"I know it's a bumpy ride, Artie!" the soldier yelled through the headset over the helicopter's noise. "Try to relax! We're about an hour from the L-Z."

Artie nodded. He studied the two men across from him. The one who spoke was a big man with unruly brown hair. He had carried Artie into the chopper. The second soldier next to him was a giant with a blond crew cut. Artie figured them to be in their early forties—-not the optimal age for Special Forces operatives, but he knew they were not regular soldiers.
    
Having never ridden in a helicopter, Artie's knuckles were white as he clenched his fist. He adjusted his headset.
    
"I haven't spoken English in years. Do you know who I am?"
    
"Sure. You're Artie Stephens," the first soldier said with a wink.
    
Artie winced as he smiled. He had not smiled in a long time either. He glanced at the blond soldier, who had carried both men's rifles while the other had packed Artie across rocky terrain to the chopper. The rifles were not your typical assault weapons. To rescue Artie, they had come into the Pakistani camp shooting. But there had been no gunshots; only popping sounds came from the rifles.
    
"What kind of gun is that?" Artie asked the blond man over the thump of the rotors.
    
"Air rifle," the man said with a thick Russian accent. He held up one weapon. "Tranquillizer capsules. The enemy sleeps, see?"
    
Artie nodded and faced the first man again.
    
"Who are you?"
    
"I'm Mac. This is Sven. Don't know the pilot's name. He's just a rental."
    
"How did you know that I was still alive?"
    
"To tell you the truth, Artie, I didn't." Mac shrugged. "We just go where they send us, and pick up who they tell us."
    
The chopper occupants were silent for a time. Artie stared out the bay door, still lost in the wonderment of what he had just been saved from. The emptiness of Afghanistan's rocky mountains flew by as they left Pakistan's air space, heading
west.
    
"I was gone for a long time," Artie mumbled to himself.
    
"What's that?" Mac asked. "You have to yell, Artie!"
    
Artie tore his eyes away from the landscape.
    
"I said I was gone for a long time. Everything is different now."

"The important things aren't," Mac assured him. "Trust me—if we came for you, it's because our head office was urged by people who wanted you home. How long were you gone?"
    
"Twelve, I think. Twelve years."
    
Mac and Sven looked at one another. Twelve years was one of the longest they had come upon.
    
"It's not long enough for people to stop caring," Mac encouraged. "You have family?"
    
"I did. My captors told me that the world believed I was dead."
    
"Doesn't matter," Mac dismissed with a wave. "Till we can confirm a body, it doesn't matter what they tell us."
    
"I still don't understand who you are," Artie pressed. He gestured at Sven's rifles. "What military uses those?"
    
"The tranq guns? Two reasons we use these," Mac said. "First, we cross borders all the time without permission, like this morning. The enemy isn't so upset when they wake up after twenty minutes and realize we spared their lives when we could have easily killed them. It's dangerous for us to use tranqs. There's a lapse time between contact and sleep time. But it's worth it, diplomatically."
    
"What's the other reason?"
    
"You're a missionary, right?" Mac asked. "You were reaching the Pakistani people for Jesus Christ when you were taken?"
    
"Yes. Two others and me. They were killed years ago."
    
"Well, what kind of voice would we be for Jesus if we were killing our enemies when Christ told us to love them?"
    
"What?" Artie frowned, not sure he had heard them correctly. "Christian special forces?"
    
"We don't exist." Mac winked again. "Get it?"
    
"I understand." Artie watched the brown landscape zip past. They were flying dangerously low to avoid militant RPGs. "I have to know," Artie said nervously, "who is waiting for me. When we land, who should I expect?"
    
"I don’t know." Mac shook his head and glanced at his partner. "Sven? You read his file. . ."
    
"It's not easy news," Sven warned the rescued man.
    
"It's okay. I've feared the worst anyway. Just tell me."
    
"Your wife died five years ago," Sven reported, his head bowed as he reluctantly shared the bad news. "Your two children are in college now, but they wait in Kabul. We will take you to them."
    
Artie's eyes drifted down to his left hand. He opened his fist to show the two soldiers what he clutched. It was a cross-shaped rock, perfectly crafted and polished.
    
"This was a rock the size of my fist when I started," Artie voiced with a choke. "It took years to chip away and polish. I made it for Susan, my wife. If it'd been found, I would've been beaten to death. Do you understand?"

"Sven and I have been captives ourselves," Mac explained, nodding. "Me in India and Sven in North Korea. We know the dangers and hardships."
    
"This is all I have after so many years. I had no Bible, no prayer partner, no refuge. Only the Lord and this cross…" Artie held the fashioned rock out to Sven. "I want you to have it. It's all I have to give."
    
"Give it to your children," Sven suggested. "Use it to tell your story."
    
"I have plenty of words to tell my story," Artie stated with sadness. He thrust the cross into one of the pockets in Sven's field jacket. "Keep it."
    
"I will be sure it is given a special place." Sven patted his pocket.
    
"Tell me," Artie said to Mac, "will there be a way that I can contact my captors? Someday?"
    
"No one's ever asked us that before." Mac rubbed his grizzled chin. "What would you say if you could?"
    
"In secret, I told many of the men about Jesus Christ. If I could just get them Bibles—if they just had God's Word in Fusha, it would help."
    
"I see," Mac said, nodding. "Artie, sometimes we do come across missionaries in captivity who prefer to stay where they are for the ministry rather than be rescued. Is that what you're telling me?"
    
"No, I'm very thankful that you came for me," Artie stressed. "Believe me, their patience was growing quite thin with me. I was taking more risks every day. You saved my life. But you men are Christians. You know the message is more important than our simple lives."
    
"You want to reach out to them even after all they did to you, Artie?" Mac asked.
    
"Well, I do know them in a unique way."
    
"Most don't return to their captors," Mac said with an amused look on his face. "It's your decision, of course, but you probably want to clear it with your family. Maybe get checked out medically and all that, first."
    
"Like, maybe see a dentist?" Artie joked. When he smiled, several gaps in his teeth showed where teeth had rotted. "Don't think I appreciate this any less."
    
"It's cool," Mac assured. "No promises on a second rescue, though. That's up to the head office."
    
"I understand." He then addressed Sven. "How did Susan die?"
    
"The cancer," Sven answered.
    
Artie nodded sadly, and bowed his head for a time.
    
"I won't marry again," Artie stated decisively, raising his head. He contemplated for several seconds, and then added, "Yes, I will set things in order; then I'll return to Pakistan. I believe that's what the Lord wants me to do."
    
"Do what you gotta do, Artie," Mac encouraged.

"Maybe," Artie considered, "maybe all I've been through was just training." His face was already brighter than when they had picked him up.  

"Training?" Sven repeated. "I do not understand."
    
"Sure. I speak the local dialect perfectly now. I've been to language school!"