by Dale Brown
“No sweat. I’ll round them up,” said Zen, spinning around.
Picking up the phone to ask Ax to come back in, Bastian couldn’t help but wonder if he would have said something different if Bree weren’t piloting Fort Two.
* * *
WAITING FOR THE ELEVATOR TO ARRIVE, ZEN wondered if he ought to get word to his cousin Jed Barclay that he had inadvertently squealed on him. But it might be easier for Jed if he didn’t know—Jed had a natural deer-in-the-headlights look about him, except when he tried to lie.
Then the boy genius who’d gone to Columbia at sixteen and moved on to take two doctorates at Harvard looked like a third-rate car thief.
Slotting himself inside the elevator car, Zen felt a twinge of doubt—not about the Flighthawks, not even about himself, but Bree. If the Colonel was willing to send the Flighthawks, what did it say about what was going on over there?
Better to focus on his own problems, he thought, worrying about how long it would take to get the Flighthawks on the Megafortress.
Somalia
22 October 1996, 1900 local
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY, MACK HAD LOST TRACK not only of where he was and what time it was, but of how many people were swirling above him. In the past few hours, Smith had been carried beneath a pole suspended between two soldiers like a piece of game, packed into the back of a pickup, shoved into the back of a sedan, placed gently in another pickup, and marched several miles—more or less in that order. Manacled and blindfolded the whole time, he had been offered water but no food, and three times allowed to pee. He hadn’t been beaten, not even at first. In fact, he’d probably give his captors three stars in the Mobil Guide to African Kidnappers.
Actually, they weren’t kidnappers. Third World or not, they were members of a serious army. They had a command structure and obvious discipline. Smith was the intruder and criminal; it was very possible that they had legal grounds to execute him.
Not that they needed legal grounds. They had more than enough weapons, one of which poked itself now into the side of his neck.
“You, Captain, you will come this way,” said a voice with what sounded to him like a British accent. Smith followed the prods, quickening his pace as a hand gripped his sleeve. He tripped over a low riser and heard his feet echoing over a porch of some sort. A door opened ahead of him. Two men shouldered him down a hall to a set of carpeted stairs. They started him upward slowly, but then another hand pushed from behind. With his legs chained, he flailed for balance; the guards on either side picked him up by his elbows and carried him to a landing.
Down another hall, into a room, into a seat—hands grabbed at his face and his eyes flooded with light.
“You will tell me your name,” said the blur in front of him.
“Why?” said Smith, trying to focus.
“Because at the moment your status is quite in doubt. Spies are shot without trial.”
The man was short, a bit on the round side. He wore a long, coatlike gray garment. He had a beard; his face was white. A small turban, gray, topped his head.
“I’m a prisoner of war,” said Knife.
“Then you will tell me your name and rank, and we will go on from there,” said the man, his English softened by a vaguely Middle Eastern accent. He did not smile, but he spoke matter-of-factly, as if he were dealing with a young child.
“Major Mack Smith.”
“You are with the U.S. Air Force,” said the man. “You were flying an F-16. What is the name of your unit?”
Smith didn’t answer.
“Your call sign was Poison,” continued the man. “You bombed an installation of the Somalian government.”
“It was an Iranian base.”
The man finally smiled. It was faint and brief.
“Major, the base is under the control of the Somalian government. The men who captured you and brought you here were Somalian. I assure you, there are no Iranian soldiers in Somalia, or anywhere in Africa.”
“What about you?”
“I am an ambassador,” said the man. “An advisor. Nothing more.”
“I’m your prisoner?”
“No. You are no one’s prisoner. You don’t exist.”
“I’m free to go then,” said Smith. The pain in his ribs stoked up as he mockingly jerked his body upright.
“If you were to leave here now, you would be shot.”
