It suddenly struck me that not flying out with Yael and the prime minister might have been a serious mistake.
5
I decided I had to stay in this room, whatever it took.
It was the only way I would be able to cover the hunt for the president, a story of enormous import. But staying in this room meant finding a way to make peace with the prince. He very likely held the key to whether I stayed or was kicked out. But how was I going to win him over? Feisal and I had never met before. He didn’t know me, and I knew precious little about him other than his public career.
I did know he was born in 1963 and was thus just a year younger than Abdullah. What’s more, I knew the royal brothers had taken similar career paths, straight into the military. Abdullah, of course, had made the special forces his focus and had risen through the ranks to become commander of all Jordanian special forces before his father, the late King Hussein, had appointed him crown prince just days before passing away, thus leaving the kingdom to his eldest son. Feisal, by contrast, had focused on the air services. He, like his older brother, had gone to school in the U.K. and the U.S. Later he’d trained with the British Royal Air Force, completing his studies in 1985 and going on to become an accomplished pilot of fighter jets and helicopters in the Royal Jordanian Air Force. Over time, he had distinguished himself as an impressive airman and strategist. I recalled that in 2001 or 2002, Feisal had been appointed chief of the Air Staff and had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant general several years ago, later becoming deputy commander of all of Jordan’s military forces. Beyond that, I knew the prince was married and had several children. But I didn’t know what I could possibly say to convince him to let me stay. He was sitting on the other side of the table, working the phones but careful not to let me hear anything he was saying. I couldn’t build trust if I couldn’t talk to him, and I couldn’t talk to him if he was on the phone. My anxiety was rising fast.
Dr. Hammami gave me a shot and then a bottle of pills to manage my pain. Just then, His Majesty reentered the bunker and we all rose. The generals saluted him. I merely stood there, waiting for the ax to fall.
The king told us to take our seats and turned to me. “Mr. Collins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand you used our flight here to tell the world the president of the United States is missing.”
My stomach tightened. “Yes, sir.”
“That was a mistake.”
I disagreed but held my tongue.
“I told you that in confidence. I never imagined you would tell the world.”
“I didn’t quote you, Your Majesty.”
“You didn’t have to,” he replied. “The White House and Pentagon know you’re with me. They know they didn’t release the information. Nor would they. So that leaves me as your source.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“Now ISIS knows. Iran knows. So do the Kremlin and Beijing.”
No sooner had the words come out of the king’s mouth than I saw a breaking news logo appear on the monitor tuned to CNN. The sound was still muted, but the network was clearly now going with the story of the potential death or capture of the American president.
I took a deep breath but maintained eye contact with the king. I wasn’t sorry. I was doing my job. But I was pretty sure I was about to be kicked out of the war room, and I knew there was nothing to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse.
“Your Majesty, may I make a recommendation?” Prince Feisal asked.
“No,” the king said. “Mr. Collins, I need your phone.”
“My phone?”
“You heard me.”
“Why is that, Your Majesty?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me, sir.”
“I can’t allow you to disseminate any unauthorized information, Mr. Collins. Is that clear?”
Not exactly, I thought.
“Does that mean you’re going to allow me to disseminate authorized information?” I asked.
The king leaned forward in his seat. “Why else do you think you’re here?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“The world needs to know what’s happening here,” he replied. “They need to hear it from a credible, independent reporter they trust. I’ve chosen you. You’re going to be at my side during everything that happens for the next few days. However . . .”
“Sir?”
“While you’re at my side throughout this crisis, Colonel Sharif here will be at your side. Nothing gets published in any way, shape, or form unless he clears it first. Do you understand?”
“That’s not exactly the way the New York Times operates, Your Majesty.”
“Do I look like I care?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want to report from the vortex of the storm or sit in the lobby?”
“I’ll take the vortex.”
“Very well. Now hand over your phone.”
My iPhone was sitting in front of me. I slid it across the table to the king. In return, he slid back a notepad and a pen. We were in business—under military censorship, to be sure, but in business just the same.
The king then turned to his team.
“Okay, now, where are we in finding and rescuing the president?”
The prince took that one. “As you’ve ordered, we have a massive aerial reconnaissance effort under way up and down Route 15, Route 35, and the adjacent roads. We’re massing ground forces into the area as well. We’re coordinating with the Secret Service, the Pentagon, and the American embassy downtown. But so far, nothing.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty, but we’re doing everything we can.”
“And you’ve beefed up protection around the embassy?”
“Yes, the American compound and most of the rest of the Western embassies too. But we’re stretched very thin at the moment and . . .”
“And what?”
“It’s a bit delicate, sir.”
“You can speak freely.”
“Well, sir, we’re still not entirely sure whom we can trust.”
“I know, but there’s nothing else we can do right now. Keep giving orders and watch to see who obeys and who doesn’t.”
