A familiar voice whispered tauntingly, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my promotion?” Brandon held his tongue and willed his body to be still.
“No matter,” the colonel said brightly. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.” To the guards he ordered, “Take him to my compound.”
The ropes chaffed at the tender flesh in the bend of his elbows and pulled his bound wrists tightly to his stomach. He was wrapped like a package with a handle, the handle being the rope that ran across his back and looped each elbow, anchored at his waist. Out of kindness or by accident, the ropes were secured high on the forearm, above the serious cut made by a rawhide boot string.
Blindfolded as he was, Brandon could no longer see his surroundings, but from the feel of his body and the sounds emanating from boots on marble, he knew that his face was about a foot off the floor as he slid forward, propelled by a guard on each side. He could feel the knuckles of their hands pressed against his back where they gripped the rope, the handle of their package.
Echoes of the Hall vanished as outer doors opened to street sounds and now the pace quickened, as if his handlers were running, straining with the weight of their burden. The tops of his feet thudded in rapid succession, slapping each step in a long descent.
Because he was fluent in Arabic, Brandon had advanced warning. He knew he was about to be pitched like a sack of potatoes.
“Toss him in back,” someone suggested, and tossed, he was. First he swung back and forth and on the count of three he was airborne until he landed on a solid, metal floor and skidded forward on his chest and hands. Men climbed in and sat on either side. Brandon visualized a troop transport where soldiers sit on benches opposed to each other with space for their gear in between.
The truck slipped through its gears and smoothly accelerated into traffic. Brandon could hear the sounds of inner city life—engines, horns, and voices. Inside the truck, other voices floated just above him where he was the net in a tennis court conversation. He listened intently to the banter of the guards hoping to hear news about his situation or their destination, but talk quickly turned to soccer, and Brandon tried to tune it out, to concentrate on other sounds that might signal his surroundings. His senses were acute, heightened by pain.
Training, regardless of how rigorous, cannot prepare the mind to completely ignore pain. The body has a say in the matter and won’t butt out. It just won’t. Buddhist teaching encourages man to accept pain, to embrace it, to visualize it as an object, to visit its center, to study it, to understand it, and ultimately to control it. Brandon was no Buddhist but he embraced a personal philosophy that might be related. Simply put, if you can’t change it, accept it, and move on. His philosophy also contained a kernel of humor summed up in his daily prayer. “Lord give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of those people I had to kill because they pissed me off. Amen.”
Brandon smiled, even now, after reciting his version of that prayer into the folds of the pillowcase cinched at his neck.
The transition from paved streets to rutted country roads came without warning as his body lifted and slammed into the metal floor. Brandon did his Buddhist-best to ignore the pain of being bounced around like a loose ham in a catering truck, by concentrating on the sounds outside, on elapsed time, and on the twists and turns of the road. The blindfold served its purpose.
Brandon struggled to create a visual map, to defeat the limitations imposed on him, but after what may have been thirty minutes, he had heard no sounds of locomotives or aircraft, no audible evidence of machinery, farm or factory, no clues at all. Without sun or stars to navigate by, he couldn’t begin to guess the direction traveled from Baghdad. In truth, he hadn’t the foggiest notion of where he was.
“Nice try Magellan,” Brandon said to himself, “your visual map goes nowhere.”
Mapping was abandoned as pain crept into his consciousness. Discomfort escalated to misery as four hands gripped his feet and hauled him roughly rearward across the bed of the truck. Brandon rolled slightly from side to side as he skidded toward the tailgate. When his knees passed over the edge and hips followed without a sign of slowing, Brandon braced for a fall. His bound hands snagged briefly in the crease where tailgate and truck bed join, but were loosed by sharp tugs from the unseen hands that clutched at his heels and toes. Accelerating now, Brandon felt the hands let go and he turned and raised his head for protection as he flew unencumbered from the truck. Time suspended, gravity defied, he floated for an instant. But Newton noticed, and he hit the ground, hard. Through gritted teeth a painful groan escaped. Cracked ribs betrayed stoic intent. Angry shouts in Arabic commanded him to rise and booted feet added emphasis to the urgency of the order. Brandon rolled into a protective ball that offered less protection from kicks than an invitation to practice them. And the soccer fans obliged.
The pelting continued until a mellifluent voice soothed the mob and neutralized the assault. Colonel Rashid was home and he had spoken. Motion ceased and silence followed.
In English, the colonel politely asked, “Would you mind standing, sergeant? One of my men will be happy to assist you.”
As Brandon was lifted to his feet, someone cut the rope at his ankles, and he heard the colonel say, “Come this way please.”
Equilibrium affected, Brandon staggered forward on tender soles, steered by his companions.
“Please show Sergeant Stiles to his quarters,” the colonel said to the guards, and to Brandon he added, “Perhaps we’ll have that talk soon. Enjoy your stay.”
Brandon stumbled as he was pulled abruptly to his left and shoved in a new direction. He stopped and was propelled again, moving a few steps forward with each shove, concerned that the next step might be into a wall or over a cliff. A wooden door or gate announced its presence just ahead, as its rusty hinges squealed in protest.
