Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  27

  Red Flag Discovered Three Years Later

  Nearly three years passed before the red flagged file would be noticed. Had it not been for a call placed to the Secretary of Defense by Texas Senator Lee Roy Haskell, it might never have been found. The Senator was calling on behalf of a young constituent, a former soldier, named Daniel Stiles. Daniel had visited the Senator’s office when Congress was not in session and had presented his findings. The Senator had listened with rapt attention and was impressed by what he heard.

  “Son, I’m gonna run this by C.K. McNamara. He’s a good old boy, and I reckon he’ll be as impressed by your findings as I am. If we left one of our boys over there in the hands of those ‘A-Rabs’, it’s a goddamn dis-grace, and I promise you, CK will look into this matter.”

  SECDEF, ever the politician, agreed with the Texas Senator, Chairman of the powerful Senate Finance Committee, that he should meet with Daniel Stiles to hear what he had to say. In preparation for that meeting, CK had ordered the Personnel Record of Sergeant Brandon Stiles be delivered to him. It arrived the following morning and his executive secretary placed it on his desk alongside a steaming cup of black coffee. Absently, SECDEF opened the Stiles folder as he sipped from his cup. “Good God Almighty!” CK fumed as hot coffee dribbled down his chin onto his stiffly starched white collar. Rita Richards spun around, alarmed, and rushed back to his desk. Seeing the spill, she worried aloud about his collar and possibly a burn.

  “Rita, I don’t give a flying flip about the coffee, my shirt, or my chin. I do care about this red flag. I do care about incompetence. How the hell is it that a red flagged folder got past you? The red flag means there is an unresolved issue here, and it took me all of three seconds to see that it’s a three-year-old flag, and an embarrassment this Department does not need.”

  Tentatively, Rita asked, “What shall I do?”

  “You find out whose initials these are. The folder shows a chain of succession and these are the initials of the last dumb son-of-a-bitch to handle the folder before it went back to Records. I’m going to summarily fire that shiftless bum and have him escorted and forcefully ejected from this building. Son-of-a-bitch!” CK continued to fume and mumble oaths. He lowered his head until his chin touched his coffee-stained collar. Looking up again at the frozen statue that was his secretary, he barked, “Well?”

  “Oh,” Rita peeped as she quickly departed, clutching the file to her chest. Within minutes she had her answer and relayed it to the boss.

  “That worthless moron! I always knew Wilder’s IQ was lower than his age. This proves it. That incompetent slacker never even looked at it. He initialed it just to keep it in circulation and it got filed away because nobody was looking for more work. Wilder didn’t even take the time to delegate responsibility. Rita I would choke the life out of that worthless bastard if I could get my hands on him. He’s a partner in Stuart, Philson and Wilder now, making the big bucks, sucking up to Congressmen as a lobbyist. I’ll tell you this, Rita, if that fat son of a bitch ever enters this office looking for a favor to line his pocket, I’m going to ream him a new one.”

  Rita nodded numbly as her boss ranted and slowly backed out of the office.

  The following day, CK met with Daniel Stiles and listened patiently to his interpretation of radio messages. SECDEF could have said, “You’re right, Daniel, we know Brandon Stiles was not killed at El Sharif as originally thought. He is not, however, a POW. No, Daniel, your brother is free as a bird, a goddamn defector and probably a traitor judging from the size of his bank account.” But that would mean revealing the letter from Ramirez that went unnoticed for three years right under his nose, on his watch. He would look as foolish as Wilder, and the Department would look incompetent. He had worked too hard honing his image as a perfectionist to let that happen. Instead, he pretended not to believe Daniel’s analysis of the radio transmissions and the Ramirez letter went into the “burn bag.”

  “Mister Stiles, your brother died at El Sharif in a hellacious explosion. The transcripts speak of that and you were a pallbearer when his remains were laid to rest at Muleshoe, Texas, were you not?”

  “I was a pallbearer, but just a few days ago I had the coffin exhumed. There was no body, just two sandbags. I have a Judge as my witness to this charade.”

