by Quinn, Jack
“Those nomadic killers held you hostage for what, Andrea, five days and nights? Terrorized, not knowing if you would live or die?”
Andrea pushed the gray band in her brown hair back over her left ear. “We were not hostages, Frank, since they never bargained for our release. Amman had initially claimed that this ‘stopping’, as he called it, was unusual; but the summary execution of Kelley was not an uncommon reaction from these lawless bandits. Our Iraqi guide and his cousins, while equally disconcerted as Steve and I, shrugged off the murder of Kelley as the consequence of foolish infidel aggression.
“Amman kept a running dialogue going with the Bedouin chief, during which the main interest of the nomads seemed to be Steve’s camcorders, our laptops and GPS units they had appropriated along with our tents and camping gear. The vehicles were no use to them because they had no regular access to gasoline, believe it or not, with most of the oil in the world right under their feet. So we were forced to crouch in the narrow shade of the trucks from the searing heat by day,
and huddle inside them at night against the cold desert air under a few shared blankets.”
“What good was your electronic equipment to these roving Bedouins?” Frank asked her.
“We could see some of the younger tribesmen in front of their tents in the near distance
hovering over the battery-powered units, pushing buttons, flicking switches, running down the battery packs. At about the time Amman had determined the core of our problem, the young nomads were totally frustrated by our electronics and had transferred their anger to us.
“Amman came to me one afternoon with a look of grave concern that I had not seen since the hours following Kelley’s death. ‘This is now quite serious,’ he told me. ‘Chief say you Americans attack and kill his people while stealing buried hoard of precious gems and gold from their land. This is reason why he stop you.’”
Andrea turned again from Morrissey to the camera that had pre-recorded their interview on videotape a year ago April, as it zoomed-in tight on her head and shoulders.
“With all due credit and deepest thanks to Amman Habakee, our brave Iraqi guide negotiated for our lives that scorching afternoon, when he understood that the tribal elders were debating whether to dispatch us as they had Kelley or take us with them as slaves. He persuaded the Bedouin chief to allow Steve to recharge the video equipment on the truck batteries and instruct the younger nomads how to use it. Then performed translation magic by first getting the Bedouin chief to speak with me, a mere female; making him understand that we two Americans had killed no one; convincing him that we could be instrumental in bringing the real killers to justice; and securing his permission to record his story on camera.”
The video cut to the full image of the anchorman addressing his audience from behind his curved studio desk. “With your appreciation of the crucial events leading up to our revelation of this major newscast tonight,” he told his viewers, “we will now bring you a firsthand update of these circumstances live from Andrea Madigan on the scene at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. To date, a mysterious news story in-the-making which NNC feels compelled to share with you now. Andrea?”
The video monitors in the studio cut to the female correspondent in belted trench coat
standing outside the gates of a high chain-link fence beneath the glare of unseen spotlights illuminating a huge 82nd Airborne Division sign and two military police standing at ease in the background beside their guard shack and striped barrier-arm across the gateway. Andrea brought the microphone up to her chin.
“Thank you Frank. I may be on the scene, but I am decidedly not in the Fort. This has been one of the most frustrating assignments I have experienced during all my years as a reporter.
“The video clip you will see next was shot in March 2003 just weeks before U.S. Marines began their assault on Baghdad. As you have heard moments ago in our interview recorded last year shortly after our return from Iraq, our NNC party was overpowered by a group of nomadic bandits somewhere in the northwest section of the vast Syrian Desert. The Bedouin spokesman you will see is the son of the tribal chief, whose words are translated by Amman Habakee, our Iraqi guide.”
The TV picture cut back to the large studio screen behind the anchor desk that now depicted a desert scene containing Andrea wearing a khaki outfit consisting of a wide brimmed pith helmet, a long-sleeved shirt darkened by perspiration, shorts and high-top hiking boots laced to mid-calf. She was perched on a folding campstool opposite a young Arab in kaffiyeh with a thin mustache and scraggly goatee, wearing a stained beige robe cinched with a belt of hemp rope. The Arab sat cross-legged on an oblong rug whose intricate pattern of multiple colors and golden tassels had been faded long ago by the implacable sun that seared them then.
The man/boy scrutinized this impertinent western woman through aviator sunglasses, holding a brown cigarette between thumb and forefinger as he exhaled smoke in her direction. His chieftain father and several older men in full beards of various shades of gray and black squatted behind him in traditional haik, vary-colored burnoose and turbans, sucking on water pipes in the shade of an awning extending on poles from the entrance of the canvas tent behind them. The Arabs seemed to ignore the dry heat from which Andrea believed she would surely suffocate before their meeting had ended.
“Where did you encounter these American soldiers, Habu Roka?” Andrea asked the young man.
Amman translated her question into an Arab dialect. “He say, ‘That cannot be known.’ He will not say this,” the guide added in halting English that bore a subtle British accent.
