Al-Zahrani’s aide. With all the gunfire in the background, the message had been difficult to understand. However, the critical points had been successfully conveyed by the aide: an ambush was under way, many had already been killed and urgent assistance was needed. As to the convoy’s precise location, however, the aide had been far from clear. Perhaps Al-Zahrani’s men had been disoriented with the redundant landmarks of this foreign country. Or maybe the local Al-Qaeda contact designated to navigate the convoy through the terrain had been killed at the onset of the firefight. Nonetheless, the aide had only been able to estimate that the attack had taken place four or five kilometres northwest of the intended rendezvous point.
The true locale was eleven kilometres to the northwest.
By the time the watcher had spotted the stranded trucks on the roadway, an American marine platoon had already arrived. The Americans were highly focused on clearing debris from a cave at the foot of the mountain that overlooked the roadway. Creeping in close to the encampment, the watcher had overheard them saying that five men remained trapped inside the cave. And he was hopeful that the intensity of the effort meant that Allah, in His bountiful grace, might have spared brother Al-Zahrani.
As the marines came out from the cave, the watcher’s heart raced when he saw that they’d dragged a prisoner out with them. He tightened the monocular’s zoom. Though the moon shone brightly from above, he strained to make out the prisoner’s face. Then the platoon leader briefly shined a flashlight on the prisoner. The moment the captive’s face came into view, the watcher’s instant elation quickly gave way to terror. Our leader has been captured!
The watcher scrambled up over the ridge, his legs shaking coltishly beneath him, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Since the marines routinely monitored radio communication, he was forced to use a more discreet signal to alert the rescue team. In the pale moonlight, he could see the trucks parked in the valley below. He stood high up on the outcropping designated as the signal relay spot. Then he pulled a plastic glow stick out from under his tunic, cracked it, and continuously waved the luminescent green tube side to side in wide arcs.
43
Central to Crawford’s encampment were two Compact All-weather Mobile Shelter Systems, or CAMSSs - barn-shaped, military-grade tents ten-and-a-half feet high at the eaves, twenty feet wide, thirty-two feet long, which four men could assemble in less than thirty minutes.
The first tent served the dual role of central command and billeting Crawford (not that he did much sleeping) and his staff sergeant.
Normally, the second tent stored boxed rations, and accommodated ten sleeping mats, used on rotation by the platoon detail. But Crawford had ordered the marines to clear out the sleeping area so that the space could be used for Fahim Al-Zahrani’s temporary detainment.
The prisoner sat on an empty munitions crate, his hands bound tight with a nylon double-loop security strap. A second strap looped snugly around his ankles. Two marines with M-16s stood to either side of him.
The company medic, Lance Corporal Jeremy Levin - a scrawny 31-year-old bachelor, family practitioner, and reservist from Detroit who was five months into his third tour in Iraq - sat on a crate facing Al-Zahrani. He’d already flushed the wound on Al-Zahrani’s hand with Betadine and cleaned the prisoner’s face with sanitizing wipes. But he was concerned by Al-Zahrani’s condition: clammy complexion, despondency and wheezing. So he immediately began a medical exam.
He inserted an otoscope in Al-Zahrani’s left ear, which was perforated, then the right ear, which was leaking blood and clear fluid.
Crawford was watching over his shoulder. Jason and Hazo stood behind him.
‘Hey asshole,’ Crawford said loudly to Al-Zahrani. ‘I know you speak English. Just want to let you know that I think the Geneva Convention is a load of camel shit. So don’t expect me to respect your civil liberties.’
‘The right ear shows severe tympanic perforation too,’ the medic reported, peering through the otoscope.
‘So both his eardrums are blown out?’ Jason said.
‘I’m afraid so. He must have been very close to the explosion.’
‘Not close enough,’ Crawford grunted.
