Saturday, November 24, 2007

Afghan Rape - Part 1 (2)


The march was like a nightmare for Cathy. Stunned by the blast, she initially did not know where she was or who these men around her were. She allowed herself to be half carried, half dragged up the ridge and then down a valley to another steep ridgeline. Her senses returned only slowly. At first she thought these men were helping her; that there had been a crash and they were taking her to a hospital. Repeatedly she ask in a dazed voice about the others in her crew, but found no one who could, or would, respond to her English. Only slowly did she remember the forced landing and the sudden explosions. It was the worst shock of her life when Cathy finally understood what had happened and realized that she had been taken prisoner by men she had to assume were at best Taliban and quite possibly Al Qaida fighters. The realization that her men must be dead washed painfully over her. It took all her willpower to put aside the feelings of guilt she felt and focus on surviving. She continued to pretend that she was still in shock in hopes of finding an opportunity to escape. Cathy waited until just before darkness, then she made her attempt. Pretending to stumble against the man on her right, she drove her knee into his crotch, bringing him to his knees. Then she tried to use her left elbow to smash into the face of the other man. That blow miscarried when he was able to hang onto her arm. As she struggled with the second man, the tall dark man walking in front of them spun around and brutally drove the muzzle of his rifle deep into her stomach. With the air knocked out of her, Cathy was easily brought down by the man with whom she was struggling. As Cathy screamed and cursed at them, more hands grabbed her, holding her arms, punching her in the stomach and breasts, and finally twisting her over onto her stomach, then pulling her hands behind her and tying them tightly with a length of rope. While one knelt on her back to hold her down, others tied each end of a short length of rope to each leg, creating an effective hobble if she should try to run away again. When she was again hauled to her feet, the bound and battered Cathy found the dark clad man standing in front of her, another length of rope in his hand. To her surprise, he addressed her in perfect English,

" What is your name, girl?"

Despite her surprise at his use of English, Cathy responded as she had been trained- with name , rank, and serial number.

" Harper, Cathy C. ,Captain , United States Army, 409-67-0221"

" No. You are wrong. That is not who you are. You are no longer Harper, Captain, United States Army. You are now the slave Cathy. I am your Master. A merciful master, once you have learned to obey. A merciless one if you do not. I know Western women like you , Cathy. I know that obedience will not come easy to you. But you will learn your place. With God's help, I shall see to that."

For a moment Cathy was rendered speechless by the man's bizarre words . Then she straightened her back and snapped defiantly back at him:

" I am an officer in the American Army. I may be a prisoner of war, but no man is my master."

" I shall be, God willing."

The Arab reached up and put one end of the rope he carried over Cathy's head. The noose encircled her neck. He pulled it tight, tight enough to make breathing just a bit difficult. The other end he kept in his hand. Without another word he walked away, jerking Cathy after him by the noose around her neck. He led her like that for the rest of the night, pulling her along behind him as one would a reluctant donkey. He ignored her, never looking back at her. He simply walked forward forcing her to follow or to be dragged over the rocky trail. When Cathy tried to protested vocally or balked, the man walking behind her- the man she had kneed- would use the muzzle of his rifle to prod her forward, jabbing it painfully hard into her kidneys. Not as painful but even more humiliating was the way the man would grab her ass every time she began to lag even a little. Put off balance by the arms bound behind her back, jerked, groped, and prodded forward, her legs hobbles forcing her to shuffle along behind the Arab at a half run, Cathy was soon exhausted by the effort required of her. Her thermal underwear and flight suit quickly became soaked with her sweat despite the cold. Her lungs struggled for each breath in the thinner mountain air . Her strong leg muscles, accustomed to regularly running hard for an hour on the treadmill, felt weak as water. It was all her strong will could do to keep herself on her feet, moving forward. All thoughts of escape were put aside as she struggled simply to keep up with her captors. By the time they reached the cave in the early morning hours, Cathy was too exhausted to want anything other than to lie down and sleep. The Arab led her into one of the interior rooms of the huge cave and tied one end of the rope around her neck to the wooden frame of an elevated dirt sleeping platform. He did not speak; he only watched. Cathy collapsed onto the cold floor of the cave, quickly falling into an exhausted sleep. She lay there on the rocky ground, curled up into a fetal position on her side, her arms still tied behind her back, her feet still hobbled by the length of rope, tied like a dog on a leash.


