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.
TWENTY-NINE
"You don't have to tell me," Martha Mackall said as Bob Herbert wheeled into her office. "The ROC has gone into Syria."
Herbert's wheelchair was reflected over and over in the framed, hanging gold records Martha's father Mack Mackall had earned during his long singing career. He parked, frowning, in front of her desk. "We picked up the description from a radio broadcast by the Turkish border patrol. My expression tell you that?"
"No." She tapped a pencil eraser against her computer monitor. "This did. I've been watching the computer lines we hacked in Turkey and elsewhere. It reminds me of when the stock market started to fall in '87, all that computerized trading kicking in and making it worse."
"It is like computerized trading," Herbert said. "Only it's computerized warfare. CARfare, they're calling it."
"That's a new one on me," Martha said. She rubbed her tired eyes. "Care to translate?"
"It's Computerized Armed Response," Herbert said. "Every government is choosing the appropriate response based on its own simulation programs."
Martha made a face. "If that's CARfare, then I've got bumper-to-bumper traffic up here. The Turkish Security Forces say their border patrol crossed into Syria, lost the target, and retreated. As a result of the crossing, Syria's calling up its reserves and Turkey is mobilizing more troops and sending them toward the border. Israel has gone on maximum alert, Jordan is about to begin moving tanks toward its borders, and Iraq is shifting troops possessively toward Kuwait."
"Possessively?"
"They're geared for a long camp-out," Martha said, "just like before Desert Shield. And to top it off, Colon just notified us that the Department of Defense has ordered the U.S. carrier battle group into the Red Sea."
"Defcon?"
"Two," she said.
Herbert seemed relieved.
"Supply lines have already begun forming from the Indian Ocean, just in case they're needed. Publicly, we're showing support for our NATO ally. Privately, we're prepared to kick whatever ass is necessary to try and contain the whole damn thing in case it blows up. The President is determined not to let this spread into Turkey and Russia."
"Probably as determined as Syria and Iran will be to see it spread there," Herbert replied.
"They are an opportunistic bunch," Martha said, "but they don't want to see the region turned into a war zone. Don't forget, Syria sided with us during Desert Storm."
"They gave us a couple of jets and permission to get ourselves killed defending their water supplies," Herbert said. "Never mind them. What's so damn frustrating is that no one else wants to see this happen. And most of the players realize they've been snookered by a small band of Kurds."