The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  And Yael? She was a different story altogether. I still had no idea what was going to happen to her, and that hurt all the more.

  71

  A few minutes later, we touched down next to a hangar.

  Then the side doors opened and a team of Air Force doctors met us. They got a quick briefing from the medics who had cared for us and took Yael and me off the chopper on our stretchers. I was about to insist that I could walk well enough on my own, but the African American medic shot me a look that told me I’d better not dare cross her now. So I kept my mouth shut, and as they wheeled us both across the tarmac and put us in a waiting ambulance, I suddenly saw something I would never have expected to see—not today, not in the middle of Iraqi Kurdistan.

  Air Force One was waiting for us. The president’s gleaming blue-and-white 747 was refueled and ready to go. It was surrounded by dozens of tanks, armored personnel carriers, heavily armed American soldiers and Secret Service agents, and a detachment of the Peshmerga, the Kurdish military force. It was also surrounded by a squadron of American fighter jets.

  “I’m afraid this is where I say good-bye, my friend,” General Ramirez said just before the EMTs shut the ambulance doors. “It was an honor to fight with you, Collins. You did a heck of a job.”

  “Thanks, General. Can I quote you on that?”

  “You can indeed,” he said, though the smile I was hoping to get did not come. There was too much pain and too much loss for both of us. “Don’t be a stranger. You’re part of the family now. Come see us anytime.”

  “I’d like that, sir,” I said, having to make do by shaking with my left hand. “Take care.”

  “You, too, Collins. Bye.”

  He shut the doors, tapped them twice, and the ambulance headed across the airfield. When we got to Air Force One, Yael’s stretcher was wheeled onto a lift device, elevated, and brought into the back of the plane. My stretcher followed close behind. I’d only been on Air Force One once in my life, but I couldn’t help but notice that the press section in the back where I’d sat had been completely reconfigured. It was now a mobile hospital, and several of the Iraqi children who had been rescued from the tunnels were lying on portable stretchers, receiving, no doubt, the best medical care they had ever gotten.

  The first person I recognized was Special Agent Art Harris.

  “Mr. Collins, thank God—you made it,” he said, rushing over to me immediately.

  “You, too,” I said. “I was getting worried about you.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “But I’m feeling much better.”

  “Someone poison you?” I quipped, only half kidding.

  “Nothing so exciting,” he replied. “Just airsickness. But what about you? You look terrible. You going to be all right?”

  “We’ll see,” I said, not wanting to talk about myself. “Any news on Jack Vaughn?”

  “He was arraigned in federal court a few hours ago.”

  “How’d he plead?” I asked, trying to picture the scene of a CIA director being arraigned on charges of treason and espionage, for starters.

  “Not guilty on all counts,” Harris replied.

  “And the woman and her son?”

  “They’ll be arraigned later today.”

  “Okay. Keep me posted,” I said.

  “Will do,” Harris replied. “You take care of yourself.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Just then an Air Force officer walked by and insisted Agent Harris take his seat immediately. The crew was kind and couldn’t have been more professional, but it was clear they were feeling harried. They were rushing to get Air Force One off Iraqi soil as quickly as possible, and our arrival had obviously slowed them down and complicated matters. Two nurses locked Yael’s stretcher into place. Mine was locked in right next to her. We were both strapped in tightly and before I knew it, we began hurtling down the runway.

  No one said a word. Even the children were quiet, though it occurred to me that they might have been sedated. I’d overheard a Secret Service agent tell one of his colleagues as we were boarding that ISIS forces were now just a few kilometers from the airport. Tensions were high, as none of us knew what ISIS had planned next.

  As we lifted off, I reminded myself that the presidential plane had the world’s most advanced countermeasures to defeat ground-to-air missiles. It had also been retrofitted with engines nearly as powerful as those of a spacecraft. Thus, we were now rocketing almost straight up into the sky to get out of missile range as rapidly as possible. The g-forces were making the plane shake something fierce. I wasn’t far from several windows, but I couldn’t watch. My eyes were shut. My fists were clenched. I knew a dozen U.S. Navy fighter jets were flanking us. They were all from the USS George H.W. Bush, the Nimitz-class supercarrier operating as part of Carrier Strike Group Two somewhere out in the Med. They were there to get us out alive and well. But I still couldn’t watch.

  A few minutes later, we reached our cruising altitude of 41,000 feet. Not long after that, the pilot came over the intercom and informed us that we were now out of Iraqi airspace. I opened my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the entire plane erupted in cheers.

  Suddenly I heard a familiar voice coming down the aisle. The next thing I knew, President Harrison Taylor was standing beside me, flanked by several bodyguards. “Mr. Collins, how are you?” he asked.

  “Mr. President,” I said, startled to see him at all, much less on his feet. “I’m fine, sir—how are you?”

  “You don’t exactly look fine, Collins,” he said.

  “Neither do you, sir,” I replied.

  “No, I guess I don’t,” he conceded. “But they say I’m going to make it.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir.”

