by Harold Coyle
When the phone rang, Karen did not hesitate. In a flash, she threw down the magazine she had been leafing through and snatched up the remote receiver. By now she had learned to check the number on the small caller-ID window before pressing the talk button. If she didn't recognize the number, she didn't even bother answering.
When she saw that the caller was Abigail, Karen's heart sank.
That woman always managed to irritate Karen no end by speaking to her with a chilly tone that would bring a hyena to tears. The conversations between Karen and Abigail never varied. As soon as Karen had clicked the on button of the remote, Abigail's haughty tone would blare out. "Karen, is my daughter there?" even though Abigail already knew she was.
Karen did her best to hide her ire by responding with the most sickly sweet reply that she could manage. "I'm not sure,
^PBF;
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}Ars. Stanton. Do give me a moment and I will check." This allowed Karen to place the old bitch on hold while she put aside whatever it was that she had been doing, roused herself in a most leisurely manner, and wandered about the small apartment in search of Elizabeth.
At the moment Elizabeth was lying on her bed amid crumpled sheets, curled up and clutching an oversized stuffed panda bear Karen had given her shortly after they met. The only light in the room came from the flickering images of the television that sat tucked away in a corner wall unit. The sound was muted, as it was most of the time these days. Though both would have loved to do so, neither woman could escape their small yet supporting role in the current media event. So* it behooved them to keep track of what was going on outside the fragile shell that they had erected about them. Their need to keep track of the latest events did not mean that they needed to put up with the nonstop babble, which talking heads on the twenty-four-hour news shows felt obliged to generate. Thus the silent images.
When Karen entered the room she immediately went to the side of the bed and eased herself down against Elizabeth's back.
With a tenderness that expressed both her love and a deep caring, Karen laid her hand upon the distressed woman's shoulder as she glanced at the screen. Being run at the moment was footage of an earlier press conference with the now-familiar image of the mother of Specialist Four David Davis. Standing behind her as he pleaded unabashedly to a distant dictator was the Reverend Lucas Brown. The Reverend Brown was a prominent leader in the African-American community and son of a noted civil rights leader who always seemed to be at the right place at the right time, especially if there was a TV news camera around. He had both hands securely planted upon the shoulders of Davis's mother as he spoke to the reporters for her. As Karen studied the screen she could not but help wonder if the Reverend Brown
^ere hanging on to the bereaved mother in an effort to console 188
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her or if his true intent was to aim the poor woman toward the camera that promised to present the most flattering image of him as he stood there, tending to a sister of color in her time of greatest need.
Distracted by her cynicism. Karen almost forgot that Abigail was on the line waiting to speak to her precious baby girl. With a gentle nudge Karen shook Elizabeth. "Liz, your mother is on the phone."
At first Elizabeth did not answer. When she did, her response had nothing to do with what Karen had said. "How do you think she does it?'
Unsure of whether Elizabeth was talking about the Davis woman or her own mother, Karen paused before venturing forth with a question that would cover all possibilities. "How so?"
Absorbed by her own disjointed and confused thoughts Elizabeth was slow to respond. When she finally did, her voice had a low, almost wistful tone to it. "How do you suppose she manages to go out in public like that and allow herself to express her fears or most heartfelt passions? How can any woman be so forthcoming, so open about her deepest, darkest fears, without being embarrassed?"
Karen was astute enough to appreciate that Elizabeth's internal plight went deeper than a simple inability to express sentiments.
Since the crisis had erupted she had refused to share any of her feelings or thoughts with anyone, not even her chosen partner.
This left Karen in a strange place, unsure of how best to deal with a situation that refused to go away. It was not that Elizabeth's response to the crisis was out of line with circumstances that she faced. If anything Karen was surprised that the woman was holding up as well as she was. Instead, Karen's apprehensions concerned other, more long-term issues. The broker found that she was unable to put aside a nagging fear that her relationship was being endangered by a man she had never met, a situation over which she had no control, and a culture that tolerated her, but gave her no firm ground upon which to stand.
r
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As troubling as this was to her, with each passing day Karen found that another issue was beginning to rear its ugly head.
Though she tried to suppress thoughts that she had initially discounted as being selfish and uncalled-for, Karen was far too involved in her own career not to wonder what all of this would cost her professionally. She had no doubt that her inability to keep pace with her most pressing business affairs, coupled with her now very public relationship with Elizabeth, would come back to haunt her. Even in the cosmopolitan and very liberal landscape of New York City, people expect those charged with handling their money and business affairs to be discreet and on the conservative side. Rock stars, writers, and artists could be flamboyant.
Brokers could not. Though, no one had said as much, Karen was beginning to wonder if her unflinching loyalty to Elizabeth would spell disaster for her further down the road when she was out of the limelight. She had already seen what happened when her superiors and influential clients came to the conclusion that an associate had become too much of a liability' due to some personal indiscretions or unwanted notoriety.
