Free The Forgotten Land by Keith McArdle

his slowly advancing comrade. He gazed at the stars
with feigned interest. In reality, Scott was waiting for the patrolling soldier
to catch up with him.
    Without
looking around, Scott continued strolling towards their destination. They were
much closer now. The pair moved on for another ten minutes before they rounded
a corner. Will saw movement ahead. It was a man with his back to them. The
acrid aroma of cigarette smoke drifted through the air. Scott immediately
changed direction towards the Iraqi. Will almost chuckled as he realised that
Scott probably wanted nothing more than to steal a smoke off him. But he
probably had not seen the man as quickly as Will’s night vision eyes had. In
such a small town, it would be suspicious to ignore a person, even at such an
early hour of the morning. The man coughed and spat, before turning towards
Scott as he heard him approach.
    “As-salaam
alaykum,” Will heard Scott speak, waving at the man.
    “Peace
be with you,” Scott said in Arabic, waving at the man as he advanced.
    The
Iraqi man responded in kind.
    “I
arrived yesterday afternoon visiting my sister who has just moved here,” Scott
began. “I’m so excited to see her again that I could not sleep. I haven’t seen
her for nearly ten years now, would you believe? Excuse my poor manners, I am
Ahmad Dhabi,” said Scott smiling cheerfully, his face hidden within his shamag.
He could not remember whether Iraqi people shook hands when introducing
themselves, so he simply fell silent.
    “Yes,
family is important, ten years is a long time my friend! I am Adil Abu,” the
Iraqi responded warmly, holding out his hand. Scott took it and was surprised
at the strength of Adil’s grip.
    Meanwhile
Will had moved slowly and carefully forward until he was about twenty metres
from the men, which was close enough that a single accurate shot could be taken
on the Iraqi, killing him instantly. Very quietly and deliberately, Will lay
down on his stomach and sighted the M4 at the Iraqi’s chest. A gunshot would
attract attention, but it would guarantee a kill. Will had a bayonet with him,
and even though killing a man with a knife was quiet, it was not as easy as
Hollywood made it look.
    When
someone was murdered by a person wielding a knife, they were usually stabbed
well in excess of fifteen times. Contrary to popular belief, this was not
because the murderer was completely crazy, but because the victim was still
alive, struggling, screaming or gurgling, gasping or writhing in agony. To kill
a person with one blow of a knife took a professional who could sneak
soundlessly upon an enemy. Once close enough they would have to inflict a wound
either in their enemy’s throat, cutting the voice box and carotid artery, or
the chest, cutting between the ribs and piercing the heart. Or, if the victim
had been knocked to the ground with their back uppermost, a knife blow to the
base of the skull would severe the spine and cease communications between the
brain and the body. However, one single shot from a safe distance would kill an
enemy and re-establish Scott’s safety if it were compromised.
    “What
is your sister’s name?” asked Adil. “I might know her.”
    “That
is the reason I am visiting her,” said Scott pausing for a moment, having side
stepped the question. “She has only just moved here herself. She is staying
with someone over the other side of town. She was a journalist in Baghdad, but
fled when the Iraqi army started rounding up Kurds in the city. She wanted to
live in a small town somewhere far away from all that. I have helped her move
what little belongings she had here. We arrived yesterday afternoon. I might
stay another week or so, before I head back home.” Scott smiled cheerfully,
hoping to Christ the man believed him.
    “Yes,
the violence has not been good. Still America have given us justice against the
Iraqis, we are only repaying them for generations of oppression. It is not good
that your sister was