‘Unless he reads lips, Colonel, he won’t understand a word you’re saying,’ Levin said. He cleaned the otoscope with a sanitizing wipe and put it back in the carrying case. Next he retrieved the opthalmoscope, flicked on its tiny light, and moved close to examine Al-Zahrani’s unblinking, blank eyes. ‘Pupils are responding just fine … no apparent neurological damage. Doesn’t appear that he’s in shock.’
‘So he’s just pretending to be mute?’ Crawford asked.
‘I’m sure he’s a bit overwhelmed, Colonel,’ the medic replied curtly as he went back to the case for an aural digital thermometer. He took the temperature in both ears and made a sour face. ‘Hmm. He seems to be running a high fever. That could explain the apathy.’
‘You telling me he caught a cold?’ Crawford said.
‘More than a cold,’ Levin replied coolly.
Apathy was an understatement, thought Jason. The world’s premier terrorist seemed lifeless. His dark, emotionless gaze remained fixed on the ground. What could he be thinking? Was he humiliated or afraid? Jason wanted him to fight … wanted him to react. He wanted to choke the life out of him.
Levin swabbed some mucus out from Al-Zahrani’s dripping nostril. ‘Not sure if this is due to the dust he inhaled, or if it’s something else. I’ll test him for the flu, just in case.’
Crawford backed up a step. ‘If this son of a bitch gets me sick …’
‘I’m sure you’ll be just fine,’ the medic said, cracking open a plastic vial and sealing the swab stick in it.
‘If Mexican pigs caused a problem, imagine what this one could be carrying,’ Crawford said.
‘Muslims aren’t permitted to handle swine,’ Levin reminded him. Next he wrapped a pressure cuff around Al- Zahrani’s left arm, put the earbuds of a stethoscope in his own ears, and used the rubber bulb to inflate the cuff. Everyone remained silent as he assessed the patient’s vitals. ‘Given all the excitement, his blood pressure is awfully low.’ He placed the stethoscope’s chest-piece over Al-Zahrani’s heart and listened intently. He moved it to the ribs and monitored the pulmonary functions. ‘He’s got a lot of obstruction in there. Lots of fluid. Probably inhaled a lot of dust.’
Not as much dust as the innocent civilians who’d been at Ground Zero, thought Jason, trying to reconcile how men like this were capable of evil on such a grand scale.
The medic removed the stethoscope, picked up Al-Zahrani’s limp hand and studied the deep, ragged puncture wounds. Already, it seemed to appear worse than only minutes ago.
‘What do you think happened to his hand?’ Jason asked.
‘Probably caught some shrapnel, or a ricochet. Could be a wound he already had. Not sure. But I don’t like how the tissue looks - this discoloration and swelling.’ He rolled up the sleeve of Al-Zahrani’s tunic, turned the arm over, and traced his gloved finger along the protruding, dark veins in the wrist and forearm. ‘Seems he’s got a nasty infection. I’ll give him some antibiotics … some ibuprofen for the fever.’
‘Why don’t you boil some tea for him while you’re at it?’ Crawford barked.
The medic’s face twisted in a knot.
Jason spoke for the medic: ‘If Washington wants to interrogate him, he won’t be very useful if he’s dead.’
‘You mean he might not be worth ten million?’ Crawford jabbed.
Jason was fast losing patience. ‘The Department of Defense’s bounty specifies “dead or alive”,’ he replied tartly. ‘I don’t have a preference. But for the sake of all parties, I’m sure we’d agree that “alive” would be preferred.’
‘You and your boys get to keep that money, isn’t that right, Yaeger?’
‘That’s right. It’s part of our incentive plan. Keeps us all motivated. So yeah, the money will be ours to keep.’
‘Must be a nice bonus,’ Crawford huffed. ‘You and your rag-head buddies can retire to Thailand and have hookers suck your balls dry till the day you die. How about the Kurd?’ he said, thumbing at Hazo, who stood close to the door. ‘You gonna cut him in on this?’
‘Absolutely. He’s part of our team.’