The Arab stood over her, intently staring at the face of the sleeping figure, thoughts of jihad replaced now by thoughts of earthly pleasure. He watched her face for a long time, the earlier anger on her face softened by sleep and the soft light of the lantern on the table. She was beautiful, he thought, far more so that any woman he had ever been with. She was strong as well as beautiful. And proud. Far too strong and too proud for a woman. She was everything he found both attractive and repellant in a woman. He would change that, he vowed. This would be his new jihad. He would make her into the perfect woman, submissive and beautiful. One who lived to serve the man God had placed over her. There were places he knew of , places in Yemen not too far from his homeland, where the old ways were still alive. There slavery was still practiced, as the Prophet, blessed be his name, had said it should be. There, in Yemen, the Law was still pure, unlike the law in his homeland where the Westerners and their Saudi puppets had corrupted it. If he could get her to Yemen, he could enjoy his slave in safety. To keep as a slave a Western woman - a woman who was also an officer of the infidel army as well as captured in battle- would be a deed worthy of his ancestors. And a strong blow for the true faith. And a deed which would win him much praise from those few righteous men with whom he could safely share his achievement. Men like Osama bin Laden, who, the Arab was convinced, was now hiding there in Yemen. Men with whom he could share his stories of jihad. And perhaps even his slave. Yes, to Yemen. There, God willing, he would have the time he needed to train this Cathy to accept her proper place. The thought made him smile. On a personal level, it would be a fitting revenge for the humiliations he had suffered from the whims of an American woman when he had been young and foolish. When he had been in love with the power and vitality of the Americans . Before he had found that there was no place for him there. But, like all women, he knew that she would bring dissension in her wake. He had seen through Kehalis' pitiful attempt at deception. Kehalis wanted the blonde woman for himself, as though an unclean pig like him had any idea of what to do with such a treasure. For him to have Cathy would be a waste of Gods largess. Kehalis merely wished to rut with her; he had no idea of how to truly possess her. To get her, Kehalis will no doubt try to stir up the other men, men of his treacherous blood, to betray him despite the money they would lose by killing him. It was in the nature God had given those fools to see only the prize to be taken today, never the larger prize. They would forget entirely about the money when Kehalis aroused their lust for the infidel woman. But Kehalis would not be able to keep Cathy for himself. Once aroused, the men would all want her and quarrel among themselves over her until all but one of them were killed fighting over her. And then that lone survivor would probably be deceived and killed by the blonde. No, he could not allow that to happen. God willing, he would prevail, using his guile to defeat their numbers.

The Arab leaned down and shook the sleeping woman, arousing her only with difficulty. Cathy instinctively shied away from him as soon as enough of her wits returned to make her aware of who he was and where she was. She tired to raise to her feet to confront him, but the rope tied around her neck prevented that, forcing to remain on her knees in front of the standing man, forced her to stare up at him as he towered over her. With her hands still tied behind her back, there was nothing else she could do. The Arab pulled a jambiya, large curved knife common to Arab lands, from his belt and held it in front of him as he leaned over her. Cathy instinctively braced herself. But, to her surprise, the tall man only reached into the open neck of her flight suit and pulled out her dog tags. He used his knife to cut through the plastic covering and the light metal chain which held it around her neck and then retreated a step and began carefully examining the information found on her two dog tags. Cathy was surprised and a little frightened at the ability of his knife to slice through the chain holding her dog tags like that,. Nevertheless, she sat quietly on her heels, determined not to speak until he did. She studied the man who held her. He appeared Arab to her rather than Afghan or Pakistani. taller than the local men she had seen. His countenance was dark; everything about him was , in fact, dark- his hair, his short beard, his eyes, his skin tone, and the clothing he wore. Seen in other circumstances, she might even have called him handsome in a dangerous way. Seen here, under these circumstances, he appeared very frightening to her. While she was intently studying him, he appeared to be ignoring her, seemingly intent upon reading the scant information- name, rank, religion, blood type- contained on her dog tags. After a moment, he casually pocketed the dog tags as if they were no longer of interest to him and turned his interest to his blonde captive.

" You did not flinch at the sight of my knife. You have courage .. for a woman. Nor did you speak without permission. You have learned your first lesson. That a woman - particularly a female slave- does not question a man.. I am pleased, slave. "

Cathy stiffened noticeably at his use of the word "slave".

" I am not your slave. I am a prisoner of war, and as such I am entitled to be treated as a soldier. NOT AS A SLAVE!. I don't know who you think you are, but you better think twice before you do something you will regret later when you're sitting in an American prison. "

" You are my slave, Cathy. You are no longer a soldier, if you ever were. All that you knew is gone. You are simply my property under the Law to do with as I wish."

