Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  “What do you mean?” Daniel asked.

  John took a moment to compose his thoughts. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument that Brandon was captured. Assume Feras knows this, but doesn’t speak for the man who holds or held your brother captive. Is it possible he sees an opportunity to cash in on your vulnerability? On the other hand, it is entirely possible Feras is an authorized go-between, an employee of the man holding your brother if he is still alive. But why he wants five million dollars escapes me. How could a slave have that much value?”

  Now up and pacing, the Director continued. “In a country as poor as Iraq, a dollar goes a long way. A slave working in a field tilling the soil or picking fruit in an orchard, or working as a roustabout in an oil field or on a ranch would be worth thousands but not millions of dollars. What does your brother know, or what can he do, to make him such a valuable commodity?” He sat on the edge of his desk and looked at Daniel for an answer.

  “I have no idea. Brandon has language skills and experience with explosives, and a friend of his told me he has a knack for computers.”

  “Well that makes him worth more than me and twice what Mike and Jim here are worth, but still less than the demand.” Daniel laughed as Mike and Jim cried foul. The Director had a gift for putting people at ease while grilling them.

  “So, where does this leave us?” John challenged. His eyebrows and hands rose to underscore the question.

  “Which languages does he speak?” queried Jim.

  “Good question,” John replied, looking to Daniel for the answer.

  “He’s fluent in Spanish and was studying Russian, but a friend of his says that after Kuwait was invaded he was switched to Arabic studies.”

  “That might be valuable to an Arab captor but not five mil worth.”

  “His friend said Brandon talked about getting a job as a translator for Saudi Aramco in Houston after he got out.”

  “Got out?” “Yes. Brandon was scheduled for a demotion and discharge when he returned to the world.”

  “Are you saying he was being booted out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Honorably?”

  “No. Not dishonorable, but less than honorable. He punched out a Colonel.”

  “Every soldier’s dream,” Mike said. “Knocked the bird off his perch right onto his ass, huh?”

  John eyed Mike sternly, and Mike added sheepishly, “This type of dream is the province of soldiers, sir. Violent retribution does not extend nor apply to civil agencies.”

  “Careful. You’re already in deep kimshee with me, Robinson,” John warned using an expression he picked up in Korea.

  Mike knew his boss was joking so he hammed it up. Head bowed, eyes raised imploringly, he said, “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir. Please forgive me.”

  John ignored him and, turning back to Daniel, continued his line of thinking. “Discharge and demotion alter the equation. The positive set of constants now includes some negative variables. The parameters have changed. This revelation opens up a whole new set of possibilities.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes, Daniel, it does. How can we be sure your brother was willing to return to demotion and disgrace? Maybe he saw a way out. Could he have been the driver of the ATV that fled to the north? Is it possible he defected and is living large outside Baghdad? Maybe the five million is for his retirement.”

  “Director Keiley…”

  “Please call me John, Daniel.”

  “I know my brother. He’s a patriot. Defection is absolutely out of the question. Nothing, not even a dishonorable discharge and a prison sentence would change that. On my first visit, I quoted a friend named Smitty saying Brandon took an Iraqi major prisoner. I found out later the major is the son of a member of the Revolutionary Council.”

  “Cheese and crackers! One of Saddam’s kissing cousins!”

  “Quiet, Mike. This grows more interesting by the minute. As I recall, the major told your brother he had things to tell him outside the hearing of his men. Next thing we know the place is blown and Brandon is the captive.”

  “Had to be a set-up. Had to be planned,” Jim observed.

  “What do you mean?” John encouraged.

  “The major lured the Sergeant outside and into a trap. Maybe the place got blown by accident in a struggle.”

  “Interesting hypothesis, Jim, but I doubt the Rangers would have the detonators set to fire, even accidentally, until the team was out of harm’s way.”

  “Maybe the major wanted to go outside, not because of the confession he said he wanted to make, but because he knew the place was a ticking bomb.”