  “Me too,” he said. “And you?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Taylor nodded. He wasn’t smiling. He’d been through too much, and I could see the pain and exhaustion in his eyes. He looked around the makeshift medical bay and asked if they were taking good care of me. When I assured him that they were, he asked if there was anything I needed. I said no. I saw him glance at the Iraqi children. He thanked the medical crew standing around us for “caring for these kids who really need our love and attention right now.” Then he took a few moments to shake hands with each doctor and each nurse and thank them personally for all they’d done for him and his team and these children.

  Then the president looked down at Yael. “How is she?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They won’t tell me.”

  The president turned to the lead physician.

  “Miss Katzir is stable for now, sir,” the doctor replied. “We’ll know more in a few hours, but we’re going to run a series of tests on her right away.”

  Taylor nodded and squeezed Yael’s hand. I could see him fighting back his emotions, and he was not a man known for having much of an emotional side.

  “Take care of these two,” he told the medical staff, nodding toward Yael and me. “I owe them my life.” Then he turned to me again. “Thank you, James,” he said softly.

  “Don’t mention it, Mr. President,” I replied, surprised to hear him call me by my first name.

  “No, really,” he said, looking me in the eye. “You were right about ISIS, about the summit, about the chemical weapons, about all of it. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. President.”

  “No,” he said, “it’s not. A lot of people are dead because I . . .”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. There was an awkward silence. Then he spoke again.

  “Perhaps if I’d listened . . . maybe . . . just maybe all of this could have been avoided.”

  I didn’t know what to say. He was right, but I was stunned to hear him admit it. Thousands of people were dead because he’d failed to take ISIS seriously and deal with them earlier on. I had questions I wanted him to answer on the record, and not just for the American people but for me. But now didn’t seem the
right time or place—not here on Air Force One, in front of his staff.

  Still, I did want to ask him one question: what was he going to do next? ISIS had taken him hostage and broadcast the images of his captivity to the entire world. They had almost beheaded him. They had slaughtered nearly an entire Delta team. They had murdered dozens of American soldiers, not to mention hundreds of Jordanian, Egyptian, Saudi, and Gulf forces in Dabiq. And this was only the beginning. ISIS had scored a propaganda coup of unbelievable proportions. Money and recruits were going to flow in as never before. What’s more, Abu Khalif was still at large. So what was the president going to do now? How was he going to learn from his failure to deal with ISIS sooner?

  But the moment was interrupted. One of the Secret Service agents got a call on his satellite phone and handed the phone to the president.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Taylor said. “Okay, put him on. . . . Hey, Marty—what have you got?”

  There was a long silence.

  “I—that’s not possible,” he said, and there was another long silence. “What did it say? . . . No, no—not yet. Not till I get back. . . . Okay, let me know. . . . I will. Bye.”

  He hung up and handed the phone back to the agent. His face was ashen. I couldn’t imagine what he’d just learned, and I hoped he didn’t tell me. I couldn’t take more bad news.

  “That was the vice president,” he said, looking back at me but saying nothing else.

  I nodded but didn’t reply. I guess I hoped if I stayed quiet, the president wouldn’t tell me whatever he’d just heard. Maybe it was classified. Maybe it was personal. Regardless, he just stood there quietly for a few moments, looking away. Then he patted me on the shoulder and turned to leave.

  I started to breathe again. But then he stopped and turned back to me. Every muscle in my body tensed.

  “They just heard from the prison where they’re holding Jack Vaughn,” the president explained, looking down at the floor. “They found Jack’s body.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “Apparently he hanged himself with a bedsheet in his cell. He’s dead. Just like that. He’s dead.”

  No one said a word. I could see the shock in everyone’s eyes. Surely the word had spread through the staff earlier about Vaughn’s arrest. I doubted the president even knew about my involvement in the sting operation that had cemented Vaughn’s guilt, but clearly the notion of the CIA director being involved in a conspiracy to kill the president had rattled everyone on board. And now this news compounded everything.

  “He left a note,” the president said, a vacant look in his eyes. “Don’t ask me how . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “What did it say, Mr. President?” I asked after we had waited nearly a minute.

  “The note simply read, ‘I’m sorry. Just tell him I’m sorry. I never imagined . . .’ And that was it.”

  What did that mean? I wondered. Tell who? The president? Someone else? Why hadn’t Vaughn referred to Claire? Or his children? And “I never imagined”? What was that supposed to mean? That he didn’t know his mistress was working for ISIS? That he didn’t know he’d be caught?

  A hundred more questions came rushing to mind, but the president just turned and walked away.

  72

  As soon as the president left, the doctors wheeled Yael away as well.

  They said they were taking her for tests. I lay there in pain, staring at the ceiling, reeling from all that had just happened, with no way to move and no one to talk to. Rarely had I ever felt so alone.

