“Hang out at the airport? Not exactly, wise guy, let me finish my story.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Daniel feigned repentance. “Continue.”
“I was talking with my friend in Personnel Records, Charlie Morton. Hadn’t talked with him in ages, and he doesn’t know about my condition, so when he asked if I’d been drinking, I told him I’d just had some heavy duty dental surgery and the Novocain hadn’t worn off. That must be what I sound like because he didn’t argue. Anyway, we were talking and out of the blue he mentioned Phil Roberts, a mutual friend, and told me Phil got out after twenty and had been working at the DFW Airport handling cargo ever since. He took the job so his wife could be close to her family in Waxahachie, Texas. She’d followed him around the world for twenty years so he told her he’d follow her for the next twenty. He has a ton of experience in supply, and Global Freight needed what he had to offer. In short, Phil now works at DFW for Global and I want you to contact him and have him call me. Can you do that?” Smitty whined, intimating that maybe Daniel could make a small contribution to the rescue effort. He enjoyed pulling Daniel’s chain, and his chain was usually in a handy location.
“Yes, I think I can manage.” Daniel replied dragging his words through a counterfeit thought process.
“Okay, then, get the hell out of here and get busy. I’m expecting Raquel Welch any minute.”
Daniel stopped at the door and spun around to face Smitty. “Raquel? Why you two-timing gigolo. I thought you loved only me?” He shot Smitty a one-finger salute and received two thumbs up in response.
Customer Service, Global Air (Friday, 8 July 1994)
“You have reached Global Air Customer Service,” the automated, female voice announced. “If you know the number of the person you are trying to reach, you may enter it now. If you want sales, press 1…”
The voice droned on with other options. Daniel pretended to be calling from a rotary phone, probably one of ten in the state, and waited for an agent to come on line. Unfortunately, they were all helping other customers, but Daniel was reassured to hear that his call was very important. Soft Pop music played until additional apologies were offered, and more music followed. Daniel checked his watch and as minutes ticked by, he was consoled by the fact that he had dialed an 800 number. He continued waiting and was rewarded for his patience.
“This is Angela, how may I direct your call?”
Daniel briefly forgot what he wanted to ask, but it came flooding back to him. “I started to say Barry Manilow. I’ve been listening to him for a while now, but actually I want to reach Phil Roberts.”
“What city does he work in?”
“Oh! He works in freight at DFW.”
“One moment.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry, sir, we have no Phil Roberts at DFW. We have a Jerome A. Roberts at DFW Cargo. He is the only Roberts.”
Daniel said, “I see.” Actually he saw nothing, but he asked anyway. “May I have his direct number?”
An automated voice clicked in saying, “The number is…”
Daniel copied and dialed. “Global Cargo, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Jerome Roberts, please.”
“We don’t have a Jerome Roberts. Excuse me, hold on a sec.”
A hand was cupped over the telephone as distant voices debated.
“Hello, this is Roberts,” a new voice replied.
“Jerome Roberts?”
“You asked to speak to Jerome Roberts didn’t you?”
“Yes, but the man said there was no Jerome Roberts.”
“The man was mistaken. He only knew me as Phil. Now he’ll start calling me Jerome and I’ll have to kill him. What can I do for you?”
“You’re Phil Roberts? I’m a little confused.”
“Me too. Blame my mom and dad. They screwed up my life giving me that Jerome handle. I grew up in Philly and Phil became my calling card. After a while, anyone calling me Jerome, either didn’t know me or was a jackoff. Which are you?”
“Given those two choices, I confess, I could be either, but I’m calling for a friend who is neither.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“He said you’d know him as Smitty. If there is another Smitty in your world, he’s an imposter.” Daniel said the words as if reading from a script. He was.
“Well I’ll be hornswoggled. I thought that old war horse was dead and buried.”
“Not quite. I’ll let him explain. He asked me to give you his phone number and to ask you to call ASAP.”
“You bet your sweet bippy I’ll do ‘er. Fire away.”
