by Harold Coyle
Looking back at the toiletries and bright yellow jumpsuit, MORE THAN COURAGE
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Davis realized that while he could resist, doing so would be futile and foolish. It would a symbolic gesture, which the Syrians would probably not understand, and no one back home would ever hear of. In the end the desire to survive triumphed once again. That and the fear of what might happen if he failed to play along with this new game compelled Davis to make what appeared to be the only sensible choice open to him. He consoled himself as he stripped down and prepared to shower that there would be plenty of time later to atone for giving in to these bastards. Later, when he was far away from here and out of their grasp.
The room to which Davis was taken fwhen he had finished donning his yellow jumpsuit was unlike anything he had seen up to
this point. Rich wood paneling covered the lower half of the walls. Throughout the room highly polished handcrafted furniture was tastefully set about, creating the appearance that this was some sort of lounge at an old-fashioned gentleman's club like those one sees only in movies. The floor was carpeted. While it was cheap and thin by American standards it was nonetheless spotless and well cared for. Like a stranger who has suddenly found himself transported to a distant, mystical land Davis wandered out into the center wide-eyed, gazing about as he did so.
When the door across the room from the side he had entered began to open, the same fear returned that gripped him every time he heard the bolt to his cell slid open. Without thinking he ceased his casual inspection of his new surroundings and began a frantic search for someplace to hide, a corner to which he could flee.
Davis was still in the throes of seeking some sort of sanctuary when a familiar voice called out to him. "Specialist Davis, I am the Reverend Lucas Brown."
Stunned, Davis slowly spun about and stared at the well dressed civil rights leader as he tried hard to reconcile the apparition standing across the room from him with the reality of the hell he had just been removed from. That this man was real was with 288
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out doubt. Davis had been raised by a mother who revered the Reverend Brown and his efforts to promote African-American causes.
Sensing Davis's confusion, Brown moved across the room and embraced the man. It did not matter to Brown that the stunned soldier he held did not return the embrace or cry out in glee at being in the presence of a man as great as he. So long as the camera crew following him caught the greeting and recorded the joy the reverend's expression projected, all would go well.
After maintaining the embrace long enough for the camera crew to maneuver around so that they were now behind Davis and facing Brown head-on, the reverend released his hold on the prisoner and stepped back. While keeping his right hand on Davis's arm, Brown recited a well-rehearsed message aimed at disarming any trepidation that the man before him might have about playing along with him. "Your mother sends you all of her love and wants you to know you are with her in her prayers."
This statement had its desired effect. In a flash Davis's expression changed from one of grave misgivings and wariness to one of delight at the mere mention of his mother. Caught up by the emotional response this generated, Davis reached out with his right hand and grasped the reverend's left arm. "How is she, Reverend?"
he asked. "How's my mother holding up?"
Taking great care to maintain his posture, Brown smiled. This expression did not spring from the joy he felt over having an opportunity to meet the serviceman. Nor was it a sincere show of concern. Rather, its source was his satisfaction that the camera crew he had brought along with him was recording every moment of an event that promised to be politically beneficial.
"Naturally your mother is very, very worried about you and your welfare, as am I. You have been with us in all our prayers every hour of every day."
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crafted words of concern, and the idea that he had not been forgotten.
After having endured so much for so long without the slightest hint of salvation he found himself unable to hold back emotions that he had struggled to keep in check. Abandoning all the pretentious pride he still harbored and with an urgency that betrayed the desperation he felt, Davis all but lunged forward as he seized Brown's hand between his trembling fingers and bowed his head as if he were a sinner seeking forgiveness. "You have got to get me out of here," Davis sobbed. "I'll die in this place if you don't, Reverend Brown. You are my last hope. I'll just die if you don't."
With practiced ease the Reverend Brown laid his free hand upon Davis's bowed head as his own face assumed an appropriately solemn expression. Looking up, Brown began to whisper a prayer in a voice modulated so as to be clear when the camera's microphone picked it up. "Lord, we beseech You to guide and protect this wretched soul through these troubling times. We ask that You give me the strength and the wisdom necessary to guide Your servant away from his evil ways and free him from the sins that he has committed against his brothers and sisters. Lord, we implore You to open Your arms and accept this man back into your blessed fold."
As if on cue, Davis dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms about Brown's legs. "Forgive me," he repeated again and again as he sobbed and wailed. In the excitement of the moment all thoughts of his companions vanished, forgotten by a man who had been beaten to within an inch of his life and had lost all hope. "Forgive me," Davis pleaded. Whom he was asking forgiveness from did not matter. Neither did the price he would have to pay for this forgiveness. "Forgive me." All that concerned this poor soul at the moment was survival. True forgiveness and atonement could come later when he was far from this place of pain and death, when his body was healed and his mind was clear. "Forgive me."
