by Walt Gragg
“Chuck, get your stuff and let’s go,” she said.
He gave her a confused stare. “Where the hell’d you get that? Were we finally released to go to the front? I thought they said when they let us go, they’d be sending a military escort?”
“Never mind that. If you want to keep your job, grab your gear and let’s get out of here.”
* * *
—
A few minutes later, a lone vehicle headed into the suffocating desert. Lauren Wells was behind the wheel. Where exactly she and her cameraman were going she hadn’t a clue.
But it no longer mattered.
60
2:27 A.M., NOVEMBER 1
IN A STOLEN HUMVEE
FIFTY MILES SOUTH OF PRESS CITY
They’d been on the move for seven confusing hours. The going had been extremely slow and painful. They’d averaged less than ten miles per hour on their poorly thought-out odyssey. Having had no time to plan, they’d brought neither food nor water. Both were beyond thirsty. Wells hadn’t eaten in over a day. Each had searched for a road, yet none appeared.
With no map or compass, they’d roamed the trackless distances. Just past midnight, they’d stopped and emptied the contents of the Humvee’s lone five-gallon gas can into its bone-dry tank. Even so, it was once again critically low. They continued making their way south. On the distant horizon, a gleaming artillery duel lit up the bleak horizon. Lost and discouraged, Wells drove through the night in search of who knew what.
Her cameraman peered into the darkness. “Where the hell are we?” he said. It was the thirteenth time he’d asked during the tortured drive.
Her frustrations burst forth. “How do I know?” she said. “We’re somewhere between the beach and Cairo. We’re headed south. That’s all I can determine for the moment. Now shut up and stop asking me the same stupid question every five minutes.”
Chuck looked at the dashboard. The gas gauge was touching empty. “We’re about out of gas. Why don’t we find a good place to hole up for the night? Maybe we can locate a nice gully where we’ll be out of sight. The war’ll still be there in the morning.”
But she was determined. “We’ll stop when we’ve reached the front lines and not before.”
They drove for another half hour with no change in their predicament. Wells glanced at the Humvee’s gauges. There could be no denying their fuel was spent. Whether she wanted it or not, stopping would soon be forced upon them.
Their fortunes, however, were about to change. Even though neither knew it, they were in fact quite near the battle zone. Much to their surprise, the Humvee’s headlights picked up the outline of a figure standing on a crest a hundred yards ahead. The moment the bouncing beam fell upon him, the unidentified image dropped into the sands. The duo spotted the reaction a football field away. The movement was obviously human.
Wells looked over and smiled. “See, I told you we’d find someone.” Just then, the engine faltered. There was nothing remaining in the tank but the faintest of fumes. She patted the dash. “Come on, baby, we’re almost there.”
The vehicle lurched forward, sputtering again while struggling through the dubious terrain. She pumped the pedal over and again, coaxing just a little more out of the reluctant transport.
Ahead, the vague form got to his feet. More soldiers appeared behind him. The small rise was near. There were a handful of trucks and a few tents nearby. They were heading toward a small encampment. In the middle of the combat zone, the bivouac was pitch-black.
Neither Lauren nor her cameraman could determine its exact size or composition. The Humvee took a final gasp and died thirty yards short of the location. Wells turned off the headlights. A dozen figures walked toward them, their rifles at the ready. Others were silhouetted behind them.
If she wanted to avoid a hasty return to the beach, she knew her story had to be convincing. Yet she wasn’t overly concerned. She was immensely talented at bluffing her way out of difficult situations. She’d done it many times, and in much tighter spots than this one. She’d smile a generous smile and tell the nearing Marines that the press had been given vehicles and left the beach under armed escort in the afternoon.
She’d explain that somehow she and her cameraman had gotten separated from the rest. She’d depend upon them being too tired, or too preoccupied, to check her story further. Hopefully, she’d driven up to a platoon-size unit, commanded by no one higher than a 2nd lieutenant who’d be more interested in a pretty face than a believable story. The approaching soldiers were a few feet away.
“Boy, am I glad we found you guys,” Wells said. “After getting separated from the main convoy, we’ve been wandering around for hours. I don’t think I’ve ever been this lost in my entire life. We could use as much gas as you can spare and some directions, if you don’t mind.”
The next thing she knew, an AK-47 rifle barrel was being shoved against her cheek. She could feel the weapon’s cold steel upon her face. And the terror leaping into her heart.
In the confusion of the chaos-filled battlefield, she’d inadvertently skirted her own lines and driven into an enemy outpost. She looked up, instantly recognizing the soldier’s Pan-Arab uniform.
His companions moved forward, surrounding the vehicle. There were animated shouts and excited talk among her captors. Having spent the previous five years in the Middle East, she’d become fluent in Arabic. The group’s dialect was different from what she was used to, but she understood every word. Even so, she made no attempt to indicate she was aware of what was being said. The Americans were dragged from the front seats. Their arms were pulled behind them. Their hands were bound together. Wells’s captors began searching the vehicle’s contents. They picked up the cameras and satellite equipment, admiring the expensive electronics gear. They knew it would bring a hefty price on the black market. They opened her bag. With a hearty laugh and a few obscene gestures, they threw its contents onto the ground. The clothing was scattered across the blowing sands. The leader of the group motioned for the stunned captives to walk toward the camp.
