Acts of War

TWENTY

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.

"It is our intention to drive this bus to Syria," Hasan said. His brow was wrinkled as he concentrated on expressing Mahmoud's wishes in English. "However, there are things which we do not understand about the driving of your bus. There are battery cells in the back and unusual meters in the front. Mahmoud wishes you to explain them."

"Tell Mahmoud that these things are used to find buried foundations, ancient tools, and other artifacts," Rodgers said. "You can also tell Mahmoud that I won't discuss the matter unless he unties my two associates and sits them in those chairs." Rodgers turned when he spoke, and said it loud enough for Pupshaw and DeVonne to hear.

The creases in Hasan's brow deepened. "Do I understand? You wish them to be freed?"

"I insist that they be treated with respect," Rodgers replied.

"Insist?" Hasan said. "Does that mean demand?"

Rodgers turned around and looked at the men standing by the front window. "It means," he said, "that if you don't treat us like people, you can sit in the desert until the Turkish Army finds you. Which will be by daybreak if not sooner."

Hasan regarded Rodgers for a moment, then turned to Mahmoud. He translated hurriedly. When Hasan finished, Mahmoud pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled. Ibrahim was sitting in the driver's seat. He didn't laugh. He was watching Mahmoud closely. After a moment, Mahmoud withdrew his hunting knife. Then he spoke to Hasan, who turned back to Rodgers.

Rodgers knew what was coming now. The terrorists realized that they couldn't pressure him directly. Mahmoud also saw that he couldn't pressure the Strikers. Threatening to harm them would only ennoble the pair, and they'd welcome that. The terrorists also couldn't afford to kill any of the civilians. The victim might know something useful.

The Syrians needed the team's cooperation, but Rodgers had made a demand they refused to honor. So now they would have to test his military asset: his skin. They had to discover how thick it was. How far he would let his civilian crew be tortured, physically or psychologically or both? While finding that out, they would also attempt to discover who was the weakest link and why, and how that individual might be manipulated.

Hasan faced Rodgers. "In two minutes," he said, "Mahmoud will slice off one of the lady's fingers. He will then amputate one finger every minute until you decide to cooperate."

"Blood won't make the van run," Rodgers said. He was still looking at the front of the ROC. Coffey and Mary Rose were nearly awake now, and Phil Katzen was coming around. Colonel Seden was still unconscious.

Hasan translated for Mahmoud, who turned around in a huff. He walked to the front of the van and cut Mary Rose's left wrist free. Then he straddled her arm and held it against his thigh. He put the knife blade-down in the space between her pinky and ring finger. He pressed down ever so slightly to draw blood and make her jump. Then he looked down at his watch.

Mary Rose was now fully alert. She looked up. "What's going on?" she asked as she tried to pull her hand free.

Mahmoud held on tightly, and he never took his eyes off his watch.

Coffey had also recovered. He was sitting to the left of Mary Rose, and appeared startled when he saw Mahmoud. "What is this?" he demanded, his face puffing with lawyerly indignation. "And who are you?"

"Sit still," Rodgers said, his voice soft but firm.

Mary Rose and Coffey both looked at him for the first time.

"Just stay calm, the two of you," Rodgers said. His brow was thickly knit and his voice was a monotone. Implicit in his stern, even manner was the fact that they were in some difficulty and were going to have to trust him.

Mary Rose seemed confused, but did as she was told. Coffey's chest began to heave, and blossoming horror had replaced the indignation in his expression. Rodgers could just imagine what he was thinking.

"What are you doing, Mike? You know the rules for situations like this"

Rodgers did indeed know the rules and they were simple. Military personnel were permitted to provide name, rank, and serial number. Nothing more. However, the only mandate for what Op-Center euphemistically called "civilian detainees" was to survive. That meant if the captors wanted information, the hostages were free to provide it. After they were released, the burden was on Op-Center or the military to apprehend the terrorists or else to protect, evacuate, or destroy the newly exposed assets. It was part of the government's characteristic underperform-and-then-overreact syndrome.