“Move!” someone demanded. The Arabic word was accompanied by a forceful shove that bridged the linguistic gap. Brandon lurched forward onto sharp edged stones, and his delicate feet responded by lifting in rapid succession as he danced forward in a comical series of steps, amid muffled grunts, groans and curses.
The rattle of keys searched, the snap of a padlock opened, and the metallic slap of a hasp swung aside, were prelude to horrid days to follow. The cell door creaked open as Brandon awaited the next shove, but felt, instead, his bindings loosen and fall away. Freed hands then reached to remove the pillowcase, but were slapped aside.
“Leave it on!” a voice demanded. “The stupid bastard doesn’t understand a word we say. Just put him inside,” a second voice rasped irritably. A hand pressed downward on Brandon’s head, forcing him to bend, and instinctively, his hands shot forward for balance, like a young diver preparing to take the plunge from the high board.
Someone gripped his hand and guided it along and down planks of wood, ever lower to an opening, through which he was urged, and then forced, stumbling to the earthen floor. The door swung shut behind him, the hasp snapped closed, and the lock was replaced and tested by a reassuring tug.
Brandon stood and struck his head on the ceiling. Recoiling to a crouch, he loosened the drawstring at his neck and removed the bag to breathe the less recycled air. The darkness was a disappointment. Remembering the guards, Brandon matched their silence. Minutes passed before the men outside his door moved away, crunching through the gravel to the outer door.
Having grown up on a farm, Brandon imagined himself in a cage inside a barn. It was about as wide and deep as a horse stall but with a roof, too low for man or beast, added for the occasion of his visit. It reminded him of a Korean POW cell. He was too young to have experienced Korea first hand, but memories of survival school were vivid. He had been given a taste of what soldiers and airmen endured as prisoners in WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. The training objective was survival with honor, to
endure hardship with realistic expectations. The old maxims couldn’t stand the test of reality. Telling a soldier that he must refuse to give the enemy any information other than name, rank, serial number and date of birth was unrealistic. It made him feel like a traitor when he gave more, and he would give more. That was clear. Man’s inhumanity to man had proven time after time, that every man has a limit as to what he can endure. For some, like Medal of Honor winner Lance Sijan, an Air Force pilot captured by the North Vietnamese, his limit was death. He refused to cooperate with his interrogators and suffered in the extreme. Talk or die. Cooperate or die. Those weren’t choices. They were realities and, after a time, a decision would be made without choosing. It would just happen. The body would shut down, as Sijan’s did, or dictate measures for survival. Cooperation became a matter of degree.
Brandon sat in his cell and defiantly recited the Code of Conduct aloud. “Article I,” he began, “I am an American fighting man. I serve in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense. Article II…” With each Article he increased his volume, until he shouted Article VI, the final Article, at the top of his lungs. “I will never forget that I am an American fighting man, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.”
Flush faced and breathing hard, Brandon opened his mouth and rounded it, taking in air as quietly as possible, to listen. Nothing stirred. There was no echo. No trace of his spoken words remained apart from the residual sound track that played annoyingly in his head. The barn had soaked up his words and swallowed them quietly, giving no indication of having heard them. He was alone. Brandon paused in the quiet inky blackness of his cell before continuing, “Oh, yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil, because (he shouted) I am the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the valley!”
That rendition always lightened Brandon’s mood and made him laugh. Humor, even gallows humor, he realized was a soldier’s way of laughing in the face of fear. It took the edge off danger that was too real to confront head on. Brandon sat remembering the most recent example, remembering what a buddy had said just before his last recon mission.
“Hey, Stiles, if you get your ass shot off by some Rag with a Kalashnikov or a bazooka, how about I get to keep those new boots you’re wearing? I mean, assuming he aims high.”
Brandon feigned anger. “You bastard!” All this time I thought it was my ass you were admiring, but it’s my boots you’re after. Ohhh, that hurts.”
Laughter always followed these light-hearted exchanges, and later, privately, perhaps a prayer.
“I wonder,” Brandon mused, “Who did get my boots?” and a wry smile crossed his face in the darkness.
After striking his head on the ceiling, Brandon had cautiously determined the width and depth of his cell by groping in all directions, feeling the darkness for other hard spots or dangers. Two containers were found against the far wall, a full water jug and an empty pot.
“All the luxuries of home. Running water and a pot to pee in. But I don’t plan to stay.”
He left the honey bucket at the rear and moved the drinking water to set it near the door. Lying on his back, he used his feet to gauge the distance to the walls and punched them with increasing force. Pulling his knees to his chest, he launched the flat of his feet to strike the wall just before his legs would fully straighten. Without shoes, his battering rams soon protested. The walls were solid. They had no give to them, unlike the door that seemed to rattle on its hinges. If he could engineer an escape, it would be out the front door. That decided, he needed to gather his strength. He was bruised, cut, cracked and immensely tired. When he curled up on the earthen floor, sleep came quickly.
