by Mark Terry
Who were the men?
He felt he could safely rule out the SAA. No uniforms. It probably ruled out Hezbollah fighters as well, although that was not guaranteed. Because Hezbollah was funded by, among other players, Iran, they often wore uniforms of the third-world camo-type. So although he couldn’t completely rule out Hezbollah, Derek thought that was lower on the list of possibilities.
Which left two possibilities. The Free Syrian Army, the main group opposing Syria’s government, was made up of ex-SAA types and locals. Some had uniforms, some did not. So it was possible these three were FSA, which ultimately would be okay. Although the U.S. hadn’t come in full-force in support of the FSA, they were feeding them medical supplies and light arms and money, as was most of the West. If they were FSA, Derek could probably explain the situation, get some treatment, even get word to their contact, and maybe borrow a truck and get out of the country, mission accomplished.
The truck took an almighty big lurch. Landing on his shoulder, Derek cried out. Blood roared in his ears and his stomach twisted with nausea from the pain. What in God’s name was wrong with his shoulder and arm? He didn’t know what had happened, but it felt like his arm might be broken. It was also possible something had happened to the shoulder—dislocated, torn, or bruised, or maybe he’d caught a bullet or some shrapnel from the incoming mortar.
Well, Derek, he thought. Want to consider the other possibility?
No, he thought. I fucking well do not.
Because the other possibility was he and Hammond had gotten their sorry asses captured by some al-Qaeda-affiliated mercenaries operating in Syria. The AQ mercs in Syria were more or less on the side of the FSA. This was a thought that made the U.S. and the West in general break into a collective cold sweat when they considered funding the war. Turning over heavy weapons like MANPADS, mortars, and tanks scared anyone with any sense because all the world needed was some AQ jerk-offs running around with shoulder-launched missiles given to them by the U.S.
The truck rattled and coughed to a halt. Hands lifted him out of the back of the truck and set him on his feet. Several voices spoke in a couple different languages. One he recognized was Urdu, mostly spoken in Pakistan. There was some Arabic and some Farsi.
Derek didn’t like the combination. If these were FSA types, you’d mostly expect Arabic.
He was shoved into a room and the rag over his face was torn off. He blinked at the sudden light. It was a small square room with concrete walls and floor. A yellow rug with a red embroidered pattern on it covered most of the concrete floor. Against one wall were cushions that looked like they came off a sofa. A bare bulb hanging from a wire was the source of illumination. There was no window.
“Where am I?” he demanded, hands still tied behind his back. “Where’s my partner?”
The two men in the room with him were the Black Scarfs. They just stared, shaking their heads. Derek tried the same questions in Russian. His Russian was halting, but getting better all the time. This seemed to confuse the men even more.
A few seconds later two more men, also in jeans and black T-shirts and checked scarves, carried Hammond in and laid him down on the cushions. He moaned, but didn’t open his eyes.
Red Scarf came in and made a twirling motion with his hand, gesturing for Derek to turn around. Reluctantly, he did. He heard the snick of a knife, then the cord binding his wrists dropped to the floor.
Red Scarf snapped his fingers and one of the Black Scarfs disappeared, re-entering a moment later carrying a couple bottles of water. He also carried the first aid kit from his rucksack. Red Scarf opened the first aid kit and looked through it. He removed a pair of scissors, a small knife, and several needles before handing it to Derek, who took it with his left hand. His right dangled uselessly by his side.
Red Scarf barked something in what Derek was sure was Arabic. All the men filed out and the door slammed shut behind them. He heard the distinct sound of a bolt sliding home.
“Well, this is just dandy,” he said out loud to the room.
Bending down, he picked up the bottle of water, stuck it between his knees and unscrewed the cap with his left hand. Managing not to drop the bottle, he took a drink, and crouched next to Hammond.
Hammond’s face was covered with blood, but that looked to be from a cut on his forehead about three inches across. It still oozed a little, but was mostly clotted. Checking his partner’s scalp, Derek felt a lump along the left side and his fingers came away wet and sticky. Something had struck him hard, which he hoped accounted for his lack of consciousness. Using the water bottle, he rinsed the wound, taking a closer look. Ugly, but it hadn’t split his skull open.
