Rassad’s manner changed dramatically, the facial expression eased, and he became a quiet diplomat. “I will make a brief statement, then you can ask questions.”
The cameraman pointed and Rassad began. “The people of Iraq have been greatly shocked by the news that Brigadier General Bradley Middleton of the United States Marine Corps has been kidnapped. We also have been shamed by the outrageous claim that this crime was committed by the Holy Scimitar of Allah. As a humble representative of the Holy Scimitar, I want to denounce that falsehood in the strongest way possible. As everyone knows, the Holy Scimitar is a benevolent society, much like the American Red Cross, and is dedicated to the health and welfare of the Iraqi people. It has no connection whatsoever with any terrorists. We were not involved with the kidnapping of General Middleton and we reject those who have tarnished our good name. They are thugs and beyond the protection of the Koran’s teachings.” The sheikh paused and stared into the camera. “We had no hand in this.”
Shepherd had a hard time keeping his face straight and professional. Great stuff, and the sheikh had adroitly danced around the Holy Scimitar’s violent history. “Do you know who did it?”
“Unfortunately, no, we do not. But our security people have uncovered something which we feel we must convey publicly to your government. We did not contact them directly because while we wish the general no harm, we do not work for the Americans. I contacted you, Mr. Shepherd, because I consider you to be an honest broker of this information.”
“What is the message?” Shepherd was glowing inside. That unsolicited compliment, plus this invitation to interview the sheikh, would play well in the upcoming negotiations to renew his contract. He damned sure was not going to screw this up now by challenging the sheikh about the real reputation of the vicious militia.
“Evil men are planning to execute General Middleton before a television camera at noon on Tuesday. He is to be stoned to death in symbolic retribution for the destruction American forces have wrought. The true villain in this horrible episode is al Qaeda.”
Shepherd was shocked. “Can you prove that, Sheikh Rassad?”
“Yes.” He removed a white envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “After we finish speaking, the Holy Scimitar will turn over to a Swiss diplomat this written message that was delivered from an al Qaeda messenger only a few hours ago. It claims to contain details known only to someone who participated in the kidnapping. Beyond that, it gives only the time of the execution and says there will be no negotiations.”
Rassad eased back into his chair as Shepherd said something inane to close the interview. As the lights went off, both men unclipped their mikes and Rassad took him by the elbow, steering him away. “Now you must go to our press center and file your report, John. Please hurry, for I consider this to be extremely important, and perhaps you can save the life of General Middleton. When Washington calls, as I am sure they will, you can tell them from me personally that we are digging hard for any information that could be helpful and will pass along anything we find immediately. Now go, go! When you are done, we will have lunch. I want to talk about the coming football season.”
Sheikh Ali Shalal Rassad was satisfied. This was Arab politics at its best, built on shifting sands, bargaining in which something could be nothing, or anything. Gordon Gates had paid him a hundred thousand dollars for assisting in the capture of General Middleton and meeting with the reporter. Buying Rassad’s help was not the same as getting his allegiance. Gates was a comrade of convenience. Rassad was now moving to convince Washington that the danger to the general was great, but that he wasn’t involved at all. They were always ready to believe that al Qaeda was at fault, which meant that those radical fools who were trying to weaken his hold on Basra would be hit hard again by the Americans. As a further goodwill gesture, he would have the Holy Scimitar sweep up a couple of al Qaeda operatives tonight and turn them over to the CIA and further rid him of that nuisance.
Ali Shalal Rassad walked down a cool, tiled hallway toward his living quarters, pulling at the confining necktie. He had time for a nap before the reporter finished filing and joined him for a late lunch.
CHAPTER 15
PREPARE FOR LANDING.” THE anonymous voice on the public address system woke him up, and Swanson tightened the belts holding him in the uncomfortable seat. He was aboard a twin-engine Grumman C-1A, technically called a Carrier On-board Delivery System, but familiarly known to all as a COD. Many of the twenty-eight passenger seats were occupied by young sailors and Marines returning to the huge CVN-71 after spending a shore leave as drunk as skunks. The seats faced the rear of the plane, which created a disoriented feeling of flying backward and severe cases of motion sickness and a need for extra barf bags. A hangover combined with a COD ride is just too much for most human stomachs to handle at dawn on Sunday morning.
The pilot lowered his flaps and gunned the twin Allison engines, and the COD fell out of the sky, the tailhook catching the three-wire across the deck of the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Swanson was jerked hard against the seatbelts as the plane went from 120 knots to flat zero in only 60 feet. Since the insides of the passengers underwent the same rate of instant deceleration, it felt like the stomach was coming out of the mouth, and a young sailor down the aisle puked noisily, starting a chain reaction.
It took a few minutes for the COD to be released from the wire and taxi to a parking place on the broad deck; then the side door opened and sea air poured inside to remove the stench of fresh vomit. The awkward-looking CODs ran regular missions out to the carriers to deliver personnel and supplies, and Swanson was just part of the day’s cargo being hauled from the U.S. Air Force Base at Injerlek, Turkey, out to the carrier battle group steaming in the western Mediterranean Sea.
Shari had received her summons to return to Washington two hours before a duty officer called on Kyle on his cell phone, ordering him to return to the fleet as soon as possible. All leaves were cancelled. Shari pointed out that she was called first because she was much more important to world peace and protecting the nation. Sir Jeff had directed the Vagabond to Naples at a speed that would allow Shari and Kyle to catch flights out first thing Saturday morning, yet slow enough to make time for a final fantastic dinner aboard and a night together. The yacht trip had been a balm for both of them, a rare occasion that stitched their relationship even tighter, and leaving her in Naples had been difficult, but they parted knowing they would have plenty of tomorrows. For now, it was time to get into a warrior frame of mind and concentrate on business.
He waited until everyone else was off the COD before waddling down the aisle, carrying Excalibur in a gun case in one hand and a Val Pak suitcase in the other. Swanson stepped out through the hatch and down the small metal stairway. Wind howled across the flight deck, which was busier than a Wal-Mart at Christmas and smelled like jet fuel and oil.
“Are you one Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson?” The question was yelled in a deep voice that pierced the chaos of the flight deck by a Marine top sergeant whose head was scraped clean of hair.
“Who the fuck is asking?”
“I am God Almighty as far as you are concerned, you piece of pond scum. Fear me!”
“Fear. Right. Here, Double-Oh, catch.” He tossed him the Val Pak. The other Marine grabbed it with one big paw, laughed, and clapped Kyle on the shoulder.
“Come on. We ain’t waiting around on this barge. They sent me over from the Wasp to fetch you, and our chariot awaits over yonder.” Master Sergeant Orville Oliver Dawkins of Pratt, Kansas, pointed across the deck to where a boxy UN-1H helicopter was warming up, the big rotor whomping the air around it. They went over to the port edge and down a couple of ladders and entered the subterranean, pipe-laced caverns that were filled with planes and busy crew members in different-colored jerseys. Mechanics and technicians burrowed into the parked aircraft.