  “Charade? How ungracious of you. This changes nothing, Mister Stiles. The intensity of that explosion, the heat generated from that explosion was of such magnitude that flesh melted and bones turned to ash. The Army had no remains to return to the family, so they returned his memory and celebrated his sacrifice by giving your family the symbol that defined his service, the flag of a grateful nation.”

  “But he didn’t turn to ash. I have a witness, a badly burned survivor, thought to be dead, who came out of his coma and remembers that my brother was outside the bunker. He would have survived. Add that to the tale of these transmissions and it’s clear my brother was captured.”

  “To the contrary, Mister Stiles. The memory of a man returned from coma cannot be trusted, but if he were correct, even if your brother was outside he would have been incinerated. Apparently, I cannot impress upon you the magnitude of the explosion. So I will stop trying. I understand your grief, and I share it, but we have no POWs in Iraq. We left no one behind. These radio intercepts do not prove that we did, and they are classified. I suspect that if I asked you how they came into your possession, you would not tell me. I also suspect that you know they are classified. But because you have surrendered them to me, I will not press charges against you, as I should. I think you’ve suffered enough. Good day to you Mister Stiles. Please accept the condolences of this Department for the untimely death of your brother.”

  “That’s that,” Daniel thought as he flew home. “Looks like we go to Plan B.”

  Amman, Jordan, Two Weeks Later (Monday, 15 August 1994)

  Riad Maloof sat at an ornate table with a selection of figs and dates in a decorative bowl before him. He sampled a fig saying to his visitor, Feras Katamian, “Have one. They’re Syrian. Truly delicious.”

  Feras answered, “I prefer to smoke if I may?”

  “Certainly, but who can say ‘no’ to Embassy coffee? We really do have the best in town.” Riad motioned to a waiter who stood near the doorway waiting to be beckoned. “Two coffees, sweetened, no milk.”

  The waiter bowed and hurried off to the kitchen.

  “Tell me again, Feras, you said your meeting with Daniel Stiles went well, but that was almost two months ago. Please refresh my memory.”

  “I told Mister Stiles the ransom was five million dollars as you instructed. At the time, I had no idea why you picked such a large number and I didn’t ask. But I said the price would increase monthly to get quick action.” Feras revealed his stained and crooked teeth as he smiled broadly. “Now I ask. Why five million? Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I spoke to Saddam on Sunday, the day after Mister Stiles met with me. He told me of the capture and gifting of a soldier to Colonel Hassan Rashid. He asked me if I knew Nani’s son. I told him truthfully that the boy is like a nephew to me. I placed my next call to Hassan and I told him of the visit from Daniel Stiles. Hassan seemed to brighten. It was he who demanded the ransom and when I expressed surprise at the amount, he said that was what he was worth to him. I did not give it another thought at the time, but since then I have. Care to guess what I have learned?”

  Feras blew smoke to the ceiling and shook his head.

  “Riad, I know you have ways of finding truths that escape lesser men. You get answers to questions that imprison others. Just tell me, please.”

  “Hassan Rashid’s cook and his prisoner, the American soldier, disappeared from the Rashid farm while the Colonel was in Mosul at a wrestling tournament in September of 1991.”

  “Are you sure of the year? He must have been recaptured by now or he’s dead. Otherwise we would hav
e read about the escape long ago.”

  “That was my first thought, but what if he stayed to fight in the underground?”

  “Is there evidence of that?”

  “I have a call into my dear friend at Mukhabarat, Colonel Salaman. He is away but I expect to hear from him soon. He will answer that question. I do know that Hassan told his house staff that he had fired the cook and released the prisoner. None believed it, of course. Each man had to swear to secrecy on the matter, but one of them, my contact, just cannot keep a promise when money is offered.”

  Feras said, “Have you any ideas regarding the size of the ransom he asks for a prisoner he doesn’t possess? Is that the price for saving face?”

