Speech therapy was less painful than physical therapy, but no less arduous, and to Smitty it was frustrating and a torment to endure. Try as he might, the letters B, F, M, P, V, and W were impossible to form. His mouth never closed; it was frozen in a state of perpetual wonder. Smitty knew ventriloquism meant speaking from the belly, and good ventriloquists could speak without moving their lips. He challenged himself to master the art, but could he project his words with his mouth agape? Lesser men, Daniel was certain, would have given up by now, refused therapy and taken a pill or a bullet. Smitty, battered and burned, was a survivor, stronger than any man Daniel had ever met. The scarred and missing flesh that had once horrified him now went unnoticed as Daniel came to know the human who dwelled in that wretched body, the man who had become his friend and trusted advisor.
The Review
After a chronological review of the brightly colored transmissions, Smitty and Daniel agreed that Brandon had somehow been captured. Daniel restated the facts, as they knew them. “There were two enemy KIA outside when the team of four went below. After the explosion, Madcap counted three enemy KIA, so Brandon nailed a third Iraqi soldier after returning to the surface. That could have been the major he escorted topside, or another Iraqi who wasn’t detected earlier. Either way, two men departed to the north in an ATV after the explosion, and Pointer reported that one rider appeared to be lashed to the roll bar. If the direction of travel had been to the south, then we could figure Brandon had a captive in tow, but the direction was north. Brandon had to be the captive. Brandon is a POW, and we buried a stranger in my brother’s grave.”
“I agree, but the Iraqi Army never listed Brandon as a POW. The exchange was made. If they had him, why would they keep him? It doesn’t make sense. Maybe he died strapped to that roll bar. If he isn’t dead, then where is he? It’s been three years. What makes you think he could still be alive?”
“Alverez, McCain, Borling, Driscoll, Stockdale and many others were imprisoned in Hanoi for six or seven years about twenty years ago, Smitty. You know that better than I.”
“Yes, but their presence was acknowledged and they weren’t alone. They weren’t abandoned. This is different. Neither the Iraqi government nor ours acknowledges Brandon’s survival, and ours clearly assumes he’s dead.”
“Initially, many POWs in Nam weren’t acknowledged. Some were MIA for years before another American saw them. I agree that we did not abandon those we knew were POWs, but what about those MIA who were never acknowledged as captured who may have been imprisoned in Laos or Cambodia?”
“Good point. We just don’t know. But we’ve probably left men behind in every war.”
“Right! And Brandon was left behind in Iraq. He’s been abandoned. Being buried is damn good evidence of that.”
“Okay, let’s assume you’re right. Will anyone help us find a soldier already classified KIA? Chances are we’d get directions to the cemetery in Muleshoe. A status change from KIA to MIA won’t be easy. Someone will have to admit a mistake was made. There won’t be many volunteers.
Exhumation may be required and identification of the remains may be difficult or impossible. After all that, the MIA has to be reclassified as a POW. We’d need proof that Brandon is alive and that proof requires discovery. We have to find him and how the hell are we going to do that?”
Daniel answered, “I don’t know but we have to try.”
The discussion was put on hold and questions were held in abeyance after the orderly entered with the suggestion that Daniel allow Smitty to get some rest.
The following day, after further discussion, a plan of action was agreed upon. Daniel would call the State Department, present the facts, and let the State Department take it from there. They could make discrete inquiries, perhaps through the Swiss, or Poles, and begin the process to secure Brandon’s release. It sounded like a good plan, but wasn’t.
Officials at State were polite, consoling, and understanding, but not the least bit helpful. “There are no POWs in Iraq,” of that they were certain. And, because Brandon was a soldier, and not a civilian, it was not within their purview anyway.
Daniel was discouraged by State from jousting with windmills, but if he could not be dissuaded, he should contact the Defense department. It was their bailiwick. In short, just go away and bother someone else. Daniel did. At Defense, his call was routed from office to office—from the Office of the Secretary to the Assistant Secretary, to the Under Secretary and finally to someone who was probably just a secretary. Daniel’s theoretical questions received theoretical answers and the one he liked most was the most obvious. He should contact an Iraqi Embassy or Consulate and confront them directly.
“Do you really think an Ambassador would give me a straight answer?” Daniel asked.
“No, not really, but if this is all hypothetical, what does it matter? Good luck,” the voice said sweetly. Daniel listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before returning the phone to its cradle.
5
Hidden Memories Resurface
It happened during one of the Smith & Stiles brainstorming sessions. Smitty recalled an important bit of information previously forgotten, and he wondered what else might be hiding in the fog of his memory.
Daniel had been relating his conversation with officials at Defense, when his words became a murmur, quiet lyrics in a song smothered by the melody. The music playing in Smitty’s head was the beautiful music of remembrance.
“Wait!” Smitty signaled for silence and Daniel instinctively obeyed. The room became eerily quiet. One scarred hand hung in suspension, inches above the sheets. His eyes were distant, unmoving. But behind the stillness his mind was racing, replaying events long since passed and long forgotten.