Poking around in the first aid kit, he awkwardly applied gauze and taped it in place.
Checking Hammond’s pulse, it was a little fast, but steady. His breathing seemed a little harsh, but his chest rose and fell regularly.
The arms seemed okay. But his pants and shirt were wet and dark. Pulling back Hammond’s shirt, he saw a significant wound in the lower abdomen on the left side. He lurched to his feet and pounded on the door. It took a while before the door opened and two men stood there, Red Scarf and one of the Black Scarfs.
Speaking slowly, doubting that they spoke any English, Derek said, “My partner has a serious wound.” He pointed to his own side, then to Hammond. “It’s much worse than anything I can do with the first aid kit. He needs a doctor. Understand? Doctor?”
The two men studied Derek, glancing back and forth between him and Hammond. They closed the door in Derek’s face without a word.
“Shit.”
Kneeling down next to Hammond, he studied the wound. It was bad. Looking in the first aid kit, he pulled out a packet of QuikClot, tore it open with his teeth, and dumped it into the wound. He was in no position to probe around in there and look to see if it was caused by a bullet or shrapnel from the mortar. In the first aid kit were some other useful things, including a tampon. Tearing it open, he pressed it into the wound to absorb the blood. Taking a roll of duct tape, he bit off a length and pressed it over the wound.
There was also an antibiotic cream that he spread on the wound. A cursory examination of Hammond found more small cuts and gashes, but nothing else major. The head wound was hopefully minor. The abdominal wound worried him.
Sitting back on his heels, he figured it was time to take care of himself. Taking a sip of water, he carefully peeled off his jacket. Jagged lightning bolts of pain tore through his shoulder as he worked on getting his right arm out of the jacket. His vision grayed around the edges. Something seemed to have snagged the jacket.
Craning around to get a look caused even more pain to shoot through his body, knocking him to the ground, panting for air. Hell, he thought. What’s going on?
Slowly, Derek worked at the jacket. Finally it fell to the floor. Dizzy, he sat down and examined the jacket. The entire right shoulder was wet with blood. He put a gloved finger through a jagged rent in the heavy fabric.
Reaching over his shoulder with his left hand, he gently probed. Something was embedded in his shoulder. Like a big fragment of metal.
“Well,” he muttered. “This is going to be fun.”
Looking through the first aid kit, he found a bottle of alcohol. He dumped its contents onto his shoulder, hissing as more pain stabbed through him. His stomach clenched and he fought back nausea, black and red blotches appearing before his vision.
Grabbing several gauze pads, he mopped around the wound, noting they were almost instantly saturated with blood. Not good.
Preparing a bandage with adhesive to have ready, he took a deep breath, reached across his chest, over his shoulder and used his fingers to grip the piece of shrapnel. With a cry he pulled.
The explosion of pain tore through his body. He crashed to the floor. His last sight before losing consciousness was the bloody shard of metal two inches square that he pulled from his shoulder.
3
The next time Derek woke up he was
lying on a thin mattress on the floor, face down. Glancing over, he saw a man in green surgical scrubs kneeling over Hammond.
“Hey,” he croaked, surprised how hoarse and weak his voice sounded. He tried to bring some saliva into his mouth, but his tongue felt like a charcoal briquette. “What’s going on?” he grunted out. Struggling to rise, he made it about halfway up into a push-up position before he trembled and sank back to the mattress.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder. He wore a surgical mask and rubber gloves and thick, heavy-framed glasses. In accented English he said, “I would be careful with that shoulder. You lost a lot of blood. You are very strong to take that shrapnel out the way you did, but it was very foolish. Rest. Your friend here needs my attention.”
Good advice, but Derek didn’t take it. He struggled to his feet, realizing that part of his problem was that his shoulder was heavily bandaged, his right arm in a sling that immobilized his arm. He swayed, staggered, then stumbled over to Hammond.