" Who the fuck do you think you are? You can't own another human being. There aren't any slaves anymore. They're.... not legal! And I am Captain Harper to you, not "Cathy". A Prisoner of War has the right to be addressed by her rank. You need think about your situation here. They're looking for me now, you know. The American Army. What do you think will happen to you if they find you haven't respected my rights as a POW?"

He did not raise his voice or show any outward signs of anger as he replied, which strangely frightened Cathy more. Instead he spoke slowly and distinctly as one would speak to a very young or particularly slow child.

" The word of God, the Qur'an- what you foreigners call the Koran- tells us that unbelievers captured in battle by the warriors of Islam become slaves. They and all they possess become the property of the chosen Believer. The law is merciful as it is laid down by God, most gracious and most merciful. The law allows such slaves to have their freedom bought back by ransom or by the surrender of the remaining Unbelievers. Or eventually to be manumitted by the Believer whose slave they are, if the slave truly embraces Islam, the one true faith. But I do not see either your President paying for your freedom or surrendering to the Faithful. Nor do I see a Western whore like you surrendering to the truth of Islam and accepting your proper role as a woman. The Law also states that a woman taken by the right hand of a Believer -captured as a result of battle- are slaves. They too can be freed by ransom or accepting the True Faith. But they have another alternative; they can seek freedom through marriage, seek it by becoming a pleasure to their Master. Perhaps that alternative is one you should consider. For you most assuredly are a slave. You are not longer Captain Harper of your Godless army. You are the slave Cathy. Nothing more. And I am your Master. That is how you will address me, as Master. I control everything about your life now. I control whether you live or die, and everything you do - or that is done to you. Every breath you draw is a boon from me. Every necessity you receive, food or water or even being allowed to relieve yourself, is a gift from me, not a right. To receive any of these necessities, you must humbly ask for them from me. And to do so, you must address me as Master. Only that word will find my ear. I am deaf to all others. "

" No, I am a prisoner of war. You cannot make me a slave. This is the 21st century. There is no slavery now. No one can own another human being. Slavery died centuries ago. I am a prisoner of war."

" Your slavery is God's will, Cathy. No mere passage of time can change the will of God. Nor can man forbid what God in his Holy Law, the Shari'a, has permitted. What was his will before is his will now. As the Faithful enslaved your Frankish crusaders and freed the Holy places in the time of the true Caliphate, so today shall the Faithful enslave you and those crusaders like you who fight against the Faith and shall once more cleanse the Holy places. I grow impatient with you, slave. It is God's will. And it is not the place of a woman to question God's will. Do you desire water.. food ..after your journey?

His words made Cathy realize how thirsty she was. And hungry after the long night march. But she still shook her head and replied,

" I will not call you Master! Never! You cannot deny a prisoner of war food and water under the Geneva convention. "

" You are not a prisoner of war. You are a slave. You have no rights. Do you want a drink of water, slave?"

Cathy struggle to control her temper. She knew she should not provoke the man. He was obviously a madman. But she could not bring herself to call him "Master". And she hated the demeaning way he called her "slave". Even his use of "Cathy" made her feel that he was talking to a child rather than a grown woman and an officer in her countys Army.

" Yes, I do. But I will not call you master to get one. I have no master. I am not a slave. I am a prisoner of war, and I demand to be treated as one. Starting with being addressed by my rank."

The dark man simply shrugged and picked up a large water bottle from a crudely built table near the sleeping platform. As Cathy watched, he took a long drink. Then he set the water bottle down just out of her reach on the cave floor and lay down on the sleeping platform above her. In moments, he seemed by his regular breathing to be asleep. Cathy struggle with the rope on her wrists, but could not loosen it in the least. She tried rubbing it against the sharpest thing she could find within her reach, the corner of the platform, but the ropes held. She gave up eventually. She simply sat on the floor, leaning with her back against the platform and her legs out in front of her, her eyes unable to look away from the water bottle. With it right in front of her eyes, but out of her reach, her thirst quickly grew from a discomfort to a torture. The dark man's words confused her. He had shown no interest in learning anything of military value. He had not ask her a single question about her mission or her unit. This ran counter to everything Cathy had been taught to expect if she was taken prisoner. She did not understand what he wanted from her. Or how she was supposed to resist him other than the obvious answer of escape. Between her thirst and the terrible uncertainties running through her mind, she could not get back to sleep, tired as she was. She was still staring at the water bottle hours later when she heard the man begin to stir.

