“You again,” he muttered as I walked over to him.
“Me.”
“You shouldn’t hang around me. It’s bad luck for both of us.”
“I’m going to get you out,” I told him.
He snorted contemptuously.
“Tomorrow at ten,” I said. “Where will you be?”
“At night?”
“In the morning.”
“Studying the Koran.” He didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. Maybe they hadn’t given him a good verse to memorize.
“Where will you be?”
“In the library.”
“I’ll come for you.”
“Right.” I’ve heard assurances that Iran doesn’t want to build nukes voiced with more conviction.
“Make sure you’re there,” I told him. “No matter what else happens. You understand?”
He made a face. I pointed to his eye. “You want more of these?”
“Fuck off.”
“Make sure you’re in the library. Ten o’clock. Sharp.”
He looked at me like I had the plague, and moved away.
* * *
My conversion to Islam began twenty minutes later. It was an extremely moving event.
Dragged into the interview suite, I was happy to see that my usual spot on the floor had been spruced up with some fresh applications of bleach. They hadn’t gotten all of it—a myriad of dull brown splatters covered the spot where I was tossed, face-first—but it’s the thought that counts.
I wallowed in the dust for a moment. Then, lo, a holy voice began speaking to me, and I was filled with the spirit of the most holy and glorious Messenger, the one, true Voice of the one true and glorious Allah.
Suddenly I understood the sacred writ. Nay, more than understood. I began propounding it, albeit in every foreign tongue known to man, and several that weren’t. As I cited chapter and verse of the Holy Koran, even the most skeptical of my observers was moved to the deepest emotions: they kicked, they punched, they screamed, they pummeled. Through it all I continued my litany of praise for the Prophet, for the Book, for the one and only force of life, the being I am not worthy to contemplate, let alone mention.
For thirty solid minutes I spoke in tongues, imparting blessings upon all in earshot. By the end of the session, not only had my interlocutors and their aides joined me in prayer, but three other guards and two supervisors were now proclaiming the verity of my Truth, a special aspect of which revealed the very Holiness of the Saud family not just as defenders of the faith, but as veritable UNIVERSAL ETERNAL HOLY MEN SENT DIRECTLY FROM THE MESSENGER HIMSELF!!!! (Editor—yes, we need those caps!!!!)
It was, clearly, the most tremendous and spiritually uplifting conversion to Islam ever, certainly in this prison. And that, naturally, required an e-mail message to headquarters that very morning.
A message intercepted by Shunt, who had hacked his way into the pitifully primitive system used by the jailers.
The response from Riyadh was immediate—a high-level team of clerics would arrive the next day.
I’m not sure if it was the shower or the meal, which included something similar to meat, that tipped me off that salvation was on the way. Maybe it was the fact that the afternoon beating wasn’t nearly as severe as the earlier ones, or that the waterboarding was at best halfhearted. I should note that Saudi law does allow certain prisoners to be released if they memorize a passage from the Koran and truly convert, revert, and pervert, and the administration was undoubtedly used to dealing with phony prophets.
My conversion was anything but phony. I propounded on the Divine Plan for the Kingdom, which naturally included exalted places for the conduits of my message—the torturers who had corrected my grammar and helped with the difficult questions of where to place the accents.
Whatever. I slept better that night than I had in months, aware that salvation was at hand.
(III)
I woke to the fervent baritone of the jail guard as he sang his praise of the early dawn, muttering in Arabic that the curs of Allah better get their butts up before they were flailed with the stick of heavenly persuasion.
I greeted him at the door of my cell most reverently, head bowed.
“You,” he muttered. “I have heard of you.”
I lowered my head even farther. “I am not worthy of your attention,” I muttered in poorly accented Arabic.
How poor was my accent? To the uninitiated, the words might have sounded like “You are the bastard son of a goat-fucked mother.” But surely I can’t be blamed for my poor diction.
He rapped on the cell with his stick. I bowed my head lower.
“True believers fear the almighty and powerful,” I told him. “And screw your mother, too.”
This clearly placated him, as evidenced by the fact that he only poked me twice in the face with his stick before moving on.
I sang his glorious praises, thanking him for his gift of compassion.
My two cellmates were understandably cautious, and gave me a wide berth as I shuffled out to the hallway. I found new inspiration in the hall, realizing that the entire staff was worthy of a place in paradise, and all should get bonuses of five thousand dollars (American) come the Sabbath. My proselytizing reached a fevered pitch as I walked trembling out to the yard. I was moved by the spirit—and the prods of the guards behind me.
Word of my conversion had spread through the jail. Practically everyone was watching as I took my spot for the morning prayers. I’m sure they were expecting me to lead them with some profound revelation. But conviction is best understated. I went deep within myself, barely moving my lips in prayer.
My words wouldn’t have been heard even if I were shouting, for as I began uttering them, a helicopter thundered overhead. The Russian-made Mi-8 was in so-so condition, offered for sale at the bargain price of only $550,000: an incredible deal, though at that price one had to expect some sort of mechanical deficiencies. Which no doubt explains the engine problems and the near crash landing in the second courtyard of the building, a feat that took considerable skill.
