Hostage

by Don Brown

  Navy Exchange

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Most recently promoted naval officers were happy to make their first trip to the base uniform shop to purchase the insignia of a new rank.

  For Zack, his promotion meant having the Navy Exchange seamstress sew another gold stripe, in this case half of a gold stripe, onto the cuffs of his service dress blue jacket.

  He would purchase new shoulder boards for his summer whites, with two and a half gold stripes -- rather than the two of a full lieutenant. And he also would buy several sets of gold oak leaves, to be pinned to his working khakis. Then, after dropping a hundred bucks to bring his uniforms up to speed, he would make a trip to Base PSD -- Personnel Support Detachment -- to update his armed forces identification card.

  This isn't right, thought newly frocked Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, stepping out of the Mercedes. He immediately received the salutes of two full lieutenants in front of the 32nd Street Navy Exchange, reminding him that he was now wearing the oak leaf of a lieutenant commander on his collar. But the salutes did not rev his ego. The promotion felt like further evidence that he was leaving Diane behind. Her absence had created an aching void within him that no promotion could alleviate.

  "Lieutenants," Zack said, returning the salutes. As the lieutenants passed behind him, he again silently prayed for her safety and her return. He mumbled "Amen" and hit the speed dial on his cell phone for the third time in the last fifteen minutes.

  "Come on, answer," he barked. After the tenth ring, he slapped the phone shut.

  Oakdale Cemetery

  520 North 15th Street

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  She staggered, then fell limp, her head barely missing a tombstone as she dropped like a rag doll onto the wet grass. The driving rain quickly washed the blood from the back of her head.

  He would have to move more quickly now, before the weather cleared and this miracle of an opportunity passed.

  He bent over and gently touched her jugular area with his thumb and index finger. Was that a pulse? It was hard to tell. He picked her up, slung her over his shoulder, and started jogging back toward the Aerostar.

  She felt heavier than he expected as he ploughed through the driving rain, squinting to make out the image of his van, maybe fifty yards away. Maybe the extra weight was her black skirt and blouse soaking up the rainwater like a sponge. Then he realized, as his hands dug more deeply into her hamstrings, that the weight was sheer muscle tone. This beautiful infidel was a solid, lean physical specimen. Obviously the product of many hours in the gymnasium.

  The driving rain pelted his face like stinging needles as he approached the van. Ahmed laid the infidel down on the asphalt cart path beside the van, then opened the sliding door right behind the driver's seat.

  He lifted her from the ground, this time cradling her unconscious body in his arms, and slid her onto the backseat. He wasn't sure if she was alive or not, but Ahmed Sadat wasn't taking any chances. He pulled her hands behind her back and snapped on the handcuffs lying on the back floorboard. Then he chained her ankles together with a chain and steel padlock he had purchased from WalMart.

  Slamming the sliding panel door closed, he jumped into the driver's seat, cranked the engine, and started driving through the rain, his windshield wipers battling a torrential downpour. The van reached the edge of the cemetery, then turned right on Market Street as the rain lightened. Praise be to Allah!

  Squadron briefing room

  Viper Squadron

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Central Mediterranean

  The customary "At ease, gentlemen," had not come, and they remained standing at attention for what seemed an eternity as the CO and the air wing commander stood up front, at the briefing podium, shuffling papers. Was this some sort of psychological ploy?

  With his peripheral vision, Mohammed glanced at Lieutenant Hosni Alhad.

  "At ease, gentlemen," Captain Constangy said. "Take your seats."

  Finally.

  "The information you are about to be given is classified as top secret. The purpose of this briefing is to advise you of a very dangerous situation involving terrorism."

  Mohammed's eyes cut to the very worried look on Lieutenant Alhad's face.

  "As you know," Captain Constangy continued, "the situation in the Middle East, and particularly the political situation between Israel and Syria, has become a powder keg waiting to explode.

