Saints Of The Red Sands

In many stories, in many tales, the hero goes through trial after trial. Hardship after hardship. He or she faces challenges. Some big, some small. Be it an epic battle with a villain, or battle common to most of those that are hearing the story. But I have a story here of two young boys who would suffer pain, emotions, and experience situations the likes of which one can not fathom. This is the story of the noble Kroger Haggai and his merciless brother-in-arms, Amir Ajam. Though not saints by definition, they are saints at heart. These are the events that would shape them into the men that they are today. The Saints of the Red Sands.

October 12th, 1981.

Ten miles outside of Khost, Afghanistan.

"The Russian men from the north have come here to aid our enemy in keeping us oppressed. How dare they?" An older Afghan man said to the many Mujahideen that were lined up, their assault rifles in their hands or resting at their sides. "Do we allow these white men to invade our home? Do we allow these white men to rape our women? Do we? The answer is simple. We get on our knees, we face Mecca, and we pray so that God may empower us. So that he may give one man here the strength to kill 100 hundred Russians all by himself!" The Mujahid leader shouted amongst his ranks. "You!" He said, pointing to a young man with dark skin and brown eyes. "You are the Jew boy?" He asked the young man, prompting him to nod. "What is your name?" He asked, "Amir." The boy responded, "Amir? A Jew boy named Amir? I would have thought you'd be an Adam, or an Isaiah. You must have some Arab blood in you. Is that why you fight with us? Is that why you fight with us Muslims?" The Mujahid commander said, "I saw that you came with the other. Come forward, both of you. I want you to stand out as you seem to be our youngest."

Amir stepped forward, another Middle Eastern teenager following his lead. "You are?" The Mujahid commander asked, "Kroger, sir." The boy responded, "Kroger? A white man's name? Sir? We are not the white man and his army. You may call me by my name, not sir, if you haven't forgotten it. Basir Hamza. Let me hear you say it." Basir said to the two, "Basir Hamza." Kroger and Amir responded at the same time, "Louder." Basir ordered. "Basir Hamza." The two said, raising their voices. "Everyone, I want you to say my name. No, chant my name. Scream my name. Let the white man know who leads the army that will win yet another war for God! Basir Hamza!" The charismatic Mujahid leader shouted.

"Basir Hamza!" Came roaring from the crowd, "Again!" Basir shouted, "Basir Hamza!" The group of freedom fighters screamed again, "Get louder! Make noise! Fire your guns into the air! Once you have no more bullets in your weapon I want you to roam the camp, head to your stations! Prepare yourselves for the day that our leaders are ready to send us to battle! Do not prepare for your own death! Prepare for the death of the Russian men!"

Basir grinned as the men and teenagers fired their weapons into the air, as they screamed. "Amir, Kroger. Welcome."

October 11th, 1981. 2330. Soviet Commanders Briefing Room

Commander Dimitri Mikarov takes a seat in his usual seat at the briefing table. The slideshow begins promptly. General Petrenko speaks in a low, calm voice. The slide-shower shows a map of Afghanistan. "This," the general began in Russian, "is our target. Afghanistan. The first step into the Middle East, which will allow a slow domination of Asia, then Africa, then we will strangle Europe, allowing passage to America." General Petrenko uses the laser pointer to point to a section of the northern border. "There, is where the Resistance lies. Mujahadeen. These "infidels" wish to stop us. Now, are we going to let that happen?" Then other commanders grumble scattered "No"s and "Hell no"s. "Good!" the general said enthusiastically. "Now, I want Mikarov to go in tonight, set up base, and shoot some of those damn Resistors before we bring in the Heat, all right comrades?" Mikarov silently nods his head and stands up, walking out of the room and back to the barracks to tell his squad.

Despite regulations, Mikarov always worked with the same squad on every mission. Additional squads were fine, but he worked with people he trusted. "Внимание!" he shouts into his squad's barracks, waking them all up raucously. His soldiers stand up in their underwear and rub the scum from their eyes. "We're going on a mission," he says in Russian. "I need you all to get changed, immediately. Zariov," he instructs, pointing at the soldier with short, blonde hair with a burn mark across his torso. "You work twice as fast. I need you on convoy detail. Get changed, get your guns and ammo, get your grenades, and meet me by Comrade 015." He gives his men a salute and walks to the armory.

All his seven of his squad members return to the Comrade as Zariov prepares for take-off. Each soldier except for Zariov and the squad sniper, Raesha, had AK47s with several frag grenades and smoke grenades along with combat knives. Their armor was standard brown for desert ops. After a briefing by Mikarov, the team boards the chopper and takes off for their destination.

October 16th, 1981.

Five miles outside of Khost, Afghanistan.

Basir stood at a road, one hand waving down vehicles. "Hey!" He shouted, each car going by him or not seeing him. "Oh! Oh!" He waved towards the small convoy of military vehicles coming his way. They slowed down near him, one of the soldiers hopping out of his truck, but he was wary of approaching the Arab man. He was a Soviet soldier, but he seemed to be the designated linguist."What's wrong?" The Russian soldier asked, "I need a ride to my family in Khost." Basir responded, "My truck broke down up the road." He then told the Russian soldier. "That was your truck? That was miles up the road. You shouldn't be walking. I'll see if I can clear it with the others, we aren't really supposed to give rides considering what's going on." The soldier said to Basir, "I understand. You can search me if you like, no weapons, no bombs or anything." Basir said. "Just hold on, alright?" The soldier climbed back into his truck, speaking his native tongue with the others. As this was going on Basir would stretch, his seemingly innocent movements prompting Amir, Kroger, and several others to drop grenades under and on the roofs of the trucks before heading for cover.

"Boom!" Basir shouted as he began to sprint up the road, cackling wildly as the grenades went off behind him. Obviously the soldiers were caught off guard, most being killed as they didn't get out of their trucks in time. Others were severely wounded, laying in the sand with blood pouring out of their bodies. "Amir, Kroger, prove your worth. Kill these men." Basir yelled, "Do it! Show them that the white man is not welcome here!" Basir screamed. "Are you ready...?" Amir asked Kroger, "We just blew these men up, yes I'm ready..." Kroger responded, getting to his feet. He readied his AK-47, Amir close to him. "Now." Amir said, he and Kroger then spraying their weapons along the destroyed vehicles. Their bullets tearing up the bodies of survivors and of the dead. They didn't let up until they ran out of ammo, but even then they didn't seem to want to stop.

"Yes! Yes! That's what I like to see! Two kind-of-Arab Jew boys fighting for the cause. We will not let the white man rape our little slice of paradise, will we? We will not become puppets! Amir! Kroger! All of you! Seek out the white man, kill them. Kill them all. Women! Children! Reporters! Soldiers! They must be taught a lesson! This is not their land." Basir screamed, "Go!"