the computer screen. 'Let's figure out how to do the rest of this.'
'Yes, sir,' Bicking replied as he began twirling his hair again.
TWENTY-THREE
Ibrahim sat in the driver's seat watching the power gauge as each battery was replaced. As the digital numbers increased incrementally, he tried various buttons to see how the lights, air-conditioning, and other devices worked. There were many panels and buttons he didn't understand.
Mahmoud stood beside him, leaning against the dashboard and smoking a cigarette. The Kurd's arms were crossed and his tired eyes never left the Americans in the rear of the van. Hasan was back there with them, holding a flashlight and watching what they were doing.
The other prisoners were all awake. They were sitting silently where the Kurds had left them. Katzen, Coffey, Mary Rose, and Colonel Seden were tied to the base of the passenger's side seat. Private Pupshaw was still draped over the chair at the computer station. Neither food nor water had been offered, nor had it been requested. No one had asked to go to the bathroom.
Ibrahim looked out the window. As soon as power had begun returning to the controls, he'd opened the window to let out Mahmoud's cigarette smoke. The Bedouin-grown tobacco he favored was sickly-sweet, like insect repellent. Ibrahim didn't understand how his brother could enjoy it.
But then, he didn't understand how his brother could enjoy a lot of things. Confrontations, for example. Mahmoud had genuinely liked the showdown with the American. They had both lost a little stature during that, and Ibrahim could tell that his brother was looking forward to the next one.
For his part, Ibrahim knew that this work was necessary, yet he did not enjoy it. He caught his reflection in the sideview mirror. He studied it with a curious blend of satisfaction and hatred. They had done a good job today, but what right did he have to be alive? Walid had fought so long and so diligently. Tonight he should have been thanking Allah in prayer, not in person.
As he stood looking at himself, Ibrahim noticed for the first time the side mirror itself. It was dish-like, curved to provide a wide view of the road. But the setting was also curved, far more than style would seem to dictate. Curious, he took his knife and worked it behind the mirror.
The American leader, the one called Kuhnigit, stopped what he was doing and said something to Ibrahim. Hasan said something back. The American spoke again. Ibrahim glanced back. Kuhnigit did not look as confident as he had before, and Ibrahim wondered if he was on to something. Hasan pointed back to the opening in the floor and said something in English. The American bent down and went back to work. Ibrahim kept working on the mirror.
The glass came free at the sides, but remained attached in the center. Only it wasn't glass, it was something much lighter. Almost like silvery cellophane. Ibrahim leaned out the window and had a look at it. There was something behind it — a horn of some kind. It looked like a transmitter.
No, he thought, not a transmitter. A radio dish like the big ones they used in the Air Force.
Ibrahim replaced the mirror and looked back. The American had stopped replacing the batteries and was glaring at him. Hasan was saying, 'Work—
The American stood unsteadily on his bound feet for just a moment, then leaned against one of the dark computer stations. Hasan walked over, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him back to the pit.
Ibrahim climbed from the seat. He tapped his knife in his open palm. 'There's something wrong here,' he said to Mahmoud.
Mahmoud sucked on his cigarette, then ground it out on the floor. 'What could be wrong, other than the worm's pace of the American?'
'I don't know,' said Ibrahim. 'If I were to let my imagination go, I would say that the frame of that mirror appears to be a very small radio transmitter.' He swept the knife point across the van. 'And there are all of these computers and monitors. Suppose they are not used for finding buried cities. Suppose these people are not scientists and guards. Suppose all of this is a disguise.'
Mahmoud stood up suddenly. The exhaustion seemed to leave him. 'Go on, my brother.'
Ibrahim pointed the knife at Rodgers. 'That man didn't act like a scientist. He knew just how far to go when you threatened the girl.'
'As if he'd done this before, you mean,' Mahmoud said.
'Everyone has even been very quiet,' Ibrahim said. 'No one has pleaded or asked for a drink.' He pointed from Pupshaw to DeVonne. 'Those two took their bondage without complaint.'
'As though they had been trained,' Mahmoud said. 'And would security guards have secreted themselves as these two did?'
'Not security guards,' said Ibrahim, 'but commandos.' Mahmoud looked around the dark van as though he were seeing it for the first time. 'But if not for research, then what is this place?'
'A reconnaissance station of some kind,' Ibrahim said tentatively. Then, more confidently, he said, 'Yes. I believe it could be.'
Mahmoud grasped his brother's arms. 'Praised by the Prophet, we can use such a thing—'
'No!' said Ibrahim. 'No—'
'But it can help to get us out of Turkey,' Mahmoud said. 'Perhaps we can listen to military communications.'
'Or they to us,' Ibrahim replied. 'And not from the ground but from up there.' He pointed at the sideview mirror with the knife. 'It is quite possible that they are already watching us, waiting to see where we move.'
Mahmoud looked from his brother to Rodgers, who was bent over the pit in the floor and had resumed working on the batteries.
Rodgers stopped working again. He didn't get up.
'Hasan!' Mahmoud shouted.. 'Tell the American that I know what this vehicle is. Tell him I wish to know how it works.' Mahmoud sneered, 'And tell him that this time he has until I count to three.'
TWENTY-FOUR
Lieutenant Robert Essex was waiting for Colonel August when the Striker chopper set down at Andrews Air Force Base. The lieutenant handed him a diskette with a pressure-sensitive piece of silver tape on top. Only August's thumbprint on the diskette, scanned by his computer, would allow him to access the data.
While August accepted the diskette, Sergeant Chick Grey hustled the sixteen-soldier Striker team onto the C-141B. A converted C-141A Lockheed StarLifter, the C141B had a fuselage which was 168 feet and four inches long — twenty-three feet, four inches longer than its predecessor. The retooling of the aircraft added flight-refueling equipment which increased the troop carrier's normal operating range of 4,080 miles.
The aircraft's crew of five helped the Strikers stow their gear. Less than eight minutes after the soldiers had arrived, the four powerful Pratt & Whitney turbofans carried the jet into the skies.
Colonel August knew that Lieutenant Colonel Squires used to chat with the crew about everything from favorite novels to flavored coffee. August understood how that could relax the team and make them feel closer and