  “I do not know for sure. Even now, the Colonel pretends to hold the American, and if he can get the brother to pay a large ransom for a prisoner who has escaped, perhaps that is the cost of assuaging his anger. This is an embarrassment that the Colonel hopes does not become public. It is fortunate for Hassan that the American has not surfaced in a foreign capitol to tell his story of imprisonment and escape. I understand Hassan has his small military contingent searching for the escapee on a full time basis but it remains a small covert operation because he must keep this secret from those who could help him. He is as the American’s say, ‘In a pickle.’”

  The old spy laughed, phlegm rattling in his smoke-scarred throat, “In a pickle… I do not know what that means, but I like the sound of it. Do you?”

  Riad nodded. “He is being squeezed like so many pickles in a jar. Perhaps that is the meaning. Regardless, this is an amazing revelation. There could be an American of the Special Forces hiding and perhaps still fighting in Iraq. It really is astounding. Apparently, from what I have learned, no one knows of this other than you and me and the Colonel’s small contingent of men.”

  “Saddam will be furious if he finds out that this prisoner escaped and he was not informed,” Feras said, punctuating his words with his waved cigarette. Ashes drifted to the floor as he weighed the value of this intelligence coup. “What might the Colonel pay to keep that secret from his father? As you say, Mr. Maloof, Colonel Rashid is in a pickle.”

  “That is a question I will not ask,” Riad replied. “He is a Colonel in Mukhabarat, do not forget. Blackmail is not a wise idea. I will keep probing, however. When I learn more, I’ll ask you to pay me another visit. Perhaps we will profit from this intrigue.”

  28

  Gunnison; Fast Draw Cowboy; The Gamble

  Crash Fire Rescue (CFR) at Gunnison operated from sunup to sundown and being as it was Friday night, everybody was watching the clock in the break room. Nearby was a desk calendar that not only gave the date but also listed the time of official sunrise and sunset along with the word of the day. Few of the men could tell you that eponymous was the word of the day, much less give its meaning, but to a man they knew the time.

  “It’s Miller Time,” was shouted in unison as the minute window flipped over to “:47” on the electric clock at the fire station. The overhead door rattled closed amid cries of “yee-hah,” sounding more like a rodeo than the close of business. The stampede to the rides in the parking lot began and tires smoked as the lot quickly emptied. A lone Jeep Wrangler remained. Its owner leaned his back against the spare wheel standing on one leg; his right boot heel rested on the bumper. He was chatting on a cell phone confirming that he was still loved when Global 620 landed and engaged its engines in full reverse thrust.

  “Cheese and crackers, Sugar, I gotta go!” He hung up without explanation and raced to the cab of the Jeep and grabbed the CB microphone from its clip. “Crash, Fire, Rescue. Crash, Fire, Rescue—a big tri-motor just slid off the end of zero six. Come back.”

  “10-4” was the response, and along the highway three vehicles made U-turns.

  Fast Draw Cowboy

  The strange vehicle Deputy Sheriff Todd Wilson saw emerge from the garage reminded him of a knight charging forward on his horse with lance leveled. Actually, it was a conveyor belt on wheels complete with driver who now raced into the darkening night. Seconds later, Todd saw the DC10’s nose dip down and its tail raise into the air amid horrific sounds. It was surreal. Something big was going down and again Todd crept toward his cruiser to call for backup. Billy was off the can and back at his desk and he picked this moment to call.

  “Chief, this is Billy, over.” The volume control was on full and Todd fumbled with his radio to silence it. Too late.

  “Deputy Dog?” a voice behind him called.

  Wilson turned slowly as he keyed the radio to transmit. It was the tourist, the guy with the nice boots, Todd saw. He was holding a pistol but it was hanging casually at his side.

  “I thought that was you, Sheriff. Should I have said, ‘reach for the sky, mister’? I am disappointed that you could not leave well enough alone. I was beginning to like you after you worried about my father. He is dead by the way. He died twenty years ago in Afghanistan, killed in ambush by the mujahadin.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. My dad died in Vietnam, killed by the Vietcong when I was just a tyke. There’s too many men got killed because they couldn’t settle their differences. Why don’t you put that gun away so’s we can talk about what’s troublin’ you.”

  “Nice speech, Sheriff, but I cannot do that. You should not stick your nose where it does not belong.”

