Inspirational stories of God's love and grace...

Kidnapped in India by radicals because of her conversion to Christianity, a young woman prays for her captors. Unknown to her, a team of ex-military Christians are planning a daring rescue with the use of non-lethal weapons.
Adapted from the COIL series by D.I. Telbat.

Extraction: India
by D.I. Telbat

“She is down there, in that shack.”
“She’s still alive? You’re sure?”
“We heard her cries two nights ago. We would not have called your organization if we were not certain.”
Lyle “Mac” McCormack walked a few paces away. He knew the man from East India only as Mr. B. They sidestepped the stream of sewage that trickled down a rut between the shelters. There were a few half-naked children nearby chasing a chicken. This was Guruparahalli, a slum district seven miles from downtown Bangalore, India. Mac cautiously eyed the rust-colored shack toward which Mr. B had gestured.
Mr. B was a slender man in his thirties. His hand bore the marks of torture by the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), which was the fountainhead of the radical Hindutva group in India. Now, Mr. B worked with the Christian underground, helping the persecuted, the untouchables. As if Mr. B did not like to stand alone on the dirt street, he moved closer to Mac as they gazed sadly at the filth that spanned for miles.
“Do you have a plan, Sir?” Mr. B asked.
Mac was a 43-year-old Montanan who had given his life to the Lord many years prior. He had been the leader of Team Zayin for ten years. His military experience had given him the background necessary to perform risky extractions from the most desperate situations and locations around the world.
“A plan?” Mac asked. He glanced at the sky. It was nearly sundown. They had to go in tonight. The freighter to South Africa was leaving at dawn. “Sure. I’ve got a plan.”
“Do you need me any longer?” Mr. B inquired. “I think…I should not be seen with you. At least, not here.”
Mac nodded his agreement at the informant.
“You’re right. Go with God, Friend. We will do our best, with God’s help.”
Mr. B bowed slightly, looked in both directions, then slipped out of sight between residential shacks made partially of cardboard. Mac studied the target shack from afar for another five minutes, memorizing every detail. The next time he would be there would be at night. He then turned and walked down the dirt road toward Bangalore. A quarter-mile later, Mac reached a road worthy of vehicles and climbed into a BMW van. Sven “Russia” Madrovich sat in the driver’s seat. He was a heavy, six-foot, five Russian who had backed Mac on more missions than either middle-aged man could count. One of Russia’s many “talents” was his sniper marksmanship ability.
“It won’t be easy,” Mac admitted. “There’s not much room to maneuver if something goes wrong. We’ll need night vision, besides the pens.”
“What is her name?” Russia asked with a rich accent.
Regardless of the countless missions they had executed, every operation was personal to each of the team members. Both Mac and Russia had scars of their own from helping others who sought to live for Christ. And sometimes, as in another rescue some time ago, things had gone awry and even Mac needed a rescue himself. Remembering how he had received the scars on his chest and neck, he silently prayed for God’s protection and safety on this next mission, as well as for this poor young woman.
“Her name is Sudkam Babai,” Mac informed. Trying to get a feel for their surroundings, they sat and watched the traffic, the animals, and the people. Just two nights prior, they had pulled two missionaries out of war-torn Afghanistan. Now they were in India. They had long grown immune to culture shock.
“She’s the mother of two. Missing for five weeks.”
“Every Christian suffers in India,” Russia reflected. “I do not mean disrespect, but why are we here for this one woman?”
“This is a heightened brand of persecution, our contact said. These people are familiar with the beatings, arrests, even the occasional execution. But this blatant kidnapping and holding - it’s beyond anything the Hindutva has been willing to do so openly until now. The police have been alerted, but the anti-conversion laws are upheld, and they won’t help. The RSS needs to be sent a little message: that Christians are part of a body that spans the world. When they attack one member, the international community steps up in love.”
Mac passed a picture of Sudkam Babai over to Russia. She was a wide-eyed woman with a flashy smile.
“Pretty young woman,” Russia said admiringly.
“She’s been held by this RSS gang for five weeks now,” Mac stated with a frown. “Don’t expect her to look the same.”
“Is this your way of telling me I am going in first?” Russia chuckled knowingly.
“One look at you and these thugs will probably run. Our contact says they’re mostly 20-year olds.”
“Yes, 20-year olds armed with knives and clubs,” Russia pointed out. “You remember, da? We have been here before.”
“Yeah, I remember well. Let’s go. We’ll come back after midnight.”
Russia started the van and made a U-turn to drive back to their rented apartment in Bangalore. This job was to be a quick one, with only Sudkam Babai needing help this time, so the rest of Team Zayin had not come to India with them. If the two men ran into any resistance, Mac would regret having given the other two a much needed short vacation.
Mac thought of his special team. Besides Russia, there was Rube, who was an ex-guerrilla from Mexico. Czech was an ex-U.N. peacekeeper from the Czech Republic. It was said that he could fly anything with wings or rotors. Other team members were available to him if the need ever arose. And there were other teams who were carrying out similar extractions in other countries. Each of the men and women experienced changed lives since meeting the Lord. They now desired to use their past training and experiences to serve Him in this way. Their last mission in Afghanistan had been particularly taxing. Each of Mac’s team nearly starved and froze to death before rescuing the two missionaries from al-Qaeda kidnappers. Mac and Russia were still recovering themselves, but their discipline and determination in helping Sudkam was no less.
At the apartment, Mac and Russia packed to leave India. Their gear on this mission was minimal compared to other missions. Normally, the men were suited up as soldiers of Special Forces, though they only carried non-lethal, tranquilizer carbines. The NL-3’s fired water-soluble pellets, which contained a sleep toxin. The toxin had to be inhaled to drop an adversary for twenty minutes. Russia sometimes used the NL-X1 sniper rifle, from which high velocity tranquillizer darts were used, capable of a one-hour knockout. Since India had been a sudden side-job, they had not had time to smuggle in their regular gear. Instead, this time they carried tranquillizer pens, capable of injecting five sleep toxin shots per pen. The team had used the pens around the world while maintaining their covers as tourists or traveling geologists.
When the men were packed, they sat on the floor, ate ragi balls and dhal, and again reviewed a satellite image of the slums of Guruparahalli.
“Park here,” Mac advised, pointing to a road he had spotted earlier that was closer to the
target shack. “I’ll be here, behind the shack. You go in the front. Expect six men. You’ll have your night vision so you can tranq them in the dark. Find Sudkam and put her in the pack on your back, then exit around the back to me. I’ll cover you.”
“I am worried about this,” Russia admitted as he pointed at a police station outside Guruparahalli. “I would like another route to the coast.”
“There aren’t any.” Mac winced as he ground his teeth. “Let me call our contact. I’ll see if he can line up another vehicle. We can switch cars before we reach the station just in case someone calls us in. No telling who has cell phones nowadays.”
“That should do. The family will meet us at the freighter?”
“Right. Sponsors from South Africa are relocating them all. The office will set them up with the right papers.”
Russia sighed. He reached out his giant hand and let it rest on Mac’s shoulder.
“There is only one thing left to do then, da?”
Both men bowed their heads in prayer. They thanked God for His protection, prayed for the safety of Sudkam, and they thanked the Lord for using them in His work. Always, they were humbled by the strength and courage of those whom they rescued. Christ was seen best in the darkness where so few stood by faith alone in the Light.

