by G. H. Holmes
Guided by his NV-gear, Ben arrived outside the eastern wall. He felt the cool wind on his face as he slipped the long-handled bolt cutter from his harness. He stretched and snipped off a yard-wide strip of the razor wire that topped the wall.
The thin metal fell away.
Ben put the bolt cropper back, jumped, and grabbed the top of the wall with both gloved hands. A second later he hoisted himself over the wall and entered the compound proper. There were no guard dogs. He blessed God under his breath for Arabs' disdain for dogs.
A quick look around revealed three T-55 tanks that stood in a row on the square by the gate. Ben Harrow already knew that they'd be there. Too bad he couldn't blow them up. But that would have constituted an act of war and he wasn't interested in starting a war with Syria—neither was the U.S. military that sent him here tonight.
Anyway.
Of greater interest to him were a couple of UAZ jeeps and Ural trucks parked along the wall nearby. Ben went over and glanced in through the passenger windows. Their glass was almost blind from windblown dust and dirt. Their tires were semi-flat.
In a corner he found a banged-up Peugeot with the key in the ignition.
Cautiously, he opened the door, reached in, and snatched the key.
Ben then walked over to the eastern block of cells and studied its back wall. He took his rubberized gloves off and ran his fingers over the cool concrete, feeling for nooks and crannies in the material.
One of Ben's more vaunted talents was his ability to climb up seemingly unclimbable surfaces. Once, he'd monkeyed up one of the two-hundred-yard concrete pillars that held up the Autobahn bridge near Braunsbach in Germany. When he arrived on the top, he ran a stretch and then jumped off again, sailing down into the valley hanging on a parachute that opened pretty much at the last moment. A concerned motorist called the Polizei, which arrived within ten minutes in a green-and-white Porsche, its one blue light flashing. But try as they might, they couldn't find the body of the apparent suicide diver anywhere.
This wall here tonight was no two-hundred-yard pillar. It belonged to a mere one-story building. Its concrete wasn't very smooth, either. Ben felt around on it. Soon his fingers found what they needed, his feet, too, and he began to climb. He inched up the wall like an oversized spider. Ten seconds later he stood on the flat roof of the cell block and looked out over the installation through his night-vision goggles.
Nobody saw him. The night was still pitch-dark.
He'd been waiting three days for this weather.
Ben rushed to the roof's southern edge, turned around and began to walk in measured steps. After forty-eight paces he stopped and gently sat his rucksack down. The roof was made of sandy plaster, fortified with nothing more than reeds from the nearby Euphrates. It served more to muffle the noises of the anguished inmates than to keep out the rain that never fell.
Ben put a ring of det-cord down, stuck a detonator on it, and, with his rucksack on his back, went to the far end of the roof. He fished a remote out of one his pockets and crouched down. His thumb felt the row of tiny buttons.
Ben depressed the first button.
The det-cord exploded with the briefest flash. Its super-heat cut a deep circle into the roof's plaster and sent some of its material into the cell below. Ben heard a woman groan inside. He rushed up to the circle and kicked it with his heel. Pieces fell away and a black hole opened in the roof. Ben knelt down.
"Sharon?" he whispered into the hole.
He heard another groan.
At that Ben jumped down into the cell, where he landed on his feet.
He saw her sitting in a corner, her hands chained to the wall, her mouth taped shut with silver duct tape. She stared into the darkness, unable to see a thing.
What have they done to you?
Ben crouched by her side and gently peeled the duct tape away. Once it was gone, he took her face in both of his hands and kissed her lips.
"I've come to get you, babe," he said.
She shivered and said nothing.
He got up, took his bolt cropper, and cut off her shackles. Suddenly free, she slumped and slid to the ground, where she lay, panting. This didn't look good.
"Can you walk?" he whispered.
She nodded and got up on all fours. She wore BDU-pants and a white T-shirt. Her arms were thin. She shivered from the cold, not from fear. He had no jacket for her. She'd have to bear the cold for now. Ben saw, they'd chopped off her blonde hair and made a mess of it.