  “Well, sir, it’s my job to be a little nosey from time to time.”

  “Is it? Well, that is unfortunate. Curiosity killed the cat… do you not know that?”

  “You’ve got the drop on me. Are you gonna shoot me in cold blood?”

  “I am going to shoot you, but I would like to see how fast a real cowboy cop can draw his gun. Not fast enough, I think.”

  Wilson slowly raised the radio to his lips saying, “You copy, Billy?”

  “Roger, backup’s on the way,” was the reply.

  Stazlo grinned a mirthless smile. “How clever of you, Deputy Dog. The cavalry is on the way, just like in the American Wild West. Too bad I no longer have the time to witness your fast draw. Adios amigo.”

  Wilson flung his radio at Stazlo and dived for cover between Judy’s Camaro and a Suburban. Stazlo raised the 5.45mm PRI automatic pistol and fired a burst in full automatic. The thirty-round magazine had twenty rounds remaining and was back at Stazlo’s side before Deputy Sheriff Todd Wilson hit the ground between the two vehicles. Stazlo pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and advanced to where Todd had fallen. The halogen bulb illuminated the darkness and the body lying in a growing pool of blood. Todd Wilson held his .44 caliber revolver in his outstretched hand.

  “Very good, Deputy Dog, I think you were a fast draw cowboy after all. I regret we could not have been friends. Forgive me.”

  The Gamble

  Daniel had loaded the casket and climbed back into the galley securing the hatch behind him. The P-Lift didn’t function but the always-reliable ladder worked just fine. He stopped his climb when he heard an angry voice nearby. Milo was in an incomprehensible rage. The language he spoke might have been Russian; it was definitely Slavic. Daniel descended the ladder and quietly radioed Harold.

  “I’m on the ground behind the tail, Daniel. Mick and Dave are armed and ready to defend the two shipments, cash and printing plates.”

  “Mick and Dave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t this the same Harold who was worried about me getting chummy with the galley slave? Have you lost your mind or have you simply forgotten why we took this flight from hell?”

  “These guys saved my life and they don’t have a clue. Don’t worry. Most of the passengers are making their way toward the terminal. I’ll wait for you and we’ll go over together.”

  “What about the coffin? We can’t just leave it!”

  “We can’t unload it. This is a crash scene for Christ’s sake. The Feds are on
the way; Mick activated a beacon. They know right where we are.”

  “Don’t sound so damn cheerful, Harold. The hijackers have to get access to the cash or we’re toast. I’m going up to introduce myself and I’m turning the radio off. I’ll call later. Be cool!”

  “Daniel! Don’t! Daniel?” Harold dithered for a moment before dialing Smitty.

  Fort Hood Hospital Ward

  Smitty listened intently to Harold’s story. This rendition of events had not yet made the news, which was surprising because over ten million Americans had cell phones. Most were the size of bricks but some were small enough for pocket or purse. Why weren’t they used? Harold had a three-part theory: they were left on board when the evacuation was ordered; they were out of range; or the owners didn’t have a clue where they were and were still in a daze. He knew he was at Gunnison only because Mick told him, and Mick knew because he had a GPS unit that did everything but make breakfast. It was even possible, Harold theorized, that some passengers didn’t even know they’d been hijacked.

  “It wasn’t done like in the movies,” Harold said in summation.

  “How do you know the Feds are en route?” Smitty questioned.

  “I overheard Mick tell Dave they were on the way but he didn’t have an ETA. That’s when Mick gave Dave a pistol from his ankle holster saying they had to hold out until then. It’s getting dark, Smitty. Those guys split up and I think they took firing positions. I’m feeling a little exposed out here.”

  “Okay, Harold, you did well. I think Daniel is taking an enormous risk but I also think he’s right. It’s our only chance. If the hijackers take some of the Coors, the Feds will assume they drank it all when they do a tally of what’s missing. If they get none of the Coors, then why is the shipment light? See the problem? The place will be tossed and the dead won’t even be allowed to rest in peace if you get my meaning. Let’s hope Daniel can pull it off. I’ll drop off the line to notify others. Later, Harold.”