Middle-aged and obviously a cleric of some sort, the Iranian exuded calmness, as if he were projecting a physical aura of considered peacefulness. Two men stood in plain brown uniforms behind him; neither uniform had insignias or other marks of rank, and they were not carrying weapons. About a dozen troops, Somalians apparently, stood near the door and the sides of the room. It seemed to be a classroom; a blackboard filled the wall in front, its shiny surface glaring with the reflected overhead lights. There were several rows of seats, though no desks that he could see, behind him.
“Are you hungry?” asked the Iranian.
“No,” lied Smith.
“I would suggest it is in your interest to be truthful,” said his captor. He turned to one of the men in the uniforms and said something. The man nodded, then left.
Knife gazed around the room, trying to memorize details. Yellow parchmentlike shades were drawn down over the windows on his right. The floor was covered with seemingly new linoleum, the kind that might be used in the kitchen of a modest American home. A crucifix was mounted above the middle of the blackboard.
Maybe he was in an old mission school? Or certainly some building that didn’t specifically belong to the government.
Or maybe it did. He wasn’t in Boise.
The aide returned with a tray. A large bowl of rice and some sort of vegetable sat in the middle. There were no eating utensils. Smith looked at it doubtfully as the tray was placed on a wooden chair and set down in front of him. A thick reddish brown liquid covered the rice.
His manacled hands moved toward the bowl. Stopping them seemed to require more energy than he had. Smith scooped a few fingers’ worth of food into his mouth, then quickly consumed the contents. The liquid was sweet and sticky in his throat; the rest of the food was bland.
“And get him some water,” added the Iranian.
Two other Iranians in plain brown uniforms came in with the man with the water. One of the men had a small Sony video cam, the kind a family might use to record their child’s first steps. Smith held his head upright, staring blankly into the lens.
“State your name, please,” said the Iranian cleric. “Mack Smith,” he said, taking the metal cup of water. “Are you injured?”
He considered what to say. “I think one of my ribs is broken.”
“How did that happen?”
He hesitated again. If he said they had beaten him, they would simply erase that portion of the tape. Besides, it wasn’t true.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“Good question.”
The Iranian cleric smiled and nodded. Finally he said something to the man with the camera, apparently telling him to turn it off, since he did so.
“The bruises on your face—did they come from the ejection?” asked the Iranian.
“What bruises?” asked Knife. He hadn’t realized his face was injured.
“The, force of the ejection would have been severe. Your parachute was found near where you landed, on the side of a sheer cliff. You are fortunate that your legs were not broken.”
“Yeah, I’m one lucky dog.”
“You will find in time, Major, that that is very true.” The Iranian motioned to the guards behind him. Two strong arms levered him upward from his chair; caught by surprise, Mack dropped the water, splashing it on his uniform and the floor. The two men behind his interrogator bristled, stepping forward quickly as if he had made a threat.
“An accident, I’m sure,” said the Iranian, holding them back with a subtle gesture of his hand. He looked at Knife the way an older relati
ve might, as if he had known him all his life, as if he were comparing the man before him with a mental image of the child he had been. “I must attend to some business, Major Smith.”
The Iranian started to leave.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Smith asked.
“Possibly, you will be put on trial. If that happens, I will be your advocate.”
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Iman or Teacher. I am your advocate,” said the Iranian. He swept from the room, the two brown uniforms and half a dozen Somalians in tow.
“GODDAMN FAGGOT IRANIANS,” MELFI TOLD JACKSON.
“Least they could have done was beat the shit out of us.”
“Yeah,” said Jackson.
He’d been shot in the leg and Gunny could see the pain hit him in waves. Worried Jackson might pass out, the sergeant continued to talk and joke, hoping to keep him going.
“Stinkin’ pilot’s probably making a deal for us right now, what do you think?” said Gunny. “Bet we’ll get dancing girls and blow jobs.”
Jackson snorted. His eyes started to close.
Gunny jumped up from the bench. Ignoring the two Somalians standing near the basement steps, he grabbed Jackson by the shirt and shook him.