Have you met Trace Dahlgren, vice president of Red Cell International and part-time helicopter pilot?
* * *
I know what you’re thinking: Dick is going to scoop Garrett up and run to the helo in a blaze of gunfire. Trace will gun the engines and they will sail off into the sunrise, just like in that movie …
The Saudi guards thought something similar. They rushed to the helicopter en masse, discovering Trace and the very frightened salesman trying to put out a small fire under the instrument panel. There were shouts and complaints and drawn guns.
The salesman fainted, leaving Trace to stare down the Saudi officials on her own. She did this in a yellow sleeveless shirt about two sizes too small and a pair of jeans that defined the term “painted on.” She proceeded to get out of the helicopter, demonstrating with a series of complicated hand gestures where she thought the problem had actually originated.
Garrett, meanwhile, was at the edge of the crowd near the fence. I wouldn’t say he was leering, exactly, but he certainly had the expression of a man who admired manual dexterity.
Suddenly he was also overcome by heat exhaustion—that or the sharp pop to the neck I administered.
I’ve carried heavier men—Shotgun comes to mind—but Garrett weighed enough to provoke a mental review of the signs of hernia as I toddled from the courtyard into the building in search of medical assistance. The guards had moved out into the yard for a better view. I descended the stairs to the lower level, carrying my load ever lower as I walked past the “interview cells” to the steps on the far side. Both Garrett and my butt were practically dragging the floor as I climbed up to the small yard where the garbage was collected in a series of small Dumpsters and largish bins.
The smell was absolutely delightful. It got even better as I approached the half-filled rolloff.
Mechanical problems cured and salesman revived, the helicopter took off
from the rear of the yard, much to the regret of the population. Meanwhile, I clamped my teeth shut and went to work. Not five minutes later, a garbage truck rolled up. Two hulking attendants hopped off the back, pushed the Dumpster over, and had the lift empty it into the rear.
Someone shouted as the truck started to pull away.
“Two prisoners are missing!” he yelled. “Stop the garbage truck!”
It was a trick nearly as old as Sharia law. Alarms began sounding and guards began running. In the back, the helicopter began hovering unsteadily over the compound.
Meanwhile, two members of the night shift began making their way out the front door of the building, heading for the approaching bus with the other employees at the main gate. One of them tripped after exiting the building and struck his head on the sidewalk. His friend kindly helped him up and walked with him toward the stop.
That was us: the garbage bins were just a ruse, and a convenient place to dump the bodies of the two men whose clothes I stole. It was a perfectly executed getaway, out the front door.
Or it would have been, had Murphy not been driving the damn bus.
(IV)
The bus had pulled away from the curb and started down the narrow lane to the exit when it stalled. It was right in the middle of the road, blocking all traffic to the main building. When the driver couldn’t get it restarted, we were ordered off.
Garrett was still out of it. I put my arm under his shoulder and eased him down the aisle, half walking him, half pushing him toward the exit. The driver eyed us suspiciously, but I managed to get him down the stairs without being stopped or asked about my sexual preferences. Nearby, the guards had hauled the two would-be escapees from the back of the garbage truck. Though clearly unconscious, they were being questioned ferociously.
I shuffled toward the back of the crowd, hoping not to be examined too closely. I had my beard, and in the shadows could probably pass semi-plausibly for a sunburnt nomad. But Garrett looked about as white as white could be, and no amount of fussing with the collar of his long prison uniform shirt could hide that. We stood out from the other patients, and I knew we were eventually going to be found out. So rather than waiting for that to happen, I pushed my still comatose comrade upright and walked with him in the direction of the garbage truck.
We were about halfway there when someone began to shout, but I didn’t start running until I heard the gunshot.
Bullets exploded in the dirt nearby, fired by one of the guards back near the garbage bins. I threw my legs into overdrive, pulling Garrett with me to the cab. Yanking open the door, I pushed him inside, then I jumped up after him and put the truck in gear.
The truck promptly stalled. Murphy obviously hadn’t done well in auto school.
As calmly as I could, I reached and turned the key.
Rrrrrrr—ping—ping-ping—rrrrrrr.
The pings were the bullets hitting the top of the cab. The rrrrrrr was the truck’s starter, grinding the crankshaft over and over but failing to catch. Finally the engine coughed and caught, sounding like a pig with bronchitis. I managed to give the engine just enough gas to keep from stalling, and with a series of bucks and jerks, we began moving ahead.
The bus was blocking our path. There wasn’t enough room to get around it, and I didn’t have enough momentum to ram it and push it aside. So instead I threw the truck into reverse.
The crowd behind us scattered. Loose garbage flew from the rear as we jumped up the curb, drove across the sidewalk, and slammed into the low fence separating the garbage area from the rest of the driveway. I imagine all the guards were firing now, but I couldn’t hear them. I was too busy cranking the wheel and shoving the tranny into drive, angling for the narrow space between the buildings on the left.
The truck’s engine stuttered when I tried mashing the gas. I lifted my foot from the pedal just enough to keep the engine running without flooding; right about the time my stomach started looking for a new home at the back of my throat, we began moving forward.
We stuttered and bucked, but we were moving. A low fence stood between us and a wide, open field. The main road out was on the other side of the field.