“Tell him we must know the location of their encounter if we are to bring the guilty soldiers to justice and recover their treasure.”
Habu Roka turned to the elders seated behind him for several minutes of animated discussion, who finally nodded their reluctant agreement.
“They will show you there,” Amman said without enthusiasm.
“What happened when you met the soldiers,” Andrea asked.
Upon hearing the translation the young Arab swung his arm toward the surrounding desert, making additional gestures as he spoke, which became clear as Amman interpreted his words.
“It was at the setting of the sun,” the guide translated. “We approached from behind a dune, therefore did not see their camp until upon it. At least one hundred, more, in their number,” the guide held both hands up palm out, opening and closing his fists rapidly as Habu Roka had done. The young Arab nodded repeatedly in agreement. “Therefore we came to them in peace past a deep
hole in the sand. They did not have our tongue and held their rifles at us.”
Andrea urged Amman to tell the Bedouin to continue.
“We see ancient amphora before their tent with precious gems and gold spilled out on canvas sheet where they sparkled to harm the eyes of the beholder. When we asked to observe the treasure they had taken from our land they told us to go. They were many to our small number, but we refused. Then more soldiers tricked us from behind trucks to our side and fired their bullets at our people. Three of our tribe killed. Six wounded. We are forced away.”
“Did you notice any identifying symbols on their uniforms or equipment?” Andrea asked.
“He does not understand the marks that speak,” the guide translated. “He is illiterate in Arabic, so of course English.”
Andrea touched a finger to the guide’s upper arm. “How about here?”
The young Arab paused a moment, then consulted his elders behind him again, resulting in more arm waving and loud conversation during which some of them drew lines in the sand. When Habu Roka turned back to Andrea he smoothed out the sand in front of his rug and made a design with his finger. Steve Sarno moved behind the Arab with his repossessed camcorder to zoom in on the drawing of what looked like an arrowhead in a circle. Or the back-to-back stylized double ‘A’ of the 82nd Airborne Division.
The video faded to black for a split second before showing Andrea live in North Ca
rolina again, as she brought a gloved hand up to raise the collar of her brown trench coat around her ears against the brisk night wind, ignoring the dark tresses blowing across her face. She spoke without notes and the intensity of total command of her subject.
“According to our guide, it is not surprising that a roving tribe of Bedouin Arabs did not
report the incident to their government, because they claim no national allegiance, respect no authority or national boundaries. Since the concept of ‘justice’ to these nomadic people is torture and death--it seems the only logical reason our captivity ended in our unharmed release and not
rape, murder and oblivion, was to repeat this incredible story in their hope for the return of the
stolen treasure and revenge on the soldiers.”
The video cut from Andrea back to the Washington studio where Frank Morrissey posed a question: “Did you learn where in that endless desert this alleged incident took place, Andrea?”
High up in his glass booth the producer pressed one of the array of square, multi-colored buttons lit on the console before him that brought Andrea's face up full screen on TV sets across the country.
“Not precisely, Frank. After three days meandering among identical stretches of trackless sand and dunes, the Bedouins did take us to an area they claimed was the site of their encounter with United States army personnel. Of course there was no physical evidence in the windswept sand, and since they had confiscated our GPS, we had only Amman’s estimate of where we were.”
The camera zoomed out as Andrea shifted her mike from her right to left hand, angling a shoulder toward the lens in a more aggressive posture to deliver her next statement.
“For the past eighteen months my inquiries of U.S. military sources, including the Pentagon and State Department, have resulted in avoidance and denial of the Bedouin accusations. These stone walls I have encountered have brought NNC News to the unprecedented decision to bring to your attention now, the few hard facts that we have uncovered to date in the hope that public pressure and even competitive news organizations will convince the army and our leaders in Washington to be forthcoming to the American people.”
Steve refocused his camera further out and behind Andrea’s shoulder, revealing the MPs snapping to attention to salute a long black staff car pulling through the chain-link gates, a gold star centered on each of the twin blue flags fluttering from its front fenders reflecting the floodlights above. Andrea’s eyes flicked in that direction at an apparent signal from one of her production
crew, proceeding smoothly with her presentation.
“Our admittedly unsubstantiated conclusions regarding our own harrowing encounter with the Bedouins are these: several weeks prior to the successful twenty-one day assault on Baghdad by U.S. Marines, a full company of assault echelon troopers of the 82nd Airborne Division dropped into the northwest corner of the Syrian Desert to find, capture or kill deposed Iraq President Saddam Hussein.”
Steve continued his wide-angle focus as Andrea glanced to her left where a general officer alighted with an aide from the staff car that had stopped by the side of the access road behind her.
“In the process of carving their foxholes and revetments out of the sand, some of these soldiers apparently unearthed a cache of antique treasure, telling no one about their find. Upon their evacuation at the end of their tour of duty they boarded a military aircraft along with the rest of their battalion and smuggled their treasure back to the United States.”
