Willy laughed and shook his head. “Phil takes no prisoners and shows no mercy. Never has, never will.”
“Since I’m suddenly the heavy around here,” Phil retorted, “let it be known that I am supplying this ungrateful spelunker with my favorite flashlight and enough oxygen to satisfy two more gracious recipients.”
“Why’s that, Phil?” Willy inquired. “Is there no air down there?”
“Oh, there’s oxygen in the pressurized spaces, but at altitude, Daniel will need supplemental oxygen to survive passage in the unpressurized, mechanical spaces. It’s just a precaution. At higher altitudes, even with oxygen, he can’t last long. It’s a pressure thing you don’t need to know about, and I can’t explain. Suffice it to say that at high altitude we don’t want Daniel in the unpressurized spaces for long. If he gets the lead out, he can get this done in forty-five minutes. That’s the time we estimate he’ll have between cargo door closure and takeoff. Harold, Daniel and I will be equipped with two-way radios that use the earpiece as both transmitter and receiver. It’s a slick setup we’ve been testing at the airport. It eliminates wiring and cancels out the engine frequency.”
Jerry asked, “How does the earpiece transmit?”
“Good question. You’ve heard of FM, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, that’s it.”
“Frequency Modulation?”
“No. Fucking Magic!”
Jerry grimaced; everyone else laughed.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, “Daniel and Harold will have a comm link throughout the flight. If the passenger load is light, Harold will move to an open row for privacy, but regardless, he’ll keep Daniel apprised of what’s happening. The first transmission will advise Daniel that the cargo door is closed. On the ‘Ten,’ a cargo door swings upward like a car trunk, and these are big suckers, so they’re visible from inside the cabin when open. And when they close, even if you don’t see them close you’ll hear the actuators. Doors aren’t closed by hand—way too heavy. The motor whines, and Harold will make the call to Daniel just in case he doesn’t know it’s show time. Houdini will pop from the box and release the access panel to the galley.”
“Hold on,” Jerry said. “Doesn’t somebody work there?”
“Regulations require all F/As to be topside for takeoff and landing, so Daniel won’t encounter anyone when he transits the lower galley. It will be unoccupied until the aircraft is established in its climb to altitude. At that point a Flight Attendant will take the people elevator or P-elevator down, in order to send the beverage carts up on the C-elevator. That topside-for-takeoff-and-landing rule gives Daniel time to pass through the galley and return without being noticed. The objective is aft cargo. That’s where the money is. He’ll transfer cash packs from there, through the mechanical space to mid-cargo. That’s the storage depot until the landing sequence begins and the Galley Slave again goes topside. Daniel will transit the galley to forward cargo bringing five million dollars with him. He’ll have the suitcases too if they’re needed. He’ll do the math and decide. During landing and taxi, Daniel will load the cash packs into the casket and suitcases, and voila, it’s done. One last thing, from here on out, we don’t mention money or cash again. It’s Coors. Got it?”
Seeing a quizzical look, Phil inquired, “Problem, Willy?”
“Yeah,” Willy said, dragging the word out. “Where does Daniel hide when the cargo door reopens in San Francisco? He can’t be just sittin’ around.”
“Good question. Daniel will reenter the lower galley after the passengers have started to deplane, and he’ll ride the P-Lift up and walk out with them.”
“Sounds too easy,” Willy remarked, still mulling it over. “Won’t he get caught coming out of an elevator he shouldn’t be in, in the first place?”
“Yes, he might get caught and Daniel has rehearsed that. What do you say, if you’re caught, Daniel?”
“I apologize, saying my sister is a Flight Attendant for Global. She flies the Ten out of L.A. and I’ve heard about her hermit’s existence below deck. I should have asked for permission, but I just had to sneak a peek. I’m sorry. If the questioning gets hostile I’ll turn on the famous Stiles charm. What woman could resist?”
That brought laughter, none harder than from his closest friend, Harold, who chimed in, “Oh, yeah, he’s a real lady-killer. He hasn’t had a date in months.”
