Black Eagle Dream

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IN THE DAYS OF CYRUS

BOOK II

Chapter Two

The indomitable hawaiian had rode the waves of the dark sea of death.

He had seen it. He had caused it.

Cyrus could smell death.

He dropped to one knee
unmoving,
listening intently
for life.
The odoriferous stench of rotting flesh wafed over the dunes that Cyrus had remained hidden behind. He had readily picked up their trail one day ago, spotting refuse they had carelessly discarded in the great desert. Cyrus guessed it to be the germans.
“Arrogant fools,” Cyrus said tiredly.
The black eagle had kept him adequately supplied with a larder of various creatures. For this was a landscape expressed
as living art, a living breathing virtuality.
His water bag was dangerously low, but he remained lucid.
Cyrus began to climb a large sand pyramid.

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He drew his Army issued
.45 caliber pistol.
Cyrus wrapped his face in an olive drab sling, but to no avail.
As he topped the dune, the prevailing winds of death nearly caused him to gag. Cyrus looked down into the clearing. It was quiet.

Death had painted a masterpiece.

Cyrus began his descent into hell.
He trained his weapon on everything, anything that might pose a threat.
A large raven called out to it’s companions who were at present gorging themselves on the
eyes of the fallen camels.
The ravens observed the black eagle flying high above, and immediately sensed an immeasurable flow of energy.
The esteemed trio of earthly messengers departed without their usual boisterous fanfare.
The black eagle dream surveyed the carnage from above.
Cyrus moved quietly from one body to the next. The three men hired in Rabat to guide the germans through the desert lay face down, all shot in the back. By the way their bodies lay it appeared they were running toward their camels.
The two small Fennec fox took their leave as well, carrying away flesh momentos as they ran,
their tails tilted in a terrified low.
The duo of large eared fox looked to the sky, running for all they were worth, fear streaking across their dark eyes. Cyrus approached a forth man who lay propped up against a palm tree.
Cyrus observed blood stains and bullet holes on the lower portion of the grey wool uniform of the lone german infantryman. His head hung forward, unmoving. His dark metal helmet lay near. Cyrus approached the man quietly pointing his pistol center mass at the fallen soldier. After several moments he holstered his weapon. Cyrus stood solemnly in front of the dead soldier.
The dead man’s head shot up abruptly as he attempted to strike Cyrus in the groin.
Cyrus reacted instinctively,
leaping back and then launching himself forward; delivering a devastating knee to the forehead of the veteran german soldier.
It was such a precise collision that his skull was fractured twice, as the back of his head had slammed violently against the immovable palm tree.
The dying soldier let out a dull bleat of unintelligible sound, his brain unable to process the level of damage that had been inflicted upon it. This transference of raw energy signaled the conclusion of this encounter.
The soldier babbled for several moments, first in german and then in english. The mortally concussed man looked up slowly at Cyrus through bleary eyes. “Brown man do you, do you speak english?”
The heavily accented man asked in a whisper. Cyrus nodded in the affirmative. “Do you seek someone?” asked the dying man.
The face of Cyrus suddenly grew taut. “Where is he?”
The dying german smiled weakly
as he pointed toward the chest of the massive hawaiian.
Cyrus looked down.
His medicine bag had come out from under his fatigue shirt.
The dying man now pointed with his eyes at another tree near to him.
Cyrus slowly looked away,
ever cautious.
The german soldier began to laugh,
a low mocking laugh. Cyrus turned slowly to where the man had pointed. Someone had impaled a knife into the tree. Notah’s medicine bag hung from the knife. The dying man continued to laugh weakly, gurgling now.
Cyrus approached the palm tree.
As he got closer he saw the finger. Cyrus took the medicine bag from off the knife handle. A bloody finger jutted out the small opening of the small leather bag. Cyrus slowly pulled the brown finger out. It was the left pinky finger of his friend. Cyrus could feel the burn growing inside his chest. The dying man continued to laugh his death song. Cyrus dropped the medicine bag and Notah’s finger turning abruptly toward the scornful laughter; reaching for his knife in one fluid movement.
Cyrus forcefully thrust the long knife through the man’s right eye. He did so with such force it caused the bayonet to pierce the back of the soldiers skull, lodging itself into the large date palm with a sickening thunk sound. “Ahhhhhhh.”
The large german let out his final breath. Cyrus placed his right hand on the man’s forehead as he wrenched the knife free from the tree with his left. Cyrus scraped the man’s eye off his bayonet. After retrieving the medicine bag and his friends appendage, Cyrus walked a short distance and sat atop a small outcropping of boulders and rock. The sun had set upon this ancient place. Cyrus sat drinking water, contemplating his next move.
After losing a portion of his map in a previous sand storm he was not sure what to do or what direction even to go. He was hungry,
he was thirsty, and he was exhausted.