Andrea half-turned from the camera on apparent instructions from the mini-receiver in her ear as the two officers walked from their car to stand several feet away, within the live frame of the video camera projecting her image.
“Good evening, General Callaghan,” Andrea said. “I see you’ve been promoted since our last meeting. Congratulations.”
General Clyde G. Callaghan advanced to her side, his aide a step behind him. Andrea inclined her microphone toward the lanky officer who seemed amiable and cooperative.
“Thank you, Miz Madigan.”
The general appeared to be in his early forties, eyes bright with intellect, sandy-gray hair
cropped close beneath the cap with gold-braid visor, his tailored uniform of olive green displaying
six inches of multi-colored campaign ribbons on his left chest crowned by a silver-winged jumper’s parachute, his rugged features marred by the round indentation of a scar on his right cheek.
“In addition to your promotion,” Andrea said, “I understand you are also the new commanding officer of the Third Brigade Parachute Infantry Regiment.”
The smile on Callaghan’s lips was faint and expectant, his mind wondering at the ease with which the reporter was reacting to his surprise appearance. “Correct, Miz Madigan.”
“Thank you for joining me tonight.” Andrea shifted her stance to angle halfway between the general and Steve’s camera, once again addressing her television audience. “I have been trying to get an appointment with General Callaghan for over a year to no avail.” She turned to face the tall soldier. “To what can we attribute this sudden visit tonight, General?”
Callaghan’s grin became ingenuous. “A phone call from my boss.”
“At the Pentagon or the White House?” Andrea asked.
“I don’t know where he called from,” Callaghan replied.
For a split second Andrea seemed to be listening to her earphone. “General Callaghan, I have three questions.”
“Shoot.”
“First, what do you know about the alleged removal of artifacts from the Syrian Desert
during the initial stages of the Iraq War by soldiers of Bravo Company then under your direct command?”
“Correction, Miz Madigan. My officers of ‘B’ Company were in direct command of ‘Dark
Dawn.’ Since the mission entailed one of the primary goals of the war, I went along as an
observer.”
Andrea would not be deterred. “What did you observe, or know now about the alleged theft of Arabian artifacts?”
Instead of answering her question Callaghan said, “We are all aware that several unfortunate incidents of theft occurred by military personnel in and around the capitol of Baghdad where Saddam had hidden large amounts of cash and works of art. The perpetrators were arrested by military police and will be court-martialed.”
“You are unaware of any clash between your troopers and Arab nomads?”
“Interim Iraqi Prime Minister Ayad Allawi and several Shiite religious leaders leveled these charges in June based on the same unfounded rumors you have heard. We conducted a thorough investigation of every squad and trooper who could have been involved. There is absolutely no hard evidence that any firefight with nomadic Arab civilians occurred nor artifacts found, much less removed from the Syrian desert.”
“No hard evidence,” Andrea said. “Yet charges that you apparently cannot answer persist concerning this cache of ancient gold and precious gems. Why has this allegation been so much more difficult to resolve than the other thefts you alluded to a few minutes ago?”
“Because the former charges were based on evidence and the apprehension of the suspects
involved. The rumors precipitated by you are based solely on the assertion of a Bedouin tribe that
has since disappeared into the featureless sands of the desert. Neither we nor the Iraqis nor you know precisely where the alleged firefight occurred or have the vaguest idea where to start looking
for the nomads, since they obviously do not wish to be found, or how to identify them if they were.”
“Which of your platoons were assigned to search the landscape I described on the phone to....”
Andrea looked down at a small note pad she had been holding against her thigh, “Major
Charles Geoff?”
“Several squads from Bravo platoons moved from their drop zone along the western border of Iraq to establish a pincer action with mercenary and coalition forces traveling west
from the outskirts of Baghdad.”
“Which squads were they?”
“I cannot tell you where every team of six, fifteen soldiers were deployed off the top of my head.”
“I’m sure you can find out, General. In addition to the names of officers and non-coms in charge.”
“Platoons and their leaders, yes. We do not keep permanent records of where every squad and trooper was every minute of their patrols.”
Andrea looked as though she had been hit on the head. The names of the men in command of those patrols were exactly the kind of information she had been desperately seeking. Now this recruitment poster general was casting it off like a worn fatigue cap.
“When can I expect to get that information?”
Steve had zoomed slowly in on the heads and shoulders of the two speakers, the main gate and guards out of focus in the brilliant spotlights above them. Andrea seemed to listen to instructions from her earpiece on which a voice in their Washington studio was advising her not to extract information on-air that other media could use to pursue the story. Some girl assistant producer, she thought, who’d been feeding at her mother’s breast when Andrea had been covering
the Iranian hostage situation two decades ago.
Callaghan avoided her question. “I will consider any reasonable query posed, to which the
answers are not classified military information or does not infringe on the privacy of army personnel.”
“General, I appreciate that.” Andrea cocked her head to the side, feigning mild curiosity. “Why didn’t you give me access to this information previously?”