Rodgers found the idea repugnant. Civilian or soldier, one's first loyalty was to the country, not to survival. Yet it wasn't his own fierce patriotism that refused to let him capitulate. It was his own little PSYOP, his "psychological operation." He had to be tougher than that. If they didn't win some respect from their captors, this imprisonment — whether it lasted for hours, days, weeks, or months — would be one of abuse and contempt.

"Sifr dahiya," Mahmoud said.

"You have one minute," Hasan informed Rodgers. The young Syrian turned to Mary Rose. "Perhaps the lady is not so stubborn as her leader. Perhaps she would care to show us how some of the driving apparatus operates? That is, while she still can handle it."

"She would not," Rodgers said.

Mary Rose's eyes grew wider with fear. She pressed her lips together and continued to look at Rodgers. He stood straight and strong, her touchstone.

Hasan continued to stare at Mary Rose. "Does this man speak for you?" he asked "Is it he who will lose his fingers painfully one at a time? Perhaps you want to talk to me. Perhaps you do not wish to be mutilated."

"The knives are in your hands, not ours," Rodgers pointed out.

"Truly," said Hasan, casting a look at Rodgers. "But the farmer who whips his stubborn mule is not cruel. He is doing his work. We are merely doing ours."

"Without imagination," Rodgers charged. "And certainly without courage."

"We do what we must, all of us," Hasan replied.

"Talateen," said Mahmoud.

"Thirty seconds," Hasan said. He gazed at Coffey and Katzen. "Does someone else wish to help? If any of you cooperate with us now, you will save not just the lady, but also yourself unthinkable suffering."

"Ishreen!" Mahmoud barked.

"Twenty seconds," Hasan said. He looked at Coffey. "You, perhaps? Will you be the hero, the one who saves her?"

The attorney regarded Rodgers. Rodgers's gaze was fixed on the windshield.

Coffey took a calming breath. "If the young lady wants my help," he said, "I will give it."

Mary Rose blinked out tears. Then she smiled weakly and shook her head with little jerks.

"Ashara" said Mahmoud.

"Ten seconds," said Hasan. He bent close to Mary Rose. "You indicate no, yet I do not believe that is what you mean. Think, young woman. There is not very much time."

"Tisa"

"Nine seconds," Hasan said to her. "Soon you will be wet with your own blood."

"Tamanya"

"Eight seconds," said Hasan. "Then you will scream piteously to cooperate."

"Saba"

"Seven seconds," Hasan said. "And with every finger that is removed, there will be more unendurable pain."

Mary Rose was breathing heavily. There was terror in her eyes.

"She's got more courage than you do," Rodgers said proudly.

"Sitta khamsa"

"We will see," Hasan said. "You have five seconds, my young woman. Then you will beg to speak."

Hasan had been smirking slightly during the countdown. But now Rodgers noticed that his mouth had turned down. Had the insult touched him, or was he concerned that they wouldn't get the information after all? Or could it be that Hasan had no stomach for bloodshed, despite his vivid commentary?

"Arba"

"Four," warned Hasan.

Part of Rodgers — a very large part of him — wanted to gamble that Mahmoud wasn't going to go through with this. The Syrians had had nearly two minutes to think about their predicament and also to see what the American team was made of. By capturing the ROC, the Syrians had lost whatever head start they had on the Turks. If they had to leave now, patrols would be everywhere. The Syrians needed the ROC and its crew, and might well be wondering if they hadn't underestimated their captives. If maybe they should have done what Rodgers had asked.

"Talehta"

"Three seconds," Hasan said. "Think of the knife cutting through bone and muscle. Over and over, ten times over."

Rodgers could hear Mary Rose panting. But she wasn't talking, Clod bless her. He'd never been prouder of his own soldiers than he was of her.

"Itneyn"

"Two seconds."