As I picked up speed, something pounded on the side of the truck. It was one of the truck drivers, trying to recapture his vehicle. Fortunately, he didn’t have a weapon. I swung my forearm at his face; he ducked, then reappeared at the window. He leaned in and bit my arm.
Either he didn’t see the fence or didn’t care. We hit it hard enough to sheer it in half; as it broke, the shattered links grabbed his clothes and pulled him away.
Clear, I turned hard right. I had a straight, unobstructed run to the main road. Except for the man with the M16 standing in my way.
“Duck,” I yelled to Garrett, who was already slumped in the seat.
He croaked a response, the first peep I’d heard from him since the yard.
“Duck!” I yelled again.
I pushed my head down beneath the steering wheel as bullets raked the windshield. At some point soon thereafter, we crashed through the main gate. I’m not sure what happened to the guy with the rifle; either we ran him over or he jumped out of the way.
Steam was pouring from the front of the vehicle when I raised my head again. I didn’t have to look at the gauges to know we weren’t going to get very far.
“Garrett, we’re going to bail,” I yelled as the cabin began fogging.
He didn’t answer. Fearing the worst, I glanced to the right and saw he was fending off a Saudi who was clinging to the window.
Garrett’s dad was tough sea salt and a better-than-average brawler, which is pretty much what you would expect as a SEAL. He calmed down considerably at Six—mandatory behavior if you want to stay on the Team. But like father like son: the way Garrett pounded the Saudi with his right fist while holding his hair with his left hand made me nostalgic for his dad and bar fights gone by.
A loud boom and the sound of eight pistons shattering brought me back to the present. The truck immediately began to slow.
I threw it into neutral.
“Out!” I yelled as we coasted toward a halt. “Come on!”
Garrett let go of the guard, then grabbed at the door handle. As he flew out of the truck, I hopped out from my side and began running.
The Saudis were about two hundred yards behind us, rallying their forces from the prison. They had a pair of Humvees, with a .50 cal mounted in a turret on the top. The up-armored Hummer started spitting bullets. I grabbed Garrett and pulled him alongside, trying to keep the garbage truck between us as cover.
We’d only taken a few steps when something threw me forward into the grit. Sand swirled over me. For a moment I thought it was a Saudi sandstorm—one of the massive storms they call a shamal in Iraq.
Then I realized it was manmade.
The thick cloud of dust rolled over the Hummers. The dust blinded the driver and the gunner; they not only stopped firing but turned the vehicle to the side to escape the brunt of the dirt-laden tornado.
The next thing I knew, I was being grabbed by the back of my shirt and carried through the twister of dirt. Garrett was nearby, yelling that he was going to tear whoever was carrying him into a thousand tiny pieces.
There was a roar above us, and suddenly we were thrust out of the storm and into the hold of a helicopter.
“Better grab on to something!” yelled Mongoose as the Mi-8’s motors roared overhead. “Trace is driving and she seems to be in a very bad mood.”
3
(I)
Trace took the helicopter east to Abu Dhabi, flying low over the desert to avoid Saudi border radar and the two aircraft that had been scrambled to intercept her. I was in the back of the chopper, so I have no idea how close the F-15s ever got to us; for all I know the fancy acrobatics she pulled and the wild zigzagging were simply an effort to show off.
The movements were extreme; they sent Mongoose and Garrett to a pair of large buckets at the rear.
I didn’t f
eel all that well myself, but fortunately there was little in my stomach to remove. Shotgun had only one comment the entire flight:
“These jalapeño potato chips need more jalapeño.”
There were some complications with the officials at the airport. While Trace and Shotgun stayed behind to straighten those out, Mongoose, Garrett, and I cabbed to a hotel in the city.
Abu Dhabi is the capital of the Arab Emirates, a very modern and surprisingly multicultural city. It has skyscrapers. It has race cars. It has alcohol—at least in hotel bars and restaurants designated for tourists. We went to one of the latter, located on the top floor of the Emirate Emerald, a la-di-da luxury high-rise hotel located right on the water.
Before making my way to the bar, I hit the head and the shower. The first splatter of water against the welts on my back stung, but gradually the pain melted away. Feeling better, I toweled off and got dressed, then went to partake of the magical healing powers of Dr. Bombay.
Mongoose and Garrett had taken a table near the windows. Garrett had been more or less comatose in the helicopter when he wasn’t throwing up, and he didn’t seem much better now. He stared at the far wall with unfocused eyes, his cheeks so bruised and puffed they looked like rotten potatoes. A beer and a shooter were sitting in front of him. Neither one had been touched.
“Damn,” he muttered as I settled in. “Damn.”
There seemed to be thoughts in his mind somewhere, but they were having trouble getting to his mouth.
I sat patiently, expecting … oh, I don’t know, maybe a thank-you for rescuing him from that hellhole. Maybe a promise to name his first kid after me.
Instead, I got this:
“You fucking asshole.”
I get that a lot, but generally not from people I’ve risked my life to rescue.
“You screwed everything up,” continued Garrett. “You screwed it all up. I can’t believe you screwed it all up.”
[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel Page 5