JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi by Daniel Linden (classic books for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

them up. There was a huge wad of cash money in his pocket. I saw Dollars, Euros, Rupees, British Pounds and several currencies I could not even identify. These thieves had been busy and doing this for a while. Curtis was going through some clothing that had been piled into the corner, but nothing that would fit any of us. I lifted the top of the bunk and discovered a huge assortment of gear. There were many sleeping bags still stuffed into their ruck sacks, rope, flashlights, crampons, mountaineering equipment, back packs, and cooking equipment. The box was filled with gear.

“Curtis, you go through this stuff and grab what we’re going to need. I’m going to get Chris.” I picked up the machine gun and headed out the door. Once again adrenalin flooded me and I ran up the steps, machine gun in my fist. I was suddenly Casey Ryback. I was Rambo. I was John, freakin,’ Wayne. I was going out there and take on the whole damn Maoist rebel army all by myself. I refused to think, just act.

I didn’t let myself look at the truth. I didn’t let myself face reality, because if I had, I would have been cringing into a corner myself.

Because the truth is that I am not Rambo. I am not John Wayne. I am a tired, broken old man limping slowly down a darkened hall with a rusty gun I could barely lift, let alone shoot.

But I was a man who had made a promise to a boy’s parents and I was not turning back.

I passed dark rooms and decided that Christian and Chris had waited long enough and that too much waiting and tension could make bad things happen, so I walked right into the light of the public room and shouted in my best command presence voice, “Come on in!”

The outer door burst open and Chris came in with gun at his shoulder and scanning the room. They didn’t know whether to look at me or Chris. He saw me as I immediately pointed my weapon to my left. He did the same and we looked hard for the other gun. The thieves were in shock. They sat frozen to their seats with eyes wide and creeping terror on their faces. There were perhaps twenty men in all and they did not like what they were seeing. I might not be Rambo, but they had all seen Rambo and a huge angry American with a machine gun pointed at them was not something they had ever imagined happening to them. Several began to actually shake with fear.

“Bim, ask where our porters are. Ask about Cook. Where is our gear?”

Bim spoke with one of the rebels for a few minutes and I could see that the news was not good. I walked over and pointed the gun directly at the man and he spoke much faster, but kept shaking his head and whining. Finally he stopped and I looked at Bim.

“Sahib, he says that they were packing yaks to go to China when our porters came. They were put into the supply train with all our gear. Same as Cook. All went to China. Come back with more trade goods then let them go. Very sorry, but everything is gone.”

“Damn. Bim, thank you. Please go back outside and watch for the other gunman. Yell if you see anyone coming.”

“Yes, Sahib.”

Christian had been standing there the whole time and I knew it would be useless to ask him to look further. “Son, find a pack and go into the kitchen and find some food and a few bottles of water.”

He looked around and reached behind one of the rebels and pulled out two things I was glad to see. One was a good sized pack and the other was my mandolinden. I’d figured it was gone forever when they had taken it earlier. Christian went around to the kitchen area and the little cook spoke to him. She spoke English and had heard. She hustled around and reached under a pantry and pulled out a case. I could not see without taking my eyes off the group, but Christian seemed pleased. He came back with a filled pack just as Curtis came up the stairs. He looked around and nodded at me. “I got everything I could. I hope it’s enough.”

“It’s going to have to be. There’s still another gun out there.” I walked through the room and stood with my back to the door pointing the gun at the rebels. “Let’s go,” I said.

They all filed past me and out the door. Shortly we were all running, or in my case, walking fast for the bridge. Snow had begun to fall steadily and it made the path slippery. I wished we still had our hiking poles and knew it would make a huge difference later as we made our way up the mountain.

We had almost reached the bridge when I heard shots behinds us and I hit the deck. Spinning around I tried to shoot back, but could not figure out how to make the damn thing work. Some Rambo.

Chris ran back up the trail past me, stopped and fired a short burst. Then he was there helping me to my feet. “I guess that’s what a seven round burst sounds like,” he said. We hurried up to the bridge. The others were already across and waiting behind several large boulders that anchored the bridge cables. Chris and I were almost half way across when more bullets came pounding our way. I dropped to make a smaller target and exchanged guns with Chris, then threw his over the side into the river. We crouched and waited and suddenly we saw muzzle flashes and heard the pounding of machine gun bullets.

Chris stood and took careful aim. He fired a sustained burst that sprayed the river trail behind us. We took off for the other side and