pleasantly surprised Geoffrey while Zeke snuck up soundlessly from behind. Snapping an arm around the boy’s chest, Zeke jerked the sentinel from his seat on the log and twisted him to the ground. With a knee on his back, he bound the boy’s hands with another shoelace. His protests, muffled by the leaves of the forest floor, went unanswered. Zeke plucked the flag from its hiding place in the log and commanded Melanie: Go tell Mike to round up all prisoners and start walking to the finish point. I’ll bring this guy in five minutes. Can I depend on you?

Yes, Sir, she said with a perky, but very mocking salute and ran off.

In exactly five minutes, Zeke marched with the flag and his prisoner onto the soccer field. Other members of his team appeared from various places in the woods with their own prisoners and allies. Juan, captured by one of the enemy, was set free. The rest of the enemy team had been captured or converted with the flag delivered to Counselor Blaine in an elapsed time of exactly 27 minutes, a new camp record, which elicited bloodthirsty cheers from the seeker’s team and a knowing, coy wink to Zeke from Melanie. Their onslaught had been so swift and calculatingly brutal, the counselors decided to not play the game again until after the Arabic boys left camp. Meanwhile, Zeke had decided he enjoyed commanding an army.

Several days later, after the evening meal, when the setting sun turned the northern woods to gold and orange and blue, and the light filtered through the treetops in bright, dusty streaks, the campers were encouraged to take time for quiet, personal reflection. Some took books to the pier at the lake. Others played chess. Others wrote letters home. Melanie asked Zeke if he would like to take a walk and, remembering her impulsive kiss, he agreed. He glanced at Mahmoud who shrugged his approval.

The two campers sauntered off on the hiking trail that circumnavigated the soccer field, kidding and chattering like two lifelong friends or grown siblings. They had a history now. They were war buddies. When the sounds of camp had faded to an occasional sprig of laughter or the call of a loon, Melanie took Zeke’s hand. She stopped and leaned against a large tree. Did you like that kiss the other day? she asked, looking at him out of the top of her eyes. Such a question demanded an answer.

Very much, he said, stepping warily closer.

Then maybe you’ll like this, she said, placing his hand on her breast. He closed his eyes, somewhat shocked, but wishing the moment would never end. Or this, she said coyly, slipping the same hand under her T-shirt to her bare breast. He felt bolder and gently explored the soft, warm flesh with its odd, Jelloey texture, his thumb brushing the hard nipple. Her eyes became dreamy. Or this, she whispered, taking his free hand and putting it up under her jeans skirt. There was no underwear, only the warmth and mysterious slippery space that made his loins go hard and his heart race. Don’t stop, she begged. Kiss me. Their tongues touched and then wrestled in unbridled frenzy. His senses were overloading now. He couldn’t explain why his body was suddenly full of a rushing madness and desire. And then he felt her hands unbuckling his belt, sliding into his shorts and… touching him. Well, she panted with the smile of an accomplice, I think you like me. You’re ready. I’m ready. What’re we waiting for? She tugged him down to the wood chip path and lay him on his back. She stripped off his shorts and peeled off her t-shirt with one deft flip and sat astride him, guiding him easily, rocking slowly, oh so slowly. Zeke tried not to panic. It was too much. The sight of perfect, young breasts swaying, wobbling as she moved, her wanting him so much and now being inside her, out of control. He thought his mind would explode.

Touch me, she rasped, rocking faster…