Daniel read the number and repeated it. Phil recognized the 2-5-4 area code and asked, “Is Smitty at Fort Hood?”
“Yes, and the last three digits are his room number at the hospital there. Thanks.”
“Hospital?” Phil’s question was answered by the dial tone. The caller was gone and he never even got his name.
An Old Friend Responds (Saturday, 9 July 1994)
Smitty was resting after an arduous workout at Rehab. His body still ached from the stretching exercises that made him grit his teeth and fight back tears. Now, as he lay resting the greater pain began. In the quiet room of his thoughts, he remembered how it was before, and realized it would never be the same again. He was tired of fighting the pain, the odds, all for another miserable day on earth.
“I should have died in that blast and the fire should have finished the job.” He was depressed. When the phone rang he was startled. He had “gone away” for a while. That was his expression for the depressing thoughts that crept into his psyche and were usually hard to shake. It was painful turning, reaching for, and grasping the receiver. He grimaced as he raised the phone to his ear.
“Smitty, here.” He answered.
“You old war horse, how the hell are you?”
“Who is this?”
“The best damn poker player the U.S. Army ever had, that’s who. As I recall, I separated you from a paycheck more than once, and I meant to thank you Patsy, I mean, Smitty,” the voice taunted.
“Well, I’ll be a horse’s uncle if it ain’t Phil Roberts, classiest guy in the whole damn army, present company excepted.”
Smitty’s depression evaporated. He was elated.
Phil spoke. “I had a short chat with a friend of yours yesterday at work. Never got his name, but he gave me your number. I thought he was crazy. Last word I heard, you had bought the farm.”
“Damn near, Phil. Damn near.”
“Sorry, Smitty, what’s your status?”
“I think I’m healthy as a horse, but I look like horse shit,” Smitty admitted.
“Desert Storm? You’ve been there as a patient since then?”
“No, I’m a recent transfer to Hood. I camped out at Brooke for a long while. I was the nurses’ favorite and a poster child for the Burn Unit. Came to Hood for rehab. I’m scheduled to yo-yo down to Brooke for surgery every now and again,” Smitty said without a shred of self-pity.
“Sorry to hear that, good buddy. I had no idea. Word was your team got wasted and you came home in a body bag.”
“Spent time in one. Long story. Pluto and Taco were at ground zero sorry to say, but Brandon survived. You talked with his brother, Daniel Stiles, yesterday.”
“That was Brandon’s brother? Obviously he didn’t remember me.”
“How’s that?”
“At the funeral, I paid my respects to the family. Daniel was a pallbearer. He should have told you, Smitty. Brandon’s dead.”
“Correction. Brandon is alive. You and Daniel buried an imposter or a sand bag.”
“Whoa! Hold on cowboy. You’re telling me you’ve seen Brandon shit-kicking down there at Hood?”
“I wish. No, Brandon didn’t come home. He’s a prisoner in Iraq.”
“No
fuckin’ way.”
“I kid you not, Phil. They dragged Brandon to Baghdad and kept him on ice. Never admitted holding him.”
“How do you know this?”
“Long story, but I’d like you to hear it.”
“I’ve got the weekend off plus Monday. I’ll drive down to see you. Myrtle and I live just south of the Airport Freeway in Irving. I’ll drive down tomorrow. If I leave at 9 a.m., I can be there by noon. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Great. We’ll catch up on old times over a few beers. I’ll even spring for the beer.”
“Phil, I haven’t had a beer in three or four years. The only alcohol we have around here is the rubbing variety, but if anybody can smuggle in a six-pack, it’s you. I should warn you, Phil, you won’t recognize me. Do you remember teasing me about my schnozz? You said it was a brown-noser’s dream and I said you were jealous because it was bigger than your dick.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I’ve got a new nose. It ain’t much to brag about, but it’s a damn sight better than no nose.”
Phil was alarmed but kept his composure. He knew Smitty was bracing him for a shock. “I’ll bring six cool ones and you can fill me in. Noon then?”