  "The Israeli Air Force boasts some of the world's best and most experienced pilots. However, that fact, and the fact that Israel has miraculously been able to defend herself against overwhelming odds since 1948, does very little to reassure the fragile Israeli psyche. That psyche is especially frail right now, especially in view of the fact that more than one dozen Scud missile attacks have landed erratically in northern Israel in the last week alone. The Scuds have been launched from multiple locations in southern Syria and Lebanon, and the intensity of the attacks has been increasing.

  "From the first Persian Gulf War, we learned that rooting out these Scud cells is problematic. That's because these missiles are mobile, packed in the back of trucks, or Scud launchers. Commander?"

  Constangy turned and motioned to the ship's senior intelligence officer, Commander W. Trent Fox III, who had inconspicuously erected an aluminum tripod easel beside the podium as the captain was speaking.

  "Thank you, Captain." Fox was a skinny, bespectacled officer, with black hair and a professorial demeanor. "Gentlemen." Fox looked out at the pilots, his gaze lingering in the direction of Mohammed Quasay. "The skipper is right on the mark when he speaks of the difficulty in rooting out these Scud launchers." Fox again glanced at Quasay.

  "And here's why." Fox removed a canvas to reveal several large black-and-white photographs that had been pre-positioned on the easel. "Here" -- he tapped twice with a pointer in the upper right corner -- "is a satellite photograph of a mobile Scud launcher. As you can see, the concept is devastatingly simple, and yet equally effective. Basically, the missiles are hauled around on trailers, something akin to a conventional big rig eighteen-wheeler that we've all seen ten thousand times on a typical interstate highway in America.

  "Part of the problem here, and this has become a much bigger problem than we had in the First Persian Gulf War, is that these tractor trailers" -- Fox made quotation marks with his fingers -- "are much faster and more difficult to find than before. These launching platforms, our intelligence estimates tell us, can run down the highway at upwards of ninety miles per hour and can barrel across the desert floor at faster than sixty miles per hour. And while the accuracy of these Scuds has not improved immensely since the First Persian Gulf War, because of the greater mobility of these tractor-trailers, our ability to hunt them down and destroy them has been imminently compromised.

  "Put another way, they launch and then haul boogie." Fox stopped for a sip of water. "They just seem to disappear off the roads and out of the sand." He cleared his throat. "Of course, we know they aren't just magically disappearing. We believe they launch and then race off to warehouses, shelters, camouflaged bunkers, any type of shelter that makes them invisible from the air.

  "On a couple of occasions, we know they have been rushed off to school grounds and hospitals."

  Praise be to Allah for these brave freedom fighters against Zionism.

  "These faster tractor-trailer delivery platforms pose a direct challenge to American airpower, which in this region means primarily carrier-launched American naval airpower. To be more effective in taking them out, we're going to have to fly lower, get closer, and be ready to pounce more quickly when there is a launch."

  My plane could never fire on these freedom fighters.

  "Of course, that strategy poses significant inherent risks. And here's why." Fox mounted a large black-and-white photograph of a bearded freedom fighter, holding what looked like a small cannon over his shoulder. "This is the Stinger missile. Of
ficially known as the FIM-92A, and manufactured in the good ole U.S. of A. I know most of you have heard of it, but as a practical matter, you may not have paid too much attention since most of you are used to flying at altitudes way out of its range. However, at lower ranges, say of one thousand feet and below, it is the lethal enemy of the fighter pilot." He readjusted his glasses. "An Islamic terrorist, such as the one you see pictured here . . ."

  Freedom fighter.

  ". . . can simply pop out the front door of his house or step out of a bus or automobile, fire the missile, and duck back into his hiding place.

  "These nasty little weapons weigh roughly thirty-five pounds, and unfortunately, though American-made, they have fallen into the wrong hands.

  "In the late seventies, the CIA supplied over a thousand Stinger missiles to the Mujahideen in Afghanistan to fight the Soviets. We all know what happened there. Afghanistan became the Red Army's Vietnam.