Sudkam Babai knelt in the filth that had been her prison for five weeks. Welts from burns and beatings covered her body more than her thin gown, but the sores on her knees were her own doing. She had spent most of those five weeks on her knees, praying.
Now, at what she was certain was the end of her time on earth, she refused to be found anywhere except on her knees. She no longer wept for herself. The tearful moisture seemed too precious for that. She did, however, weep for her captors. They were much younger than she, and certainly very evil, but she prayed for them nonetheless. Their brutality over the weeks had not broken her spirit since her faith was not based on things of this earth, but on things above. Her God loved them all, and had died to show His love. Sudkam could do no less.
Sudkam prayed for her family as well. She hoped they were safe. They had had their own share of persecutions since they had all claimed Christ as Savior. Her daughter had been forced to apply vermillion at school -- the red-dot mark, symbolic of Hindu devotion -- but after school every day, she rubbed it off. Her son had had his feet broken when he refused to worship the image of Sai Baba, a Hindu god. Even her husband had been beaten and left for dead, but still, Sudkam loved.
In the night’s darkness, Sudkam fell over, too weak to hold herself in a kneeling position any longer. Her captors had fed her only scraps. She had lost a quarter of her body weight. Two teeth were missing from hateful blows. Sudkam could only begin to fathom their hatred when she thought of her Lord on the cross. She could suffer a little longer. Jesus had suffered for her.
Sudkam tilted her head at the sound of scuffling feet and a panicked cry in the adjoining room where the youths slept. There was a muffled shout, the sound of furniture overturning, then silence. It was not the first time the youths had fought, but their drinking and drug use had intensified over the last week.
She heard the door to her tiny room open. Expecting lamplight, Sudkam raised her face weakly, but she saw only darkness. For an instant, it seemed as if she had gone blind, but then a shadow moved before her and something touched her lightly, like a feather. She gasped and flinched away from the touch. Someone was in her quarters.
“Are you Sudkam Babai?” a strange man’s voice inquired.
Sudkam had learned a little English during her youth at a mission in Karnataka.
“Me Sudkam Babai,” she confirmed.
“Come. I am here for you. Your family is waiting.”
The voice was strange, but the words were comforting. Sudkam did not resist from the very large hands as they gripped her shoulders. The man moved her with ease. Gently, she was lifted from her mat and fit inside a rucksack that was tied over her head. She felt herself being lifted and jostled onto the man’s back. Sudkam was then carried out of her quarters and outside the shack where even she could smell the slum air. The bounce was soothing as the man walked swiftly away. Crammed tightly but safely in the pack on the back of Sven “Russia” Madrovich, Sudkam wept silently and thanked her Lord for the angel who had come for her.