Authors: R.D. Power
That news raised a murmur among the reporters. “The inspectors brought back the shocking news that terrorists had a store of a deadly smallpox strain that they planned to release against our soldiers and our cities. This strain, which apparently originated in Russia, has no effective vaccine or cure. It spreads through the air. Deaths could have well gone into the millions.” She continued with various details, including confirmation that “two Saudis were captured trying to leave a secret underground bunker. They had rashes on their face. One tried to charge at our soldiers and was shot and killed; the other is in custody. Our scientists have confirmed both were infected with the bioengineered small pox … The building over the bunker exploded as our troops surrounded it. We believe the virus was destroyed in the explosion, but we’ll continue to monitor the situation closely.”
She turned over the podium to the eloquent Irish inspector, Mr. Kennedy, who’d been selected as the spokesman for the group. He told of what occurred, highlighting their rescue by a small American contingent. He was spare with specific information, fearful of leaking details of American spy technology.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he opened, “imagine for a moment what life would be like if you were afraid to go out of your own home, if you were afraid to let your children go out to play or go to school, if you were afraid to breathe the very air around us. Imagine a world where you knew you might be carrying a deadly pathogen that you might transmit to your loved ones just by kissing them or anyone else simply by breathing near them. That is the execrable world we narrowly averted yesterday. Few alive have seen what depredation smallpox wreaks on a human being. It is a horrible way to go. Against this particular strain, there was said to be no vaccine and no cure. Millions would have suffered untold agony if it got out.
“There were several indispensable links in the chain that restrained this monster. The first was a brave Iraqi scientist—we don’t even know his name—who leaked the news to Herr Shtern, the second link who passed it on to the rest of us inspectors. Mr. Shtern died for his valor. Our team of inspectors constituted the third link; we had to find a way to get the news out to the world so the terrorists could be stopped. The fourth was the American team that spotted the truck that took us to an abandoned sanatorium. The fifth was the soldiers on the ground who fought to free us and keep us safe.
“Among them were twelve American soldiers who were sent to determine if we were at the sanatorium. At least nine of those brave young men died. Two of them, at great risk to their own lives, got the news out; the one who made the call perished for his incredible heroism.
“The final link was the American and British soldiers that besieged the building where the smallpox was stored and ensured the destruction of the virus. Without each and every one of these links, we would be living in the abhorrent world I mentioned, and we would all know what real terror is.”
In closing, Mr. Kennedy remarked, “We inspectors want to express our heartfelt thanks to the soldiers who risked their lives to free us, and much more important, to bring our intelligence about the smallpox to light. We stand in sorrow with the families who have lost their loved ones and with those who return injured. May God bless them all; they did his work. We are personally indebted to four young soldiers who exhibited such courage and such ingenuity to get our news out to the people who eliminated the threat, and to take us back to safety. One died making the critical phone call. One came back with us injured, but he’ll recover. As we were all about to be rescued by the American helicopter, the other two spotted a truck with a rocket and instead of coming with us, stayed behind to destroy the rocket so our helicopter could get away. They are missing. We pray for their safe return.”
He took questions from the media. Among the questions: “Can you identify the American soldiers?”
He responded, “They are a part of a special unit that favors secrecy, but in this case the government has left it up to the families of the departed soldiers whether or not to be identified.”
A British camera crew had caught Haziz on film as he was being carried off the helicopter. He was subsequently identified and lionized by the American media. Later, the families of Hendrix and Fernandez gave permission to release their sons’ identities, feeling their memories could only benefit by being draped in glory. Fernandez and Hendrix were posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor. Haziz was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross until a public outcry by Muslim-Americans netted him a Medal of Honor as well. Owens could not be identified by policy of Delta Force. The media employed all their ingenuity to find out who the fourth soldier was. They asked their customary contacts, and no one knew, so they were at a dead end. Mr. Kennedy, however, triggered excitement in Canada when he stated in an interview that the soldier in question identified himself as American and Canadian.