She watched him rise and move to the other sleeping platform against the opposite wall of the room. He appeared to take no notice to the bound American woman. She watched as he opened the small rucksack lying on the platform and took out a piece of the local unleavened bread and ate it, then begin to nibble on some dates. After a few moments, he picked up the water bottle from where he had put it on the floor and took a long swig. Cathy could stand it no longer. Why, she thought, did it matter what she called this man. If she had been captured by members of a real army, She would have had no problem addressing a senior officer of their army as "sir" or by his rank title. How was that different than calling this man by the title "Master"? She told herself that simply saying the word " Master" did not mean she was accepting his dominance over her, only yielding to superior force for the moment, until the opportunity presented itself to escape. She had to have water if she was to survive. And as long as she gave him no information which might endanger American forces, what did it matter what she said? Slowly. Cathy convinced herself that playing along with this madman was the wisest course of action. In reality, the young female officer had over the last few hours made the very basic gut level decision that she wanted to live. From that followed the need to do anything demanded of her by her captor, however repulsive to her. Cathy rationalized that to survive, she would have to give up her pride and humor this madman, though only for the moment, only until she could escape or was rescued. Though she almost choked on the words, she forced them out:
Afghan Rape - Part 1 (1)

M/F, Gang/F, very long tale with plot, prolonged captivity, fucking, anal, fisting, lots of bondage, fellatio, rimming, violence, caning/whipping, whipped with belt, branding.
DISCLAIMERS: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This story includes fictional descriptions of rape, torture, and bondage. If these descriptions are likely to offend you, DO NOT READ THIS STORY. If you are under twenty-one years of age, DO NOT READ THIS STORY. There are a few things in my story which I didn't make up. One is the legality under Islamic law of enslaving women captured in war. That portion of the law remains unchanged, though little used given the Arabic world's six century losing streak. The other is that the story of the English Captain is taken from an autobiography of John Masters, an officer in the colonial Indian Army between the World Wars. Now, as well as in his experience, Afghanistan is a cruel and dangerous place for Western soldiers regardless of their sex. This story is dedicated to Di and Mad Gerald.

SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN: 1530 hours local time."SHIT SHIT, SHIT, RED LIGHT .... HYDRAULICS." " Roger Captain. I see it." replied the male voice, calm as always. " Looks like we better be setting it down right now. There. The road at 2 o'clock looks like the only flat ground I can see. "
" Yea. Looks clear. You bring it down, I'll call in", replied the female voice. She sounded calmer now , reassured and just a little shamed, by the matter of fact tone of the older warrant officer. But she remained worried enough to put her pride aside and let the more experienced warrant handle the emergency landing, even though she was nominally the officer in command of the UH-60 helicopter.
" Blade one one, this is Blade one six, Mayday, Mayday, Making emergency landing vicinity grid two three eight niner... I say again.. Mayday... emergency landing vicinity grid two three eight niner..over"
Only static came back to her over the radio. She tried again as the warrant officer lined the heavy copter up with the strip of sandy road which bisected the narrow valley below them. Again only static came back to her. There was no response from her units flight control station. Nor could she raise the special forces detachment they had just left 10 minutes earlier. Line of sight tended to be short in these mountains. With no contact with any station, there was nothing more for her to do other than warn the two door gunners in back and take a good grip on the sides of her armored seat as the aircraft spiraled downward. On either side of the road were steep boulder covered ridges; smaller rocks and gullies bordered the road itself. There was no room for error; the valley was barely wider than the copter's blades. She realized that she was holding her breath. It took a force of will to make herself breath as she watched the snow dusted Afghani landscape came hurdling at her.
As soon as the first hint of the noise of the helicopter's rotors reached them, the ragged line of men had literally dissolve into the rocks of the ridgeline they were following. Instantly all but one man squatted down behind a rock, pulled a woolen blanket over their bodies to foil the American's heat sensors, and lay huddled under it, a sincere appeal for Allah;s protection on each man's lips. The only exception was a tall man dressed entirely in black, wearing an Arab head cloth, a kaffiyeh, along with expensive Western style synthetic cold weather clothing rather than the rough locally spun, earth colored wool coats and pants of the other men. He did condescend to kneel beside a rock outcropping, but he made no effort to hide himself under a blanket as his companions had done. Such a response was both beyond his experience since he had no knowledge of war as fought in Afghanistan and beneath his contempt as the descendant of proud warriors of the tribe of Beni Umaiya. Centuries ago, in the time of the Prophet, his Arabian ancestors had exploded out of the Arabian desert to conquered the civilized world for the Faith. He would not hide from infidels like these cowardly Afghan farmers. Instead, he welcomed the appearance of the aircraft. He longed to meet his enemies face to face in battle as his ancestors had. That was the reason he had come to this desolate place. He watched with interest as the lone helicopter spiraled down to a hard landing in the small valley directly below him. But instead of a squad of soldiers disembarking to do battle, he saw the craft shut down its engines, and three figures exit the now silent aircraft. Watching as they set one of their number to guard the turn in the road, he realized that they were oblivious to his presence above them on the ridge . Unable to believe his good fortune, he carefully scanned the surrounding sky, but could find no other aircraft. God was indeed good. With a whispered " Kehalis" , he curtly called the young man with the old eyes who was the leader of the Afghans to him. Kehalis was the only one of the Afghans who understood, if barely, his Arabic. Kehalis was also, unlike him, a man experienced in the ways of Afghanistan's many wars. But even for a neophyte such as the dark man, the mechanics of destroying this handful of infidels which God had deliver into his hands seemed simple enough. God, he thought, was indeed gracious. Though he had only been inside Afghanistan for three days, he was already in a position to fulfill his vow of jihad by destroying at least these three infidels. He could only hope that God had been so kind as to make them American infidels.
The leader of the Poshtoons , the man named Kehalis, had also been watching the events unfolding below them. For once, he agreed with the arrogant Arab. It was an easy target- easy because the men below seemed oblivious to the dangers presented by men on the ridgeline. Provided they acted quickly before more Americans arrived. Unlike the dark man beside him, Kehalis was a veteran of years of mountain warfare, having fought in several jihads in Afghanistan even though he was technically a citizen of Pakistan . As a Poshtoon, he had little concept of such arbitrary national distinctions and was equally at home in the tribal areas on either side of the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. He had fought twice against the Northern Alliance as a teenager and more recently against the Americans. Orphaned as a young boy during the mujahideens war against the Russians, he had been found by his Mullah in a refugee camp in Pakistan and raised in the Mullah's madrassa, his religious school. The Mullah had been the father Kehalis had lost, feeding him, protecting him, and then teaching him his duty to his Faith. For this, he owed his Mullah his loyalty and his service. Kehalis had no more thought of questioning that than he did of questioning the sunrise. He knew nothing else, had no one else. It was his Mullah who had ordered him to fight jihad against the Northern Alliance and the Americans, and it was the Mullah who had ordered him to organize and lead a band of men to accompany the Arab - which was how he thought of the tall dark man, since he had never been told the foreigner's real name. Because his Mullah had charged him to obey the Arab, he did. He knew that the others in their band saw no reason to obey a foreigner, and an inexperienced warrior at that, even if a believer. That too was his people's traditions; he did not think less of them for it. Kehalis simply accepted that, if he were to fulfill the charge given him by his Mullah, he had to balance their mistrust of the Arab against their strong desire for the money that the Arab had offered them to accompany him and fight for him.