She knew the Mahdi’s standing order was to execute infidel prisoners. She didn’t for a second believe the Chosen One’s edict excluded members of the press.
They’d already taken Chuck’s watch and wedding band. They’d wait until the executions were complete to remove the woman’s jewelry. Those who’d been involved in the capture would draw lots to see who’d receive which part of the unexpected bounty.
The camp’s political officer took out his sword. These would be the young mullah’s first beheadings. He tried to hide his nervousness. In the dim light, he hoped no one would notice his shaking hands. He needed to perform well if his men were going to continue obeying his edicts.
“The woman first,” he said.
They dragged Wells’s struggling figure in front of him. The soldiers bent her over, exposing her neck. She continued to rebel against their efforts.
“Hold her still,” the mullah said.
He raised his curved sword into the air. He was moments away from bringing it forward. With a single blow he’d separate her head from her shoulders.
“The Mahdi’s going to be quite disappointed when he finds out what you’ve done to me,” she said in perfect Arabic.
The mullah hesitated. He brought the sword down. “What did you say?” he asked.
“I said the Mahdi’s going to be extremely unhappy when he finds out you’ve executed us.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because he knows me, and I believe he considers me a friend. He’s gone so far as to ask me into his home. I’m Lauren Wells. Do you know who that is? I’m the only television reporter to have ever been invited to hear his words. Three months ago, I spent an entire evening sitting at the feet of Muhammad Mourad recording his thoughts for the world to hear. During our time he made it clear he thought highly of me and my
work. And he indicated he’d enjoy meeting again.”
The mullah motioned for the soldiers to release her. She stood up, looking the straggly-bearded stranger in the eye. She’d always been bold, and now wasn’t the time to lose her nerve.
“You’ve met the Chosen One?” he said.
“That’s what I said. Three months ago, at his headquarters in the mountains of Algeria, I sat with him and his closest advisers. We spoke for a broadcast on worldwide television. This man”—she motioned toward Chuck—“he held the cameras for the interview. He used the very ones your men are holding. He and I have both spent a number of hours in Muhammad Mourad’s presence. The Mahdi told me he and his advisers had personally chosen me for the interview. I think after what he said that night, he’d definitely be upset if you put us to the sword.”
The mullah seemed perplexed. His orders were to execute any heretic, male or female, adult or child, who fell into his hands. But if the woman was telling the truth, and she was an acquaintance of the Chosen One, he would be risking his immortal soul by carrying out such an act.
He couldn’t chance offending the one Allah had placed on this earth to lead the way. To slay someone who was a friend of the Mahdi, someone who’d been in his presence, was beyond comprehension. His sin could never be forgiven. And paradise forever lost. The confused political officer stood frozen, uncertain of what to do.
Wells saw her opening. “Look, if you don’t believe what I’m telling you, there’s an easy way to find out. Take me to the Mahdi. He’ll verify who I am. I’m confident he’ll tell you he wishes my head remain upon my shoulders. Take me to him personally. You’ve got nothing to lose. If I’m lying you can end my life in the Chosen One’s presence. But if I’m telling the truth, you’ll have gotten to meet him face-to-face. And I’m certain he’ll be pleased with your wise judgment in sparing my life. He’ll tell you how happy he is with your decision.”
“Meet the Chosen One?” the abashed figure said.
He envisioned himself standing in the Mahdi’s presence. He could see the federation’s leader smiling as he greeted him and praised his judgment. So astonishing an opportunity was one he could have never imagined in his wildest dreams. It would be the highlight of his humble life. For the rest of his days, there’d be nothing to compare with so glorious an event.
“Yeah, meet the Mahdi,” Wells said. “I’ll ensure when we get to his headquarters you get to meet him.”
A broad smile replaced the puzzlement upon the mullah’s face. The wish of a thousand lifetimes would soon be fulfilled. He turned to the soldiers. “Put them in the back of my truck,” he said. “Bring their equipment. I’ll need a few of you to come along as guards. I’m taking them to Muhammad Mourad.”
* * *
—
They’d been driving for hours. The decrepit truck had been through untold checkpoints, Wells fearing each time the present stop would be her last. They’d come under close scrutiny. The nearer they’d gotten to the pyramids, the more difficult the interrogations had become. Yet her story had remained constant, and none had dared deny her passage for fear she really was a friend of the Chosen One. At a final checkpoint the sentries radioed ahead, alerting the Pan-Arab leadership of the group’s arrival.
A sultry dawn was breaking. In front of them, only a few hundred yards away, the three majestic pyramids rose. There were armed warriors everywhere she looked.
The struggle to take Cairo had reached its twenty-fourth hour. As the truck reached the Giza Plateau, the sounds of the far-flung conflict overwhelmed its occupants. Sitting in the back, she had an unrestricted view of the Nile’s waters. She could see the battle raging six miles away. Even from this distance, she could identify the newly constructed bridges. It took her some time, however, to determine what the hundreds and hundreds of specks on the flowing river were. Yet finally she realized each of the far-off shapes was carrying human cargo.