“Yo, stay with me, boy. Yo. You’re mine, shithead. Don’t go nowhere.”
“I’m okay, Gunny. I’m just tired.”
“Hey, you douche bags—get me a fucking doctor here, okay?” Gunny yelled to the men. “You faggot bastards, don’t you understand English? Hey! Hey!”
The door to the basement opened. Still holding Jackson, Gunny watched as a man in a long robe descended the stairs. It was the Iranian who had questioned them earlier. Several other Iranians and Somalians followed him down.
“Hey, Ayatollah, where the fuck is that doctor?”
The others rushed around the two Americans. One grabbed Gunny; before he could slug the SOB, his arms were pinned behind him.
“We need a fucking doctor,” Melfi told the Imam.
“Your soldier will receive what attention is available,” said the Iranian. He nodded, and two of his men lifted Jackson up and carried him away. The Marine’s head flopped to the side. “The wound does not appear serious.”
“I’ll tell you what. Give me a fuckin’ AK-47 and you can find out how serious it is.”
“Your false bravado is hardly appropriate.”
The Imam nodded again. Gunny was thrown to the floor. Before he could manage to get up, his arms and groin were pinned by heavy boots.
“This ain’t exactly Geneva Convention style,” growled Gunny.
“This isn’t Geneva, Sergeant,” said the Imam.
A man with a video camera appeared from behind the cleric. A red light flashed on near the lens; Melfi spat and stuck his tongue out. The videographer continued for a few more moments, then snapped off the camera.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said the Imam, seemingly amused. He said something to the others. One or two of the men grinned.
“You’re a real fuckin’ comedian, Ayatollah,” said Gunny as the others released him. He rolled up and sat on the floor, watching as the Imam walked back up the stairs. Most of the others followed. A young soldier came down with a tray of rice mush similar to what they’d given him a few hours before. Gunny took the bowl, made a show of sniffing it, even though he figured they wouldn’t bother poisoning him—they’d just shoot him and be done with it.
Grub wasn’t as bad as some of the crap the Navy served on their aircraft carriers. He spooned it quickly into his mouth with his fingers. Like before, the soldier waited for the bowl quietly a few feet away.
“Here ya go, Sport,” Gunny said, tossing the bowl back. The kid was skinny; he’d be easy to overpower. But he didn’t have a weapon, and the Somalians near the stairs did. Odds were they’d be too jumpy to hold their fire, even if he had their comrade around the neck.
“You find a beer up there, you let me know, huh?” Gunny said as the soldier disappeared up the steps.
Hell of a jail, he thought. Reminded him of the storage room in an old NCO club in Florida. Guys used to help one of the waitresses rearrange the boxes downstairs.
Ooo-la-la.
The door above opened once more. A pair of black boots appeared, followed by the Somalians in their beat-up sneakers.
Major Smith.
Gunny tried to keep his expression blank as Smith was prodded down to the basement. Unlike Gunny and Jackson, Smith was wearing a set of manacles on his hands and legs. He walked slowly, then stood at attention a few feet away. Neither man spoke as the soldiers turned back and went up the stairs.
The instant the door closed, Smith collapsed on the floor.
“Jesus, Major, you all right?” said Gunny, not quite in time to keep Smith’s head from slamming on the hard-packed dirt.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Smith. His eyes were closed. “Where the fuck are we?”
“Jail, I think,” said Gunny.
“Upstairs looks like a school or something. We still in Somalia?”
“They had us in the back of a van the whole time,” Gunny told him. “I’m not sure. I think so. We were headed west, maybe northwest, I figure. Near the coast, but not on it. Some Iranian guy’s in charge. Raghead.”
“The Imam,” said Smith.
“Looks like Khomeni,” said Gunny.
“This guy’s our lawyer or something.” Smith groaned. “Or he’s pretending to be, so we trust him.”
“Lawyer?”
