Had either man peered over the ridge just seconds later, he would have seen the tongue of flame lick the air as it shot from the tunnel’s mouth. Below that line of sight, both men felt the searing heat of an opened oven door, and Kahlil’s body skittered across the sand like a leaf in the wind.
“Damn! That was close,” Brandon muttered. He pressed his palms to his already ruptured eardrums. Disoriented and reeling from the blast, he added, “Had to be a GBU-24.”
The day prior, from a safe distance, Brandon had witnessed the awesome power of this laser guided 2000-pound warhead and learned its designation. But this close?
“Dumb bastards! Don’t those Air Force morons check for friendlies before they…?” Brandon’s words trailed off as he remembered. “Friendlies!” he cried out in desperation. “Oh, no!” He rolled to his knees and scrambled on all fours upward to the ridgeline and fell back on his heels at the sight. Head bowed, chin to chest, his fingers dug through the sand into tightly balled fists with which he pounded the earth.
“Oh, no! Dear God in Heaven. Smitty…” The name of his friend died on his lips and he wept.
“I weep for the loss of my men too, sergeant, such is the horror of war. But, I must save my tears for another time. You understand, do you not? We must leave this place.”
“We? Why don’t you just run along without me? I’m terrible company.” Brandon looked through bloodshot eyes at the barrel of his gun. Quick, upward movements signaled the command to rise.
“Move it!”
Brandon painfully staggered to his feet, but had to bend forward to grab his knees to steady his spinning world. If he closed his eyes he would fall, but he looked ready to accept a snap from center, once again the quarterback from Muleshoe.
Minutes later an ATV roared to life and leapt forward at full throttle. Brandon was unconscious, lashed to the roll bar with his own boot strings. A cloud of dust rose in their wake as they sped northward.
“I apologize for the blow to your head, sergeant,” the major shouted when Brandon revived. “I thought you might resist my invitation to travel to Baghdad, and I do love company. But now it seems we have an uninvited guest, one of your F-16 jets wants to tag along. He isn’t sure about us apparently. He knows this is a U.S. issued sand machine, but can’t reconcile our heading. The pilot thinks we are confused and should be headed for the Gulf.” He laughed. His trailing words were swallowed by the wind.
Brandon yelled over the din of the howling engine, “He’s just trying to make a decision.”
“And what decision might that be, sergeant?”
“Should he spit out a burst of 30 mike-mike or drop a 500 pounder on your ass.” He winced with each bone-jarring landing of the oft-airborne ATV. His neck and ribs ached. His head pounded. “Either way I hope he sends us straight to hell, you self-righteous bastard. I know what you did. You took cover below that ridge because you knew the place was going to blow. I thought it was our SNAFU but you had a self-destruct timer set. You intentionally killed your own men. How could you do that?” Brandon fell silent, thinking of his men, thinking of Smitty.
The major’s lone reply after a lengthy pause was, “What is snafu?”
Brandon replied, “I thought our guys screwed the pooch, but, no, it was just you, a demented, ruthless A-Rab,” Brandon yelled.
“Screwed the pooch? That’s another idiomatic expression I did not learn at Oxford,” the major lamented at the top of his lungs, well beyond Brandon’s reach by insult. “I am beginning to question my Western education.” Into the wind he screamed, “Screwed the pooch! Screwed the pooch!” and laughed as the wind shouted back.
The Killer Scout rotated and lit burner just overhead. Exhaust gases struck the light buggy with the force of a grenade, lifting the front wheels up and over, into a rear somersault. The ATV flipped, bounced and tumbled, landing upright in a surprise finish. The major was gone. With luck, Brandon thought, he’s dead, crushed beneath as he flew out. Maybe that was the major’s fate. Maybe. But Brandon was certain that he was about to lose a hand. The rawhide strings had cut deeply into his left wrist as his body tried to exit stage left, but snapped back, to dangle from the bar.
