Any Soldier
Copyright© 2010 by Lubrican
Prologue
Romantic Sex Story: Prologue - Julia's 2nd grade class wrote letters to "Any Soldier" in Iraq and a soldier wrote back. The kids adopted him and his private letters to Julia got her going. Then he stopped writing, and Julia had to find out why. Her journey to find him has its ups and downs, its ins and outs. Pun intended.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Pregnancy Slow
Around 2300 hours, the night of 17 Nov 08, Achmed Tergazzi, a twelve-year-old boy, located and removed a thin sheet of scrap sheet metal that was covering a hole about a foot and a half deep and perhaps a foot in diameter. He then turned to the piece of plywood he had dragged to the site with a rope and rolled the old artillery shell off of it, levering it into the hole, point up. He performed the other operations the men had taught him how to do, put the metal sheet back in place, covered it with the dry dirt that had been on top of it, and retraced his steps, brushing the marks he'd made out of the dirt.
At 2317 hours, 17 Nov 08, Achmed pushed open the sagging door of an abandoned house and called out softly. He was answered and a candle was lit.
"I did as you told me to," he said to a shadowy adult form. "Where is my sister? I must take her home now."
"Tell me exactly what you did," said the man.
Achmed described his actions. The man pulled out a cell phone and pushed buttons. He grunted.
"You did well. All appears to be working."
"My sister," said Achmed, his voice shaking. "You promised I could take her home if I did what you said."
"Yes," said the man.
He pulled a pistol from the shadows and shot Achmed three times in the chest.
At 0830 hours, 18 Nov 08, Irwanna Husseini left her house hoping to get to the market safely, buy some food, and return to her home. She saw the two bodies before she had gone a block. One was of a boy, perhaps twelve, and the other a girl, a little older. Both were obviously dead, so she passed around them. If there was a policeman at the market she would tell him of the bodies. She could not know they were Achmed and his sister, or that the young woman had been repeatedly raped before she was strangled. No one would ever know, except the men who did it. There would be no autopsy. The parents of the children would never know what had happened to them, because the people who eventually came and took the bodies away didn't try to identify them. They were just added to the group of unidentified victims of the American war and would, within seventy-two hours, be buried in a common grave with all the others.
At precisely 1303 hours, 18 Nov 08, the man who had shot Achmed watched, his finger poised above the cell phone in his hand, as the convoy approached the place where the IED was buried. None of the true believers had been risked to place this one. The helicopters, with their night vision devices and spitting chin cannon, made that too dangerous. But the kidnapping of the girl, and the false promises to the boy had gotten the IED in place, and that was all that mattered. Now the glory of Allah would be served as the infidels were punished for soiling Iraq with their foreign presence.