  I closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep. All I could see was Jack Vaughn’s body hanging, dangling, twisting. I opened my eyes and glanced at the Iraqi children, all of whom were now sedated and sleeping, but all I could see were images of them in those hideous cages. I turned and stared at the ceiling, but all I could see was Yael and Sharif fighting for their lives in that compound in Alqosh—fighting and, in Sharif’s case, losing.

  An Air Force nurse soon came by to check my IV and vital signs. “How are you holding up, Mr. Collins?” she asked. “Is everything okay?”

  Are you kidding? I wanted to scream. Do you have any idea what we’ve all been through? But I just bit my tongue and nodded.

  “Blood pressure’s a little high,” she said, putting a note in my chart. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

  I gritted my teeth. Was there anything I wanted? Of course there is, lady. How about ironclad proof Yael is going to be okay? How about my friends back from the grave? How about the last few days to have never happened? How about a phone to call home, a computer to write the story, and the Wi-Fi to transmit it back to my boss? But I just shook my head and stared at the space where Yael’s stretcher had been. I imagined the doctors working on her, hooking her up to all kinds of hoses and tubes and monitors, and I was scared for her.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “But what about my friend—is she going to be okay?”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” she said.

  “She took a terrible blow to the head back there,” I said.

  “Yes, I know,” the nurse replied.

  “And her arm is broken,” I added.

  “We’re on it,” she insisted.

  “And she’s got severe burns all over her body,” I noted.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Collins; we’re doing everything we can to take care of her,” she assured me. “And when we touch down, we’ll get her straight to Walter Reed. We’ve already alerted them. They’re going to be standing by with a first-class team when we get there. Believe me, she’s in good hands.”

  I nodded with gratitude, then wondered if I’d heard her right. “Did you say Walter Reed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The medical center?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In Washington?”

  “Well, Bethesda, but yes.”

  “We’re not going to Tel Aviv?” I asked, somewhat perplexed.

  “No, sir,” she said. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, I just thought . . . I mean . . . Yael’s Israeli, so, you know, I thought we’d be—”

  “What, dropping her off?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Sir, this plane is carrying the president of the United States. We’ve got one priority, and that’s to get the commander in chief back to D.C., back to the White House, as quickly and as safely as possible. That’s it. That’s our mission. Everything else will have to wait.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Now you get some rest. We’ve got a long flight ahead of us.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Do you want me to give you something?”

  “No, no, it’s not that; it’s just . . .”

  “I know. You’re worried about Miss Katzir. But I’m sure she’ll be fine, Mr. Collins. And I suspect she’ll be awake in a few hours. Why don’t you get some rest? And when she stirs, I’ll be sure to wake you.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course, sir. It would be my pleasure.”

  “Well, thank you,” I said, choking up. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . .”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Collins. You need to rest. That’s it. Just lie there and rest. You’re safe with us now.”

  The funny thing, given the circumstances, was that I actually believed her. As I leaned back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt safe. But I did now. Sad, but safe. Mourning and hollow and racked with grief . . . but safe. And it was odd. Good, but odd.

  Soon my breathing began to slow. My eyes started getting heavy. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, I began to relax. We’d rescued the president. He was safe. We’d rescued all these children, and they were safe too. Yael was getting the best care she possibly could, and so was I. There was nothing else I could do, nothing but rest and resist the temptation to slide headlong into a depression that would just make eve
rything worse.

  For a moment, I craved a drink, but I forced myself to think about something else—something, anything—and fast. I began to think about the story I was going to write. I tried to imagine what I was going to tell Allen first, the moment they let me use a phone. I tried to organize my thoughts and imagine how I was going to capture all that I’d been through and communicate it to a world that wasn’t going to hear it any other way. This wasn’t just a series of articles. This was a book. And I was no longer going to be under a military censor. My thoughts raced.

  Soon the cabin lights were dimmed. Conversations turned to a whisper and then quieted completely. The people on this plane were as spent as I was, and everyone began to settle in for the twelve-hour flight. I glanced up the hallway and noticed a young Air Force officer pulling down all the window shades. Before she got to us, I looked out the window nearest to me and noticed that we had started banking west. It took me a moment to realize exactly where we were, but then I saw the Jordan River. I saw the barrenness of the Judean wilderness below us. I knew then that we were clearing the airspace of the Hashemite Kingdom. We were heading into Israel, toward the Mediterranean, and then home.

  And then, as we began to level out, I could see the brave young men flying those Navy fighter jets, our escorts. One of the jets was so close I could have waved to the pilot if I’d wanted to.

  Then the young officer arrived, and just before she closed the window shade, she turned to that pilot and caught his eye, and she saluted him. And the pilot saluted back.

  And when he did, I broke. My eyes welled up with tears. I got a lump in my throat. I tried to hold back the emotions. They embarrassed me. But I couldn’t help it. As the officer closed the last of the window shades and darkness settled on the medical bay, I closed my eyes again and began to shake, began to weep. Quietly. Not so anyone could hear me. I was simply overcome with relief and gratitude beyond measure.