The doctor spun. “Please. Don’t interfere. I’m helping him. You are Americans, right? Please. If you won’t lie down, at least sit down.”
Derek slumped onto a big red pillow against one wall. He was very tired. He also suspected he’d been given some sort of pain medication, because he felt an odd tingling numbness. From where he sprawled, he saw that the doctor had cut off Hammond’s shirt and removed the makeshift bandage Derek had used.
To one side was a tray of surgical instruments. A bottle of saline hung from a hook on the wall, connected to an IV line that fed into a vein in Hammond’s right arm. Derek wasn’t wild about the field conditions of the surgery, but the doc seemed professional enough otherwise.
As he watched, the doctor used forceps to pluck out pieces of bloody shrapnel, which he dropped into a metal tray. Clank. Clink. Clank. Clink. Clank.
Reaching into the wound with his fingers, the doctor seemed satisfied. From one of the trays he picked up a surgical needle and thread and began to sew up the wound. Derek thought the doctor was suturing something internally, perhaps part of the intestines or stomach.
Looking around the room, he noticed several plastic bottles of water. Rolling awkwardly to his feet, he walked to the tray and clumsily opened one of the bottles one-handed. He drank it, feeling stronger already.
Next to the water was a tray of food. Mostly dates, flatbread, a bowl of hummus, sliced tomatoes and dried apricots. He dipped the bread in the hummus and took a bite. It was strong with garlic, but tasted good.
“Who are you?” he said to the doctor.
“My name is Abbas al-Atrash.”
“How is my friend doing?”
“If he does not become infected, he will live. But with an abdominal wound like this, he belongs in a hospital. Unfortunately, that’s not a good idea for either of you.” Glancing over his shoulder, Dr. al-Atrash said, “A hospital would be a good idea for you as well. You are patched up, but full recovery of your arm and shoulder may require advanced surgery that I am neither trained for, nor have the facilities for. Nerve damage is possible.”
“Fine. Patch us up and drive us to the Turkish border. We’ll get out of everybody’s hair.”
The doctor turned back to Hammond. “If only it were that easy.”
Dr. al-Atrash didn’t comment further, concentrating on his work. Derek ate a little of the food, considering his options. While the doctor was busy he sidled over to the door and tugged at it. Locked.
Studying the room, he looked for signs of a camera or listening device. He didn’t see anything, which didn’t mean a lot. Cameras and recorders could be tiny.
Taking the bottle of water, he slouched down on the big red pillow. Soon the doctor finished with Hammond and peeled off the Latex gloves and tossed them into a plastic bag with other trash. Crossing to Derek, he held out a big hand, still white from the glove’s talcum powder. “Pleased to meet you. Al Salamu Aleykom.”
Taking the man’s hand, Derek said, “Wa Alaykom el Salam.”
As the doctor gripped Derek’s hand, he held his left hand in front of his chest. He raised three fingers. Then one. Then five. Then two. One of the codes they were to use to identify their contact in Aleppo.
Keeping his expression neutral, Derek said, “Who’s in charge here? Where are we?”
Dr. al-Atrash made a small nod of his head. “I believe you will be meeting him soon. His name is Hussein Nazif. I must be going now. When your friend wakes up, make sure he doesn’t move around much. He can drink sparingly, but no food. I’ve left a bedpan for him. I will try to come back to check on your wounds tomorrow.”
Stepping to the door, al-Atrash rapped smartly and stepped away. A moment later the door slid open. Red Scarf and Black Scarf were there, AK47s aimed at the door. The doctor held his hands up in a surrender pose and spoke in what Derek was pretty certain was Arabic. Red Scarf lowered his assault rifle and entered. Black Scarf stood in the doorway and kept Derek covered with the AK. Red Scarf helped the doctor with his supplies and backed out of the room. Dr. al-Atrash nodded to Derek just before the door closed with the sound of a latch being shot home.
Derek considered John Hammond’s unconscious body for a moment, then stretched out on the cot to get some sleep. For a long time he was awake, though. He couldn’t really sleep on his right side or back and the mattress was thin and lumpy; so thin that his hipbone rested on the hard floor underneath it when he tried lying on his left side.