"Sure?" He counted on her being able to walk.
She nodded again.
"Okay," Ben said. He swung his rucksack off his back and took a second NV-headset out, which he placed into her groping fingers. "Put that on."
Sitting on the floor, Sharon did as told and he flicked the set on for her. A moment later she became aware of him. She got up and looked at him with insect eyes. A wan smile played on her lips.
Outside in the yard, voices became audible.
Ben looked up and pointed at the hole in the ceiling. He stood under it broad-legged, folded his hands and formed a stirrup with them, which he held out for her.
Sharon grabbed his shoulders and put her bare foot into the stirrup of his hands.
Ben catapulted her through the opening. She crawled onto the roof with ease, where she lay waiting. He then put his backpack on, scooted the lone chair in her cell to the spot under the hole, and climbed out himself.
They lay on the roof next to one another and peered into the yard below. A group of four or five somnolent soldiers with flashlights was milling about, hatless, their shirts hanging out. They had heard something, but couldn't make out what it had been.
Somewhere a generator sprung to life.
Suddenly the camp's flood lights came on, dousing the dismal place with yellow light, and a klaxon began to wail—only to die down after a few bleats. Likewise, the big lights on the watchtowers dimmed and faded away like dying suns.
The generator sputtered and died, and darkness returned.
Downstairs, the chatter got louder. Remote in hand, Ben watched the confused soldiers bump into one another. When the group had grown to around fifteen restless men that showed no sign of wanting to go back to bed, he pushed another button.
A second later, an impressive barrage of fireworks lit up the air to the north of the installation. The ground shook as charges went off nearby.
Wow!
The Americans were coming!
A major artillery attack appeared to be on its way. Their prison was about to be pounded into the ground.
Sure of their impending doom, the guards talked frantically among themselves. In the light from the flares they made mad dashes for the cars. While motors were revved, somebody opened the steel gate, and soon every vehicle but one rolled out of the compound. Last to leave was a Ural troop truck chased by several barefooted troops who'd barely slipped into their clothes a minute ago. They were pulled aboard by their friends. Then the truck got swallowed by the massive dust cloud the others had whipped up in their flight.
"Who'd a thunk…" Ben said.
Ben and Sharon went to the back edge of the roof, where he took her hand and lowered her to the ground. Once she was safely down, he jumped off, too.
"This way," he said, pointing at the lone Peugeot the Syrians had left behind.
Sharon didn't question him. She walked to the passenger's side, found the door open, and got in. Ben scooted in behind the wheel, rammed the key into the ignition and turned it.
The engine sprang to life.
With lights off, he motored around the tanks and headed away from the open gate in the opposite direction: straight toward the southern wall, which was made of steel plates and therefore relatively thin. Ben floored the pedal while he raced toward the wall.
Sharon pulled the night-vision harness off her head. She dropped it in her lap and buried her face in her hands.
As the car accelerated, Ben's thumb came down on the remote in his hand once more.
Two shaped charges attached to the wall on the outside went off. Lightnings flashed—and a five-yard portion of the prison's steel wall fell flat. Ben simply drove through the opening and raced out into the desert on wobbly tires.
It was a bumpy ride. Sharon steadied herself on the dash to keep from getting thrown around. But after no more than five minutes Ben slowed down and drove toward a group of rocks. Once there, they abandoned the car. By now the NV-gear was on Sharon's eyes again.
"Let's go, babe," Ben said.
The cold gravel dug in to Sharon's bare feet. "Ben," she said, "I can't run on this."
"No problem," Ben said. He slipped off his rucksack and body harness and set them down by her feet. "Here, you put these on and I take you piggy-back."
A few moments later, Navy Seal Ben Harrow jogged across the expanse of the Iraqi-Syrian border desert with his rescued wife on his back.
Sharon!
Running was no problem. She was light as a feather. The fact that he held her legs under his arms made him giddy and he laughed out loud.