  "To make matters worse, China stole the plans to this deadly little gadget, manufactures thousands of them each year, and turns around and sells them to rogue governments. These rogue governments -- such as Syria, North Korea, and even China -- slip these missiles into the hands of terrorist groups.

  "This deadly weapon can splash an aircraft flying as high as 11,500 feet. That's two miles, gentlemen. It has a speed of fifteen hundred miles per hour. In other words, it can haul boogie up your fantails and run faster than any plane in the fleet. It has an effective range of five miles." Fox rested both hands on the podium and surveyed the audience with his eyes. "What all that means is that these missiles are extremely accurate. If the aircraft is less than two miles high, then it is likely that the Stinger can hit it. I'm convinced, for example, that a Stinger destroyed TWA Flight 800 out of JFK. The same is probably true of American Flight 587.

  "It is a little-known fact that flight control radar around JFK picked up small missilelike objects in association with Flight 800. This has happened with several other aircraft, on which there were no hits. The missilelike blips on radar were most likely Stingers launched by terrorists, probably from small vessels in Long Island Sound. Because the Stinger is a heat-seeking missile, the only defensive mechanism is chafing. But at such low altitudes, you are extremely vulnerable to being blown out of the sky if you get too close to one of these things." With that, Fox looked at the air wing commander, Captain J. Scott Hampton. "That's about it on the Stinger's technical capabilities. I'll now turn this briefing over to the air boss."

  Hampton, tall and imposing for an aviator at about six feet one, took the podium and threw a hard glance at Mohammed.

  Maybe they keep staring at me because I'm the squadron leader.Maybe it is just my imagination.

  "Gentlemen, we essentially have three problems that affect the military and political dynamics of this hornet's nest we're about to fly into. First, there's the problem of the Stingers that Commander Fox just told you about, and along with that, there's a proliferation of old Soviet-made SA-7s, which are shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles similar to but not quite as effective as the Stinger.

  "Secondly, there's the problem of finding the Scuds with their faster launch platforms. But there's another challenge posed by the Scuds that Commander Fox didn't mention. So far, those Scud warheads have been armed only with conventional ballistics. However, our intelligence reports that a number of the tractor-trailers have biological and chemical agents on board. Needless to say, it would be simple to switch those warheads out at any time." Hampton ran his hand through his hair.

  "Which leads us to our third problem." He paused for a sip of water. "The Israelis." His eyes scanned the room.

  "Now as you might imagine, the prospect of even an erratic Scud armed with chemical or biological agents makes the Israelis nervous, to say the least. And who can blame them?

  "As we all know, the Israeli Air Force boasts some of the best pilots in the world. Capable of outflying any of their Arab neighbors . . ."

  Right. Only because of conservative Christian Republicans in Congress who seem to have taken up the cause of the Jews for some inexplicable reason.

  ". . . but given the fragile Israeli psyche, that doesn't do a whole lot to calm the population right now. In a word, the Israelis, for psychological reasons, want more visible signs of an American presence." A pause as the air boss swept his eyes across the members of the squadron. "The Israeli government is requesting low overflights not only for military reasons, but to boost morale. So low, in fact" -- he paused for another sip of water, then resumed in a slower and more somber tone -- "that an Israeli who can read English can read the word Navy painted in black on your fuselage." Hampton's gaze swept the faces of the pilots in the room.

  "That's why we've called you here this afternoon, gentlemen. We're looking for volunteers. This is dangerous duty. There are enemy Stingers in Israel, brought in by Arab terrorists intent on destroying the Jewish State. While our past record of relative safety in these types of sorties is relatively high, we can no longer say this. You could get shot down. But you will be flying for the cause of peace and doing a personal favor for your commander in chief, the president of the United States." A pause, another sip of water. "Obviously, you don't have to volunteer. No one expects you to. But if we have no volunteers, we will have no choice but to order some of you to fly these missions."

