The Eagle Strikes

“Karl!” The shrill scream of terror filled the thick canopy of trees surrounding the small wood and stone cabin on the mountainside north of Hakkari, Turkey. Karl Izgur froze in his tracks. That was his mother’s scream! But she should have left for work an hour ago. It was almost dark. Karl rushed up the path, the physique of a mature woodsman belying his eighteen years. He cleared the three stone steps to the small front porch in one long leap and grabbed the protruding window frame to stop himself. Inside, the man in a dark brown uniform with a wide leather belt and oversize holster was unmistakable. A damned Turkish cop had a choke hold on his mother, and on the far side of the room was another cop with one leg half out of his shorts! Karl jumped back and lunged at the heavy wooden door. The latch snapped, the broken tip ricocheting off the far wall. The door caught the table beneath the window and toppled the lamp, its glass base shattering on the heavy plank floor. An acrid smell of coal oil flooded the cabin. The barrel chested cop trying to quiet Karl's mother saw Karl's wild-eyed expression. His morals may have been in doubt, but he recognized unleashed fury when he saw it. He jerked Karl's mother backward, swung her across the bed, and made a frantic grab for his pistol. Karl's reflexes were as a single motion. He leaped toward the kitchen table, scooped up a heavy wooden stool by one leg, and charged forward. Each flashing image, his mother rolling across the bed and slamming against the wall, the large black mustache and frantic eyes of the back-peddling cop, the raised flap and partially drawn pistol, they each burned a searing picture in Karl’s brain. He swung the stool high over his head and slashed downward. “You miserable son-of-a . . . ” The blast of the cop’s gun drowned Karl's roar of rage, the completed trigger squeeze a reflex to the cop’s face caving into an ugly mass of blood, skin and crushed bone. The explosive energy in Karl's body had no direction, no thought, no plan. Consideration? Explanation? Not in Karl's mind. Raw bitter rage had been unleashed. No one touched his mother in anger . . . no cop . . . no one! The young cop on the far side of the room, his leg still in midair, had reason to hesitate. To openly object to "Let's get us an Armenian woman" on his first day of duty would be unthinkable under any circumstance, but he also recalled the subject coming up in training. It always ended with some remark like "Those Armenian women know better than to complain about us.” The subject had been a main source of humor. Well, something sure as hell went wrong this time. But no overgrown Armenian was going to bash in his head, even one built like a bull. He stumbled forward and grabbed his bayonet from its scabbard. Karl saw the butcher knife on the center table at the same time he saw the movement. He grabbed and lunged. The young cop made one slashing swing with the blade he had so proudly honed during training. The swing was probably his first, definitely his last use of official physical force. Karl glimpsed the flash of steel near his face. There must be no second chance. He drove the butcher knife into the young cop's chest and yanked sideways. Blood spurted. The wide eyes in the startled face turned blank. Karl stood rigid as the body slowly fell from the blade and sank to the floor. He turned, rushed back across the room, and drove the blade into the exposed back of the body draped over the chair. Neither act appeased his fury. He released the knife handle and jammed the chair with his right foot. The tumbling body stopped with one arm under the overturned chair, the other extending awkwardly into space. Karl's face was expressionless. Only the fierce intensity in his eyes betrayed him. One final act must be completed. He walked back across the room. The young cop lay on the floor beside the table. Slowly, Karl bent down. Movement was not easy. He pried the bayonet from the still firm grip of the young man’s hand.