Smith pulled himself forward, finally opening his eyes. “Ribs are killing me,” said the major apologetically.
“Yeah. They beat you up?”
“Haven’t touched me.”
“Us neither. Strange. They must be scared.”
“No. They’re going to put us on trial. They don’t want us hurt before then. We’re propaganda.” Smith glanced toward the two Somalians standing at the foot of the stairs. They were holding South African 9mm BXPs, Uzi-like weapons with telescoping stocks and air-cooled muzzles. “What happened to Jackson?”
“They took him upstairs. He got shot in the leg.”
“How about you?”
“Head hurts like shit,” said Gunny. He pointed to the scrape on his scalp where he’d been nicked by a bullet. “Otherwise only thing that smarts is my pride.”
Gunny told Smith how Jackson got hit and went down right after they were spotted. Gunny tossed a smoke grenade and went to get him. Somewhere around there another grenade went off, tossed by Jackson or the Somalians, he wasn’t sure. Either it was a concussion grenade or a dud; in any event, all it had done was slam the sergeant to the ground. When he tried to get up he found half a dozen Somalians in his face.
“I guess I got shot somewhere along the way,” added Gunny. “Lucky for me it hit my head and bounced off. Hit me anywhere else and it would have gone right through.”
“Let me see it.”
Melfi bent down and let Smith examine the wound, even though Jackson had already said the bullet had only grazed him. The major agreed, describing it as the sort of red singe a barber’s razor might make.
“What happens next, you figure?” Gunny asked. “Take us to wherever the trial is.”
“If we don’t get rescued first,” said the sergeant. “Or bust out first.”
Smith gave him a weak smile. “Yeah, we’ll just have to bust out.”
“I got a knife blade in my buckle,” whispered Gunny.
The major didn’t understand at first. Finally he nodded. “My radio,” he told Gunny. “Somebody should have got the signal.”
“They’ll come for us,” said Melfi. “Don’t worry, Major. Hell, Jackson and me are expendable. But you’re a fuckin’ officer. You bet your ass they’re going to come and get you back.”
Smith groaned in reply, then sank to the floor, starting to nod off.
MACK FOUGHT TO KEEP HIS EYES OPEN. THE BASEMENT smelled like a cross between a biology lab and the kitchen of an
Indian restaurant that hadn’t been cleaned in a week. Knife held his elbow right below his injured rib, pushing it in to keep himself from puking.
A medical attendant—the man clearly had not been a doctor—had roughly taped the rib after prodding him harshly a few times upstairs. He’d also offered some painkillers, but Smith hadn’t dared to take them.
Knife knew he should be coordinating strategy or planning what they would and wouldn’t say with the Marine sergeant. But the pain and his fatigue and the stench were overwhelming. Thoughts flew in and out of his head like dreams. He saw himself running at the two men near the stairs with their guns, saw their bullets tearing him apart. It might be a relief.
The door opened. He saw three men coming down, carrying a fourth. They seemed to float over him.
The fourth man was dumped on the ground.
It was Jackson. Melfi went to him as the others retreated back upstairs.
“I feel better,” Jackson was saying on the ground. Sergeant Melfi helped him upright. “They gave me morphine. I don’t feel shit.”
“You fuckin’ druggie,” said Melfi. He flashed a grin to Mack, letting him know it was a joke.
“There’s another pilot,” said Jackson. “They’re going to move us soon. Tonight.”
“That’ll be our chance,” said Gunny. “We’ll break out then.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. We’ll kill them all,” said Mack, feeling his head slip back as darkness fell over him.
Naples, Italy
22 October, 1405 local
TO JED BARCLAY’S UNTRAINED EYE, THE PLANE LOOKED like a 707. And in fact, the JSTARS E-8C was indeed a former commercial airliner that had been almost completely rebuilt. It had extensive command and control equipment, not to mention heavy security. The NSC staffer had been issued special code-word clearance just to board the craft.