up?”
Bosco hunched his shoulders. “DamnifIknow, dude.”
Leopole stood at the front of the room. “Listen up, people!” The chatter and speculation instantly died away. “I just had some good news from General Hardesty in Islamabad.” He paused for effect, then grinned again. “J. J. Johnson is alive! Marsh is flying him here this afternoon.”
The room erupted in shouts, cheers, and male barks. Bosco and Breezy exchanged multiple high fives. Padgett-Smith, standing alone at the back, raised both hands to her mouth. Her violet eyes misted over.
Questions snapped toward Leopole, who had to wave down the increasing din.
“Alright, alright! Settle down!” When silence returned, he began the tale. “General Hardesty spoke to Johnson via land line, so all I know is what he told me. Briefly, J. J. was held and tortured in a remote area near Chaman. Somehow — I don’t know how yet — he killed a guard and escaped.” At that word, the calm evaporated again.
Leopole allowed himself a grin at the sentiment. “After that, Johnson made his way overland to the border, which was closer than the next Pakistan town. The terrorists were waiting for him near Spin Buldak and it turned into a running gun battle. But he made it to the border station and was able to call the embassy.”
Jeffrey Malten stood up. “Colonel, what’s J. J.’s condition?”
“Well, he’s strong enough to climb hills and run some distance. Buster… General Hardesty… said he’d been badly whipped and will need a hospital. But J. J. wanted to come here before anything else. And we need to debrief him.”
More questioners waved for attention but Leopole decided enough was enough. Besides, he intended to treat himself to some discretely stashed Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.
“There he is!” Jeff Malten’s exclamation stated the obvious to the SSI crowd.
Jeremy Johnson appeared in the door of the Hip as Eddie Marsh shut down the engines. Wearing a borrowed flight suit, Johnson accepted help from the crew chief and descended to the tarmac. Stooped over, he walked carefully beyond the rotor diameter to a raucous reception.
As the troops crowded around him, Johnson raised his hands. “Hi guys. Don’t touch my back. It’s a mess.”
Taking his directions literally, some of the operators scooped up the returnee and carried him shoulder high to the hangar. The abrasions on his legs were rubbed painfully, but Jeremy Johnson, late of the Foreign Legion, did not care.
Once in the office, Malten and Padgett-Smith convinced Johnson to allow them to see his wounds. As he peeled off his flight suit and shirt, the giddy mood changed instantly. It seemed that the ambient temperature dropped fifteen degrees.
“Oh, Jeremy,” CPS muttered.
“Ah, shit, man.” Malten’s tone matched hers.
Johnson winced, then said, “I sorta got used to it. The back of my legs and… butt… also got worked over.”
The salve previously applied to the long, deep welts clung to the thin shirt. Malten exchanged glances with Padgett-Smith. “It’s best not to use salves on lacerations,” the medic said. “You can, like, use Neosporin but that’s usually for developed infections.”
Padgett-Smith offered, “Some soap and warm water is best to start. Maybe some Keflex for later, if it’s available. It’s a good antibiotic.”
As Malten worked on him, Johnson turned his focus to Leopole and Mohammed.
“Colonel, you need to know. I told them everything. I mean, not everything I knew, but everything they asked.” His voice turned to a croak. “I… I couldn’t take any more.”
“My god, J. J. Nobody could stand that. Not half of it.”
Padgett-Smith sought to alleviate some of Johnson’s grief. “Jeremy. You need hospital treatment. No wonder…”
He interrupted her. “The head guy put a knife to my eyes and said he’d blind me if I didn’t talk. I believed him, Colonel. I…” He began to sob.
Padgett-Smith wanted to hug the young American. But she merely placed a hand on his good shoulder.
Mohammed touched Johnson’s knee. “Jeremy, believe me. Nobody thinks ill of you.
Johnson inhaled deeply, rubbing his watery eyes with one hand. “I know, sir. I know…”
Mohammed continued, “Do you feel like talking? We can debrief you later if you like.”
A decisive shake of the head. “No, Doctor. I want to get it out. All of it. Go ahead.”
“This head man, who was he?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me his name. He asked questions, not answered them. But he spoke good English.”
Leopole asked, “What did he look like?”
“Oh, mid to late forties. I think he was kind of tall, though he sat most of the time. Long, thin face with a full beard.”
“We’ll have some mug shots for you a bit later.” He stopped, then asked in as sympathetic a voice as possible, “J. J., what did they want to know?”
“They already knew about SSI, and they thought we’re involved in chemical or biological work. But…”
“Yes?”
Johnson turned his head toward CPS. “They wanted to know about Dr. Padgett-Smith.”
She sucked in her breath. A hand went to her throat. “Oh my god. How did they know my name?”
“They didn’t say, ma’am. But when I tried to stall, they whipped me even harder. Then the head guy grabbed my hair and said he’d cut my eyes out. So I told him what I knew.”
Mohammed sat beside Johnson, sensing the younger man’s self-imposed guilt. “Jeremy, this man. You said he spoke good English.”
“Yeah. He’s fluent.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
“Sure, he’s Pakistani far as I know.”
“No, I mean, did he have a foreign accent? Something other than Pakistani.” Johnson stared at the floor, trying to conjure the tonal nuances. He raised his head. “He has sort of a British accent.”
Leopole looked at Mohammed. “What do you think, Doctor?”
“Just a moment. I’ll be right back.”
As Mohammed left the room, Malten continued working on Johnson. “J. J., can you stand up? I’ll see what I can do for your… lower back.”
Padgett-Smith took the hint. “I’ll see if I can help Omar.”
She caught him returning from the room that served as administrative office. “Omar, do you think that…”
“Great minds, Doctor. We’ll find out.”
When Malten finished his medical chores, Mohammed laid a file binder on Leopole’s desk. “Jeremy, this is from Major Khan. It includes photos of some known and suspected al Qaeda operatives and others of interest to us. Do you recognize any of them?”
Johnson flipped the pages, studying each face in turn. He paused at the eighth one. “This could be one of the bastards that whipped me. Kinda hard to say, though.”
As Mohammed made a note of the suspect’s name, Johnson continued looking, moving faster. Near the end of the file he came to an abrupt stop. He felt his pulse spike.
“I think that’s him.”
“The head guy?” Leopole asked.
Johnson looked again. “Yes, sir. He’s older, and he’s got more of a beard, but I’d bet that’s him.”
“How certain are you, J. J.?”
“Eighty-nine percent, sir.”