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before the dark-suited reverend was not only powerful and heart wrenching, it exceeded every expectation the Syrians could have hoped for. The first of the Americans had broken. It did not matter to them who had been the instrument in achieving this. All that was important to them was that Davis was vulnerable and now quite pliable. All they needed to do was provide to him the proper incentive and they would have a propaganda coup that would be worth a division.
Not every meeting between Reverend Lucas Brown and the members of RT Kilo went according to his carefully scripted program.
The Syrians had expected as much. Nevertheless they had decided to afford the good reverend an opportunity to try his luck. The interview between the American civil rights leader and Sergeant First Class Kannen, laid out in the exact same manner as Davis's, never got past the initial introduction. After taking one look at Brown as he came through the door across from him Kannen pivoted and marched up to the pair of Syrian guards who were posted to either side of the door on his side of the room.
"Take me back to my cell," he demanded in a voice that was loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.
Stunned by this unexpected reaction, Brown stopped in mid stride as the Syrians first looked at each other, then back at the American before them. Paying no attention to what Brown or his TV crew was up to Kannen repeated his demand. "Get me out of this fucking room and away from that asshole, now!" For this show of defiance, the American NCO was rewarded with a particularly vicious and protracted round of beatings, none of which managed to exorcise the satisfaction Kannen had derived from his response to another propaganda sham staged by the Syrians.
Specialist Four Salvador Mendez was less impressed with the appearance of the Reverend Brown than Davis had been. Though Mendez was attentive to and respectful of what the reverend was MORE THAN COURAGE
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saying, the civil rights leader was never able to put him at ease.
Throughout the entire meeting Mendez cast fugitive glances about the room as if he expected the reverend's c
amera crew or the Syrian guards to suddenly lunge at him. In the end, Brown found that he had to content himself with holding Mendez's hand while he did all of the talking.
By mutual agreement between Brown and the Syrians, a meeting with Ken Aveno was not scheduled. The Syrians didn't even mention either Burman or Ciszak and Brown didn't ask about those two officers. They also made it clear from the beginning that the pending execution of Sergeant Hashmi was a domestic issue that Brown was not to mention or inject himself into.
After meeting the three enlisted men, a deal was hammered out behind the scenes between the Reverend Brown and the Syrian foreign minister. Upon the conclusion of a press conference during which Davis read a statement prepared for him by the Syrian government, the American would be free to leave with Reverend Brown. Realizing that it would be dangerous for Davis to be allowed to read the statement beforehand and given time to think about what he was doing, Brown insisted that he be the one to handle Davis.
Meeting for a second time in the same room without benefit of guards or camera crew, the Reverend Brown informed Davis that he was on the verge of securing his freedom. "There are some in the Syrian government," Brown explained, "who would like nothing better than to see this crisis brought to an end."
Doing his best to keep his expectations in check, Davis listened intently as Brown spun his story.
"Unfortunately," Brown stated, "they are afraid that if they let even one of you go without some sort of display of contrition, then their own people will rise up and voice their righteous indignation.
The people of Syria, the government insists, must be given some sort of satisfaction for the devastation and death that your actions caused them."
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Slowly it dawned upon Davis what he was being asked to do.
Still, that did not matter at the moment. All that was important was survival. "What do they want?"
"I know that you are a soldier," Brown expounded in a deep, empathetic tone. "As such you are bound by an oath to uphold the traditions of your service and follow its rules and regulations.
Part of your obligations requires you to do everything in your power to protect your comrades and friends, a duty that even our Lord expects of you."
Looking into Brown's eyes, Davis tried to determine if the man who purported to be his savior was being completely honest and forthcoming. With Davis blinded by the promise of freedom being dangled before him, the truth never had a chance. Rather than carefully weighing each of the reverend's words Davis found himself trying to find something in them that would justify going along with whatever he was being asked to do.
"Before you were a soldier," Brown went on, "you were a man and a Christian. As such you have obligations that supersede even the most sacred and honorable oath extracted from you by your government."
Davis nodded. "I understand, Reverend."
"The Syrians have agreed to let you return home with me provided you read a statement which I have prepared for you at a
press conference."
Though he suspected this sort of thing had been coming, Reverend Brown's demands struck Davis like a shot in the heart.
In a flash images of Americans being held by the North Vietnamese that he had seen on the History Channel ran through his mind. His solemn pledge to uphold the Code of Conduct quickly followed. But even more disturbing than either of those thoughts was the idea that he could very well betray his comrades by doing what the reverend asked.
Sensing that he was on the verge of losing Davis and correctly guessing the reason for his sudden trepidation, Brown reached over and took his hand. "You have done all you can do for your MORE THAN COURAGE
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comrades here. Staying behind and suffering alone in your cell will neither harm them nor hurt them. You have already proven your courage. You have done all that was expected of you. By coming home with me you will not be turning your back on your friends. You will be serving them. Your return will give their loved ones hope, hope that the rest will soon follow. Hope that all is not lost. No one will speak ill of you. Rather, you will be welcomed as a hero. You will be a ray of sunshine sent by God to show them that this terrible storm will soon be over." Having made his pitch, Reverend Brown leaned back and gave Davis a moment to consider the matter.