“I haven’t dated because I refuse to leave a trail of broken hearts in my wake. Harold on the other hand has a different philosophy… ‘So many women, so little time.’ He has no heart, no conscience. On the other hand, I am all heart.”
Boos and playful jeering commenced. Smitty waved his arms for attention, painfully aware that three men present still avoided eye contact with him. Well, he was a sight, now wasn’t he?
“No matter how thin you slice it, Daniel, it’s still ham. Our thirty minutes is about up, guys, so this party is over. Study the materials given you, keep it confidential, and I’ll see you a week from today, same Bat time, same Bat Channel.”
14
The Escape, 15 May 1991
Brandon hoed the weeds and tended the delicate plants that were just beginning to bud. Sweat stung his eyes and his callused fingers bled. Hosni had kept his promise to feed him well, and Brandon’s strength had gradually returned. The grinding work, of hoeing and weeding, served to wear a body down, and tired, tight muscles begged for sleep each night. Brandon ignored his body’s plea for rest, and as others slept, performed limbering and stretching exercises long into the night. He had no escape plan per se, only a commitment to prepare and patiently await opportunity. When it appeared, he would seize it.
Another long day had ended, and the Iraqi peasants who worked the Colonel’s fields from sun up to sundown were leaving, climbing aboard a wagon that would take them to their nearby village. It was a daily ritual. Transportation was provided, and the pay allowed a scanty subsistence. Omar had left the field minutes earlier in response to a radio call, and no other overseers were in sight. Brandon saw his chance. He sprinted after the tractor-pulled wagon and dove on board. A dozen pairs of eyes stared at him without warmth or welcome. Had he misjudged the workers? They had seen Omar apply his whip and he knew they spoke of him as “the mute.” They had seemed sympathetic. They weren’t.
The guard opened the gate as the tractor approached and waved the driver through. Brandon crouched lower as the wagon passed the inattentive guard, and someone yelled and all joined in. “The mute does not belong. He is trying to escape!”
The guard ran forward to stop the tractor as Brandon bailed out the back and sprinted around the other side and across the road that paralleled the fence line of the farm. One shot was fired, but the guard was no marksman. Brandon knew that distance from his tormentors and the cover-of-night were his allies. He ran for his life. The shouts that seemed to fill the air faded, replaced by the sound of his rhythmic breathing. Brandon ran directly away from the road, his only destination, darkness or the Tigris whichever came first. He would travel at night and hide in daylight. Twilight was his enemy now. It lingered as alarms were sounded. The guard had radioed news of the escape. A dozen men reacted. The chase was on.
Late on the third day following his escape, Brandon ventured from cover to raid an orchard and by chance was spotted by an Iraqi farmer. Both men turned from each other and ran. Within the hour, Brandon was captured and returned to the ranch. The Colonel expressed his disappointment and asked Omar and Massoud to impress on the American the futility and consequences of his action.
The garage doors were closed behind the trio as Brandon was ushered at gunpoint inside. Brandon felt the cold sweat of fear as he mentally revisited the chair with its battery nearby. Massoud rolled the chiropractic bed away as Omar shoved Brandon toward the wall. His bound hands were raised in front of him and his wrists were manacled to a chain
hanging from a rafter.
Omar watched Brandon over his left shoulder as he approached a lever mounted on the wall to Brandon’s right front. The lever or handle was parallel to the floor until he pushed it upward activating a motor that ratcheted the chain higher, link by link, raising Brandon’s arms overhead until his feet no longer touched the floor, and his weight was totally suspended by the chain. Omar moved the lever back to its original position and then briefly downward reversing the motion until Brandon was suspended exactly where he wanted him.
“Massoud, watch and learn from the master. This infidel is about to learn respect.” He tapped the riding crop purposefully in the palm of his left hand, feeling the heft of it, anticipating the fun he would have. Striding forward he grasped Brandon’s thin cotton shirt at the collar and ripped it away to expose his target. “Let us see how tough you are without the Colonel to protect you. Will you beg for mercy? I think so.”
