Taylor Made Owens

by R. D. Power

  As if the threat from the south weren’t bad enough, he expected the two soldiers to attack from the west at any second. He told himself that shooting them could be the last thing he would ever do. Opening fire on them would prove him the enemy of those to the south.

  And from the south came another order to “get away from there or die!”

  His heart was beating so hard he could feel his ears pulsate. Hoping to delay their assault, Owens yelled in Arabic, “I think I got him!” as peeped over the demolished wall at Hendrix. The Iraqis continued their advance from the south. He was as scared as a human being can get, but there was no way out now. Still, the cover of the building on the corner is a mere fifteen yards away. We can make that if I take out those two soldiers. But Hendrix needed to get the vital information out before taking the chance of running.

  Hendrix had been on the phone for forty-five seconds by this time, enough, Owens hoped, to get the main message across. Suddenly the two Iraqis appeared from the west with guns leveled at Hendrix. With the enemy approaching from the south, Owens opened fire on the two from the west, killing both instantly with double-taps to the head. Confused, the soldiers moving north stopped about one hundred-fifty feet away. The tank stopped just in front of the enemy soldiers.

  “Fire!” shouted the Iraqi officer.

  “Time’s out, Hendrix! Run!” Owens said as the Iraqi soldiers started firing, and he took off toward the corner.

  “I haven’t quite finished,” Hendrix said. The tank aimed its cannon.

  “Get out of there!” Owens shrieked as he ran. Owens got to the corner, stood beside a wall, shot a few rounds at the soldiers moving north to slow them down, and looked back at Hendrix. The last he saw of the brave man was his signal of success: a raised thumb. He vanished in an explosion.

  Shock immobilized Owens for a few seconds, but he collected himself, turned west, and ran as hard as could to the next corner, turning it just as the tank was aiming at him. Mourning the loss of the man who’d been his closest companion over the last several months, Owens ran back to the hideout. He could only hope Hendrix had communicated everything, and that action was forthcoming.

  By the time Owens got back to the hideout, Republican Guard troops were all over the settlement. Several were approaching the building with the inspectors. He ran undetected to the window, knocked, and was admitted. It was too early to get everyone out and run across the field. The helicopter, assuming it was coming, would be another twenty-three minutes. “Untie him,” Owens directed, pointing to the man who lived there. “Hurry! The Iraqis are just about here.” The Chilean inspector untied the man. “Hendrix is dead,” he sadly whispered to Fernandez. Fernandez, too, was greatly affected. Hendrix had been a first-class guy liked by everybody.

  Owens asked Fernandez to “hold your gun to his wife’s head and stand back there out of sight.” The hapless woman was horrified, and tears fell from her eyes. “Now the rest of you—go into the bedroom and keep quiet. Carry him in there,” he instructed pointing to Haziz, “and him, too,” he added referring to Mr. Sinkala.

  “He’s dead,” Fernandez said. Owens shook his head in dismay.

  “Cover the child’s mouth,” Owens told the inspectors as he closed the door to the bedroom. He turned to his male captive and told him in no uncertain terms that he was to tell the soldiers who were about to knock on his door that there was no one here besides his family, and that they could come in to look if they insisted—hoping, of course, they wouldn’t. “If you tip them off, he’ll shoot your wife, and I’ll shoot you. Understand?” he said in broken Arabic. The scared man nodded.

  They waited and waited, anxiety increasing by the moment. They heard the pounding on doors hard by and some screaming.

  Finally came the loud knock on their door, accompanied by a demand to open it. The occupant answered the door, and the soldier stepped in. Owens was behind the door ready for a shootout.

  The soldier took two steps in and looked around. Seeing nothing, he took another step. He stood there for what seemed like hours. The resident told him he lived alone. Had the soldier turned his head one more degree or so, he might have caught Owens out of the corner of his eye. But he turned the other way and walked out. Our hero almost fell to his knees in relief and thanks. He thanked his captive and promised they would all leave soon. Fernandez tied and gagged the hostages again, while Owens went to the room to tell the inspectors to get ready to leave, warning them to keep quiet.

  Owens gathered them around and told them Hendrix got the news out, much to the relief of everyone. “Thank God,” three said in unison. They were saddened to hear of the brave man’s death. Owens added that Hendrix had asked for a rescue helicopter—at least he hoped so—to meet them at the far end of the field at 01-15.