Despite his obedience to the man, Kehalis despised and hated the Arab. He despised him because the Arab had come here to experience war as a sport, like others of his kind had come here long ago in peacetime to hunt exotic game. He knew that the Arab would spend a few weeks here on his private jihad and then go back to his comfortable world in Arabia without another thought for Kehalis or those like him who had lived with this unending war all their lives. He despised the Arab even more because he knew the man looked down upon him. The Arab was wealthy and traveled, while Kehalis was not. His arrogance in this was unforgivable in Kehalis' eyes since it was a defiance of the words of the Prophet that all believers were equal. He despised the man for all these reasons, but he hated the Arab for a very personal reason. He hated him for the way he made fun of Kehalis' spoken Arabic. Raised to speak only a dialectic of eastern Pashto, Kehalis had painfully taught himself written Arabic in order to be able to read the Koran in its original tongue. It was an achievement of which Kehalis was extraordinarily prou because it was the only thing which set him apart from his fellow students at the madrassa and the one thing which made him special to the Mullah, who, even if he could not comprehend the Arabic words, enjoyed listening to Kehalis speak the words of the Koran in Gods own language. Kehalis knew he did not possess the purity of the spoken word that any Arab would take for granted,. But for the Arab to meanly mock his hard won skill enraged him. He would do as the Mullah ordered, but Kehalis would not be sadden if it was God's will that the Arab went to paradise on this trip.
For the moment, Kehalis simply hid his feelings and nodded at the words the Arab spoke to him. The way the man wish to go about the attack was unnecessarily dangerous, but he did not argue with the Arab. He simply nodded his head and then gave his men the orders to do it the proper way. He knew from painful experience that killing Americans was not easy. They would take no chances. Three of his men with one of the tube shaped rocket propelled grenade launchers - the ubiquitous RPG which was their most effective weapon- were told to move to a position above the lone man guarding the bend in the road, taking full advantage of the way in which his attention was foolishly focused on the road itself rather than on the more dangerous ridgeline above him. That man was dangerous; he had a machinegun. Kehalis told the other six men with the remaining RPG to carefully move closer to the big helicopter for a better shoot. Kehalis could see the barrel of another machinegun extending from the left side of the machine; its side to side movement indicating that it was manned. Here was another dangerous man, but one which Kehalis thought could not see them on the ridgeline since he could not see the machinegunner in the helicopter . The two figures on the top appeared unarmed and focused only on fixing their machine. With care, none of the Americans would see his men until it was too late. Kehalis stayed with the Arab both to keep him from doing something foolish and to oversee both groups. Once his men were in position, he would give the signal by firing his AK. Kehalis watched and waited, his body absolutely still, his face blank, as once again he prepared himself to face battle. The Arab fidgeted beside Kehalis, compulsively checking and rechecking the magazine and safety of the shortened AK he carried, unable to contain his impatience for the bloodshed to begin .
Captain Cathy Harper stood behind the left door gun, moving it nervously from side to side as she scanned the half mile or so of empty road that stretched out in front of her. She could hear CWO2 Johnson and the crew chief, SGT Grimes, talking as they moved around on the top of the UH-60, carefully pouring their reserve cans of hydraulic fluid one by one into the rotor system. That and the duct tape Grimes had wrapped around the leaking hydraulic line would, she hoped, be enough to get them back to the SF detachment they had left shortly before the rotor began to ran dry . Ten minutes flying time, at worst, she figured. She felt frustrated at her lack of control in this situation. She was the aircraft commander, but it was Johnson and Grimes who had decided what need to be done without any reference to her. Her only contribution had been to see to their security by sending PFC Williams to the bend in the road to guard the southern road approach while she manned Grimes' door gun and watched the northern road approach.
Cathy took off her flight helmet and ran her hand through her short blonde hair. The more she thought about this, the angrier she became. All her life men had been doing things for her, regardless of whether or not she wanted them done. While Johnson hadn't said anything quite so crude as , " Don't worry your pretty little head about this" , that had been his attitude, and she hated it. Her physical beauty- the blonde hair, the high cheekbones, the sky blue eyes, and the full, naturally pouting lips- had always had that effect on men. Having been born with that natural beauty, she took it for granted. Cathy wanted to be judged on her abilities and intelligence, which she had in abundance - along with a strong, even selfish, will, the result of a rather spoiled childhood as the only child of a career Army officer and his equally career oriented Army wife. Rather than follow her Mother's desires that she marry a promising young man and produce children, Cathy intended to follow in the footsteps of her deceased father. She had joined the Army after college ROTC, taking a commission with the rather naive idea that as an Army officer she would be judged on her merits alone by her male counterparts. To her surprise and disappointment, she found that males in uniform were much like those in civilian clothes. Most couldn't see beyond the size of her bust line and tended to fall all over themselves every time she smiled, to include some nominally married senior officers. Cathy