Part 31 (2/2)

But Ali bin Pacha had other ideas. He suddenly pushed himself to his feet and launched himself at Bian, who was paying too much attention to our conversation and not enough to the guy her back was turned to.

He yanked the M16 from her hands and spun. It happened so suddenly that, before I could move, I was staring down a gun barrel.

I saw that it was pointed at my face, and in the brief instant I had to observe his eyes and face, I saw that his diffidence had disappeared; his lips were curled into a nasty smile, and his dark eyes were blazing with intense hatred.

I squeezed shut my eyes and heard a shot, amazed that I didn't feel my brains fly out the back of my skull.

When I opened my eyes, bin Pacha stood with his weapon pointed at the floor, and he was looking back at me with equal amazement. He sank to his knees and the M16 fell out of his hands.

I was yelling, ”Don't shoot him. s.h.i.+t . . . don't shoot him him.” Well, Eric had already shot him.

I walked over and kicked the M16 out of bin Pacha's reach. He was teetering on his knees, and he stared into my eyes, then down at his stomach at the dark blood leaking out of a small hole in his s.h.i.+rt. He looked a little surprised, and a lot annoyed.

I shoved him on his back and got down on my knees and pressed down hard with my right hand on his wound. I said to n.o.body and everybody, ”Get me a field dressing. Now.”

Bian handed me a dressing. She asked, ”How bad is it?”

”I don't know. It's not pumping, right? So it's not arterial. That's good. But something vital inside might be punctured.” I tore open his T-s.h.i.+rt and examined the location of the wound. He was going into shock, mumbling incoherently, perhaps curses, perhaps prayers.

The hole was about three inches to the left of his navel. I tried to recall from my high school biology days which internal organs were located in this region. Kidneys? Spleen? Intestines, probably, and that meant a high likelihood of infection. Also, I remembered from personal experience that, as wounds go, this one really really hurt. hurt.

I reached a hand underneath him and felt around. No exit wound. So the good news was there was only one exterior wound through which he could bleed to death; the bad news was he almost certainly was was bleeding to death, internally. bleeding to death, internally.

I placed the field dressing over the hole in his stomach and wrapped the tie-offs around his back, then knotted them tightly.

As I did, Eric and his men used green rags to gag the men, field-dressed their wounds, and attached police-style plastic cuffs to their wrists. In less than a minute, everybody was gagged and wrapped, and their bleeding was stemmed, which would put one point back on the board at a war crimes tribunal.

I glanced at Bian, who looked back and nodded. This was neither the time nor the place to discuss it, but we both knew our relations.h.i.+p had just changed.

Eric's men hoisted Nervous Nellie and Ali bin Pacha over their shoulders and hauled them out of the room. We departed directly behind them, leaving behind a corpse, two wounded men, and a bad memory.

Evidently, Eric had already alerted his people that it was time to egress, because two cars--the silver sedan and the cramped red Corolla--were idling curbside by the entrance.

Nervous Nellie was thrown roughly in the trunk of the silver car, and I helped place bin Pacha upright in the backseat of the Corolla, where I could keep a close eye on his vital signs.

We all piled into the cars, and Eric punched the pedal and burned rubber.

Eric had his night-vision goggles on and the car's headlights off. He was pus.h.i.+ng at least forty through narrow streets with sharp turns that were unsafe at twenty. I couldn't tell which was the more imminent threat, a bunch of p.i.s.sed-off jihadis or Eric's lead foot. Then I recalled how jihadis handle prisoners and said to Eric, ”Faster.”

Bian and I sat on both sides of Ali bin Pacha, and with all the sharp turns, he was being tossed between us like a broken rag doll.

In less than three minutes the buildings thinned out and we were back in the outskirts of the city. I'm usually good at remembering places I've been, and saw no recognizable landmarks, so this wasn't the same way we entered--presumably Eric was following good trade-craft and varying our route. I overheard him conversing with his team, and it sounded like one or two of the other teams were trailing us, guarding our back door to be sure we made it out with our cargo.