Brandon uttered a pain-filled growl as he raised and maneuvered his legs up and over the bar, to hang like a bat, inflaming his ribcage but saving his hand from amputation. The cold, desert night descended like a curtain, and Brandon searched desperately for an answer, a way to escape, before he would be totally enveloped in darkness. After a brief respite, and last resort, Batman shouted into the void, “Anybody out there?” Silence was his answer. The desert had no comment. Hanging there, as the clock ticked away the precious moments of remaining light, Brandon had a moment of inspiration. “This baby has lights, bright lights, and if I can turn them on…” his thoughts trailed off as he lowered one leg and kicked off his boot, no longer constrained by laces. With his socked toes, he fished for the lever that would light his world. Nearing exhaustion and feeling like a tortured Chinese acrobat, he whooped, “Hook ‘em Horns!” as the lights flared brilliantly and inky blackness fell away.
With crossed legs again locked in a figure four over the slanted roll bar, Brandon began his long wait wondering which would occur first, rescue by a Jolly Green rescue chopper or freedom for his left arm from its shackle. He wagered it would be the latter when his hand fell off and his wrist slipped free.
He was wrong on both counts. Rescuers arrived, orders were issued, and soldiers sprinted off to set up a defensive perimeter while others cautiously circled the ATV.
“We came when we saw your lights. Who are you? Who brought you here?” the soldier in command asked warily.
Brandon answered in part, “Sergeant Major Brandon Stiles.”
“Who brought you here? Why are you here? Where is your driver?”
“Brandon Stiles, Sergeant Major,” Brandon repeated, refusing to acknowledge that he was fluent in Arabic and understood their every word.
“Cut the stinking infidel down. We will take this American prisoner with us to Baghdad.”
As the Arab’s knife cut through the several rawhide loops that circled the bar, Brandon’s arm slipped and seized in two quick stages then fell away to dangle below him. Blood flooded into the hand now free of its tourniquet and pulsed painfully as if to burst.
“Better red than dead,” came the curious thought as Brandon was hustled into an armored personnel carrier by four Iraqi soldiers. Questions in Arabic continued unabated, but Brandon shrugged and countered each time saying, “American. I speak English.” After a while the questioning stopped. A makeshift bandage was wrapped tightly around Brandon’s left wrist, not a professional job, but certainly helpful, and Brandon wore his appreciative smile. To hurt just a little less felt so good. Maybe I won’t bleed to death after all, Brandon thought. To his captors he said, “Your mother of all battles isn’t workin’ out too well. Have you noticed? Did you fellas run out of white flags? Is that why you’re here? You want me to protect you?”
Receiving no reply, he continued, “We have 100,000 Iraqi prisoners and you have me and a handful of unlucky fliers. As I see it that’s an even trade. What do you think?” His words were met by vacant stares. As he had done before, they now shrugged. Brandon didn’t mind wasting words. He enjoyed the insults and that’s what mattered most. The ability to laugh at the vagaries of life was like medicine for the soul, and Brandon took a dose at every opportunity. Make no mistake, Brandon was in a world of hurt and he knew it. “Oh well, I always wanted to see the Tigris, or is it the Euphrates? Ahhh, screw it.
7
After The Prisoner Exchange
As Brandon shuffled toward him in shackles, the major hailed, “Hello, sergeant! What has it been, a week? You do not look well. Are you being mistreated?”
“Oh, no, everyone has just been super. Time flies when you’re having fun, you know, and I passed the time thinking about how funny you
looked flying out of the ATV. It was a beautiful sight. I had hoped you were just a grease spot in the sand, but I see the ATV didn’t skid on top of you after all.”
“No, I was thrown clear, but thank you for thinking of me. Not to change the subject, but do you know where you are?”
“Sure I do. This is the fun house at the state fair.”
“No, this is the Great Hall of the People,” the major said with pride as his right hand dramatically encompassed its surroundings.
“Oh, yeah? Why don’t I see any people? Where are the people?”
“Out celebrating our great victory, I suppose. Did you hear the news of the Cease Fire?”
“No. Did we surrender? When your soldiers dropped their rifles in the sand and sang God Bless America, I thought maybe we had the upper hand. What went wrong?”
The major ignored the insult. “The cease fire occurred the day of your capture.”
“Lucky me. So has there been talk of a prisoner exchange?”
“Yes, indeed there has. It occurred on March fourth and fifth. Today is the sixth.”
“Well then, I’d better be going,” Brandon said as he attempted to shuffle forward.