could have coasted through her years as a junior officer by simply relying on her looks. Instead, she entered upon nothing less than a crusade to be taken seriously as an officer despite her beauty. She chose a difficult specialty, Army aviation , and earned her wings as a helicopter pilot. After less than three years service, half on flight status and half on staff, she had already been promoted to Captain and given command of an aviation company, a plum position for any ambitious young officer. The fact that she at age twenty-five commanded men who were older and far more experienced than she was both a source of great pride to her and a source of some discomfort. But, unlike many of her male peers, she continually made an effort to improve herself professionally. She put in very long hours at work rather than socializing with the other officers at the officer's club. In fact, she tried to avoid the club altogether if she could. She found it frustrating to be treated as a sex object by men she wanted to respect her as a fellow officer. As with her beauty, the fact that she had always had male admiration led her to place little value on it. Cathy refused to date other officers when she dated at all, a rule which earned her the nickname of the " Ice Queen' among her male peers. What free time she had, Cathy put in at the gym. Determined to literally pull her own weight in any situation, she built up the strength of her five foot, seven inch body with as much zeal as she pursued her career. She found that she enjoyed the time she spent in the gym. The physical effort and even pain body building demanded were strangely fulfilling to Cathy, as much if not even more so than her professional duties. which had previously dominated her life. But this was a satisfaction that was physical, even sensual, rather than intellectual though. Her body never felt more alive, more satisfied, than after a punishing workout. However, if she had thought that developing her body would change the way men looked at her, she was again mistaken. The end results of her labors tended to quicken rather than cool men's ardor. Her workouts added muscle mass to fill out Cathy's already shapely legs and arms while producing an impossibly tight, round butt and a flat hard stomach. It made her muscular, but not in any way masculine. Her physical development, when combined with Cathy's strikingly beautiful face and her 35 inch breasts, seemed perversely to intensify her femininity, making her even more strikingly attractive. The effect was quite noticeable since, as a side effect of the almost sexual pleasure these workouts provided, Cathy showed fewer and fewer qualms about displaying her new body. As Cathy's workout outfits grew smaller , the post gym experienced a steady increase in male patrons. Once again, she found herself taken as a sex object instead of a comrade by her peers. Eventually, Cathy was forced to buy a membership at a local gym off post in order to have some privacy in her workouts. Even chopping off her long hair for a short pixie cut to present a more "professional" appearance could not made Cathy look any less feminine or lessen the attraction men instinctively felt for her. All of which was a source of some frustration for Cathy. Just as she was for perhaps the millionth time thinking of the unfairness of it, her train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a single gun shot. Before she could locate its source, there was second, louder explosion. A blinding flash rolled over her. Then it seemed to Cathy as if a giant hand had picked her up and thrown her backwards out of the aircraft. She hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of her. Then darkness replaced the light of the flash imprinted on her retina as unconsciousness engulfed her.
The attack had gone exactly as Kehalis had hoped. As is the case with any good ambush, the enemy had been defeated by the first volley. The RPG men had both done their work well. The first RPG shot had struck the top of the helicopter just at the feet of the two men working there, literally dissolving them from the waist down with the blast of the RPGs shaped charge. Designed to destroy a tank, the grenade's charge had also shredded the top of the helicopter and ignited the craft's fuel tanks, engulfing what was left of the two men in a funeral pyre. The machinegunner inside the aircraft had been more fortunate. Kehalis watched as that gunner was blown out of the open door on the opposite side of the aircraft. The uniformed figure hit the ground hard. He lay still, face down in the dust. The American guarding the road had suffered a similar fate, killed by a single round from the second RPG. Even though his body armor could - and did- stop AK bullets from penetrating , the exploding rocket grenade had reduced the man's left leg to a bloody stump. He lay unmoving next to his machinegun. Kehalis left the Arab to make his own slow way down the hillside and joined his men as they raced recklessly down the steep slope to loot the defeated enemy. Most raced for the machinegun at the road bend. Kehalis moved toward the apparently dead American lying by the helicopter, drawn as much by the sight of the figures blonde hair as by any prospect for loot. By the time Kehalis reached the body, the flames from the burning copter had almost reached the feet of the motionless figure. Kehalis grabbed a handful of the soldier's uniform and hauled the inert figure away from the flames so that he could examine - and loot- the body in safety. He stood for a moment over the unconscious figure, which lay on its face. He could see by the slight movement of the chest that the American still lived. That, Kehalis knew, would have to be changed. They had no interest in taking prisoners. Using the barrel of his AK, he turned the American over onto his back. What he saw then took his breath away. Nothing he had experienced in his years of fighting prepared him for this. While the bulky, armor encased torso could have been that of a small man, the face and the hair were clearly those of a woman. A very beautiful woman. The sight of that female face froze him in his tracks, his AK half raised to deliver the coup de grace. Instead he simply stared at the woman lying at his feet, her fine features relaxed as if she were asleep. A woman fighter? This was something new given his exclusively masculine world of the religious school and the battlefield. It stirred something in him that he had never felt before. He was staring so intently at the woman's halo of fine blonde hair, that he did not realize that the Arab had arrived beside him until the man spoke.