If Notah was still alive…..
Cyrus had to think.
Whatever happened here demonstrated a major break down in communication.
Cyrus would search the bodies
for clues in the morning.
Tonight he would sleep among
the dead.
The black eagle continued to circle above Cyrus, as the stars shone brilliantly over this vast and wondrous land.
He built a fire and settled in for the night.
In the morning he would go.

Black Eagle Dream

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IN THE DAYS OF CYRUS

BOOK II

Chapter Three

Having spent the last six months on the island of O’ahu, Notah had become accustomed to smelling the salt from the sea in the air.
Although he was in the Sahara desert at the moment,
Notah knew what he was smelling.
His left hand was currently pulsating like a second heart in his body. Notah looked down at his hand. Where his pinky used to be was now a bloody stump.
The large german had battered him for several hours. They surprised him though by tending to his hand shortly after his finger had been savagely cut off. His best guess was that they needed him alive a little bit longer. Notah had picked up on the friction between the Germans and the Moroccans. About the third day out, the agreement had soured.
There was some sort of dispute or discrepancy with regards where the three moroccans would take himself and the small group of german zealots. It had all boiled over a day ago. The morrocans decided to take their leave but
the germans weren’t having it.
The fatal mistake of the moroccans was underestimating the deceitfulness of these pale skinned men in their charcoal grey wool uniforms.
The german officer shook hands with each man giving them their agreed upon gold in three separate leather pouches. The colonel had personally counted the coins for each leather pouch, in an attempt to show that the conclusion of their business arrangement was amicable.
The morrocans took their gold and headed down the dunes to retrieve their camels, and return home to their families. In the brief moment before the germans opened up on the three men, Notah made a decision.
After being thrown down on the ground to be used as a human sandbag, the stout soldier began to shoot at the three morrocan men as they drew close to their camels.
The hot brass casings had landed intermittently on the back of his neck. “Ahhhh,” Notah cried out with each shell that had found its mark.
“Shut your filthy mouth little man,”
the soldier barked as he shot the last moroccan in the back.
The soldier suddenly stood upright leaving Notah on the ground as he charged down the sand dune toward the three fallen men.
The mountainous soldier did not realize that his .45 Colt pistol had become dislodged from his holster. Notah grabbed it quickly off the warm sand, sticking it in his waistband.
The battle weary infantryman had taken the pistol off a dead
US Army paratrooper
from the 82nd Airborne.
He had shot the greenhorn Lieutenant a couple of weeks back.
Notah watched as the giant german confirmed all the moroccans were in fact deceased. They were low on ammunition so he quickly cut their throats. Colonel Arnhold and his attaché, stood at the top of the dune. Notah slowly sat up and looked down on upon the carnage.

“Excellent work Sargeant. Be sure to get our gold. Join us for coffee when you have completed your task,” Colonel Arnhold said beaming.

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“Jawohl Colonel,” the grim faced Sergeant replied. Apparently the one secret airfield Colonel Arnhold had hoped to rendezvous at had been bombed by the allied forces.
If Colonel Arnhold was to deliver their prized Navajo Code Talker back to Germany he knew he had no other alternative, but to alter his course and go by sea.
It was their hope to break the Navajo soldier on the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean en route to Germany. It was imperative to convince him to betray the US intelligence community, and it’s allies by translating for the Third Reich.
It was Hitler’s last ditch effort to turn the tide of the war. With a little hail Mary full of grace thrown in for good measure, Adolf began to feel hopeful. Being a devout Catholic, Hitler felt it had the blessing of God, and he would ultimately succeed.
Notah watched as the large german climbed up toward him. The bitter lipped german had a propensity for violence. He had punched and kicked Notah on several different occasions since being kidnapped. The germans had now demonstrated a willingness to increase the level of torture in order to coerce the young man from Rough Rock, Arizona into submission. Notah glanced over at the german officer. He seemed to be whispering in the other man’s ear. He also had a handful of the smaller mans buttocks. Notah heard the smallish man stifle his laughter just as he reached for the pistol under his shirt. Although Notah didn’t particularly care if these foreigners were two-spirit or not, he intended to kill all three nonetheless, starting with the big brute. He raised his arm up and pointed it at his tormentor.
The soldier had stopped midpoint of his return climb of the dune, winded and thirsty. Notah waited for him to raise his canteen upward in order to expose more of his torso. As he raised his canteen to his lips Notah shot the man in his lower left rib cage, barely missing his heart, then in his stomach, and then finally Notah shot him right below his belly button.
The soldier looked upward, confused. He fell to his knees dropping his rifle in the sand.
Notah stood up to kill the two other men, when he was clubbed in the back of his head, and fell forward, unconscious.

