“Typical,” the President said, letting out an angry breath. “Okay, we need to know what we can say. The shooter in Athens was… ?”
“Not a common citizen,” Travali said hastily. “Not just some guy who stumbled on the op and broke it up, although I think that might be what happened. The person has been identified but for reasons of national security and the ongoing kidnapping investigation we cannot reveal his or her—”
“His,” Don Brandeis said. “The news media has at least that much.”
“His name,” Travali said, nodding. “We’re not even willing to discuss the person’s connection to the United States government except to say that he is a former special operations soldier and he was not a member of any U.S. government program. That is, the U.S. government doesn’t pay his salary. We also cannot discuss the investigation except to say that it’s ongoing and the full assets of the United States government are focused on getting these girls home safely.”
“Secretary Brandeis, given all that we spend on intelligence and defense, don’t you have any idea where the girls have been taken?”
Brandeis leaned forward, his hands on the podium, and looked at the newswoman who had asked the question.
“Young lady, is English your birth language?” he asked, his brow crinkling in puzzlement.
“Yes,” the reporter replied, surprised. It was her first attendance at a Brandeis press briefing. She had been sent because of the “human interest” in the current hostage crisis and wasn’t a regular Pentagon reporter. In fact she’d mostly been sent because she looked as if she would have been a target if she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and her network felt that viewers would, therefore, identify with her. She knew something was going wrong, though, by the faint snorts in the room and how her associate, a regular Pentagon reporter, groaned, then subtly shifted away from her.
“And did you go to college?” Brandeis asked very slowly and distinctly, as if talking to a four-year-old.
“Yes,” she said, her lips thinning in anger.
“Then perhaps you could try to parse out a sentence like: ‘We cannot discuss the investigation except to say that it’s ongoing and the full assets of the United States government are focused on it.’ Do you remember me saying those exact words, young lady? Or are you just drawing pretty pictures in that notebook in your hand? A brief of my comments was handed out in advance. Maybe you should look it over and get help with the tougher words from Bill there. But for those of you who can neither read nor understand simple English, I’ll make it simpler. We’re not going to discuss the details of the investigation. If that’s too complicated, we’re not going to talk about what we know. We’re not going to talk about what we don’t know. We’re not going to talk about what we may or may not be planning. We’re not even going to discuss what we know about the weather, just in case you manage to divine something from that comment, correct or incorrect, and give it to whoever stole these girls. Now, young lady, is that clear enough for you or do you have to write it a thousand times on a chalkboard?
“And, by the way, ‘given’ is the stupidest word a reporter can use. It does not discuss any objective reality of a situation but invariably points to the personal bias of the reporter. And, as we both know, reporters are supposed to be unbiased. Fair and balanced and all that. No one ever says: ‘Given that the sky is blue.’ They say: ‘Given that American soldiers eat babies for breakfast.’ One is not debatable in rational everyday terms. Sky. Blue. Sometimes gray, but blue if there aren’t clouds and it is day. An effect of oxygen in the atmosphere. Scientifically provable. Neither is the second worth everyday debate, it is provably wrong, but it’s certainly debated among the press in my experience. So if you’re going to continue to attend these briefings, first learn to read, second learn to listen and third, remove the word ‘given’ from your vocabulary. Otherwise it is ‘given’ that you will not enjoy yourself. Next question.”
Chapter Six
In the first couple of minutes after he’d secreted himself on the truck, Mike knew it was a bad idea. In five minutes he knew it was a really bad idea. After the first hour, he wasn’t sure he was going to survive the really bad idea.
The truck with the girls in it was led and followed by open trucks mounting a heavy machine gun in the back. He had made it to the top of the slope just before the convoy of vehicles reached it. No time to call in, no time to do anything but pick a good hide position and wait. The road switchbacked right at the top of the hill and for just a moment the left side of the truck was out of sight of the trailing gun-truck. And it was going slow, no more than five miles per hour, as he darted out of the darkness by the side of the road and crouched under the bed of the truck.
Container trucks, like this one, had a solid metal support running the length of the container bed. In two places there were narrow gaps, and Mike grabbed one and swung his body up into it as the truck changed gears to negotiate the turn and descent.
He started with his arms and legs wrapped around the metal support but as soon as the truck hit the first pothole his chin slammed into the steel. Then he tried just perching on top but the second time he nearly fell off he rearranged. His stomach was being hammered, his chest was being hammered and given the nature of third world roads it just went on and on. Then the truck got into the flats again and really picked up speed, hurrying down the highway as if there was no tomorrow and slamming over potholes the size of small cars.
The best position Mike could find was with his right hand clutched under the support, his left hand on top, pressing downwards, both legs wrapped around the support and his body flat on it. His balls were being slammed up and down like drumsticks, he was pretty sure he had a crack in his pelvis bone, his chest was being battered, his stomach was being battered but he managed to hold on. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold on, but he was going to stay there till he passed out or the truck did something really stupid. At which point he’d either get run over by the truck or the following gun-vehicle.
Fortunately, before either event occurred, the truck slowed for another guarded gate. It didn’t stop, it was clearly expected, but simply slowed to negotiate the gate, then turned into a large complex. Mike could see what looked like barracks and a large building of unknown purpose. The truck pulled up to a loading dock at the building and Mike heard the door opening. Then he saw feet move along the side of the truck, not just the driver but guards as well.
He desperately wanted to get out of this metal hell, but with guards all around that wasn’t likely to occur. Instead he pulled his legs and right arm up and perched on top of the metal like a leopard in a tree. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was one hell of a lot better than being there in a moving vehicle. And he was at least mostly out of sight. He could see guard feet and legs and that was about all.
After a few minutes, the guards dispersed and he took a chance and lowered his head, looking to both sides. The loading area was about forty meters long and a guard had been stationed at both ends. The right-hand one was back by the loading dock, leaning against the concrete wall and smoking a cigarette. The left-hand one, however, had moved out about ten meters and was standing in what he apparently thought was a military manner. He was carefully watching the darkness beyond the loading dock. Mike briefly considered trying to sneak past him, but if anyone looked down from the loading dock, likely, or if the guard turned around, also likely, he’d be spotted.