The thought of going back to his cell and enduring a fresh round of beatings carried far more weight than the message of hope that the reverend spoke of. This and this alone proved to be decisive. That he could no longer endure facing such punishment was clear to Davis. He knew what the Army expected of him. But that Army wasn't here. No one had done a damned thing to save him despite the fact that he had done all that had been expected of him and more. Now that he had an opportunity to save himself, Davis saw no dishonor in seizing it. If anything he found himself justifying his complete capitulation by reasoning that his experiences might actually prove to be of help if the Army ever did manage to get around to planning some sort of rescue attempt. So the reverend was right. His duty now was to go back with him.
Having made up his mind, Davis looked into Brown's eyes. "I will do Whatever it is you think is right, Reverend."
Realizing that he had just achieved a major coup, The Reverend Brown smiled as he patted Davis's hand. "You have made the right choice, my son."
Dulles Airport, Virginia
20:45 LOCAL (00:45 ZULU)
Unable to sit calmly and pass the time as the other members of the official party somehow managed to do, Brigadier General 294
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James Palmer paced back and forth like a caged panther at mealtime.
Every time he passed his aide de camp Palmer would stop, look at that officer, and growl. "How much longer?"
Making a great show of it, the aide would lift his arm, look at his watch, and make the necessary calculations to determine how much time remained before the private jet bearing the Reverend Brown and Specialist Four Davis arrived. "Fifteen minutes, sir."
Mumbling to himself, Palmer would turn and storm off as he resumed his pacing.
Seated at one end of the lounge was the Deputy Chief of Staff of the Army, a four-star general who would serve as the senior military representative at the homecoming the Reverend Brown's people had set up. When Palmer's nervous prowling brought him within a few feet of the Deputy Chief, the senior general called out to him. "For Christ's sake, Jim. Sit down. You're making me nervous."
Unfazed by this mild rebuke, Palmer stopped. "Damn it, sir!
How can you sit there while the Reverend Lucas Brown is making a mockery of us? Why the Sec Def agreed to let that charlatan have his way and bring Davis straight home is beyond me."
Though he agreed with everything Palmer was saying, the Deputy Chief of Staff folded his hands in his lap and looked up at the enraged brigadier. "Both the State Department and DOD made it clear that this was Brown's show. Because he is a private citizen neither agency has any right to dictate to him how he does things.
To do so now would seem as if we were trying to horn in on his success.
As much as it might rankle our cockles, the dear reverend made the effort and therefore deserves his ten seconds of fame."
Palmer glared. "Oh, but if it were only ten seconds."
The Deputy Chief of Staff chuckled. "Relax. As my wife likes to say every time I get a gallstone, this too shall pass."
Finding no solace in his superior's quip, Palmer was about to take up his pacing where he had left off when a beeper being carried by the Deputy Chief of Staff's aide went off. As one, every f
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eye in the room was drawn to him. Paying no attention to anything but his duty, the aide looked at the number displayed on the beeper. Setting it aside he pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number. "Colonel Shafter here."
When he was finished the aide clicked the off button, stood up, and looked over at his general. "Sir, that was the towe
r. The private jet carrying the Reverend Brown and Specialist Davis has just declared an emergency."
Blinking, the Deputy Chief of Staff came to his feet. "How far are they out?"
"Five minutes, sir. The tower has cleared all traffic and is scrambling the crash trucks."
On cue the sound of sirens coming to life broke the silence in the waiting lounge where the army delegation had gathered.
"General Palmer," the Deputy Chief of Staff announced slowly, deliberately. "Get out there and find out what's going on."
Standing on the ground before the executive jet, Palmer, the pilot of the jet, and the senior rep from the Department of Transportation, stood in silence looking up at the open door. "I had just made the announcement that we were beginning our descent into Dulles," the pilot explained in hushed tones. "Everything was in order. There were no problems, not a peep from the cabin. And then, pow, everything Went to hell."
Pausing, he bowed his head as he reached up to wipe away beads of sweat that trickled down his forehead. "According to the flight attendant," he stated in a voice that still quivered from the adrenaline that lingered in his veins, "everyone was in their seats, strapped in and ready for the landing. Before she realized what he was doing your man Davis undid his seat belt, came to his feet, and calmly walked to the door."
For a moment the trio stood there, gazing at the damaged aircraft as if they were waiting for it to provide an answer to this 296
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troubling mystery. Finally Palmer broke the silence. "And he said nothing?"
The pilot shook his head. "From what I've been told he spoke to no one the entire flight. The flight attendant said he just sat there, staring out of the window as if he were looking for something."