“You’re beat yourself,” she told him.
“I’ll take greenies if I need to stay awake,” he said.
“Oh, and that’ll make you real sharp,” said Breanna, who knew that even that was a lie – Jeff wouldn’t take aspirin except at gunpoint. She got up and went to check on the plane.
Over the Mediterranean
24 October, 0600 local
“Okay, kid, you want to make yourself useful?” asked the Major.
Jed Barclay looked up from the bench chair in the ‘lounge’ compartment, a bulkhead in front of the ‘business’ area of the JSTARS jet. They’d been airborne now for nearly twelve hours – a routine assignment for the command and control aircraft, which had undergone extensive engine work following the Gulf War to make sure it could fly for more than a full day without coming down. The long gig had allowed them to keep track of developments in Libya and Egypt. Libya’s armed forces were now on full alert; Egypt remained on the fence, though some of its air units seemed to be a high degree of readiness – a good or bad sign, depending on how you wanted to interpret it.
“What do you need?” Jed asked.
“I need someone to handle communications with an Air Force unit called Raven,” said the major. “They’re part of Madcap Magician. My guys have enough to do with the Navy end.”
“Sure. They’re F-111’s?”
“From what I’ve been told, it’s a B-52.”
Jed nodded, guessing but not telling the Army officer that the plane must be an EB-52 – quite a different beast. The Megafortress’s existence was still technically classified. Hal Briggs had reported that two had been ‘loaned’ to him, ostensibly as high-speed transports. But Briggs obviously had found their capabilities irresistible.
The plane originated from a base near Las Vegas where he believed his cousin Jeff Stockard was stationed. Small world.
“All you have to do is sit at a console and talk to them. They won’t be on station for two or three hours, at show time,” added the major. He sounded almost apologetic. “And look, don’t touch anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hey, lighten up. I’m kidding. Besides, we got baby locks on the medicine cabinets.”
Near Tripoli
24 October, 0700 local
The Iranians pushed Gunny and Captain Howland out of the small plane moments after it rolled to a stop.
They were hustled into the back of an open-bed truck. Large bags of shredded paper and cardboard were thrown on them. a tarp was pulled over the bed and the truck roared away.
“What the fuck do you think this is about?” Gunny asked the pilot.
“Damned if I can guess,” answered Howland.
The truck took a sharp turn. Its wheels bumped over some harsh pavements, then hit a smooth patch. The driver floored it, sending them rolling backward.
“I think I’ll reconnoiter,” said Gunny when he regained his balance. he crawled toward the side of the truck and managed to poke his head up, but it was nearly impossible to see anything; not only was it dark, but they were moving extremely fast. He worked his way around to the tailgate. It didn’t look like they were being followed.
“What do you think, Captain? We’re not being guarded,” said Gunny, sliding back next to the pilot.
“I find that hard to believe,” said Howland. “Maybe we just can’t see them.”
“Yeah.” Gunny pushed himself toward the front of the truck, trying to peek up through the covering there. But he couldn’t find an opening and didn’t want to risk alerting their captors.
“They’re probably sneaking us into one of their prisons,” said Howland. “Maybe they’re staging something near the plane. Whatever that commotion was when we took off from Sudan probably tipped them that they’re under surveillance.”
Gunny wasn’t particularly interested in theories. “We might be able to jump for it,” he suggested.
“Then what do we do?”
“Then we escape.”
“If we’re in Libya,” said Howland, who had worked out their direction en route, “we’re also probably in the middle of the desert. We’ll die of thirst inside a day.”
“Better than dying on TV for them,” said Gunny.
“Maybe,” said the pilot.
Before either of them could say or do anything else, they truck veered sharply to the right. They rolled against each other and then the side. Gunny pushed himself upward just as the truck came to a stop.
“Shit,” he said.
Men were shouting. The tarp and bags were whisked off. Two spotlights clicked on, blinding the Americans.
“This way. Out of the trucks. Quickly,” said a man holding a pistol. “Into the shelter or you will enter as dead men.”
Gunny and the pilot were pulled down by three of four Libyan soldiers, who pushed them toward a set of cement stairs. Perhaps they were in the middle of a desert, but the stairway smelled like a swamp. At the bottom, two men without weapons but with arms the size of elephant trunks muscled them into a room barely the size of a closet. There were no furniture; two bare lightbulbs in steel cages were shone down from the ceiling, eight feet above.
One of the men pointed to the floor, indicating they should sit. Gunny lowered himself reluctantly, wondering if he ought to fight. But even if they made it past these gorillas, there were at least six soldiers with automatic rifles in the hallway outside.
A soldier – this one short and frail-looking – entered carrying two trays of food. Each tray had a large bowl of fruit, another of mushy buckwheat, a third of grilled lamb. There were pitas and large bottles of cold water.
Howland picked up one of the bottles as the steel door slammed shut. They were alone.
“They’d just shoot us,” the pilot told Gunny as he drained about half the bottle. “They wouldn’t waste poison.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right,” said Gunny, still eyeing the food. “Assuming this shit is edible.”
“It’s probably pretty good,” said Howland, poking the meat with the bread. “The condemned always eat well.”
“Yeah. That’s one way of looking at it.” Gunny picked up what seemed to be an orange, peeled away the skin, and took a bite.
It was an orange, or close enough. He devoured it. Then he ate some of the fruit and two pieces of the pita bread. Satiated, he put his back against the cement wall. He’d caught some z’s on the plane and didn’t think he was particularly tired, but he began to drift off. At one point he woke to Howland’s loud snore, then nodded off again.
At some point, he dreamed that the door reopened. The man who had brought them the food reappeared, taking the trays. Then the gorillas appeared and pulled both Gunny and Howland roughly to their feet, pushing them back into the hallway. Gunny seemed to fly to a narrow flight of stairs, descending down another passage covered on all four sides with a thick brown coir carpet.
At the end of the hall, Gunny saw that Howland was with him. They stepped into an eight-by-eight room with smooth whitewashed plaster walls and a thick tan wool carpet. The room had been turned into a television studio – two chairs were set up beneath a lighting bar. Two cameras with camera operators stood opposite them. Monitors were positioned so anyone sitting in the chairs could watch themselves. the six soldiers who had been escorting them filed in behind.
“You will sit in the chairs and respond when questioned,” said a voice from above. “Your trial will begin shortly.”
“Am I dreaming?” Gunny asked Howland.
“No. They’re going to televise this,” said the pilot. “This is happening.”
“Shit,” said Melfi, shaking his head, trying to get his wits back. He was truly awake, all of this was real. “And I always wondered what it would be like to be on TV. Shit.”