Chapter Two
A thin sliver of pale light barely diffused the Stygian atmosphere in the cellar where the twelve American hostages were incarcerated. The murkiness prevented the captives from distinguishing between night and day. It was hot. The air did not circulate very well; it had become quite fetid and malodorous. It was too much of an effort to say more than a few words at any time. So, no one spoke. The food, whenever the guards thought about feeding the prisoners, was constant in one respect: it was foul-smelling, rank, and sparse. The greasy lamb, covered by rice and camel milk, made the captives’ stomachs growl and churn. All in all, hell seemed an acceptable alternative.
It had been this way since their capture five days before. No one in the group could figure out the reason, no one could imagine anyone stupid enough to hold Westerners as hostages, an act that was guaranteed to bring reprisal. What was the point? It could only be for money, money that could easily be gotten by other, safer means—robbing banks, for instance. The Sudanese soldiers who had surrounded the bus and who had herded the prisoners into this hellhole, probably did not know either. The dumb brutes were just following orders, just as unthinking militants had done for centuries. All those thoughts whirled through the slender blonde’s mind as she huddled in the dark corner, the furthest from the door.
This had been her first tour of duty with the American Human Rights Committee which had sponsored the ill-fated Quixotic attempt at rescuing prisoners from slavery. She could not give herself a logical reason why she had taken a leave of absence from her job as chief aide to California’s Senator Ashton and signed on with the humanitarians. Did she do it out of guilt, engendered by reports coming into her office? Did she do it out of a sense of adventure? Did she do it because life was a bore, a bit too conformist, a bit too sedentary? She could not answer truthfully. At the moment she would have paid a million dollars for a hot bath. The blonde smiled and thought to herself that she was cracking up.
She was amazed that she and her companions had survived. Once again, she thought about the reason or reasons for the ambush just after the price for the slaves had been accepted by the terrorists. Her heart had gone out to the hundred children they had shepherded through the camp and into trucks for the long ride out of the area and on the way to safe havens further south. The twelve Americans never had a chance to dwell on their brave act. They had rolled into the camp at the last moment. It seemed to Summer that the kidnappers formed a separate entity that did not belong with the outfit with whom the Committee had negotiated. She could not understand any of it. It looked so senseless. Then again, she reflected, nothing made sense anymore, anywhere in the world. With a jolt she realized she was growing up, that someone had said the same things to her such a long time ago.
As she hunkered down amidst the squalor and filth, her long blond hair now greasy and matted, her expressive mouth closed tightly, her eyes dark and bewildered, her cheeks smudged, her uniform ripped, her slacks and blouse mud covered, a name popped into her mind. It just as quickly disappeared. Scott was out of the negotiating business, had been for some time ever since—. She stopped thinking about her ex-husband. Speculating about him would do her no good. Yet, she had to admit that her heartbeat faster every time thoughts of him rattled through her brains which had happened frequently of late.
She looked at the door. This time she knew she would give a million dollars to see his familiar figure come charging in. What had gone wrong between them? The world had been a wondrous place, full of mysteries, full of surprises, full of—life. Then in one catastrophic, unplanned moment, their world had shattered. Summer dropped her head upon her folded arms. The one man who could save them would never come, had no reason to come. It was hopeless. They had all been abandoned. She gave way to tears of despair.
The morning sun poked its head over the San Bernardino Mountains as the heavily loaded C-130 Hercules lumbered down the runway, lifted off and headed in an easterly direction. Scott Emerson had made good time getting his gear together after breaking off the meeting with Miller. He was not surprised to see the rescue team at the base when he and the others had assembled at five that morning. There had been a short briefing, but no one really needed a pep talk. They had all filed into the cavernous plane without any talk. The team members had impressed Scott, had made him confident. Twelve tough, competent men and two females had quietly taken their seats. Four Air Force Sergeants had supervised the loading of equipment with efficiency and smartness. Emerson felt that the mission was off to a good start. He was right—up to a point.
At noon the plane refueled over the Atlantic, off the Florida Coast and set a course for the Middle East. Scott did not question Miller. He reasoned that the man would divulge information in due time. He sat in his seat and devoured the gourmet lunch—roast beef sandwiches and hot coffee. Now that he could relax he wondered about their destination. If the hostages were in the Sudan, the team faced an overwhelming problem in getting in and getting out. He was sure they would not land there. If not, then where could they possibly go? Egypt was one possibility. The government there was on passably good terms with the U.S. No matter where they landed, he concluded, the team was up against it. He settled back and tried to take a nap.
It was no use. For the umpteenth time, he wondered why Summer had become involved in this crazy venture. She had not been the type to do something like this in the past. The same question buzzed through his mind: why, why? He could not figure it out. His eyes closed and he slept.
Scott opened his eyes, startled. He came completely awake and looked outside. It was now dark. The engines droned on; the team members still slept. Emerson looked for Miller. He was nowhere around. Scott left his seat and made his way forward where he bumped up against the agent. The man was on the phone.
“I understand, sir. We are cleared for landing. We will refuel in approximately ten minutes. Yes sir, we’ll be able to make it. Who, Scott? He’s right here. …I understand. …He sends his regards also. I guess the feeling is mutual. Roger and out.”
“What was that all about? Were you talking to the man? Where are we going?”
“We are cleared for landing. Yes, I was talking to the man. We are headed for Israel, so take it easy for now. I’ll clue everyone at the base where I am anticipating a doozy of a meal.”
The refueling tanker hooked up and refilled the tanks; ten minutes later, it turned away. At midnight California time, the Hercules touched down at a secret military base in Israel. It was ten in the morning, Middle East time. The base commander’s Intelligence people had already briefed him. Scott felt good about the mission so far. It seemed that whoever had done the planning was thoroughly competent. The lunch certainly proved it. The team assembled in a large room for the briefing. On hand were several Israelis, looking competent in battle dress and black berets. Miller pointed to a large map of the Middle East and North Africa.
“We are here in Israel. By the way, before I go any further, let me point out that all of you were never here, never heard of this place, never heard of the next place we are going.” He brought his baton down and smacked it against a dot on the map. “This is Abéché, a French Foreign Legion air base in a country called Chad. Time of departure is six this evening. I am waiting for word about the location of the hostages,” he paused and glanced at Scott, “We should get that soon. In the meantime, I would strongly suggest that you check your weapons, your equipment and go over the attack details with Scott and myself. I have another announcement. Until further notice Scott Emerson is in complete charge. We will all give him our cooperation. I trust him implicitly. Try and get some rest. We’ll have precious little of it after we hit Chad.”
Scott was overwhelmed by emotion, but he did his best to conceal it. Everyone in the party knew of his personal involvement in the mission. He gripped Miller’s hand. Both men acknowledged that the team was committed to a final solution. He sat down with the Hostage Rescue Team to plan the attack. He did not question the Israelis’ advice and suggestions. Scott took a deep breath; things would turn out all right. Summer and the others just had to hang on for a while longer.
The GDS-24 reconnaissance satellite received new orders. It was to move north on the next earth orbit and pass over Central Sudan. It complied.