The king now turned to General al-Mufti, the air force commander. “Where are we with the palace?”
“Al-Hummar has been leveled, Your Majesty.”
“There’s no chance of ISIS getting control of vital papers or communications equipment?”
“No, sir—we’ve firebombed every square inch.”
“And how many ISIS forces are we dealing with?” the king asked, turning to General Jum’a, commander of Jordan’s ground forces.
“Our best guess is about fifteen thousand.”
“Just ISIS?”
“No, ISIS and al-Hirak.”
“The Brotherhood?”
“No—for the moment they seem to be standing down.”
“How much of Amman has ISIS taken?”
“Our forces are clashing with them throughout the city. They’ve taken out the radio stations and captured two banks. But at this point I wouldn’t say they control a single quadrant of the city.”
“Do we?” asked the king.
6
“It’s a very fluid situation just now, Your Majesty,” the general said.
It was hardly a satisfactory answer. The capital was under siege. Control of the kingdom itself was in jeopardy.
“What about casualties so far?” the king asked, abruptly changing topics.
“The prime minister is in critical condition,” Prince Feisal replied. “Most of the cabinet is dead. The mayor of Amman and most of the tribal leaders we invited to the summit are dead too. So is the White House chief of staff, the national security advisor, and all of the congressional delegation that came with the president.”
This was going from bad to worse so quickly I could barely breathe.
“Where is
Kamal?” the king asked, referring to Kamal Jeddah, director of the Mukhabarat, the Jordanian intelligence directorate.
“Kamal is dead too, Your Majesty,” the prince replied.
I couldn’t believe it.
“So is Ali Sa’id.”
That much I knew. Sa’id had died at my side. I’d been the one to feel for a pulse and find nothing, and hearing his name in this setting was almost more than I could bear.
“How many casualties overall?” the king asked.
The prince turned to General Jum’a.
“Your Majesty, at this point we’re estimating over a thousand people dead within the palace compound—not counting the terrorists, of course,” the general reported.
The king was silent. I put my hand over my mouth. I didn’t know exactly how many had been in attendance at the summit, but the number of casualties struck me as upward of 90 percent.
“How many survived?” the king asked.
“Fewer than a hundred, Your Majesty,” the prince said.
“How many fewer?”
“It’s too soon to say.”
“How many?”
“Your Majesty, please—we will get you updated figures as soon as we can. But—”
“How . . . many . . . survived?” the king said quietly.
There was another long pause.
“Some, of course, were able to escape,” the general said. “And some—thanks be to Allah—were evacuated to area hospitals. The minister of justice, for example, is in critical condition, but I’m afraid he isn’t expected to live through the week. I’ve been told that several members of the Palestinian delegation miraculously escaped, unharmed or nearly so. Youssef Kuttab, for one, and several others. But I really don’t think . . .”
He stopped midsentence.
The king waited, but his patience was growing thin. He wanted numbers, and he wanted them now.
Finally the prince stepped in. “Fewer than a hundred, Your Majesty.”
“I’m not going to ask again.”
The prince took a deep breath. “We estimate no more than fifty survived.”
The doctor gasped, as did the young aide standing in the corner.
“This number includes my family?”
“It includes everyone in the vehicle you escaped in, Your Majesty—all seven of you. Prime Minister Lavi and President Mansour too.”
“For now,” said General al-Mufti.
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t look good, Your Majesty.”
“What exactly do we know about their status?”
“President Mansour is at a hospital in Ramallah,” al-Mufti replied. “He was shot in the back. He’s just come out of surgery, but it’s touch and go.”
“And Daniel?”
The prince fielded that one. “The prime minister was rushed to Hadassah Medical Center near Jerusalem. He’s still in surgery. I just got off the phone with Ari Shalit. He said . . .”
The prince stopped and looked at me.
“It’s okay,” the king said. “Mr. Collins isn’t going to tell anyone. Right, Mr. Collins?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have your word.”
“You do, sir.”
“Very well. Proceed.”
Feisal hesitated for a moment, but then did as he was asked. “It’s pretty grim, Your Majesty. Ari said it’s not clear the prime minister is going to make it.”
“Why not?”
“Ari said the PM sustained three bullet wounds, two to the back and one to the leg. He lost an enormous amount of blood. They nearly lost him twice on the chopper flight across the river. Apparently it was that Mossad agent, the woman, who saved his life.”
“Yael?” I asked. “Yael Katzir?”
“Yes, her,” the prince said. “She set up a blood transfusion midflight and performed CPR on him—twice. Still might not have been enough, but . . .”
Feisal didn’t finish the sentence. What more was there to say?