“No. I just remembered I have rehab at one. I’ll be playing with the nurses at three, having sex until four. But I can be a grand host by five. Could you come sometime closer to Miller Time?”
“I’ll be there at five. Keep the green side up.” Phil laughed and clicked off.
Smitty smiled perceptibly, his taut skin yielding to the old joke these warriors once shared. Smitty grew up in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, and endured hillbilly jokes his entire career. Phil used Smitty as a substitute word for hillbilly in all his jokes, and one evening, a lifetime ago, at the NCO Club’s Happy Hour, Phil began one of his stories.
“Did you hear about the time when Smitty was back in Arkansas?” In unison the assembled voices would yell, “No,” and Phil was off to the races.
“This man was in his house talking with a friend, and periodically he would stop and go to the window and shout green side up! He’d return to the conversation with apologies but on his third return the friend asked, ‘why do you go to the window to shout green side up?’ Oh, that? Smitty’s out in the yard laying sod.” The punch line was all Phil used after that.
A Friend Pays A Visit (Sunday, 10 July 1994)
“What has you on edge today, Smitty?” the therapist asked casually.
Smitty lay face down on a massage table, peering through a circular cutout. “A friend, an old friend, is coming to see me this afternoon. I guess that’s it. Silly, huh?”
The unseen therapist hovering above shook his head and answered. “That’s not so odd, Smitty. I get nervous just thinking about my mother-in-law coming to visit. Although, I must admit, the anticipation is worse than the reality.”
“So, she’s really not so bad?”
“Oh, no. She’s a hellhound for sure. I just make myself scarce. That’s the reality.”
Smitty grunted and shook his head.
Grasping the opposite ankle, the therapist raised it, added pressure, and slowly released. In the recesses of the table, Smitty’s breathing stopped and then caught up with rapid, shallow breaths.
“You’re supposed to breathe through the exercises, Smitty. You’re cheating.” The therapist teased in mild rebuke.
“Any port in a storm,” Smitty spat through teeth still clinched.
“So tell me, Smitty, who is this woman who’s coming to visit?” The therapist asked as he rolled Smitty onto his back.
“Raquel Welch.”
“Isn’t that the Amazon with the big dinners?” the therapist responded as he pulled Smitty’s arm across his chest.
“Dinner for two, and you aren’t invited. She’s coming for true love and a wild ride on the Ozark Express.”
The therapist added additional pressure stretching the skin at the shoulder, evoking a small peep from Smitty’s lips. “You’ve got quite an imagination, tiger. I’d like to take her for a ride myself.”
“You keep your vice grips to yourself. She likes my gentle touch.”
“We’re done for the day. Give Rack my love, and tomorrow, I want all the sordid little details.”
At 5 p.m. sharp, there came a rap on the door and a head poked in. “Everybody decent?” Phil looked in at Smitty propped up in bed. “Smitty?” He inquired, obviously unsure.
“Come in you old retread, and shut the door.”
Phil assumed a nonchalance that betrayed him, and Smitty tried to put him at ease. “I look like shit, Phil, worse even. I know that. By all rights, I should be dead, but for some reason, I’m not. It’s okay. This face to face after so many years is probably harder on you than me, so I know it’s not easy. It’s good to see you, Phil.” Smitty said sincerely with a lump in his throat.
Phil bit his lip and tears welled in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Smitty. God Almighty, I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
“I know you are, Phil. I appreciate your making that long drive down here. We have a lot to talk about, so pull up a chair and I’ll fill you in.”
Phil swung a chair into position and stepped back so Smitty would have a clear view. He slowly pulled his shirt up to the tune of a stripper’s bump and grind revealing six cans of Schlitz strapped to his chest.
Smitty laughed at the sight saying, “I thought you’d put on a few pounds.”
“Seventy two ounces to be exact,” Phil joked, as he quickly peeled the cans away.
“I see you brought my favorite,” Smitty observed.