8
The Meeting With Feras; Mossad And CIA
After being rebuffed by the State Department and humored at Defense, Daniel and Smitty stepped up their efforts to locate a high-powered believer. Through friends and friends of friends they probed the defenses of the men at the top, the Department heads, where the buck reportedly stopped. In Smitty’s experience, the buck never reached that level. The policy wonks insulated themselves with layers of subordinates, who screened out the questions that might prove to be embarrassing, and rerouted the troublemakers to those most skilled at empathy without answers. It quickly became clear that having the comm logs alone was not going to be enough. They needed more. It was time to implement Daniel’s plan.
When the Valentine Radar detector mounted on his dash signaled caution, Daniel dutifully slowed. But when it was silent, he was a mix of Mario Andretti and Juan Fangio. In short, he made good time. East of the I-10 /U.S. 77 interchange into Houston, he had wings. He slowed considerably as he merged with traffic onto I-45. After taking the off-ramp to Smith Street, he began searching for the Mickey Leland Federal Building at 1919 Smith Street.
Score one for the Feds. Daniel’s low expectations were quickly erased by his surprise at the efficiency and speed of service. Within hours, passport in hand, Daniel drove back to Fort Hood. The following day, he submitted his resignation papers. It was time to re-up or get out. Daniel was fortunate to have this window of opportunity for he had not yet committed. Three months ago he fully intended to be a “lifer” but events had changed all that. Now he had a choice to make: abandon a career or abandon his brother. No contest.
The Office of Personnel expressed sincere regret at his decision, and reminded Daniel of what he was giving up. He was on a fast track for advancement as evidenced by his early promotion to sergeant. The bonus for reenlistment was not insignificant either, but Daniel had made his decision and politely declined. The freedom to come and go at will was essential if he were to implement the plan. He had discussed this with Smitty. There was no alternative. It had to be done.
“Detective work doesn’t come cheap,” Smitty had said. “You’ll need money.”
“I have four thousand in the bank.”
“Good. You’ll need that for tips. I haven’t spent a dime in four years, so I’ll be the bank”.
“No, I can’t let you do that.”
“Brandon was or is my best friend. I have every right. What the hell am I going to do with money anyway? Take a cruise? Go skiing? Picture that.” He laughed at his own predicament.
It wasn’t funny. Daniel lowered his head and nodded. When he raised his head, tears that had coursed to the tip of his nose changed direction and slid downward to his cheeks.
“Hey, soldier! There’s no crying in baseball.”
“Who are you, Tom Hanks?”
Smitty turned his head to compare his altered profile. “What do you think? Twins?”
“Fooled me, you nut.”
“So how much longer will you be a soldier in this man’s army?”
“A week.”
“One week and then ‘poof’, just like that, you’ll become a Feather Merchant.”
“Feather Merchant?”
“Yeah, you’ll have to tell me how it feels when you take off that uniform.”
It was an odd feeling. Surrendering his Military ID, and passing through the Post gates for the first time as a civilian, was surreal. The drive north on I-35, however, was routine. Daniel reached the DFW Airport in less than two hours. The flight was on schedule, and the Super 80 powered back from the gate at 1700 sharp. He commented to a passing Flight Attendant that he was surprised by the on time departure.
She replied with a touch of pride and a bright smile, “That’s the American way.” In a conspiratorial whisper, she added, “You may need that extra time. It’s rush hour and you’ll think we’re driving to New York.”
How prophetic. Taxiing to the runway seemed endless, but the flight itself was as smooth as glass and the landing at LaGuardia was flawless and on schedule. Daniel, without checked baggage, headed stra
ight for a waiting taxicab and Kennedy Airport. With more than two hours remaining, before the departure of his connecting flight, Daniel thought he had plenty of time. The cabbie had said the twelve-mile drive would take less than twenty minutes, but changed his estimate to “this could take forever,” when a tanker truck tipped over and closed a section of the Van Wyck Expressway. Tower Air to Tel Aviv was already boarding when Daniel arrived at the sprawling airport on Jamaica Bay.
There was no sit time. He boarded and the plane pushed back within five minutes of schedule. That was the last thing that seemed to go well. The scheduled ten hour and twenty-five minute flight was a disaster.
The 747, as enormous as it is, reminded Daniel of a sardine can. The attendants were pleasant, but overwhelmed, and grossly outnumbered by the capacity crowd that packed every seat on the jumbo jet. An hour into the flight, the heavy passenger seated in front of Daniel reclined his seatback. Its magazine pouch pinched closed against Daniel’s knees. A seatmate on his right created her nest on his arm, a convenient branch, and quickly fell asleep. Pinned in place, Daniel searched for help. He waved. An attendant with an armload of blankets responded.
“You want a blanket?”
“No.”
“A pillow?”
“No. I want you to ask the gentleman in front of me to raise his seatback just a little.”
She looked at Daniel and considered his problem. “You want me to wake him? Is that what you want?”
“If that’s what’s needed. Yes.”
Price For A Patriot Page 6