  “Brilliant, Mike. At times you surprise me. You’re actually much brighter than you seem.”

  The Director’s oblique praise didn’t linger. He was deep in thought. Mike sat taller in his chair with a smug, self-satisfied look. Daniel spoke next.

  “Jim and Mike may both be right. Their theories aren’t incompatible. The major knew the place was going to blow. A self-destruct timer was set. Brandon steps outside and is ambushed. The major is set free. Brandon is captured.”

  “If he was taken as a POW as you say, why was he not released during the exchange? Why hold back one non-commissioned officer?”

  “If the guy was a big kahuna’s son, then maybe he did get to keep Brandon, like a trophy, or a slave, just as Feras said.”

  “Bravo, Jim. Could be, could be.” John said as his mind assimilated this idea and moved on.

  Mike, not liking the sideline, got back into the game. “The war was lost, and the POW exchange was in the offing. Saddam just got his butt kicked and he wants vengeance but doesn’t know how to get it, and then let’s say the major’s daddy suggests that he can show his superiority over the American forces by making a gift of one of its soldiers. The major sucks up the adulation and accepts the prize but because this is a bit unorthodox, the capture is never recorded. It’s like Stiles never existed.”

  “So maybe my brother has no intrinsic value aside from the fact that he was a gift from an influential person.”

  “That’s how I see it,” the Director answered.

  Heads nodded in agreement. The Director pushed away from the edge of his desk and walked around to his empty chair. Before sitting, he said, “Daniel, I believe your brother may be alive and held against his will with his capture never recorded, but if Brandon’s imprisonment becomes public knowledge, the Iraqi government would deny it and Brandon would be killed immediately. His body would disappear. Obviously, we don’t want that to happen. If a rescue is to be mounted, we will need to know where he is, and a favorable risk/reward assessment must be made. It is troubling that we have no evidence that he is alive, only the word of a thug. Did Feras offer proof?”

  “He threatened proof.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He offered to send a body part that forensics would show was severed from living tissue.”

  “That son-of-a-bitch,” Jim muttered.

  “Clever SOB, I’d say. He knew you’d reject that and he knew your ability to think straight would suffer too. You could have asked to speak with Brandon or to have Brandon provide the answer to a question only brothers share. He gave you nothing, not even a contact. Deliver the money—then we’ll talk. That’s not how deals are closed.”

  “I screwed up, but I know Brandon is alive. Will you help me get him back?”

  “The decision isn’t mine to make, but I will take this to my boss, Frank Anderson, and hopefully, he’ll take it to Director Wooten. CIA won’t make a move without consulting with the President and the Senate Intelligence Committee. To bring Brandon out will require the use of Special Ops forces and we’d be risking the lives of an entire team to save one man. The odds would have to be in our favor. That’s the risk/reward scenario I referred to earlier.”

  “
What’s your best guess?”

  “Nothing will happen anytime soon. First, we need to locate Brandon. Second, we need to determine our capability to get to him and get him out. Third, we determine the risk. Fourth, we make a go, no-go decision. It will all take time.”

  “Brandon may not have the luxury of time.”

  “It’s the best I can do Daniel. I will recommend action, but it will be up to others to authorize armed intrusion and a rescue attempt. Make no mistake, Daniel, this is a barrel of snakes, and no politician will want to stick his hand in that barrel where it might get bit. Do you recall the June 1993 cruise missile attack on Iraq?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Mukhabarat, Directorate 14, Special Operations, is involved in the most secretive operations outside Iraq. Former President Bush was targeted for assassination by D14 in April 1993 when he visited Kuwait. The Director of D14 is Brigadier Nouri Al Douri. We know where he works; we know where he lives; we know where he sleeps. His capture or assassination was discussed. A risk/reward assessment was made. What did we do? We launched a cruise missile attack on the intelligence headquarters complex in Baghdad. Twenty-three Tomahawk cruise missiles were launched. Sixteen hit the target. We did a lot of damage, but what didn’t we do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we sent a message but we didn’t risk pilots or aircraft. We didn’t put assets on the ground to pick up Nouri Al Douri. Risk—Reward. That’s what it’s all about. It would have been quite a coup to put Al Douri on trial, to parade him before the world press, but we didn’t. We settled for a punishing blow, something less personal. The risk was too great. Will we attempt to rescue disgraced Sergeant Stiles? I ask you, Daniel.”