Sharon on the other hand wasn't given to boisterousness. She remained quiet. He felt her tears on his neck as he ran.
The GPS-screen in his NV-gear guided him toward a position he'd fixed earlier. Ben ran until he arrived by the shallow foxhole he'd scraped out of the ground a few hours ago.
Panting, he set Sharon down. He got on his knees and pulled on the camouflage netting that covered the furrow, creating an opening.
Sharon ditched the rucksack and slid out of the harness. She got down on all fours and crawled in.
Ben followed her. He pulled the equipment she ditched into the hiding place and replaced the camo-net.
Still out of breath, they lay down side by side and stared at the net above their faces. Sharon's hand groped for Ben's. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it.
"Got something for you," Ben said.
She took the NV off while Ben sat up and took a CamelBak water supply from his bag as well as a bar of chocolate.
"Here," he said and handed her the water-bladder. "Something to drink."
Sharon found the fat plastic straw sticking out of the CamelBak, uncapped it, and drank for what seemed an eternity. When her thirst was slaked, she sighed.
"Bet you're hungry." Ben took the water bag and placed the chocolate bar in her hands. "Have some fat and sugar." Both known to be great energy reservoirs.
He heard her unwrap the bar.
She bit into it and chewed. "Mmmh," she said after a minute. "You brought Swiss chocolate?"
"Glad you noticed," Ben said. "Scoured the ends of the earth for it. Iraqi earth. Actually, I bought it from a Brit operator."
Sharon didn't reply. She was eating again.
"Just use the dropsack for a pillow," Ben said when there were no more munching noises. "We'll rest now. Exfil won't happen until I call base and it's too early for that."
She was still shivering.
Of course, she was cold. Overcome, Ben pulled his NV-gear off his head, turned toward Sharon, and wrapped his arm around her.
Her arms came up around his neck and she held on for dear life when he kissed her.
When their adrenaline-fired passion was stilled, they laid back—under a blanket now—and whispered the night away.
"Did they… hurt you?" Ben finally asked. His voice was impassive.
She didn't answer right away. For a few seconds he heard her breathe.
"They were getting bold," she said.
"Did they…"
"Let's just say," she said, "you came in the nick of time."
Silence.
Ben clenched his teeth. He decided not to pursue the matter. The operator loved his wife more than anything. The image of her getting violated filled him with cold anger. But some ideas were best left alone. Whatever happened in that prison cell, he couldn't make it unhappen. He had her back alive. She seemed fine, that was what counted. So he kept quiet about the matter and asked no more.
Instead, he squeezed her hand and told her in flowery words all the things he liked about her.
When she giggled at his orneriness after a while, a good feeling spread in his gut. She was okay. Traumatized people didn't giggle. This was his Sharon. He had her back, safe and sound.
"Tell you what," he said. "They'll be taking you to LRMC"—the giant U.S. military hospital near Ramstein, Germany—"and I already put in. I'll be along for the ride. Paris is not too far from there. I'll take you to the city of love, babe. We'll go by train. We'll see the Eiffel tower, catch a boat on the Seine, visit the Louvre, say hi to the Mona Lisa…"
Sharon didn't answer. Ben didn't expect a reply anyway. She just lay there, listening to his sweet nonsense, basking in her husband's love.
Hours later Ben made his call and shortly before sunrise, while the night was still black, Ben and Sharon Harrow were extracted by a swift-flying helicopter and returned home to Camp Diamondback in Mosul.
That night, the secret torture prison near Al Bukamal did not get obliterated by American artillery. The Syrians figured that out soon enough and returned.
The next morning they found the abandoned car in the desert. But their American prisoner was gone.
Vanished without a trace.
Floated away through a hole in the ceiling of her cell. They wondered forever how she'd done it.
-1
Paris in August was a drowsy place.
And empty.
The hustle and bustle of international tourists that was usually the life of the city was strangely absent this hottest month of the year. Many stores were closed as everybody seemed to be on vacation. A scorching wind blasted the wide boulevards of the French capital. Its usually gray buildings shone brilliantly in the sun.