The room was silent. I was in shock. I don’t know why. I’d known Lavi and Mansour were both in bad shape. When they’d first been shot, we’d all thought they were dead right then. It was the king who’d realized they were still breathing, still had a pulse. But somehow once they were put on the choppers and evacuated back over the Jordan River, I guess I’d just assumed everything would be okay. I couldn’t bear the thought that they both might soon be gone—especially after nearly consummating a peace deal they’d worked on so hard for so long.
Suddenly one of the phones in front of Feisal rang. The prince answered it immediately, then handed the receiver to the king.
“Yes,” he said without expression. “Yes, I understand. Very well. Good-bye.”
I feared the worst and was absolutely stunned by what the king said next. “That was Jack at CIA. We may have found the president.”
Everyone instinctively stood. Finally there was some desperately needed good news. Thank God for Jack Vaughn, I thought. The director of the Central Intelligence Agency and I had clashed pretty hard in recent days. But I was suddenly thrilled to hear his name mentioned. He and his team were on the case. Maybe things were going to take a turn for the better.
“An American spy satellite has just picked up the signal of the emergency beacon coming from the Secret Service vehicle the president was riding in,” the king said. “Jack said it wasn’t automatically activated, meaning the vehicle hasn’t crashed. It was set off manually. Which is a good sign. Someone is with the vehicle—someone who knows what he’s doing, knows that the beacon is in the car and how to trigger it.”
“But?” I asked.
“But if it’s the agents protecting the president, why aren’t they on a secure satphone back to Washington, calling for help and providing a clearer sense of what’s happening?”
“Where is the signal coming from?” General Jum’a asked. “I’ve got extraction teams on standby, ready to go.”
“Where would they be deployed from?”
“Here, Your Majesty. They’re on the tarmac right now.”
“Good,” the king said. “Can you redirect ground forces to the site as well?”
“I can, but there are risks.”
“We still don’t know whom we can trust?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do you trust these extraction forces?”
“Implicitly, Your Majesty. These are my best men. Bedouins, all. Most are sons of men you trained and served with yourself.”
“Can you put them on a secure channel so I can talk with them directly and no other unit can listen in?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good, then put them in the air—but don’t tell any other unit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But, Your Majesty, doesn’t Jack want to send in U.S. forces to rescue the president?” I asked, taking a risk by interrupting but trying to understand what was about to play out.
“Of course,” the king said. “The Pentagon is deploying a SEAL team off one of the carriers in the Med. But we’re closer, and Jack’s afraid if ISIS forces have the president pinned down . . .”
He didn’t have to finish. The thought was too terrible to contemplate.
“The signal location?” General al-Mufti prompted.
“Near the airport. Get your men in the air. You and I can give them precise coordinates in a few moments.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Your Majesty, can I go with them?” I asked, moving toward the door.
“Absolutely not,” al-Mufti said.
General Jum’a concurred and the prince was about to, but I spoke first. “Please, sir, I need to see this. You said it yourself—this is why you’ve got me here.”
“It’s out of the question, Mr. Collins,” al-Mufti shot back. “His Majesty said you’d be at his side during the crisis, not out in the field.”
“Please, Your Majesty, Colonel Sharif can go with me,” I said. “He’ll keep me out of trouble. But I need
to go, sir. I need to see the rescue operation. The world needs to hear this story from me, not from a government spokesman.”
When the king said nothing, the prince spoke up. “What if it goes badly, Your Majesty?”
“All the more reason,” the king said. “Okay, Collins—I want you to go. But Sharif goes with you, and nothing gets published unless he or I approve it.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You’re welcome. And may God be with you.”
7
Lieutenant General Abdul Jum’a led the way to the tarmac.
Colonel Sharif and I followed close behind and soon found ourselves climbing into the back of an MH-6 helicopter. Known as the “Little Bird,” the chopper would serve as the command-and-control aircraft for the unfolding mission as the general directed the movements of six Black Hawk helicopters and the elite SF operators they were carrying. And Sharif and I would be able to see and hear everything that was happening in real time.
We were still buckling up as the two-man crew up front lifted off. Soon we were racing south by southeast to an area not far from Queen Alia International Airport, where the emergency beacon’s signal was coming from.
So much was still unknown. Were the president and his security detail out in the open or in an urban area? Were they alone or under assault by ISIS forces? And what exactly was the rescue strategy?
With the president’s life potentially in imminent danger, there was no time to develop a detailed and proper plan. Rather than gather all kinds of intelligence and put his men through several hours or days of training, the general was going to have to improvise, and that was going to make a risky situation all the more dangerous.
I had a hundred questions. Was there any way to approach the target by stealth? If not, what would be the best way for the general’s men to get to the president and extract him? How was Jum’a going to handle the fact that it was the middle of the day and we weren’t going to have the cover of darkness? What if the enemy had RPGs? Would it be possible for the approaching aircraft to be shot down? If that happened, then what? If there was no plan A, what was plan B?
The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel Page 4