  “Does the United States knowingly leave its soldiers behind?” Daniel countered.

  “We like to think not, but one thing is certain or as certain as anything ever is in this crazy town, DOD will not support us. This is, as I said, a barrel of snakes and the politicos will run for cover when they hear it hiss. None will run faster than C.K. McNamara, Secretary of Defense. SECDEF will cover his ass. Forget about paying ransom. No politician will volunteer a dollar of ransom to the Hussein regime. No one will want his name attached to the name of Brandon Stiles, forgotten soldier, prisoner in Iraq for three and a half years.”

  Daniel nodded his understanding. It was hopeless.

  “I’ll run the flag up the pole, that’s all I can promise at this point. We now know to look for Brandon and we’ll do just that.”

  John Keiley stood. The meeting was over. “Give Mister Stiles a ride to the airport.”

  11

  An Old Friend Visits

  The MP at the gate motioned Daniel to the side and directed him to the visitor’s center for a temporary pass. It was an experience foreign to him. When he mustered out, his ID was taken and the Post pass was scraped from his windshield. He drove the short distance and entered the building to queue behind other feather merchants visiting the Post. Daniel had called ahead to coordinate his visit with Smitty and to ensure it didn’t interfere with rehab. The desk clerk, a civilian employee, gave Daniel a map, circled the You-Are-Here point, and traced the path he should follow to reach the hospital on Hospital Road. She asked Daniel if he had any questions. He smiled his thanks and departed with the directions stuffed deeply into his pocket.

  Smitty looked forward to Daniel’s visits. He had no living relatives and those few friends who had visited were so upset by his appearance that they never returned. There was a smattering of mail and then nothing. Smitty understood and forgave. He had no delusions. He knew how he looked; it frightened him too. He had cried the first time he saw himself in a mirror. A consoling voice said, “Time heals all wounds.” But time could not heal these. Skilled surgeons had tried many times and they had done wonders, but… Now, Smitty waited for news about his best friend, a man who hadn’t paid him a visit for very good reasons.

  Daniel knocked once and entered Smitty’s room. “You won’t believe…” was how he began his story, and Smitty encouraged him not to omit any detail. Several hours later, Daniel had revealed everything, right up to the moment he parted company with Jim and Mike at National Airport.

  Smitty would have emitted a long whistle, if he were capable of pursing his mouth, but he hadn’t yet mastered that. His lips, still puffy with collagen, had been surgically recreated and were a welcome addition to his face, but felt like Ubangi appendages. His speech therapist assured him, his new lips weren’t just cosmetic. They would help him pronounce some of the alphabet’s challenges, but it would take time.

  “Poor bastard, the damn rags are trying to make him a slave. Well, Brandon is nobody’s slave; I’ll guarantee you that. He’s living in hell and don’t you know he can’t understand why we forgot him.”

  “And I’m not sure much will change, Smitty. John Keiley said the President and the Senate Intelligence Committee will welcome this news like the plague, and SECDEF will do all he can to discredit the idea of a POW left behind. It’s an embarrassment. They won’t act without rock solid proof and chances are they won’t act with proof. But, Director Keiley says the thing to do is to run the flag up the pole and see which way the wind blows. Meanwhile, we have to find the evidence needed to make an air tight case.”

  “Such as?”

  “A sighting. We need to know where he is. Without that, we’re nowhere. John says the CIA and the intelligence community will be listening and watching. I just don’t know how long Brandon can hold out. I’d pay the five million if I had it, Smitty. I’d pay it even without a guarantee, and just the possibility of Brandon’s release.”