Hand in hand and rucksacks on their backs, Ben and Sharon were strolling along the Allée des Refuzniks in the park surrounding the Eiffel. Couples and families sat on blankets around the nearby pond and had a good time.
The tower dominated Mars Field. Its four gray-painted arches of intricate metal work raced heavenward, where they united and formed a slender tip that stabbed the sky.
"So beautiful," Ben said, looking at the tower. "So inviting."
"It's pretty impressive," his wife agreed.
"I actually meant you," Ben clarified.
She giggled. "Silly goose." She stood, shaded her eyes, and gazed up at the building. "It's gorgeous."
"I want to get my hands on it," Ben said.
Sharon looked at him and frowned. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," Ben said, a rapturous look on his face.
"Let's get tickets then," Sharon said, having a premonition of what was to come. She knew her husband.
"Babe," Ben said, "two tickets all the way to the top will set us back by twenty-nine euros."
"Big deal," Sharon said.
"I think one's enough," Ben said.
"Police will be waiting for you as soon as you reach first floor," Sharon said. "They'll be fining you, if you do what you have in mind."
"What do I have in mind?" Ben asked innocently.
"They'll throw you in jail. And then I have to come and get you out."
Ben sighed.
"I'm not blind," Sharon said. "You tried your best to hide it from me, but I know what's in your backpack."
"Bummer," Ben said.
"Who but Ben Harrow would be lugging that around on a trip to Paris?"
"Hey, the U.S. taxpayer paid to train me to dominate the sea, the land, and the air! We Seals can fly, babe."
She turned sharply and stood in front of him, blocking his way. Sharon smacked his broad chest with her fists and gazed into his eyes. "Ben, don't. What if you slip and fall?"
"You're a nurse."
"Don't be silly," Sharon said. "You'll break your neck and I can't patch that up. You don't have to prove anything to me. To me you're already the greatest."
"I'll beat you to the top," Ben said.
"No, you won't, you monkey."
; "Get in line, lady," Ben said. He pointed at the ticket counter with its moderately long line of visitors. "I see you on the first floor. And if you don't make it in time, I'll go on to second. I really want to meet you at the top, though. So take your time." He began to amble away from her. "Two hours?"
"Ben!" Sharon stomped her foot.
"Make lots and lots of pictures!" Ben shouted. He was already disappearing between the trees near the tower's southern leg.
Mrs. Harrow heaved a sigh. "I'm not taking a single one."
Then she went and stood in line at the ticket counter while her husband began to play Spiderman. She put on her most indifferent face tried not to search for him with her eyes.
Sharon still stood in line when the first pedestrians were noticing the human fly that was climbing around in the beams of the Eiffel tower, forty feet up and unsecured. Tourists began to point the attraction out to one another. Soon, groups of spectators began to form on both sides of the Avenue Anatole France, which the tower straddled.
Cars stopped in the middle of the street as their drivers saw Ben and watched him ascend. A major traffic jam ensued. Never shy about using their horns, backed-up Paris motorists honked up a storm. Some were seen talking to their mobile phones, no doubt notifying the media about the stunt.
Or the police.
A pair of flics—France's blue-clad policemen—soon arrived. First things first, they decided and valiantly tried to get the traffic moving again. It was difficult work, because Parisians are an independent lot and don't move when they don't want to. And Ben was great entertainment.
Two police officers raced up the stairs to the first floor of the tower—right when Ben arrived there, too. He dashed across the platform's flat roof like a weasel and raced up another beam, climbing away before they ever got to him.
The patrons on the platform cheered him on and clapped, much to the annoyance of the whistle-blowing lead peace officer. The man practically breathed through the black instrument in his mouth. He shook his fist after Ben.
Sharon, ticket in hand, stared at the floor and shook her head. There were times, like right now, when she felt as if married to an overgrown Peter Pan.