When Mr. Kennedy mentioned the young soldier in the American Special Forces was Canadian, Kristen knew it was Robert. Tears welled in her eyes out of pride for what he had accomplished, and fear for his safety. She passed the news on to her parents and brother. She also called Kim to inform her. Kim, too, was thrilled about Robert’s heroics, but worried about what became of him.
Exhausted, Kristen went back to her room, put on headphones and played the recording she’d made of his serenade to her an incredibly long two years ago.
•
Few would expect that terrorists who would ponder releasing smallpox into the world would abide by the terms of the Geneva Conventions, and even these dense few would be disabused as they witnessed the beating Owens suffered at the hands of his captors. After being seized, he was transported to an Iraqi prison and thrown into a cell. Soon thereafter, the guards grabbed the scared man and took him to a small room, where they handcuffed his hands to a hook on the wall above his head, and proceeded to use him as a punching bag for twenty-five minutes or so, softening him up for the coming interrogation. The interrogator, an Iraqi terrorist, came in and motioned for them to cease.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Sergeant Robert Owens, U.S. Army, serial number—”
“Shut up! I don’t care about your serial number. What were you doing here?”
“Sergeant Robert Owens, U.S.—” As he began his response, the soldiers began hitting him again. After a few minutes, they desisted.
“Now, again, Sergeant, what were you doing here?” Same answer, same result, same question. This went on for what seemed to Robert like hours, but was closer to eighteen minutes. By now spitting blood and bleeding from the nose and several other areas, Robert decided to cooperate a little. Even if he told the truth, it wouldn’t matter to anyone but himself since the inspectors were already out of danger, but he cared about himself. The truth might earn him a painful death.
“Twelve of us—American soldiers, I mean—were sent to check on the sanatorium to see if the UN weapons inspectors were being held there, but when it came time to go in I, I ran away. I’m so ashamed. They called to me and told me to get back, but, I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop running …”
The interrogator nodded to the guards, and the beating recommenced. “Do you think we’re fools?” the interrogator asked as the beating went on. “You went into the building with the others, liberated the prisoners, and hid them somewhere. Where are they?”
“I’m not lying to you. I ran away.” The interrogator took some pliers and casually snapped one of Robert’s fingers on his left hand. He screamed in agony. The Iraqi asked again the whereabouts of the inspectors. Robert said he didn’t know. This time the pliers went to his right hand, his pitching hand, and his eyes grew bigger still. The interrogator broke the index and middle fingers. Robert shrieked and blacked out.
They wheeled up a contraption next to him and switched it on. Then they moved a bucket of ice cold water under him, rolled up his pant legs, and lifted his bare feet into it, which shocked him back to consciousness. They tore off his shirt. Robert’s eyes widened as he got fearful for his life. The interrogator picked up two leads, attached one to his leg and touched the other to his stomach. He jumped and groaned in pain as electricity coursed through his body.
“Once again, Sergeant Owens, where are the inspectors?”
Poor Robert would certainly have told them, but thinking the truth would mean his death, he suffered through several more progressively intense jolts. Between assaults he quietly wept. Eventually, he passed out.
Minutes later, he awoke, a pail of cold water having been poured over his head. The interrogator stepped away and said something to one of the guards standing outside of the cell. That guard, a regular Iraqi army soldier, left, but soon returned with another American prisoner. The prisoner, a corporal, had been beaten brutally. He was forced to his knees and was whimpering. The interrogator instructed the guard to put his pistol to the back of the corporal’s head; his glistening, black eyes bespoke confusion, pain, and terror.
“Now, Sergeant Owens, once again, where are the inspectors? Mind, if you lie, this man will die.”
Seeing no option, Robert told him everything.
After Robert finished, the interrogator nodded at the guard. The guard looked at his superior with a pleading look as if to say, “Don’t make me do this!” The next gesture made the sentence unmistakable. He shot, and the soldier fell dead.
“No!” screamed Robert. The guard turned away in despair. “I told you everything. I told you the truth. You murdered him, you fucking animal!” Robert’s chest expanded and contracted with convulsive sobs. The guard was told to fetch something else. His face again showed dismay.