“I remember!” he blurted, breaking the silence that had begun to ring in Daniel’s ears. “That major was a big shot. Brandon said the major wanted to talk but not in front of his men. He was scared and you know Brandon had a unique ability to bring that out in a man. I think the major probably thought Brandon was going to kill him right then and there, and he was looking to save his own ass. He claimed to be important. I told Brandon to tell the rag head major that his soldiers impressed me about as much as a Girl Scout troop. And your brother said ‘I’ll be sure to let him know, Smitty, and oh, by the way,’ he sidled over and whispered, ‘did I happen to mention this guy’s daddy is on the Revolutionary Council?’”
“No way! What did you say?”
“I said almost exactly what you said. I said ‘no way!’ but I spiced it up a little, and your brother said, ‘Hey, doubting Thomas, I don’t make the news, I just report it.’ That’s what he said.”
Daniel was transfixed. Smitty continued, “That’s it. Brandon told me to come with him to hear the major’s confession. He was laughing and the major was about to pee in his pants.”
“But you didn’t go?”
“No, as I told you earlier, I was in the middle of something, so I told him I’d be up in five and he said ‘make it two.’”
“And how long was it before you followed him up the ramp?”
Daniel’s words hung in the air, drifting, like virga as images played on the screen behind Smitty’s eyes.
“About five minutes. Or maybe it was six or seven. Not long. The tunnel ramped upward on a shallow incline for about thirty yards and then rounded a corner to the left and continued for another thirty or forty yards to outer blast doors. This was a big complex, too big really. It displayed a misguided sense of security, a notion of invincibility. It should have been three separate facilities.”
It was all so clear now. The kaleidoscope of fragmented images had floated in Smitty’s mind like bits of colored glass, rotating and changing shape, searching for one symmetrical pattern of truth. When they finally settled into place, it was a vivid picture, exciting, and beautiful to behold.
“I had just opened the outer door
s when the bunker blew. It might be the Iraqi had set a self-destruct timer. That would also explain his urgency to get outside. Maybe he was less scared of Brandon than of events he’d set in motion. I guess we’ll never know the answers to how or why, but we do know we got more than we bargained for.”
Daniel sat quietly, absorbing what he’d learned. He had no immediate reply. After a lengthy silence, in a subdued voice, he questioned, “So, the major’s dad was a big shot?”
“That’s what he said; that’s what Brandon told me.”
“It’s getting late, old buddy, I’ll let you get some rest. We’ll sleep on it tonight and tomorrow after my shift, we can talk about what to do next.”
Daniel stopped in the doorway and turning added, “Thanks, Smitty.”
Both outstretched arms lifted off the sheets on which they were splayed, elbows locked, in what seemed a come-hither welcome. Suspended there, both thumbs slowly raised and he nodded.
Sleep was slow arriving as Daniel tried to assimilate the day’s events. There were two KIA reported by Brandon and three by Madcap. Did Brandon not get the true count? Not likely. The major was hand cuffed when Brandon took him outside. Who removed the restraints? Was Brandon surprised by a third Iraqi who had not been detected? Did they fight? Did Brandon score the third kill or did the explosion kill him? So many questions remained unanswered but the conclusion was always the same. Brandon had disappeared. Brandon was a prisoner of war.
Daniel tossed in his bed as questions assaulted his consciousness and his personal inquisition continued far into the night. Smitty had somehow survived the fiery shock wave of the blast that flashed through that tunnel, a hellish inferno, devouring oxygen and everything in its path. Smitty should be dead, pure and simple. Instead, he’s an unfortunate miracle.
The blast, just milliseconds after it ripped off the outer doors, took off five feet of reinforced concrete roofing with the ease of removing a pressure seal from a can of peanuts. How had it happened? Brandon and his prisoner were outside. Were they so close to the explosion that the concussive force killed the prisoner and rendered Brandon unconscious? Did another Iraqi emerge from hiding to take him captive? It’s possible, but maybe it was the prisoner who survived. No way to tell.
Daniel wrestled with his thoughts. When sleep finally came, it was total. An observer would have checked Daniel’s pulse and looked for a bullet wound. He was dead to the world, exhausted, and he slept where and as he had collapsed, and wouldn’t stir until the alarm sounded at eight the next morning.
Persistent and distant thoughts distracted Daniel and his co-workers noticed and commented on how he seemed to be in a fog, on autopilot, mechanically going through the motions of his job.
“You, okay, man?” more than one orderly would question.
“Yeah, thanks, I’m fine,” was his standard reply but suspicious eyes watched and heads shook with uncertainty.
The following morning, Daniel barged into Smitty’s room. “I’ve got a plan!”
“Me too,” Smitty said.
“You do? Okay, you go first.”
“We fly to Saudi, and shop for the essentials. We’ll want to blend in, so we’ll buy cotton dishdashas, those floor length white shirts, and we’ll wear ghutra that match the color of our eyes and we’ll cinch them down with a flattering agal made of silk—straight out of a Saudi GQ magazine, then…”
“Hold it right there, world traveler. What do we wear to match our eyes?”
“The headdress, the ghutra, tied with a rope, the agal. Next time you see a Saudi Prince, check him out. His dishdasha is probably silk, but you interrupted me.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay, can you ride a camel?”