“Not just yet,” the major said through tightly clinched jaws. With his head he signaled the guard. A fist slammed into Brandon’s left kidney, and when his leg restraints didn’t allow his lower body to keep pace with events above, he stumbled and fell as a tree to the woodsman’s axe, and bounced off the marble floor.
Dragged to his feet, Brandon stood stooped with pain. The major grabbed his hair and yanked Brandon’s face upward, all pretense of calm composure vanished. “Look at me, prisoner Stiles, and hear me well. You are about to be ushered into the presence of our Great Leader, President of the Republic, Chairman of the Revolutionary Council, Commander of the Armed Forces and Head of the Ba’ath Socialist Party. You will show him respect. Any wisecracks and he will cut your tongue out and feed it to his dogs.”
Brandon nodded against the pull on his hair. “I’ll bet you had an interesting childhood. Are you afraid of dogs?”
The major released Brandon’s hair and lashed the back of his ringed hand across Brandon’s face. “Keep it up, tough guy. Keep it up.”
Twelve-feet tall double doors swung open on command, and Brandon and his escorts were ushered inside. Brandon stood between two members of the Republican Guard while the major was shown to a seat at a beautifully carved table that was the centerpiece for the room. Wood carvings, that predated Iraq as a nation, lined the walls. Their origin could be traced to the fertile valley of the Euphrates in ancient Mesopotamia. Hanging above and about the room were pictures of singular focus. There was General Saddam Hussein embracing President Bakr in 1979 on the occasion of Bakr’s resignation and Saddam’s succession. There were photographs of family and friends from Tikrit, Saddam’s hometown and power base, of Saddam at Arab Ba’ath Socialist Party gatherings, of Saddam at a Sunni mosque. Saddam’s smiling and waving was the unifying theme. He wasn’t smiling now, however, as he stood above the generals who flanked him.
His diatribe began with earnest solicitations for good health and Allah’s blessing on Major Hassan Abdul Rashid, who had captured a senior non commissioned officer of the American Special Forces. In hand to hand combat Major Rashid had subdued the American and brought him to Baghdad as a prisoner.
Brandon listened without betraying his understanding. What a crock, he thought. Maybe he’ll parade the smarmy bastard around the table and let all these fawning sycophants kiss his ass. Close. The major stood when the President, holding his left hand neck high and palm up, curled his fingers in a rise-and-be-recognized gesture. Applause followed and then all the flunkies stood with adoring faces, still clapping. Brandon loved a circus, loved a good laugh, and wished he could join in. One thing was known with ironclad certainty. Not a single man in the room believed a word of it.
Applause tapered off on cue when Saddam raised both of his hands high, palms out. The room was silent. The stage was set and the moment arrived. The major was given a two-grade promotion to full colonel and assigned to the IIS, the Iraqi Intelligence Service, known as Mukhabarat. What hadn’t been decided, apparently, was the Directorate. The First Directorate, D1, was the office of the Director of the IIS, Nani’ Abd Rashid Al Tikriti, who just happened to be Hassan Rashid’s father. Nani’ wallowed in the attention and praise given by Saddam for his having sired this fine example of Iraqi manhood.
“Yeah, you got yourself a real prize in this loser,” Brandon thought.
The IIS, Brandon learned in five minutes, has twenty-five Directorates and Nani’ refreshed everyone’s memory for the benefit of the newly promoted colonel. It appeared to Brandon that Hassan would have to choose. There were mundane Directorates like D2, Admin, and bad-ass Directorates like D9 and D14, Secret Operations and Special Operations respectively. The list went on with occasional introduction of a Director to Major Hassan Rashid. It was a job seekers dream. The applicant was interviewing the boss.
When Major General Abdul Hameed Khalaf Al Bayati was introduced as the Director of D9, he stood with a forced smile, a grimace really, saying his Directorate had many brave and resourceful men and Hassan Rashid would fit in nicely. The body language of this master of the wet operations of sabotage and assassinations translated as, “Just take me out back and shoot me.”
In the end, Hassan Rashid made no choice.
“You have presented me a Gordian knot. The choices are as sweet as fresh dates and figs, but who can decide which to pick? I will need time to consider these generous offers and I beg your indulgence.”
Brandon wanted to throw his head back and bellow, “Roll your pants up boys, it’s getting deep in here!” Instead, he remained mute, apparently oblivious to what was being said and discussed.