  “What is your name, son?” asked the Irishman.

  “Staff Sergeant Robert Owens, sir.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Most recently Ontario, Canada. I’m a dual citizen: Canadian and American.”

  “Well, thank you, Sergeant Owens. You are a credit to your country—your countries—and to your heritage!” They also thanked Fernandez for his courageous actions. They sat waiting for another six minutes, whispering among each other about the situation. At 1:07, each of the inspectors climbed out the window. Fernandez carried the injured Haziz and Owens carried the body of the Zambian across the dusty field toward the rendezvous point.

  The group crossed the field under the cover of darkness and got to the far end by the river. They heard nothing. Then they saw lights approaching on the nearby road. “Get down!” Owens ordered. “On your bellies.”

  It was small truck with two soldiers, one of whom had a rocket launcher. Owens hung his head down and let out a sigh. He knew they had to try to knock that rocket launcher out of commission or the helicopter would be at risk. The others knew it, too. Owens asked them to confirm when they got on the chopper that all the news about the virus had been transmitted as he and Fernandez got to their feet. The Irishman said, “Thank you, Sergeant Owens and Sergeant Fernandez. You were sent by God to help us.”

  As the two troopers dashed toward the truck, an American helicopter swooped in over the river and landed one hundred-forty feet away from the group. It was almost silent, and all marveled at its surprise approach. It nevertheless failed to escape the detection of the Iraqis with the rocket. They stopped their truck and readied the rocket as Owens and Fernandez approached. The Iraqis, in preparing their weapon, were kneeling on the opposite side of the vehicle from the Americans.

  “I’ll flank them,” said Owens and, stooping as low as he could, he ran off toward the trees before Fernandez could respond. But before Owens got in position, the helicopter took off with the inspectors on board. The Iraqis pointed their weapon as the helicopter banked to turn south. Seeing this, Fernandez ran up for an unobstructed shot at the man with the rocket launcher, and shot just as he was launching his rocket against the helicopter, which sent the missile into the river. Owens had just got to the trees as the shooting began. He shot the other Iraqi soldier who was firing at Fernandez. The Iraqi fell dead.

  Owens ran out to check on his friend and saw he was lying on the ground motionless. He got to him and knew at once Fernandez was dead. He got down on his knees, cradled Fernandez’s head against his chest, and wept. Within a few minutes, the area was alive with Republican Guard soldiers running toward the explosion.

  Frightened, Owens lowered his friend to the ground, got to his feet, and ran toward the truck, but stopped when he saw flashlights approach from that direction. He turned and ran the opposite way. Knowing if he were caught in an enemy uniform he would be in trouble, he went back to the spot where he and Haziz had left their black assault suits by a grove near the sanatorium. He changed back into his suit and headed toward allied lines. When he ran into a small clearing, he came face to face with several Iraqi soldiers. He raised his arms in surrender.

  Chapter Three

  P
risoner of War

  “Our sources tell us that American troops were sent in to rescue a group of UN arms inspectors who were being held captive by a renegade faction of Iraqi Republican Guard soldiers,” NBC revealed. “It was unclear what had caused the faction to take this extraordinary step, or why the Americans have taken such drastic steps to free them.” The speculation free-for-all was unleashed.

  Just before eight AM Eastern time, with Kristen still riveted to the TV, the Pentagon called a news conference. All the pundits were shushed, and all networks switched to the Kuwait location for the military spokeswoman.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. At 9:38 PM last night, local time, we received intelligence that remnants of the Republican Guard had detained a United Nations weapons inspection team against their will. We’d been contacted by the German inspector, Herr Shtern, but he’d been cut off before he could transmit the entire message. The President immediately authorized the deployment of troops to liberate the captives and their secret. An American strike team with British support was inserted into Baghdad at 10:45 PM with this mission.

  “Republican Guard troops had set up ambushes in several spots around the compound where Herr Shtern had indicated they were being held. There was heavy fighting, but we are pleased and proud to announce that the operation was completed successfully at 1:37 AM local time. An American helicopter rescued seven of the nine hostages and flew them back to this base. We regret to say Herr Shtern was killed, along with the Zambian inspector, Mr. Sinkala.”

  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 m
inutes. 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.