Acts of War

TWENTY-EIGHT

While Ibrahim drove the twenty-five miles to Barak, Hasan had been busy taking inventory of the ROC's cargo. Mahmoud, meanwhile, sat in the passenger's seat, four of his prisoners at his feet. He was teaching himself how to use the radio. Any questions he had were passed from Hasan to Mary Rose. Rodgers had instructed her to answer. He didn't want to push the terrorists again. Not yet. Within minutes, Mahmoud had discovered the frequency used by the Turkish border patrol. Mary Rose showed him how to communicate with them. But he didn't.

The Turkish border town of Barak lies just west of the Euphrates. By the time the ROC arrived, the floodwaters had covered the floors of wood-frame homes, stores, and a mosque in the northeastern sector of the village. The town was deserted, save for a few cows and goats and an old man who sat on his porch, his feet in the water. Apparently, he just hadn't felt like going anywhere.

Ibrahim passed south through the near-lifeless town, then stopped the ROC less than three yards from rolls of barbed wire strung between six-foot-high posts. The driver said something to Hasan, who nodded and walked over to Rodgers.

The general had been tied between the computer station chairs. He was kneeling and facing the rear of the van. Private Pupshaw was still draped over the chair, and Sondra had been returned to hers. The only concession the Syrians had allowed was to let Phil Katzen to tend to Colonel Seden's bullet wound. Though the Turk had lost a good deal of blood, the wound itself wasn't grave. Rodgers knew that they hadn't done that simply out of mercy. They probably wanted Colonel Seden for something important. Unlike some terrorists who soften toward their hostages as time passes, these three didn't seem to understand concession or compromise. They certainly didn't practice mercy. To the contrary, they had demonstrated their willingness to hurt or kill. On their home ground, with their comrades, there was no telling what they would do. Even if the hostages weren't killed, there was a good chance the men or women would be seriuously abused.

Rodgers realized that he was going to have to try to move quickly against their captors.

Hasan looked down at Pupshaw. "You will come with me," the Syrian said as he cut the bonds around Private Pupshaw's legs.

"Where are you taking him?" Rodgers asked.

"Outside," Hasan said as he led the American from the van.

When Rodgers saw Hasan tie Pupshaw's hands to the door handle on the driver's side, and heard Hasan tell him to stand on the narrow running board, Rodgers knew what the Syrians were planning.

There was just over a quarter mile of "no-man's-land" between this fence and the one situated at the Syrian border. Rodgers knew that both wire fences were electrified. The Syrians probably knew it too. If they hadn't known it before they arrived, the baked-on insects were a giveaway. Cutting the wire at any point would break the circuit and set off an alarm at the nearest checkpoint. Turkish guards would respond by land or air before anyone could cross in either direction. In this case, Rodgers didn't know whether the sight of hostages would deter the Turks from attacking the van or whether it wouldn't make any difference. They probably wanted to stop the Ataturk bombers so bad that they would shoot first and check IDs later.

Rodgers debated with himself whether or not to tell the Syrians another of the ROC's capabilities. If the terrorists knew, it would be even less reason for them ever to return the van. But the lives of his crew were at risk.

When Hasan returned for Sondra, Rodgers called him over. He had to tell him.

"You don't have to do this," Rodgers said. "Our van is bullet-proof."

"Not the wheels."

"Yes, the wheels," Rodgers said. "They're lined with Kevlar. Nothing is going to happen to the van."

Hasan thought for a moment. "Why should I believe this?"

"Test it. Fire a bullet."

"You would like that," Hasan said. "The Turks would hear."

"And shoot us all," Rodgers said.

Hasan thought again. "If this is so and your tires are bullet-proof, then we can just ride over the wire. Correct?"

"No," Rodgers said. "When the van hits, the metal chassis will still conduct electricity. We'll all be killed."

Hasan nodded.

"Look," Rodgers said, "having my people tied to the side isn't going to stop the Turks. You know that. The border patrol will shoot right through them to try and get to you. Keep them inside and we'll all be safe."

Hasan shook his head. "If the border patrol comes, they may not shoot. They will see one of their own people tied to the outside. And they will want to question us." He bent over Sondra and began to untie her.