A few moments later,
the slight built attaché akwardly poured water on Notah’s face.
Notah opened his eyes and immediately began a gasping reflex. Colonel Arnhold peered at Notah who had yet to get his senses back in working order.
“Code talker….. Code talker…..
wake up code talker,”
Colonel Arnhold spoke in a playful but menacing tone. The words continued to echo in Notah’s ears as he slipped back into the darkness of his unconscious mind.
A large shadow cast itself over this treacherous skirmish in the desert.
The silent black eagle circled four times in perfect rotation, looking from on high upon the pitiful men of mankind.

Black Eagle Dream  

IN THE DAYS OF CYRUS

BOOK II

Chapter Six

Notah woke to the faint and whirling sounds of a hushed wind. He slowly lifted his head from his sand pillow. He rolled slowly to his right side, glancing over at the slumbering officer across the fire. The Colonel continued to sleep soundly. Notah slowly turned his attention to the attaché. Florian sat quietly staring at Notah over the top of the flames. His piercing blue eyes examined Notah with curious fear, causing the hair on the back of Notah’s neck to stand up. A silent but icy awkwardness ensued between the two men. The native soldier slowly glanced down at his hand. The stump where his pinky finger once was, had begun to slowly heal. His head was pounding, his stomach empty. “Can you drink?” The last time  Notah had heard this man’s voice was two days ago. He had only spoken in german up to this point so naturally the Navajo code talker was surprised when he spoke to him in his second language. This man with the light blue eyes had held a pistol to his temple while his hulking and sadistic coworker lopped off his finger. Notah was satisfied with having killed the man who had beaten and tortured him. Notah hoped he would have an opportunity to kill this blue eyed man before him, before he himself died. Notah would give it a go if the opportunity presented itself. 

“Yes I can drink,” Notah responded his voice dry, hoarse. Florian slowly stood, canteen in hand. He kept his head down in the small rock enclosure as he came around the fire where Notah lay. He kneeled next to Notah slowly tilting the canteen as he continued to stare fiercely at the bound soldier. He lowered the canteen closer to the prone soldiers face. The german soldier tilted the canteen up in a cruel and deliberate manner, allowing only a few drops to touch Notah’s parched and broken lips. Sneering with unfeeling eyes, he returned to his place at the fire. Notah licked his lips with his dry tongue as he stared back at his tormentor defiantly, finally allowing his head to fall back in silent despair.  “Gunther aufwachen,” Florian whispered as he placed his hand gently on the Colonel’s dirt laden uniform jacket.

Gunther opened an eye glancing over at his attaché. “We need water, and food …” Florian’s voice began to trail off. ” Okay you go, i will watch the prisoner. ” Florian had begun to notice over the last two days that the resolve of Gunther seemed to be waning, not so urgent now. He knew hunger and thirst had played it’s part in eroding the shores of his determination. “Wach bleiben Sir,” Florian urged as he crawled on hands and knees toward the entrance of their rock crag. Florian slipped into the shadows of the entryway and disappeared outside into the quiet and still morning of the great desert, Sahara.

Cyrus had awoke well before dawn. He had just completed a small reconnaissance of the immediate area. He stood on a dune looking down at the valley of goethite rocks. He had not located the trio of men as of yet but he knew they were close. An earlier wafing of their fire amongst this maze of varying and dizzying heights of ancient rock formations had been detected, but Cyrus hoped with a little patience and persistence he would recover Notah, and together they would get off the continent of Africa, and return to their homes in Arizona and Hawai’i. They would all need water soon. Without warning a large shadow cast itself directly over Cyrus. The black eagle hovered above, creating an umbrella like division of the sun and his face. The black eagle let out a clear greeting chirping out small sounds of its own language. Cyrus managed a gritty smile as he arched his neck skyward, observing the black eagle gazing down upon him with fierce eyes of bronzed fire. For this was no ordinary black eagle, no this was a winged creature from a higher order of intelligence above mankind. This was the black eagle dream.

A shadow suddenly appeared to be closing on the face of Cyrus. He instinctively leaned back and raised his arms to protect his face as the freshly killed rabbit struck him in the upper chest area. He lay on his side, mildly stunned by the rabbit that fell from the sky. It was a large rabbit which surprised Cyrus for some reason. Cyrus smiled. He now knew what was for breakfast. He also realized he had just received the perfect trap for desperate men. 

Florian softly kicked sand over the small pile of excrement. He fastened his belt and began to look about. It had occurred to him that he should mark the spot in the event that he could not procure any meaningful sustenance. 

He immediately dismissed those thoughts and began to walk up the rocky hill.

Cyrus hoped to make contact with the trio today. Cyrus knew that sooner or later they would have to reveal their position. When they did, the large native hawaiian would be there to intercept them, and end their journey here in this ancient place of stone and sand. 

For now though he would build a fire, eat, and rest a little. He sensed that his friend Notah was still alive. Either way however, the german Colonel was the last target on the list. There were many variables that would have to play out before he could even consider the long trek home.