Bian said not a word. I felt no need to tell her how I felt. I was p.i.s.sed; she knew it. Not only had she shot the prisoners, she had compounded her sins with inexcusable carelessness and twice allowed the bad guys to get the drop on her. The second time nearly got my head blown off; I take this personally. Also, our precious prisoner might not live long enough for an interrogation, this whole trip might be a waste of time, and Phyllis and I were going to have a long, one-way conversation.

Anyway, we now were out of the built-up area, bouncing along the same dusty road we took into the city, and I realized that Eric had somehow found a way to take us back through the lines of Captain Yuknis's company. I checked my watch: 3:20. I relaxed. Okay, Ali bin Pacha might expire before we got to Baghdad, but that aside, the worst was behind us. What more could go wrong?

Well, one shouldn't test the fates, because suddenly we were bathed in lights, and Eric hit the brakes hard enough that bin Pacha flew forward and slammed headfirst into a seat back.

The lights shut off nearly as quickly as they'd flashed on, and an American voice yelled, ”Driver, out of the car. Hands above your head.”

Eric stepped out again. This time, however, rather than the tall, lean silhouette of Captain Yuknis, the figure approaching through the darkness was short and squat, he moved with an affected John Waynish swagger, and he was accompanied by a pair of large Marines pointing M16s at Eric.

I rolled down my window and could overhear Eric and the officer speaking; arguing, actually. A minute pa.s.sed, and things were not improving. Eric's voice was getting louder, and his interrogator's tone was turning nastier, and more imperious.

Great. I was here because my duplicitous boss outwitted me, my partner had just committed a war crime, my prisoner was probably bleeding to death, and--well, you get the picture.

I needed to vent, and this situation--and this guy--would do nicely.

I threw open the car door. ”Sean, don't . . .” Bian insisted. ”Please, leave this to Eric.”

”Shut up.”

I stepped out of the car and began walking toward Eric. In the near distance I heard the sound of M16 charging handles being c.o.c.ked, and a little late, I recalled my Arab clothing. I stopped, reached into my pocket, withdrew my little American flag, and began frantically waving it, even as I slowly and carefully pulled the abaya over my head and set it on the ground.

The officer was yelling in Eric's face, ”I really don't give a s.h.i.+t who you say say you are, or who you you are, or who you claim claim you coordinated this with. I'm--” you coordinated this with. I'm--”

”Captain Yuknis. I told you.”

”Yuknis was called to a meeting at the Tactical Operations Center. I'm in charge now, and I'm placing you and that car under military custody. And yes, it will be searched. Explain your story to an interrogator when one becomes available.”

”The car can't be searched.”

And so on.

I approached the officer and directed the beam of my flashlight first at his chest, then on his collar. His nametag read Berry, and he sported the black bar of a first lieutenant, indicating he was Captain Yuknis's second in command.

I then s.h.i.+fted the beam to the lieutenant's face and was surprised by how youthful, actually baby-faced, he was. The longer I've stayed in, the more I've noticed that lieutenants are becoming younger and younger. But the junior officer in the military is an interesting creature, endowed with powers and responsibilities that far outstrip his experience and wisdom level. Some respond to this gap with intelligent humility, some with a self-destructive insecurity, and others by the silly illusion that it is deserved. Had I not guessed where Lieutenant Berry fell on this spectrum, he barked, ”Get that d.a.m.ned light out of my eyes.”

I replied, good-naturedly, ”Good morning, Lieutenant Berry. Fine day, don't you think?”

”Who are you?” he demanded in a nasty tone.

”You're the executive officer of this company, right?”

”Who the f.u.c.k are you?” he repeated.

”If it was your business, don't you think I would've answered the first time?”

”Oh . . . a wisea.s.s,” he said, showing surprising perceptiveness. After a moment, he ordered, ”Put your hands over your head.”

”Why would I want to do that?”

”Because I'm ordering you to.”

”Silly reason.”

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