  The opportunity for low overflights over Israel would make this job even easier. Surely this is of Allah. "Count me in, Captain," Mo Quasay said, standing.

  "Thank you, Commander." Hampton looked around. "Anyone else?"

  "I will go too," Lieutenant Hosni Alhad said.

  "Very well," Hampton said sternly. "It's a small country. Two planes should be sufficient for now. Those who don't see you directly will see you on Israeli television." Hampton cleared his throat. "The rest of you will be responsible for searching out and destroying Scud launchers in Lebanon, and if necessary, even Syria, which will also be dangerous, as you know. You are not to cross into Syrian airspace, however, without specific authorization. If we need more volunteers, we will ask.

  "That is all."

  "Attention on deck!"

  Two dozen naval aviators snapped to their feet as the captain of the Truman, and his entourage, exited the briefing room.

  CHAPTER 22

  Westbound Interstate 20

  Lauderdale County, Mississippi

  Mile marker 10

  Racing under the stars in a westerly direction along Interstate 20, he set the cruise control at seventy miles per hour to avoid even the remote possibility of being pulled over by a trooper for speeding. The Aerostar had just crossed over the Mississippi state line when Sadat heard a faint moan coming from the heretofore lifeless woman lying handcuffed on the backseat.

  His eyes fell on the digital clock on the instrument panel.

  10:14 p.m.

  Sadat punched on the overhead dome light, then adjusted his rearview mirror. He saw Lieutenant Diane Colcernian move. Her clothing smelled of mildew.

  "Ooooh."

  He readjusted his rearview. No headlights, no cars, were anywhere in sight.

  As they passed the Kewanee-Toomsuba exit, he tapped the brakes, disengaging the cruise control, then gently steered the van onto the roadside along the long, flat stretch of interstate. He killed his running lights, then reached into the glove compartment for the assortment of drugs and the packet of syringes he'd managed to purchase.

  "My hands. Where am I?"

  He looked over his shoulder. His prisoner was squinting her eyes at the dome light. Perhaps she would survive, and perhaps he would get her out of the country after all.

  "Zack?"

  She's delirious.

  Sadat unfastened his shoulder harness, then electronically reclined the driver's bucket seat so he would have access to her.

  A set of headlights appeared in the distance, maybe a mile down the interstate. The vehicle probably wouldn't stop. No matter if it did; he had a little present for anyone who got t
oo close. He reached down and gripped the Uzi.

  Another moan as the vehicle whizzed by, the hum of its wheels against the concrete dipping in pitch as it shot off toward Meridian.

  "Oh, my head." She spoke in a painful moan, slurring her words as if drunk.

  "Shhhh." He blew across his index finger, shushing her.

  "Zack, is that you?"

  Carnal thoughts crossed his mind. He could have his way, finish her off, dump her in the woods at the next off ramp, and escape the country.

  No, that's not what Allah would have him do. Not now.

  She would be more valuable to Allah alive for a while longer.

  He fidgeted for a syringe, then jabbed the needle into the back of her thigh. She flinched, moaned again, and then fell back asleep.

  Sadat brought the seat back up, buckled himself in, and pressed the accelerator, heading for Meridian, and points beyond.

  CHAPTER 23

  Navy Trial Service Office

  Building 73

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, wearing working khakis and feeling cinderblocks in his stomach, stepped into Captain Rudy's office and came to attention. His eyes saw, but his mind barely registered, the sight of the Aegis cruiser in dry dock at the National Steel and Shipbuilding Company, visible through the window behind the captain's desk, maybe a hundred yards from the NTSO.

  "Stand at ease, Zack." Captain Rudy sat behind his large mahogany desk. "You wanted to see me?"

  "Yes, sir." Zack looked Rudy in the eyes. "It's about Diane, sir. I haven't heard from her in three days. It's not like her."

  "Have a seat, Zack." Rudy gestured toward one of the comfortable chairs ordinarily reserved for more-senior officers.