"Monster!" Coffey screamed, and began to struggle against his bonds. The Syrians paid no attention to him. Katzen was awake now and clearly trying to take everything in.

"Wehid!"

"The time is up," Hasan said. He looked at Mary Rose.

Mahmoud, however, looked at Rodgers. There was a moment's hesitation, and then something bitter and vengeful came into Mahmoud's eyes. Perhaps he was looking through Rodgers at some other enemy, some distant pain. His upper lip curled, and at that moment Rodgers knew he'd lost.

"Don't!" Rodgers said as the Syrian began to press down with the knife. He was still looking at the windshield, but he nodded so Mahmoud would understand. "Don't do it. I'll get you on the road."

Hasan repeated what Mahmoud already knew. Mahmoud snatched the knife away. There was no triumph in his expression as he tucked it in its sheath and Mary Rose collapsed in tears.

As Hasan squatted beside the woman and began tying her bloody hand back to the chair, Mahmoud motioned Rodgers to come forward. Rodgers walked toward the front of the van, but paused beside Mary Rose. The young woman was sobbing heavily, her head bent back against the chair.

"I'm very, very proud of you," Rodgers said to her.

Coffey leaned his head toward Mary Rose and touched her cheek with his hair. "We're all proud of you," he said. "And we're in this together."

Mary Rose nodded weakly and thanked them.

Mahmoud was glaring at Rodgers. Rodgers ignored him.

"Hasan," Rodgers said, "the lady is bleeding. Do you think you could bind that for her?"

Hasan looked up. "Will you make another showdown if I refuse?"

"If I have to," Rodgers replied. "You'd take care of your mule once it moved, wouldn't you?"

Hasan looked from Rodgers to the wound. He thought for a moment, and after the woman's hand was securely fastened to the column, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He tucked it gently between Mary Rose's fingers. As he did, Mahmoud stepped over and plucked it away.

"La!" Mahmoud screamed. He threw the handkerchief down, stomped once on it, and shouted at Hasan.

Hasan's eyes were downcast. "Mahmoud says to tell you that the next time I take orders from you, he will amputate my hands and yours."

"I'm sorry," Rodgers said, "but what you did was right." He regarded Mahmoud. It was time to use his third military asset: surprise. "Hasan, tell your commander that I'll need help replacing the batteries."

"I will help you," Hasan said.

"You can't," Rodgers lied. "Only one person has that knowledge. Tell Mahmoud I'll need Private DeVonne's help, That's the woman he has tied up in back. Tell him if he wants to get to Syria he's going to have to let her go."

Hasan cleared his throat. Rodgers couldn't remember the last time he saw a rnan looking so alone. The Syrian informed his superior of Rodgers's needs. Rodgers watched as Mahmoud's eyes grew smaller and his nostrils grew larger. It had been a direct hit. Rodgers enjoyed seeing him broil in the instant it took him to reach the only decision he could make.

Mahmoud waved a finger sideways, and Hasan went into the back of the van. Then in a flash, Mahmoud kicked Rodgers down. Hasan didn't stop to help the fallen general. He stepped over him and hurried into the back to cut Private DeVonne loose. He freed her feet first, then bound them together before releasing her hands.

The Striker tried to turn and help Rodgers, but Hasan pushed her along. While he led her to the battery compartments in the rear of the ROC, Rodgers pulled himself up. He placed both hands on the computer stations and swung his bound feet forward as though he were on parallel bars.

That was part one of the surprise. Part two would come later, when they began replacing the batteries and turning things on. The ES4 satellite would immediately read the increased electromagnetism and send a heads-up signal to Op-Center. Paul Hood would have a number of options then, which ranged from simply watching them to destroying them.

As Rogers moved to where Hasan and Private DeVonne were waiting, he could feel Mahmoud still glaring at him. That pleased him enormously for it told him that his fourth and final military asset had proved effective: He had managed to drive the first small wedge between the commander and one of his soldiers.