Jack Coughlin: Kill Zone

Dull colors, garbled words, and a sense of awkward, jerking motions blended in Middleton’s drug-muddled mind. His brain could not separate the individual things happening around him, nor grasp any meaning. The only thing he felt was a pounding headache. Pain got through. Strong hands held his arms and propelled him forward. His feet would not respond; his legs were rubbery. The dragging stopped, and he was forced to sit in a chair. More words he did not understand, and a sensation of something wet cooling his face. Scrubbing hard. Words. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs of scrambled thought, with no result. Laughter. Hands worked with his clothing, tucking in his khaki shirt, smoothing his collar, straightening his tie, and adjusting the shining single star on each collar point, half-inch and centered.

Pinpoint flashes of shifting light danced at the edge of his consciousness, blinking like a field of fireflies. Then they were gone. The fireflies had flown. A smell of something rotten rose in his nostrils. Camels or goats close by.

A soothing female voice spoke English words with a lilting accent, and a gentle hand tilted his chin back. “ Here, General. Drink this. All is well. Just drink this.” A cool stream of water went across his tongue and down his throat. He gulped it in relief. Thirst. “ That’s enough for right now, because we don’t want to make you sick. You can drink more in a few minutes.”

His arms were tied around the back of a small chair to keep him from falling. He sensed other people.

A moment of total silence was followed by the blazing lights of a dozen suns, strong enough to make him wince. He began to breathe fast, and unreasoning panic set in, bringing a childhood nightmare of a monster, frothing at the mouth, that chased him. He struggled momentarily, and then settled.

When he was calm, a soft command was given and a video camera began to record the image of the Marine general bound to the chair, the shining single star of his rank leaving no doubt as to his identity. A man’s voice read a statement in Arabic. The camera caught it all the first time, but the statement was repeated just in case. The lights went out.

Middleton felt a tiny prick in his arm as another needle went in to return him to the dark world, then strong hands lifted him. A fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over. He gasped for air, then vomited. Another blow, and he was on his knees, being kicked to the floor. Laughter, fading. Blackness. Pain still got through.

The cameraman reviewed the scene to be sure his Panasonic PV-GS250 had done its job, and nodded in approval. The low-light problem had been solved by stealing a rack of huge bulbs that a road crew had been using for night work. He plugged a USB cord between the camera and a Dell computer and downloaded the images and soundtrack onto a small disc, which he slid into a protective hard plastic case and handed to the woman. She folded a written copy of the statement and dropped it and the videodisc into a common brown envelope that she taped closed. Licking it would have left traces of her DNA. In an hour, she was in Amman, Jordan, where she handed the package to the front desk clerk of the hotel that was the residence of the local correspondent for the al Jazeera television network. She walked two blocks, paused beneath a tree, and called the correspondent on a cell phone. “This is the Foreign Ministry’s press office, sir. We have delivered a news release to your hotel,” she said in French, cut the connection, and tossed the phone into a trash bin.

The correspondent recognized her voice, and knew this had nothing to do with the Jordanian Foreign Ministry. A confidential contact had resurfaced, one who had never given him a bad story. He hurried downstairs, retrieved the envelope, returned to his room, and dumped the contents onto his desk. After reading the statement, he watched the video. Unbelievable! He pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon from a suitcase, and only after two stiff shots of whiskey did he call the busy al Jazeera newsroom in Doha, Qatar. It was two o’clock, plenty of time for the evening newscast, but he knew they would not hold the story until then. It was too important.

When it was broadcast, the sedated General Middleton was finishing a smooth hop aboard a twin-engine Cessna 421 into Syria. A Land Rover hauled him on the last leg of his journey, and he slept for fourteen hours.

GOOD DAY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.I have to brief the President in a few minutes, so let us get right to it. What’s happening with this kidnapped general?” National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan swept his gray eyes around the White House Situation Room at nine o’clock in the morning. Every chair was occupied and staff members hovered nearby. “CIA. You start.”

John Mueller, the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency, flipped open a folder branded with a diagonal Top Secret red stripe, hunched forward in his chair, and read the cover sheet that distilled the basics. “General Bradley Middleton of the Marine Corps was abducted just outside of Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, about 0300 hours this morning, Washington time. His two Marine bodyguards, his aide, and the Saudi security team were all either killed in the explosion of the roadside bomb or executed during a follow-up attack. Witnesses saw two men take the general away over a ridge beside the highway. Tire tracks led to a nearby paved road, where they could have gone either way. Al Jazeera was broadcasting the story only a few hours later. An anonymous caller to al Jazeera, after the broadcast, claimed credit in behalf of the Holy Scimitar of Allah. The Holy Scimitar, of course, is the name of the militia of the Rebel Sheikh in Iraq. The caller said the kidnappers would cut off the general’s head unless all U.S., British, and NATO troops and citizens leave the Arabian Peninsula.” The CIA man closed the folder and pushed it away. “The demand is obviously ridiculous, so we conclude there must be some other reason or reasons.” Mueller quit speaking and crossed his arms on the big table. He had learned to keep his mouth shut when he didn’t know anything.

Buchanan glared at him and swore. “Holy Jesus Christ! I heard the same thing on CNN and Fox before I came in here. Does anyone have something that hasn’t been on live television? FBI? Talk to me.”

“We have a team working with the Saudis on forensics. Nothing conclusive yet. It’s just too early.” The FBI director also knew not to go too far with Buchanan. Answer the question and shut the hell up.

The National Security Advisor ran a palm across his neatly trimmed hair and sighed. Then he removed his rimless glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. He wanted these people to stew for a while.

“Anybody?” Buchanan snapped. “How about you, Homeland Security? NSA? DIA? Pentagon? State Department? Anything other than what al Jazeera has been showing to more than fifty million people in their part of the world? The domestic networks and cable over here are going to run it forever.”

No one wanted to challenge him. Gerald Buchanan would end a career without a second thought if he detected weakness or a lack of political loyalty, and the fuse was burning on his infamous Irish temper. He unscrewed a fountain pen with a gold nib and scribbled a note to himself, closed the pen, and folded the piece of paper. Everyone wondered if their name was on it. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am not pleased. The President will not be pleased, and our countrymen will not be pleased that after spending billions of dollars to build a global intelligence apparatus, you have once again failed. I would strongly suggest that when we gather again later today, you have some facts for me. Is that clear?”