“Chuck, do you see what’s going on down there? It’s the story I’ve been dying for. What I wouldn’t give to use that camera of yours right now.”
They drove onto the plateau and slowed to a stop in front of the Great Pyramid’s northern face. The anxious mullah got out and stood by the tailgate. Wells stared at the weatherworn monument. It was her turn to be confused.
“Why are we stopping here?” she asked.
“You wanted to be taken to the Mahdi, so we’ve taken you to him.”
She looked at the millennia-old shrine rising in front of her.
“Here?” she said. “Muhammad Mourad’s here?”
He untied their hands. The small party began climbing up the pyramid’s stone blocks until they reached an opening in the northern face. Two of Mourad’s bodyguards were waiting outside the majestic structure’s entrance. Each carried an automatic weapon and a jewel-encrusted sword whose blade flashed in the gathering sun. With the flowing robes covering their uniforms and their distinctive headdress, both appeared as if they’d stepped out of an Arabian Nights tale. Without a word, the menacing forms turned and entered the opening into the pyramid itself. Wells looked at the mullah, her bewilderment unabated. He motioned for her to follow the mujahideen. She soon found herself in a low, narrow passageway. She’d no choice but to assume an uncomfortable, stooped position as they started down the initial tunnel within the immense structure. The constricted path was less than four feet high and scarcely three and a half feet wide. It wouldn’t end until it was below ground level. Chuck, half carrying, half dragging his equipment, was right behind. The wide-eyed mullah brought up the rear. They continued down the restrictive hallway for nearly a hundred feet. It felt endlessly longer. If they’d have stayed on this course, they’d have eventually reached a subterranean room beneath the massive composition whose original purpose had been lost in the passing eons.
The group traversing the pyramid’s inner structure wasn’t going nearly so far on this track. As they neared what would be ground level, a second shaft split off toward the middle of the imposing framework. This one was as confining as the first. The guards turned and headed in the new direction.
The small party struggled up toward the center of the pyramid. Wells was beginning to feel more than a bit claustrophobic. Her tormented back was aching. Much to her surprise, straight ahead the passage inexplicitly opened upon an area fifty yards long. They had reached the “Grand Gallery.” The ancient walls within the space were narrow, but the ceiling was thirty feet high. Able to move freely, the guards straightened up and increased their pace. The relieved Wells, the pressure on her spine abated, followed the mujahideen as they continued their ascent. At the stretching gallery’s end they reached the three-foot-high “Grand Step” that would bring them to the level of the antechamber and tomb beyond. One of the mujahideen turned and gave the Americans a hand as they labored to conquer the impediment.
Another constricted area, similar in width and size to the earlier tunnels, awaited. But much to her surprise, this one was only a few feet long. They entered a modest room with a high ceiling. Sitting on the floor inside the unassuming space were a half dozen of the Chosen One’s advisers. She recognized a few of their faces from her earlier meeting with Muhammad Mourad. One got up and approached the new arrivals. In hushed tones he spoke with the young mullah. The brief conversation completed, the uneasy individual returned to stand by Lauren Wells. The man he’d spoken with disappeared through a small opening on the far side. He was gone for an extended period. The wary newswoman could do nothing but await what destiny would bring. She understood far too well that her final breaths could soon arrive.
* * *
—
Muhammad Mourad saw them entering the rectangular King’s Chamber. As she stood, free from a final modest shaft, Mourad instantly recognized her. He got up, motioning for his advisers to stay where they were. He headed toward the new arrivals. “Miss Wells, it’s so nice to see you,” he said in English.
She looked around, taking in the scene. This room was twice the size of the one she’d just left and the ceiling was once again quite high. Even with the empty, lidless sarcophagus toward its western end, there was sufficient space for the Mahdi and a dozen of his closest followers. Some were dressed in military uniforms, but most wore peasant clothing similar to their leader. From their expressions, it was apparent many were less than pleased with her presence.
“It’s nice to see you too, Mr. Mourad. I told you we’d meet again.”
“So you did.” He paused for a moment. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story, sir. We took a wrong turn in the middle of the night and somehow ended up behind your lines. One of your outposts captured us. This man”—she motioned toward the trembling mullah—“was about to place his sword on my neck when I convinced him you might not be pleased if he did so. So I asked him to bring us here to let you decide what to do with us.”
Mourad paused. “You’re an infidel, Miss Wells. And my orders are for all infidels to be placed under the sword. But you’ve also been a guest in my home. And it would be ungracious of me to end your life. Still I cannot have you running around with all that’s going on. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, sir, I certainly do.”
“Good. Then why don’t you and your cameraman go back into the room you were just in—it’s called the antechamber. For the time being you can stay there.” He signaled and the two mujahideen stepped forward. “These men will escort you and see to your needs.”
There wasn’t much she could say. He’d spared their lives, even if it meant she would be his prisoner for the indefinite future. “Thank you, sir, for your hospitality,” she said with a forced smile.
The guards gestured for them to return to the brief passage that would return them to the adjoining room.