Reaching up, Elizabeth took Karen's hand and squeezed it, breaking the momentary and very troubling train of thought that Karen had been entertaining. With a shake of her head, she cleared away those thoughts. "Abigail is on the phone, Liz."
Just the mention of her mother's name was enough to send Elizabeth's already depressed spirits even lower. "Tell her I'm not here." '
"Hon, you know she'll know I'm lying. You haven't left this apartment in days, and thanks to the media, she knows it."
"Then tell her I'm asleep."
"She'll insist that I wake you."
Angered as much by Karen's insistence as she was by the Prospect of having to endure her mother's effort to insert herself into her life again, Elizabeth pulled away from Karen, threw her teet over the side of the bed, and sat up. "Damn her! Damn you!
¦™id damn that Boy Scout I married!"
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Miffed by Elizabeth's response, Karen stood up and glared at the back of her friend. She made no effort to hide the displeasure she felt as she pivoted about on her heels and stormed out of the room, calling out over her shoulder before she slammed the door,
"Your mother is waiting."
In a final yet futile fit, Elizabeth drew her arms against her sides, clenched her fists and shook them as she repeatedly muttered,
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Then, after a moment's pause she managed regain her composer. Using the same measured discipline she employed when dealing with an annoying client, she collected herself as she reached for the phone on the nightstand. By the time she had it to her ear Elizabeth was able to greet her mother with a sweet if insincere "Hello, Mom. How nice of you to call."
Damascus
07:10 LOCAL (03:10 ZULU)
For the first time since being brought to this place, Ken Aveno woke up of his own accord and not to the sound of his tormentors entering the barren cell to haul him away to the room where the enlisted men of RT Kilo were still being beaten before his eyes. At first this unexpected respite from the nons
top horrors to which he had been exposed worried Aveno. Picking himself up off the floor the young officer found himself wondering if he had missed something, if somehow dLiring his brief if fitful sleep his sorry state of affairs had somehow changed. The first thing that came to mind was that their ordeal was over. Though he had absolutely nothing to base this supposition upon, Aveno found himself becoming excited by the notion that the Syrians had given in to diplomatic pressures and in preparation for their release had ceased their relentless torture.
As often happens to prisoners who have been beaten and deprived of even the most basic human needs such as food, water, and sleep, Aveno's distraught mind was unable to linger upon this w
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bright ray of hope for very long. In a flash, a sound from outside his cell swept away his budding optimism and yanked him back to the harsh reality of his circumstances. In place of elation, fear once more gripped him. No longer able to muster the determination needed to resist this ever-present foe, Aveno instinctively drew away from the door as he vainly sought refuge in the corner of his dank, cold cell.
That a professional soldier of his caliber could be reduced to such a state by mere sounds no longer bothered him. Colored berets, catchy mottoes, and the best training in the world made a difference, but could not change the simple fact that Ken Aveno and the other survivors of RT Kilo were flesh and blood. Once the thin veneer is worn away, there is nothing left to protect the mind and body. Even worse than the actual punishment itself was the mind's ability to dwell upon the unknown, to seize upon every unexpected action, every new sound, and turn it into a threat. At times like this, a soldier need something more than simple courage to keep going, something that Aveno no longer had.
With each passing second the noise on the other side of the door drew nearer and became more distinct, causing Aveno to strain with all his might to press himself deeper into the corner of his cell. In the midst of this futile effort to escape this unseen menace, he made no effort to fight the panic that had taken hold.
Like a wounded animal, he continued to push and press himself into a corner that would not yield. The pride in his past achievements a'nd the rank that he had once .counted on to sustain him during times of crisis were gone. Just like the approaching sound
°n the other side of the door, Aveno could not escape the fact that he had thrown it away again and again each and every time a member of RT Kilo was tortured in his presence and his only conscious thought was to silently thank God again and again that he was not the one being beaten.
Damascus
07:15 LOCAL (03:15 ZULU)
While his lieutenant was giving way to his fears on the floor above him, Salvador Mendez was busy exploring a world that he was seeing for the first time. It did not matter to him that the Syrian guards took every opportunity they could to inflict as much pain upon him as they could while removing his blindfold and manacles.
Even if this were but a precursor to a new and even more horrific form of punishment the brief respite from them was a cause of celebration.
Yet for every change to the good there was a downside. After days of having his hands tightly secured behind his back by handcuffs, Mendez found that his arms were for the moment useless.
Even worse, the sudden release of pressure at his wrists unleashed a wave of pain that the numbness of his arms had somehow managed to mask while bound. Still, this sorry state of affairs did little to dampen a feeling boarding on euphoria that the New York City native felt. With arms hanging limply at his side, Mendez wandered about the small cell exploring every nook and cranny. This didn't take very long for it wasn't much of a cell. A person standlng in the middle of the floor slowly turning his head could lay his eyes on every square inch of the cell in a matter of seconds. That
^significant fact did not bother Mendez. To him, his newly reacquired sight was a precious gift to be enjoyed lest he be deprived of it again.