" Is this infidel still alive? God willing, I will kill him myself!"
When the Arab raised his little AK and pointed the muzzle at the woman, Kehalis grabbed the muzzle with his left hand and jerked it down.
" No! It is a woman! An Amerikan woman. We cannot just kill a woman. What shall we do?"
The Arab stared first at him and then at the uniformed figure on the ground, his confusion evident in his face. Before he replied, he knelt beside the body to confirm that this indeed was a woman. Since the heavy ceramic protective vest covered her breasts in a hard shell, the Arab thrust the palm of his hand against the vee of her open legs, searching for evidence of her sex. He found it and nodded to Kehalis. She was indeed a woman, and, though her uniform hid her body as effectively as any burkha, she was, if he could judge by her unveiled face, a very beautiful woman. The Arab checked the pulse at her slender neck. It was strong. He decided that she could not be seriously injured; there was, after all, no blood visible on her except for some small cuts on her face. She appeared to him to simply have been stunned by the blast from the RPG round. He stood and faced Kehalis again, his mind racing, trying to accept what his eyes and hands had told him. Once he managed to comprehend that they had indeed captured an American Army woman, it did not take the Arab long to decide what was to be done with her. Even this situation had been foreseen and provided for by Islamic law. And the Law was quite specific. Slowly a wolfish smile came to his face.
" What shall we do? WE shall do as the Qur'an commands. Is it not written that all women outside marriage are forbidden unto you those whom your right hand possesses. She has been taken by the right hand.... taken in battle. And she is an unbeliever, is she not? By the Holy Law, she is now a slave. My slave. As the Prophet , blessed be his name, took Raihana by his right hand from the Bani Quraiza, so I do take this American whore by my right hand from the infidel Ameriken Army. She is now my slave to do with as I will. "
While Kehalis could find no flaw in the Arab's interpretation of the holy law, for he knew that it was so written and that the words were as true today as in the time of the Prophet. . He did, however, have another objection.
" Yes, it is right that she be a slave, since she has been delivered into the hands of the Faithful by God the all merciful. But why should you be the only one to possess her? It was agreed that what was taken on this raid would be shared among all of us. She should be shared among us."
If the Arab was worried by this sudden resistance to his orders from the previously obedient Kehalis, neither his face nor his words showed it.
" Fool... Fatherless Son of a Pi dog! How can you divide a woman into eleven shares? Only one may possess her. She is my slave because I command here. Were those not the orders of your Mullah?"
For a moment, Kehalis' eyes flashed . But that passed quickly to be replaced by what appeared to be the obedient Kehalis the Arab had grown used to. While in his heart, Kehalis refused to accept the Arab's possession of the woman, he knew this was not the best time to dispute it. She should be his since he had commanded the attack on the unbelievers. But he would bide his time until he had his tribesmen at his back. Then he would settle ownership of this blonde woman.
" We should not be standing here arguing. It is too dangerous. There will be more Amerikans here soon. We must seek a place to hide from their eyes. We can talk more of the woman later, when we are safe."
" You are right about the need to leave this place. Get the men together. Have two carry my new slave until she can walk. Now, let us make haste, God willing." Kehalis did as he was ordered. But first he took the time to search the American woman himself. He found and pocketed the 9mm pistol she carried in a shoulder holster. He cast aside the survival vest she wore over her protective vest, where it was eagerly snatched up and its contents looted by one of his men. Then he stripped off the heavy armor vest she wore. He looked at the protective vest with envy, but after a moment's thought discarded it as too heavy. He unzipped the flight jacket and began to run his hands over her torso. He felt uncomfortably aware of the Arab watching him, but there was no objection from him. The woman was wearing a baggy one piece flight suit which completely covered her body. He could see nothing of her shape through her uniform, but he could feel her body underneath. He ran his hands over her torso as he ostensibly searched her for weapons. Her body felt surprisingly firm, at least until her reached her breasts. Her breasts felt soft and full, warm to his touch even through her uniform. He was close enough to smell her fragrance as he ran his hands over her body. An arousing, intoxicating scent lingered about her, one unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He felt his cock harden involuntarily as he crouched above her, her musk filling his nostrils, her warmth against his hands. His hands moved downward, discovering again the firmness of her body, exploring her by touch alone as a blind man would. She stirred as his hands ran over her body. She was beginning to regain consciousness. Reluctantly he took his hands off her. He noticed that she wore soft gloves which were the same brownish green as her uniform. He stripped these off her hands, revealing slender white hands, the nails at the tips of her fingers painted a bright red. Kehalis brought the gloves to his face; he could smell her scent on them. Rising, he quickly slipped the gloves into his pocket as he turned to get his men moving.
Two men, one on either side of her, supported Cathy as they left the site of the ambush. With Kehalis leading, the Arab's band climbed slowly upward, heading for a cave used long ago as a hiding place for the mujahideen which lay a valley away. A place which Kehalis knew about from years ago when he had fought against the Northern Alliance. There they could hide from the American forces.