Saddam told Hassan publicly that he was wise, because a decision of such importance should not be made without deliberation. Nani’ beamed his agreement. D2 was then instructed to carry Hassan on the books as assigned to D1 for pay purposes. Having said that, Saddam performed a bit of legerdemain.
“Look what just flew in,” he said, as he pulled the insignia of a full bird Colonel out of the air. Holding the eagles aloft, wings pinched between thumbs and forefingers, he strode toward Hassan. Brandon was mesmerized. Was this like a doggy treat? Would Hassan have to leap for it? Would Saddam raise the treat even higher to see how high Hassan could jump? What a disappointment. Hassan didn’t jump. Saddam lowered his hands and a pinning ceremony commenced followed by more applause and a wave to the assembled from the newly anointed. Now it was time to talk about the war. Saddam warmed to the task like a hot plate.
“Without the work of traitors, and I speak of our Arab brothers and neighbors, shit like this,” he pointed at Brandon, “would be but excrement on the sole of our boots. Betrayal and treachery have allowed this army of undisciplined thugs to stay on our beloved soil for too long. We can defeat them, of course. That is not a question. But, I love each of my soldiers as I love my own sons, and until I weed out those cowards among us who have betrayed our sacred ground, and who put my sons at needless risk…”
Saddam paused in his lecture for a sip of water, brought to him by an obsequious officer at the snap of his fingers, and continued.
“I have agreed to a cease fire, to allow the Coalition Forces the opportunity to gather up their dead and withdraw. Our heads are held high. We have faced thirty nations and been victorious.”
Applause began uncertainly, one pair of hands leading the way, joined by another and followed by all. Saddam signaled for quiet and rolled on with the fervor of an evangelist preacher.
Brandon listened and thought, “Eat your heart out, Jimmy Swaggart. This guy may not be able to cry on command, but he can bring tears to the eyes of the faithful.”
“These Rangers, these Special Forces,” Saddam said with a dismissive wave of the
hand, “are no match for our well-trained and superior forces, as our major, excuse me, colonel, has so aptly demonstrated.”
Again there was enthusiastic applause and the new colonel beamed as Saddam stepped in front of Brandon and drew his revolver. He placed its barrel between Brandon’s eyes and cocked the hammer. Seconds passed and Brandon never flinched, never uttered a word.
“This man’s life is mine. I can take it or give it away. I could squeeze this trigger… but… I will not.” The hammer was eased down and the pistol lowered. Point made. Brandon showed no emotion.
“As you know, we have made our prisoner exchange.” Saddam said as he moved away from Brandon as if deep in thought. “If we return him now, after the formal exchange of yesterday, we would sow seeds of doubt. If this wretch was held back, who else might also be held captive? The inquisition would never end. No. We cannot have a POW and we cannot return him.”
Nani’ interrupted. “Sir, D7 could hide him as a common criminal at Al Haakimiya.”
Saddam shook his head. “No. There are many cells, but even those without windows have walls, and the walls have ears. Word of an American would spread within the prison and ultimately to the street. Colonel Rashid, you captured this ranger. You defeated him in battle. And, in accord with ancient laws and traditions, this prisoner became your property. Take him. He will be useful to you as a member of Mukhabarat. Study him. Open his mind, look inside, and learn what you can to improve the interrogation techniques used by the IIS.”
Nani’ smiled his approval of this waste of time. How could his incompetent son improve on techniques already honed to a sharp edge by his professionals? Preposterous.
Hassan stood. “Sir, I humbly accept this gift and your challenge.”
“Excellent,” Saddam said. Turning to Brandon’s guards, he ordered, “Get this rancid infidel out of my sight and smell. He is repulsive. Let him pay for his sins and those of his aggressor nation.”
The session was obviously over, and Brandon was dragged from the Great Hall, face down, with the tops of his toes gliding behind him across the smooth marbled floor. The huge doors that swung open as he approached now closed behind him with heavy finality, a signal for his handlers to stop. A sack was roughly shoved over Brandon’s drooping head and cinched at the neck. He was then dropped on the floor where he remained for several minutes. Brandon heard a door open and close.
Price For A Patriot Page 5