It was eight in the morning. Stark had chosen a very convenient time, since all the Terrorists were eating breakfast.
They had gathered to celebrate having survived another day with a meager breakfast.
The weather was pretty good today. An old man and a young one, both Terrorists, sat together with rough flatbreads in their hands, eating and chatting as they dipped them into a bowl of suspicious-looking oil tea.
The younger man tightened his loose gun strap, looked at the breakfast in his hand, and complained, "Old Ali, how much longer do we have to stay in this godforsaken place? I've lost weight over the last two months."
Old Ali grinned, showing off the teeth he had left, and looked at the young man before him. He was only nineteen, yet had been fighting in wars for six years. "What's wrong? Missing your new bride, Rad? I think we'll be able to go home soon. The guy locked up in the Cave is almost done making what our leader wants. Once the leader sells it for a fortune, we can go home. Maybe you'll even have enough money to find yourself another wife."
He gave Rad a contemptuous look. "Look at you. You're like a ram in rut. I've got four wives waiting for me at home. Do I look impatient?"
Rad waved his hands in a panic. He couldn't let anyone think he was missing women; they'd laugh at him. "I just think staying here is really boring. I'd rather go out and fight the Americans. At least we might get some decent spoils. But we're just sitting here waiting for that American in the Cave to make something. They don't need this many people for that."
Old Ali struggled to tear off a piece of flatbread and