His mind was otherwise busy. The way the doctor had provided the signal suggested he thought the room was bugged or in some way under surveillance. And it was also possible that the doctor’s allegiances—if he was indeed someone who wanted to get evidence of sarin gas being used by the Syrian Arab Army to the West—were antagonistic to their captors’ intentions or interests.
I hate the Middle East, he thought.
During his years in the Army, then the CIA, the U.N., as a consultant, and for Homeland Security and the State Department, he had worked and even lived in many countries around the world. He had grown up in Sierra Leone mostly, with some time spent in Sri Lanka, West Africa and Cuba. He’d spent some military time in Panama and Argentina and the Baltics, and he now regularly visited Russia, but for the most part his career had focused on Iraq, Iran, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and now Syria.
What a screwed-up part of the world.
He dozed off when the door burst open. Red Scarf and Black Scarf were back, this time with a powerfully built man wearing camo and heavy boots. About average height, he had broad shoulders, a thick barrel chest and had the sort of belly that Derek thought of as “hard fat.” His skull was shaved bald, but he had a thick black beard.
While Red Scarf stood at the door, Black Scarf came over to Derek and kicked him in the ribs. “Stand up.”
With a sigh, Derek climbed to his feet. The new guy’s eyes were a dark brown, almost black. Derek wasn’t a big believer that the eyes were the windows of the soul—he’d met some stone killers that could be perfectly charming with a twinkle in their eyes as they stuck a knife between your ribs—but this guy’s eyes reminded him of the unblinking emotionless stare of a snake.
“I am Sheikh Hussein Nazif. What is your name?”
Derek cocked his head. “Are you with the FSA?” He knew the man wasn’t.
Nazif continued to stare at Derek. Finally he said, “What is your name? What country are you from?”
“My name is Bill Black. I want to speak with the local FSA commander.”
“Are you an American?”
“Who are you affiliated with?” Derek said.
Although Nazif was a couple inches shorter than Derek, he had a large presence. He held his large, blunt-fingered hands out in a helpless gesture. “I am the leader of a group of freedom fighters aligned with the goals of the FSA.”
Shit. That pretty much put him in the al-Qaeda camp.
Derek said, “We are here by mistake. If you can get us to the Turkish border, I would be glad to take any message you have
to the Western authorities.”
“Western authorities,” Sheikh Nazif said, as if tasting the words on his tongue. “Why does the West think they have any authority in Syria? Hmmm?”
Inwardly Derek sighed. He hated playing word games with these psychopaths. “Money talks,” he said. “They can arm the FSA better to fight the Syrian Arab Army in their battle for freedom. But a persuasive argument needs to be made.”
Sheikh Nazif stepped forward, hand up, waving a finger in Derek’s face. “No! No! That is a lie! The West, the Americans!, the Europeans!, they do not need an excuse. They do not need a persuasive argument. They will arm whichever people they think will benefit them! Either oil or natural gas or because they think they will better assist their lapdog, the Zionists! The Americans pretend they are not at war with Islam, but they have been at war with us for centuries! That is why we fight the Jihad.”
Derek said nothing.
Nazif took a step back, looked over his shoulder at the unconscious John Hammond, and pointed to Derek. “Bring this one with me. Many questions. I have many questions.”
“I would prefer to stay with—”
Black Scarf slammed the butt of his AK47 down on Derek’s right shoulder. With a scream, he dropped his knees as pain coursed through his body. Black Scarf pulled him roughly back to his feet by his other arm and pushed him violently toward the door.
Stumbling, Derek slammed into the doorframe. Red Scarf aimed his own rifle in Derek’s face, finger putting pressure on the trigger.
“Okay, okay,” Derek said. “I’m going.”
4
Before stepping through the door, one of his captors pulled a black bag over his head, perhaps a balaclava turned backwards. He couldn’t see anything. With his free hand he reached for the cloth, but was shoved through the door, which closed and latched shut behind him.