Massoud stood back to watch the show as Omar engaged the lash with all the force he could muster. The sound that escaped through Brandon’s clinched teeth was not a cry for mercy. It was the sound of angry resolve, of warning. Omar heard his name called out and asked Massoud what the American was saying.
“I do not know, but I shall find out.”
Omar backed off, as Massoud drew near to Brandon. He whispered in Brandon’s right ear, “I wish you could understand me, because like me, you are a soldier, not a slave. I understand. A soldier imprisoned must try to escape. But you failed, and now you must be punished. I do my duty, but take no pleasure in it as Omar does. If you killed Khalil, even in chains, you can kill Omar. You must kill him you know, before he kills you.” He turned his head, pretending to listen to a reply, bobbed his head and looked grave. Omar, as Massoud intended, thought he was having a conversation with Brandon.
“What did he say? What did you say to him? Do you speak English now?”
“Omar, I speak a language understood by all men. I told him you were fearless, and he answered ‘even cowards do not fear men in chains.’ I asked, ‘do you believe Omar is a coward?’ And he answered, ‘Omar is less than a coward. He is afraid of women. That is why he flirts with little boys.’”
Omar bellowed and dropped his whip as he charged Brandon like a wounded bull, and tackled him from behind. Brandon was lifted and driven forward as Omar tried to smash him into the wall. The impact, hurtful as it was, created slack in his restraint which allowed him to grasp the chain taking the weight off his wrists. Omar released Brandon from a bear hug, intent on using him as a boxer’s heavy bag, to pummel him with his fists, but Brandon moved too fast. He pulled down on the chain bringing his hands to his chest and kicked off the wall. Surprised, Omar shuffled in a flat-footed turn as Brandon sailed rearward pulling his knees into the tuck position. On the downswing, he lashed out and his heels connected with Omar’s skull, a dizzying blow that pitched Omar backward to crash into the wall and fall upon the floor.
Reflexively, the lessons of Mister Tollifson’s gym class surfaced. Brandon’s love in high school was football, but he admired the strength and balance required in gymnastics. In P.E. class he worked hard to build his strength for football by concentrating on the basic skills of the low rings and parallel bars. The “planch” offered a special challenge to his abs and arms and he practiced until he could easily hold his body parallel to the floor. Omar was rising as Brandon made Mr. Tollifson proud.
The control lever was located conveniently near the chain, but it was thought to be out of the reach of anyone hanging from it. Brandon “planched” and stretched his body horizontally. His muscles quivered and his body shook as he groped for the lever. Contact. The toes of his right foot touched and then fell upon the lever. The chain rattled through the sprocket and Brandon soon felt the floor beneath him. His hands were dropping ever lower as Omar lunged for the lever. A karate kick connected that sent Omar smashing into the wall short of his goal. Brandon charged like a Doberman on a chain. His fingers were the bared teeth that would seize Omar by the neck and crush his windpipe. The target was just inches away when the chain pulled straight and shuddered on its mount, yanking Brandon’s hands away. Omar had ducked beneath Brandon’s grasp and now sprang upward driving his shoulder into Brandon’s belly. Lifting, he tried to flip Brandon off his feet, and did. It was the last thing he would ever do. As they fell as one, Brandon wrapped the chain around Omar’s neck and eighteen inches from the floor the chain again reached its limit. The snap was audible.
Massoud, the spectator, pushed away from the opposite wall and moved to stand over the combatants. “Yes, I see now, you killed Kahlil. If this were ancient Rome the emperor might grant you freedom for such a performance. We shall see what the Colonel’s response will be.”
He walked slowly away and within minutes Brandon heard the Colonel’s voice.
“How could this happen? Wasn’t he chained? Where were you?”
Massoud answered in lower tones and his responses weren’t audible. The garage door opened and Brandon saw the Colonel and Massoud in silhouette, the bright sky erased their features.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you, Sergeant?” I don’t know how you managed it, and Massoud can’t clarify because he was at the latrine. I am surrounded by imbeciles.” Hassan Rashid skirted Brandon and pushed the lever upward. The chain gathered and climbed, pulling Brandon’s arms overhead until his heels lifted off the ground. To Massoud the Colonel said, “Defiance must be punished. I would kill this man for what he has done, but I need him for more important things. Apply the lash well.”