"I know these people," Rodgers yelled. "I tell you, they'll try and cripple the van and they won't lose sleep over who dies in the process, even one of their own. And what'll you do if they chase you into Syria?"

"That is the Syrian military's problem."

"Not if we get caught in an artillery cross fire," Rodgers said. "If you'll just give me a little time, we can get across without the Turks even being aware of it.

Hagan stopped untying Sondra. "How?"

"We keep insulated cable in the van for patching into satellite uplinks when we have to," Rodgers said. "Let me rig an arc across the barbed wire so we don't break the circuit. Then I'll cut the wire and you can drive right over the cable. Once we cross the field I'll do the same thing on the other side. It'll be quiet. No alarms and no patrols."

"Why should I trust you to do this?" Hagan asked. "If you were to break the circuit, we wouldn't know until the Turks arrive."

"I don't gain anything by bringing the guards down on us," Rodgers replied. "Even if they don't shoot us, you'd probably kill my people in retaliation. That defeats the purpose."

Hasan considered this, then reported to Mahmoud.

There was a short conversation, after which Hasan returned to the back of the van.

"How long will it take to make these connections?"

"Three quarters of an hour at the most," Rodgers said. "It'll take less time if you help."

"I will help," Hasan said as he retied Sondra and began to untie the general. "But I warn you, if you try to get away, I will kill you and one of your people. Do you understand?"

Rodgers nodded.

Hasan finished removing the restraining rope, and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he retrieved the wire shears from the tool chest in the rear of the van. Rodgers held out his hand, and Hasan hesitated. Mahmoud upholstered his gun and pointed it at Mary Rose. Hasan handed the shears to Rodgers.

While Hasan collected the cable, Rodgers used a staple gun to make a protective, insulated mitt from a pair of rubber mouse pads. When he was finished, he went outside with Hasan.

Rodgers worked quickly under the glow of the headlights. As he bent beside the fence, he couldn't help but think about what he was doing. Not about rewiring the fence. That was rote. He and Hasan cut the cable into two ten-foot lengths, stripped the ends, and used the mitt to wrap them carefully around the two separate but intermeshed coils of barbed wire. Then they laid the cable on the ground and cut the barbed wire. Rodgers used the mitt to pull it aside and staple the end to the post.

No, what Rodgers thought about during those twenty-seven minutes was the fact that it was his job to try to stop these bastards. Now here he was, helping them to escape. He tried to justify his actions by telling himself that they would probably get away regardless. This way, at least, his people wouldn't be hurt. But the idea of being a collaborator, for whatever reason, stuck in his throat and refused to go down.

When they finished, Hasan gave an okay sign to Mahmoud. The leader motioned them back inside. As they entered, Rodgers removed his mitt. He paused to cut Pupshaw free.

Hasan pushed his gun against Rodgers's temple. "What are you doing?" he asked harshly.

"Letting my man back in."

"You presume a great deal," Hasan said.

"I thought we had an agreement," Rodgers replied. "I wire the fence, my people ride inside."

"Truly," said Hasan, "we have this agreement." He pulled the shears away from Rodgers. "But it is not for you to give freedom."

"I'm sorry," Rodgers said. "I was only trying to hurry things along."

"Don't pretend that you are on our side," Hasan said. "Your lie insults us both." Hasan lowered the gun. He used it to motion Rodgers inside.

Rodgers watched the gun from the corner of his eye. As he stepped up on the running board, his sense of duty began to gnaw at him again. That and the humiliating reality of having just had a gun pressed to his head. He was a United States soldier. He was a prisoner. His job should be to try and escape, not to take orders from a terrorist and abet enemies of a NATO ally.

Rodgers quickly considered his options. If he turned and threw himself against Hasan, he might be able to get the gun, shoot the Syrian, then turn the weapon on the other two. Certainly in the dark, on the ground, he'd have a decent chance of success. And if he waited until Pupshaw was free, the private would seize the initiative and probably tackle Mahmoud, who was right behind him inside the van. With luck, the only ones who would be at risk were himself and Pupshaw. Even if they lost their lives, the others were still valuable hostages. The Syrians probably wouldn't kill them.