  “Maybe we should rob a bank. Do you think I’d need a mask? They’d probably assume I was wearing one.” Smitty laughed at his dilemma. “The Halloween bandit.”

  Daniel shook his head. “You’re nuts, Smitty, but I like the bank idea. If the Feds won’t fund a rescue, I’ll have to take out a loan, Bonnie and Clyde style.”

  “Let me give it some thought. I’m going to do some checking around. Call me if you get any bright ideas and call me if you hear anything from your buddy at CIA.”

  Daniel could see that Smitty was worn out so he stood up, gave a friendly touch to Smitty’s arm and left, saying, “I’ll see ya. Keep a light burnin’ in the window.”

  Smitty signaled thumbs up.

  Two weeks passed, during which time Daniel had found employment at a firehouse in Killeen, TX. They needed an EMT and Daniel was that and more. He had qualified as a paramedic about the time he was awarded his Sergeant stripes. The Fire Chief thought he was a Godsend and put him to work on the spot.

  “I have to pay the rent while I’m searching for five mil,” Daniel said. “The pay is decent and this cell phone is my firehouse perk.”

  “I hear that,” Smitty replied. “I’ve been doin’ some checkin’ around and I owe my buddy in Personnel Records a case of Bud because he has really come to the rescue.” Smitty was obviously excited.

  “How’s that?”

  “I’d rather not say just now. Why don’t you give me a call from a pay phone when you have time?”

  “Oh, sure. Yeah, okay. Later.” Daniel obliged, severing the connection. Maybe Smitty was right. Cell phones are radios and anyone can tune in. After his shift at the Fire House, Daniel grabbed a bite to eat and dialed Smitty’s number. The conversation proved too difficult to follow. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right there.” Twenty minutes later he was in Smitty’s room. “Run that by me again.”

  “Well, I was thinking about money, and I remembered being stationed at the Pentagon, and how I was sent over to National Airport one day to pick up some brass that was flying in commercially. This was probably during the Carter years or maybe Ford. Anyway, I was standing at one of the big plate glass windows in the departure lounge that looked out onto the Eastern Airlines ramp, and up drove an armored car. I stood there an
d observed guards supervising the unloading of boxes that were run up a conveyor belt and into the cargo hold of a Boeing 727 airplane. I was watching this and a guy in an airline uniform was watching me. He came up behind me saying, “That’s more interesting than watching takeoffs or looking at boats on the Potomac isn’t it?” Point is, he was there and he brought it up, so I asked him about the armored car. He said the boxes that looked like cases of twelve-ounce cans of beer were actually jam-packed with money. He thought that was why they called them packs and not cases or boxes. They were packs, I remember by association. Do you recall the old Lucky Strike ads?”

  “What the hell are you babbling about? Have you been drinking?”

  “I wish. No, I’m remembering. The ad was ‘So round, so firm, so fully packed, so free and easy on the draw.’ Come to think of it, maybe it was a Chesterfield ad”.

  “Smitty, get to the point!”

  “Gee, aren’t we touchy. Do you have a hot date waiting? My guess is no. What girl wants to date someone so impatient?”

  “Okay, you win. Take your time. Ramble on.”

  “I’m not rambling, I’m remembering. The packs could be all ones or one hundreds or anything in between, bundled sixteen thousand to a pack. Do the math. One box could be worth one point six million. The pilot talked about the standing joke in his business. The crew would head for Tahiti with the loot and I said he could live large on a couple of million. ‘How about ninety plus?’ he said. Insurance limited what they could carry but it was in the range of a hundred million dollars.”

  Smitty’s speech was animated and Daniel feared he might hurt himself if he got too excited. His burned skin was tight as a drum and could tear if he gesticulated wildly, but he was apparently in no pain.

  “Easy, big fella,” Daniel ordered. “I see where you’re going with this. We need to hang out at the airport until an armored car pulls up and then pull the heist of the century.”