Still angry, the Colonel walked away thinking of the reports that must be filed. At the door he turned with a final order: “Punish him, Massoud. Sow the seeds of respect.”
The words “sow the seeds” swam in Brandon’s mind and he was transported to the fields of friendly strife. Coach Taggart was a history buff and he made his players memorize a quotation from General Douglas MacArthur regarding athletics at West Point: “On the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that on other days and other fields will bear the fruits of victory!”
Brandon was back in Texas far from his captors. He was the quarterback and this was the big game played on neutral ground before thousands at Texas Stadium, home of the Dallas Cowboys. This was the game for glory or despair, the final game, the championship. The Division II, Class 3A, title was at stake; everything was at stake.
“They’ll double team you Stiles. They’ll hit you hard on every play. They want to hurt you and take you out. You’re the key to this offense and they know it. Be mentally tough! Be ready! Be relentless! When they knock you down, spring back up, and say ‘is that all you’ve got?’ Muffle up your whine and laugh, Stiles, even if it hurts, because you’re the champ, quarterback and leader of the Muleshoe State Champions.”
Brandon’s mental recorder replayed the pep talk of his senior year, and he was there in the locker room as the band played outside. He could hear the rhythmic pounding of the drums. He listened to the coach and took up the mantra. “We’re the champs! We’re playing for all the marbles, guys. This is it. This is what we’ve worked for all year. The title is ours unless we give it away and Mules don’t give an inch. We’re ready, tough, relentless mules. Now let’s go kick some ass!”
Brandon stayed in the game and like a Mule, stubbornly refused defeat. He took all the punishment the opponent could throw at him, moving purposefully toward the goal line. When the champion’s head dropped and his body slumped, when he no longer flinched at the sting of the whip, Massoud stopped. Stepping in front of Brandon, he grasped his hair and lifted his head and stared at the unconscious foe. He looked peaceful and for just an instant Massoud thought he detected a smile. He dropped Brandon’s head and shook his own. This American is dangerous. Khalil and Omar had underestimated him and died by his hand. The Colonel would be wise not to make the same mistake. Riding crop in hand, he surveyed the scene—dropp
ed the whip, and walked away.
15
The Rehearsal; The Casket At Global Freight
Smitty answered on the third ring and listened intently. “Sounds good, Lazarus, I’ll see you in the movies. Good luck.”
Daniel smiled at the reference to his pending resurrection as he placed the pay phone in its cradle. He and Phil planned to video tape the testing of the recently constructed coffin two days prior to the rehearsal, and have a By Invitation Only viewing of the premier on Saturday at Smitty’s.
A small cabinet shop with an envious reputation had been hired to construct the coffin. “You design it; we’ll build it” was stenciled on the glass door. Having been asked no questions, Daniel would wager their full motto included the words and no questions asked, but was shortened to fit the space.
Now standing in the bed of his pickup, parked in his closed garage, Daniel unloaded the coffin by carefully sliding it over the side into a vertical position, a’ la King Tut. From the garage floor, he eased it to the horizontal.
Phil arrived as planned about an hour later armed with a Canon VHS-C video cam. He was enthusiastic. “Let’s do it!” he said, as he switched on the camera’s floodlight. Turning to Daniel, he yelled, “Roll ‘em, aaaand action!”
Daniel waved to the camera and began describing the coffin and all its moving parts. Using a Phillips-head screwdriver, he secured the lid from the outside and then released it. Finally, with great fanfare and Phil’s best attempt at a drum roll, Daniel climbed inside and pulled the lid shut and locked it. The camera jiggled and momentarily recorded the image of laced shoes as Phil attempted to record his free hand pushing and pulling on the lid. He made vain attempts to release the latches using the screwdriver and finally declared the box was impregnable. That was Daniel’s cue to emerge. He slid the lid back, sat up, and pumped his clasped hands overhead in a champion’s pose.
Price For A Patriot Page 15