Remembering the old saw, Phil said, “When you’re out of Schlitz, you’re out of beer.” He popped open the first and handed it to Smitty.
“I hate to ask, but could you get me a straw? There’s one in that water bottle.”
“No sweat,” Phil said as he snatched it from the water jug.
“You should try drinking beer through a straw, Phil. I think it’s an idea that’s sure to catch on. It’s very macho.” Smitty sipped the cold brew and made the sound of pure pleasure. “Oh, man, this is wonderful. Mmmm.” He sipped again. “I swear, Phil, this is better than sex.” Then added, “It is, isn’t it?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m married.” Phil jibed, and both men laughed, just like old times. Two beers later, Smitty had revealed all he and Daniel knew, and Phil interrupted only for clarification. Now, he sat back and drained the last of his second beer.
“Unbelievable,” Phil concluded. “It’s understandable that from time to time an MIA will be reclassified as KIA, but changing a classification from KIA to MIA means somebody screwed up.”
“Nobody in authority has made a reclassification. No one has acknowledged a screw up. The official word remains unchanged. Brandon Stiles is dead. We know that isn’t true, but it’s a tough sell when the brass prefers death to complications.”
“Smitty, if they won’t admit to a possibility that Brandon is alive, they won’t pay for his release. But, if they admit to a possibility that he is missing, then there’s hope.”
“Do you think the U.S. Government would pay for his release?” Smitty asked.
“Officially, no. We don’t negotiate with terrorists; we don’t negotiate for hostages. Unofficially, yes. We’ve done it before and we can do it again. Just ask Ollie North. He knows the Big Lie. We say one thing publicly and do another secretly. We’ve given arms for hostages. Why not dollars? What’s the difference?”
“I’d like to be optimistic,” Smitty said, “But I’m a realist. Brandon doesn’t have the luxury of time. He can’t wait for Washington. He might be in ropes, strung up like our POWs in Vietnam. He might be on some medieval rack for all we know. The truth is Phil he might be dead tomorrow. Only Keiley at CIA is on board with us, and h
e doesn’t control the purse strings. If we want to bail Brandon out, we’re on our own.”
“For Christ’s sake Smitty, what are we going to do?”
“I like the sound of that ‘we’, Phil. Let’s pop that last Schlitz and next weekend we can talk about a plan we have.”
12
A Garage Like No Other
Brandon had slept fitfully in his cage. His mind raced. Massoud’s words had been replayed in his mind again and again.
“He will find out soon enough that he is the Colonel’s guinea pig.”
That’s what this place is for, Brandon thought, and he remembered the instructions Saddam had given: “Study him, open his mind, and look inside. Improve, if you can, the interrogation techniques used by the IIS.”
The guinea pig had been awake for hours before he heard voices approaching the garage. In a low voice Brandon said, “Oh, yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, because I am the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the valley.” But this time it brought no relief. He knew there were other mean sons-of-bitches in the valley, and he was about to meet them, unarmed. A chain rattled as it was pulled through the handles on the wide swinging doors, and the Colonel and his men entered.
Without preamble or his usual phony greeting, the Colonel spoke. “Sergeant Stiles, yesterday I mentioned my association with Mukhabarat. What I failed to mention was my assignment. I am to improve on interrogation techniques used by Iraqi intelligence services, and you will play a vital role in my success. Shall we begin?”
He signaled and the cell was unlocked. Omar reached in and grabbed Brandon’s shirt at the chest and yanked him out. Brandon didn’t resist. He stepped forward with his left foot and drove his right knee into Omar’s groin with all the force he could muster. It was enough. Omar collapsed clutching his testicles, but before Brandon could face his remaining adversaries, he was clubbed from behind. He awoke in a chair secured at ankles and wrists. A bright light was angled at his face.
“Come on Colonel, you’ve been watching too many movies. The war is over. I don’t have any information your people would be interested in. You don’t have to do this. Let me go.”
Price For A Patriot Page 12