TWENTY
Monday, 9:17 p.m.,
Oguzeli, Turkey
Mike Rodgers was tied uncomfortably to the front of the motorcycle. His arms were above and behind him, tied to the handlebars and dead asleep. His back was pressed against the twisted metal of the fender, and his legs were tied at the ankles and stretched in front of him.
But the discomfort he felt inside was far greater than what he felt outside. Rodgers didn’t know for certain what the terrorists had been up to. He knew that one of the men, Ibrahim, had gone up the road and over the rise. His own erstwhile interpreter, Hasan, had walked off to the east, perhaps four or five hundred yards. The pair were probably setting up a two-gun cross fire. One person stayed close to the route of the target, slightly ahead of it. The other went off-road well ahead of the vehicle. There was nowhere the driver could run except to turn around. And if the snipers were good, there usually wasn’t enough time for that.
The van was coming and Rodgers hadn’t heard any gunfire. Were the terrorists simply hiding, covering their base in case the ROC opened fire?
The fan stopped and Ibrahim got out. A few seconds later Hasan came running from the plain and hugged him. The third man, Mahmoud, rose and embraced them both. He had remained behind, and it was clear now that he was their leader. The ROC was facing Rodgers and he couldn’t see inside. But it was obvious that the terrorists were in charge. Rodgers only hoped that the Strikers had gotten out and were flanking the terrorists, which is what he would have had them do.
Ibrahim and Hasan entered the van, and Mahmoud hurried over to Rodgers. The Syrian held the submachine gun in his right hand and a hunting knife in his left. Mahmoud sliced away the cord which held him to the handlebars, but left Rodgers’s legs tied. Then he motioned for his prisoner to go to the van. Rodgers got into a squatting position, stood, and hopped ahead. It would have been easier to crawl, but that was not something Rodgers did. Though the earth seemed anxious to reject his feet, he managed to keep his balance.
As he approached the van, Rodgers saw Coffey, Mary Rose, and Katzen. The three were splayed groggily on the floor of the ROC. They were tied to the column beneath the passenger’s seat, their ankles bound. While Ibrahim left to drag Colonel Seden over, Rodgers hopped up the step. As he looked to the left, toward the back of the van, his flesh went cold.
Pupshaw and DeVonne were draped over the chairs of the computer stations. The Strikers were tied hand and foot to the legs of the chairs and were just beginning to stir. Rodgers felt his bowels tighten. They looked more like hunting trophies than like soldiers.
Whatever had gone wrong didn’t matter right now. The fact was that they were all captives. And to determine how they would be treated for however long they were held was going to require a long, complex dance.
The first thing Rodgers had to do was try to help the Strikers. When they woke and found themselves tied like this, not only would their heart and fight be extinguished, but their dignity as well. Though wounded and physically abused, they both could survive this. But without pride, they would have nothing even after they were set free. In training for terrorist situations and in talking to the new Striker commander, Brett August, a former Vietnam POW, Rodgers had learned that more hostages took their own lives a year or two after being released than died in captivity. The feeling that they had been degraded and dishonored left them feeling ashamed. That sense was heightened if the victims were in the military. Rank and medals were the outward recognition of courage and honor, which were the blood and breath of the soldier. When those qualities were compromised in hostage situations, only death could reclaim them. It could be death like a Viking, facing an enemy or presumed enemy with a sword in one’s hand, or it could be death like a dishonored samurai, alone with a self-inflicted cut to the viscera. But there was no facing life any longer.
Rodgers also had to run the first of his four remaining military assets up the flagpole for the sake of the Strikers. He had to risk his life. When he was stationed in Cam Ranh Bay in southeast Vietnam, there were always casualties. The physical ones were written in blood. The psychological ones were written in the faces of the soldiers. After soldiers had cradled a friend whose legs or hands or face had been blasted off by a mine, or comforted a buddy dying from a bullet wound in the chest or throat or belly, there were only two ways to motivate them. One was to send them out for revenge. That was what the military psychologists now called a “spike high.” Rooted in anger rather than purpose, it was good for quick strikes or fast fixes in tough situations. The second way, which Rodgers had always preferred, was for the leader to put his own life in danger. That created a moral imperative for the platoon to get back on its feet and support him. It didn’t heal the scars, but it built a bond, a camaraderie which was greater than the sum of the parts.
All of this Rodgers considered in the time it took him to glance at the Strikers, give the faster recovering Private Pupshaw a supportive little smile, then look back at the front of the van.
While Hasan checked the crew for concealed weapons, Rodgers felt a gun barrel pressed into the small of his back. Mahmoud pushed him to the left. He wanted him to go into the back of the van.
Rodgers stood where he was and hip-butted the gun aside.
The terrorist spat something in Arabic and used his free hand to push Rodgers through the narrow opening. His legs still bound, the general stumbled and fell into the back. He immediately started to get up again. Mahmoud strode over and aimed the gun barrel at his head. He pointed for Rodgers to stay.
Rodgers started to rise. Even in the dark he could see Mahmoud’s eyes go wide.
This was the moment which would define their relationship or end Rodgers’s life. As the American struggled to get his feet under him, he continued to stare into his captor’s eyes. Many terrorists found it easy to plant bombs, but not so easy to shoot a person they were looking in the eye.
Before Rodgers could get all the way up, Mahmoud raised his foot. He put his heel on Rodgers’s chest and angrily pushed him down. Then the terrorist kicked Rodgers in the side and shouted at him again.
The blow forced the air from Rodgers’s lungs, but it told him what he needed to know. The man didn’t want to kill him. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t, but it meant that Rodgers could probably push him a little more. Rolling onto his side, Rodgers sat up and got his feet under him again. Once more he tried to stand.
Muttering angrily, Mahmoud swung a roundhouse punch at Rodgers’s head. The general hadn’t quite gotten up, and simply dropped back onto the floor. The fist flew over him.
“Bahstahd!” Mahmoud screamed in crude English. He stepped back and aimed the gun at Rodgers’s midsection.
Rodgers turned his head around. He did not take his eyes off the Arab.
“Mahmoud, la!” Ibrahim yelled. “Stop!”
Ibrahim ran over and positioned himself between Rodgers and Mahmoud. They conferred in whispers, the newcomer pointing at Rodgers, at the computers, and then at the ROC crew. After a long silence, Mahmoud threw up his hand and walked away. Ibrahim joined him at the door and helped him carry Colonel Seden inside. He sent Hasan over to talk to Rodgers.
Rodgers had recovered from the kick, and climbed back onto his feet. He stood with his shoulders erect and his chin up. He was not looking at Hasan. In circumstances like these a prisoner tried to avoid the eyes of the interrogator. It created an aloofness, a detachment which the inquisitor had to try to breach. It also helped to prevent the prisoner from seeing the captor as a human being. However benign or compassionate he appeared to be, the man asking the questions was still an enemy.
“You were very close to death,” Hasan said to Rodgers.
It wouldn’t be the first time,” Rodgers said.
“Ah,” Hasan replied, “but it might have be the last. Mahmoud was ready to shoot you.”
“To kill a human being is the least injury you can do him,” Rodgers replied. He spoke slowly, wanting to make sure that Hasan understood.
Hasan regarded Rodgers curiously as Mahmoud and Ibrahim finished loading Colonel Seden onto the van. They tied him together with the others. Then Mahmoud walked over to Hasan. They spoke briefly, after which Hasan turned to Rodgers.