Daniel laughed. “Who are you, Lawrence of Arabia?”
“Me? No. I think he’s prettier. I am your average, everyday camel jockey. One who forgot his Coppertone lotion and got too much desert sun. You, Daniel my boy, will be Lawrence, the Lion of the Desert, and I will be your faithful companion, Coppertone Man. Together we will ride to Baghdad, ask a few astute questions, rescue Brandon and gallop away. That’s how I would do it. Got a better idea?”
Both men laughed at the absurdity, and that was good. Smitty hadn’t any reason for levity in many years and he enjoyed the release of laughter.
“My plan,” Daniel began, “is much less audacious, and by comparison, less fun and less daring, but it just might work”.
6
What Really Happened
Had Brandon been listening to his brother and old friend attempt to restage events that happened a few years and a lifetime ago, he would have said, “Close fellas, but no cigars. Pull up a chair and take a load off, this might take awhile.”
After hearing the tale, they would know that Brandon had exited the tunnel, left hand on the right elbow of his captive whose hands were bound. In his right hand Brandon held the compact CAR-15 automatic rifle with its sliding metal stock. At six foot four and two hundred and forty pounds, Brandon was an imposing man, and in his desert combat gear, he was downright intimidating.
As he roughly propelled his prisoner forward, Brandon could sense the major’s fear. It was palpable. He was sweating profusely. Good, Brandon thought, the interrogation should go well.
A blazing sun greeted the duo as they emerged from the semi-darkness of the tunnel. Instinctively, Brandon raised his rifle to shield his eyes until they adjusted.
The blow to his ribs came without warning. The rifle fell from his grasp as vomit rose in his throat. He rolled to his right to confront his attacker. The second punch was a glancing blow to the head, a left hook deflected by Brandon’s rotation. Stunned and in pain, Brandon reached for his attacker who reached him in that same instant with a high chest tackle that lifted Brandon off his feet and drove his back into the sand.
Incredibly strong hands wrapped around his throat; thumbs pressed hard against his windpipe. Struggling against superior strength, Brandon was able to roll slightly to his left, just enough to raise his right hip, helped inadvertently by his attacker who pressed his weight forward onto Brandon’s neck. This weight shift allowed Brandon to slide his right foot in an arc through the sand toward his outstretched hand. Vision blurred as blood pressure in his eyeballs increased, and bright spots danced in the darkness behind them, like stars in a desert’s night sky.
Only seconds remained before he would lose consciousness, before there would be no fight left in him. His boot inched closer and his outstretched hand probed until he felt the metal hilt and rawhide wrapping. Encircling it, palm down he pulled the razor sharp hunting knife from its sheath as he straightened his leg. Rolling left, he thrust the serrated, double-edged, six-inch blade into his attacker just above the hipbone and with all the strength he could muster, exhaled with a primal scream, and yanked the blade upward to the ribcage while twisting its point toward the heart.
The death grip held on Brandon’s throat slackened as fingers peeled away and the attacker pitched forward, collapsing chest on face in a macabre embrace. Brandon rolled the body off and lay exhausted in the sand, momentarily oblivious to his surroundings. A shadow crossed his face as a man in silhouette blocked the sun. Brandon squinted to focus on the haloed figure towering above him.
“Bravo,” the major said dryly and without a trace of enthusiasm. “His name was Kahlil; he was my protector, my body guard. He was outside pissing in the sand when you arrived, and he failed to take a weapon with him when he left my side. You Americans have an amusing saying, ‘This is my rifle; this is my gun; this is for fighting, and this is for fun.’ When you arrived, Kahlil was outside with only his gun in his hand. You surprised us, you know. This depot is well concealed, and a little off the beaten path. So, the question is ‘Are you clever or lucky?’”
The major’s fear had vanished, and Brandon wondered if it had been contrived. No matter, Brandon assumed, even with cr
acked ribs and a pounding headache, he could make this bird sing any tune he wanted. Painfully, Brandon rolled to his stomach and began to rise.
“Stay on your knees, sergeant, and do not move,” ordered the smaller man. “You outweigh me by fifty pounds but this CAR-15 definitely gives me the advantage. I like it. It’s more compact, and lighter than my A-K. I do believe.”
Surprised and angered by this role reversal, Brandon cursed profanely, and then calmly asked, “How did you free yourself?”
The major laughed. “My dear sergeant, I am not without a degree of resourcefulness. While you and Kahlil were at play, I found a way. Is that not what the English saying, ‘Necessity is the Mother of Invention’ is all about? I think it is. And, before I forget, toss that knife away.”
Brandon obliged, taunting his captor. “It’s good you like the CAR-15, major, because when my guys come out, they’re going to find a good place to shove it.”
The major glanced at his watch. “Do you think so? Hmmm. Well, we will just have to see about that. On your feet. Move!”
Brandon staggered forward about thirty yards to the top of a small incline. As he took his first declining step, the major struck the back of his knee as it straightened, causing his legs to buckle and he pitched head first down the hill. The major slid down after him, weapon at the ready, and face up.
Price For A Patriot Page 4