This last thought triggered another, more ominous one. If the Syrians had removed the blindfold and handcuffs, Mendez reasoned they could easily put them back on again. This break from 194
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those constraints might be temporary. Alternating periods of total restraint interrupted by random interludes free of them might be all that it took to shatter his already fragile spirit and push him ever closer to a total breakdown. That wouldn't have very far to go, he sadly concluded. Even the trivial effort needed to shuffle about the small six-by-ten-foot cell proved exhausting. Mendez lowered his head and shook it. "Damn, boy," he muttered.
"You're gonna have to get in shape if you expect to escape from this hole."
The idea of escaping, of course, was fanciful. Even if he did manage to somehow find a way out of the cell and the building that housed it, Mendez appreciated the fact that he would be adrift in a strange and hostile land. There would be no friendly faces to provide him sanctuary and no one to appeal to for aid.
And then there was the desert. Mendez was hard-pressed to decide what was more threatening; an enraged populace capable of tearing him apart or the trackless wasteland that would siphon away his lifeblood in a matter of days. Stopping in midstride, he looked about once more. For better or worse, no matter what the Syrians had in mind he had no choice but to roll with the punches, both literally and figuratively.
This realization and a fresh appraisal of his cell brought a strange smile to the young Puerto Rican's bruised and bloodied face. He had joined the army to escape living among a hostile populace and in substandard housing, only to wind up here, being held by a hostile populace in a substandard cell. Well, he mused as he began another circuit of his cell, / always knew God has a quirky sense of humor.
Specialist Four Dee Dee Davis did little with his newfound freedom.
He simply sat against the wall where the Syrians had left him after removing his constraints. He was still there when the sound of the bolt on the other side of the door sliding open roused him from the stupor into which he had drifted. If he'd had MORE THAN COURAGE
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the strength to do so he would have crawled into a corner even though doing so would have been futile. There was no place for him to escape to, nothing to hide behind in the barren cell. Still, the urge to do something was overpowering.
With a growing sense of alarm Davis stared at the door. Was it time for his next beating? Had they decided that he had had enough freedom for one day and were coming back to put the handcuffs back on? Or were they here to visit some new form of punishment upon him? These questions and others, each equally scary and distasteful, raced through Davis's mind as the door began to swing open.
To his amazement no one entered the cell. Instead, when there was just enough room to do sq a hand appeared and set a bowl down on the floor. The hand quickly pulled away just before the door slammed shut. Not knowing what to make of this Davis stayed where he was for a moment, watching and listening as the bolt on the other side was slammed home. Even when the sound of footfalls on the other side appeared to move down the corridor he did nothing. Only when he could no longer hear anyone outside his cell did his curiosity finally get the better of him.
His full attention now turned to the bowl that had been left behind. He stared at it for several minutes as if expecting it to do something. Could it be food of some sort? Not trusting his sight he tilted his head back, turned his nose toward the unexpected gift, and tried to sniff the air. This effort yielded little in the way of useful information since his nose had been broken at least once and was now thoroughly plugged up with dried blood and niucus. Seeing no other alternative, Davis collected what little strength he had left and prepared to venture across the cell to investigate.
Doing this turned out to be both difficult and painful.
A hough it had been more than an hour since his arms had been Abound, they were still of little use to him. The only thing he could feel in them was pain from inflamed joints at the shoulders
^u elbows as well as a terrible burning sensation that radiated up 196
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his arm from hands that felt as if they were swollen to twice their natural size. And his legs were almost as unresponsive. His first effort to stand up shortly after the Syrians had removed his restrains had ended disastrously. Unwilling to make that mistake again, Davis opted to scoot along the floor on his bottom by throwing his feet out before him, planting them firmly upon the floor, and then using what strength he had in his legs to haul his buttocks up to where his feet were anchored. Each time he drew closer to the bowl and before he threw his feet out again in order to repeat this process, Davis paused to study it. Inching along in this manner, it took him several minutes to get close enough to see that there was something in it that looked like a soup or stew.
The lack of steam rising from the surface of the broth didn't bother him. As a soldier he was used to cold meals. He was also very familiar with the pangs that hunger produces when too many meals had been missed. What he wasn't practiced in was moving about without full use of his legs.
When he was in the process of making his final lurching move, it occurred to Davis that his limp arms and swollen hands would be useless to him when he reached his goal. He would be unable to pick up the bowl. Startled for a moment by this sudden reevaluation, the specialist four paused and considered his dilemma. He could, he reasoned, wait where he was for a few minutes in the hope that enough strength would return to his arms to permit him to hold the bowl and eat like a normal human being. But waiting could be dangerous. What if the Syrians returned while he was doing so and took the uneaten food away? Would they pay any attention to his pleas and leave it? Perhaps they would see his j plight, take mercy on him, and offer to feed him?