Action was clearly on Pupshaw's mind as well. Rodgers could tell from the way the private's dark eyes followed him, waiting for his lead. Rodgers knew then that if he didn't act, not only would he hate himself, but he'd lose the respect of his subordinates. He had only an instant to decide. He also knew that if he managed to get the gun, he wouldn't be able to hesitate.

Mahmoud said something. Hasan nodded, then pulled the rope from his pocket. He pushed Rodgers in the small of his back.

"Turn around," Hasan said. "I have to tie you up until we reach the next fence."

Shit, thought Rodgers. He'd been hoping they'd leave him free while they transferred Pupshaw inside. Now, if he acted it would have to be alone — with Pupshaw tied up in the line of fire. Rodgers glanced at the private, whose gaze was unwavering.

Rodgers extended his hands toward Hasan. The Syrian tucked his gun in his waistband and slipped the rope around Rodgers's wrists. Rodgers's hands were held palms-together. Slowly, imperceptibly, he curled the third and fourth fingers of his left hand slightly so that the tips of all four fingers were even. Then, pressing the fingers one against the other, he drove the solid line of fingertips into Hasan's throat. The Syrian gagged and reached for Rodgers's hand. As he did, Rodgers's right hand shot down and grabbed the gun. He fired twice into Hasan's chest. As the Syrian tumbled soundlessly to the ground, Rodgers stepped into the van and aimed at Mahmoud.

"Use me as a shield!" Pupshaw shouted.

Rodgers had no intention of doing so. But before he could shoot around the private, Ibrahim gunned the engine. Rodgers was thrown to the floor as the ROC raced forward. The passenger's door was still open with Pupshaw tied to the handle. The private was bucked off the running board and his lower body was dragged alongside, under the door, as the van sped ahead.

Mahmoud vaulted from the passenger's seat and threw himself on top of Rodgers. As the American tried to bring the gun around, the Syrian drew his knife. Rodgers was able to move Mahmoud's arm to the side. But with incredible speed the Syrian literally fed the knife to his finger tips, pinched the hilt between his thumb and index finger, turned the knife around, and grasped it facing the other way. Once again the knife was pointing down at Rodgers. He was forced to let go of the gun to concentrate on Mahmoud's knife hand. The general grabbed the wrist with one hand and tried to pry his fingers from the hilt with the other.

Suddenly, Ibrahim braked. Mahmoud and Rodgers were thrown against the prisoners who were tied to the base of the passenger's seat. The van's noisy advance became the deathly quiet of late night as Ibrahim drew his own weapon. Shouting at Mahmoud, he aimed at Rodgers's head.

Mary'Rose screamed.

Before Mahmoud could fire, the wail of a siren reached them from across the plain. A patrol must have heard the shot. Without hesitation, Ibrahim threw the van into reverse. When they reached Hasan's body, Mahmoud jumped out and pulled it in. He was dead. His eyes were wide and unseeing. Blood stained his shirt-front and was seeping into the fibers around the side.

There was more conversation, probably about whether to kill Rodgers. Though Ibrahim was shaking with rage, the Syrians obviously decided that a gunshot would only tell the Turks exactly where they were.

Mahmoud pulled the dazed and bloodied Pupshaw inside and tied him back to his chair, while Ibrahim kicked Rodgers in the head before tying him to the chair leg, his back on the floor. They drove off, Ibrahim leaning heavily on the gas pedal.

Mahmoud punched Rodgers several times as they drove. Each time he struck the American's jaw, Mahmoud spit in his face. He stopped only when they reached the fence. Grabbing the mitt and the shears, Mahmoud went out to cut them through. There was no longer any need to be secretive. He sliced the wire quickly, pulling each strand to the side and wrapping it around the post.

Rodgers looked up through bloodstained eyes. He saw Sondra struggling hard to get free.

"Don't," he said through his swollen jaw. He shook his head slowly. "You're going to have to survive to lead them."

When the last strand was cut, Ibrahim pressed on the gas and the van tore across the border. He stopped to let Mahmoud in. Evidently having had enough of punishing Rodgers, Mahmoud settled into his seat. As he sat in silence, picking pieces of bloody flesh from his ring, Ibrahim continued into the night.