The interrogator took out his pistol and put it up to Robert’s temple. “Tell me now or die!” he said.
“I swear to God I told you the truth! You executed him for nothing. The inspectors were taken away by one of our choppers at 1:15. I swear, I’m telling the truth!” the terrified man wailed.
“Last chance!” he warned as he squeezed the trigger.
“God help me, I told you everything!” The man pulled the trigger. It clicked. No bullet.
As Robert continued weeping, the interrogator said, “You are a brave man, Sergeant Owens. I’m impressed that you are willing to die to protect the inspectors.” The guard returned, and the sadistic fiend took what he brought back. Holding up a long hypodermic needle filled with a liquid, he said, “Do you know what this is?” The traumatized man shook his head no. “This is a vial of the virus HIV. Do you know of it?” The panicked man nodded his head yes. “No drugs will suppress AIDS with this much virus. Now tell me where the inspectors are, or I will inject this into you. Within two months, you will develop full-blown AIDS. Before six months, you will have suffered a horrible, drawn-out death. Now tell me!”
“For God’s sake, I told you the truth!”
The interrogator brandished the needle in front of Robert’s eyes. Someone came in and whispered something to the interrogator, then left. Enraged, the interrogator punched Robert in his broken nose. He put his face right up to Robert’s and said, bitterly, “I am told the inspectors are at an American base, so you weren’t brave after all; you cracked like a sniveling coward.”
He continued to wave the needle in minatory fashion. “We get a lot of American news here. You know what I hate most? When they say so many hundred people died in the Gulf War or in the latest war—whatever the puppets on American television are calling it—when actually it was so many hundred thousand. Only the hundreds are Americans or their allies, and the hundreds of thousands are Iraqis; as if we aren’t people, as if killing a hundred of you is a criminal act, but killing a hundred thousand of us is nothing! You started this war, not us. It is you who are the aggressors. You think I am evil for doing this to you, and for killing that soldier. Look at him.
“Look!” said the monster as he yanked Robert’s head around to see the corpse. “Multiply him by a thousand and you know our losses, our pain. You killed untold numbers of us. For what? What did we do to America?” Robert’s eyes betrayed his panic. “This is for all my brothers that you killed,” the interrogator said as he took the needle and placed it against his arm.
“No!” said Robert. “Please!” The interrogator pushed the needle into his arm. “Oh, God no! Please don’t,” he cried. The man injected the liquid. Robert wept the profound tears of a shattered and doomed man. He blacked out.
Hours later, he awoke with a start. He was on the cold floor, which doubled as his bed. The pain was so intense, he couldn’t even move. With dread, he suddenly recalled the needle. So distraught was he to be alive, his crying began once more. He was in such bad shape then, he soon fainted again and stayed unconscious for many hours.
Upon reviving, Robert struggled to lift his head to see where he was. Any movement sent a pang of pain through his body. He anxiously moved or felt various parts of his body to see what damage had been done. It felt as if some ribs on his left side might be broken. Three fingers were broken, two on his pitching hand. He briefly panicked about that, but then with a bitter chuckle remembered,
I’m done for and I’m worrying about my pitching career.
He couldn’t open his right eye; it was too swollen. His face was throbbing, his nose was broken, his jaw was dislocated; two molars had been knocked out. Later, three hairline fractures were discovered in his cheeks.
Through his left eye, he determined he was alone in a small cell. There was a small basin—his toilet—in the corner. Beside it was a cup. So severe was his thirst at that time, he dragged himself to it, every thrust eliciting a muffled cry as his sore body protested the movement. Finally, he covered the six feet only to discover the cup was empty. As guards occasionally walked by, he would lift the cup up as far as he could and attempt to ask for water, but his dry throat would permit no sound through. A while later, a guard slid a small bowl of gruel and a cup of water into his cell. Lugging himself over to it, he drank down the water. Nothing had ever tasted so good.