CHAPTER 1
Article II. I will never surrender of my own free will.
—FM 21-78 Prisoner-of-War Resistance, December 1981
JIM SIMPSON NOW KNEW HE WAS a man marked for death. If he hadn't already been working on the procedures for the last week, there was no way that he could have gotten almost everything done. He had laid down most of the needed groundwork during that week. That work had exposed him. It was only his overhearing the order to grab him alive at all costs that had sent him running to the com room.
Jim Simpson looked average. Average height and weight—a few extra pounds starting to stay on since his recent duties were more deskbound, far away from his previous active duty service as a U.S. Army Ranger. Dark hair, cut short for the desert heat of Iraq. In spite of that heat he sported a thick beard and mustache. His eyes, a deep hazel, took in everything around them. Most people seeing him on the street would label him your average American.
He had left the break room of Protective Integrated Services after drinking a cup of coffee when he had come close to the major's office. As he approached the open door, he heard his name and froze. The major was briefing his paid men to grab Simpson. They didn't think he was in the building. That was a mistake.
Simpson knew he was trapped then. He could make it back to the front door, but the guard there might now be alerted. He couldn't take the chance. He decided to get the messages out. With his office now out of reach, the only place he knew he could do that was behind the locked steel door of the com room. That was in the back of the building, on the other side of the major's open door and then through the massive warehouse where the hundreds of cases of weapons, ammo, explosives, and other military supplies were piled high in crates. He knew he had to try. If he could get past the major's door, he might get to the com room.
Walk or run? Words his father had long drilled into him ran through his mind: He who hesitates is lost.
Simpson decided to walk past the door and run if he had to. Maybe they wouldn't see him. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the hallway in front of the major's door. He almost made it.
"There he is!" the major barked, looking up from behind his desk.
Simpson didn't hear the rest. He was off and running like a fox dodging the hounds. He was glad he had his Nike running shoes on as he took off. He put all he had into escape.
The men chasing him yelled at him to stop. He just kept going.
Boom!
A round slammed into the wall beside him. These men coming for him knew how to shoot. Whoever fired that round hadn't been set and must have just let a round fly on the run. Simpson had thought he was running as fast as he could. He found a new speed.
"No guns!" the major's voice boomed through the hall. "Take him alive."
The chase was on. Simpson slammed the release bar downward, opening the door to the warehouse, and ran into the large space. He veered left just in case the major's order not to shoot hadn't been heard by all. Now, if he could make it to the com room and lock the steel door, he might get done what he needed to do.
The heavy thuds from the leather boot soles of the men chasing him seemed to be getting closer and closer. With his chest aching already, he knew he couldn't outdistance these men for long. They were generally much younger and in far better shape then he was. Too much time behind the computer during the last few months. With his life on the line, he found still another speed, a still faster gear.
One man chasing him broke ahead of the pack. He was some sort of super sprinter. The others were a good thirty or forty feet back, but this one, he was gaining. Simpson imagined the super sprinter's breath on the back of his neck. He would never make it, the way the man was gaining on him. He had to do something and do it fast.
Simpson saw his chance. Just ahead, leaning against one of the large wooden crates, was a four-foot crowbar used for prying the crates open. He knew he would only get one shot. He had to stop the super sprinter.
As he approached the crowbar, he reached down and grabbed it on the fly. He didn't hesitate. Taking the dark steel in both fists, he turned and swung with everything he had. He was amazed at how slowly everything seemed to move at that point, how totally he was in control of everything. His mind didn't miss a detail.
The sprinter wasn't expecting an attack, but he still reacted quickly. He leaned away from the attack and threw his left arm up to block the blow. Had Simpson's strike been aimed at the man's upper body, it would not have worked. The man was too fast and well trained for that. But Simpson hadn't aimed for the man's upper body.
With every ounce of force and rage within him, Jim Simpson sent the steel downward toward the man's legs. The man's feet were already committed. He couldn't dodge the blow.
Simpson heard the snap of breaking bone as the crowbar smashed against the sprinter's knee. The man went down in a heap of screaming pain. Simpson didn't wait around. He was off and running again before the rest of the men chasing him even caught up to the wounded man.
Simpson turned past the last row of crates and saw the com room door. His lungs were aching. His calves felt like Jell-O. He ignored those pains.
He flung open the com room door and knew he would make it. Taking a quick glance back, he smiled at those chasing him. He slammed the door shut and threw the two solid steel bolts home. He was safe for a few moments. He hoped he would have enough time to do what needed to be done.
He paused a few seconds, leaning against the door, before he sat down in front of the bank of computers. He knew he didn't have much time. When he reached up to log on to the system, he found that he was still holding the crowbar in a white-knuckled death grip. He dropped it, and it clanged onto the cement floor. He turned to the keyboard and started typing.
He was still waiting for his password to be accepted when the hammering on the door began. From the sound of it, they must have found something heavy to use as a battering ram. Every thud against the door pushed a dent into it. It was only a matter of time until the very determined men on the outside of that door forced their way in.
Ignoring the hammering on the door, Simpson kept typing. He needed to send out two e-mails. The only question in his mind was whether he would have enough time to get the two e-mails off. Would the steel door hold long enough? If he failed, he would certainly be killed. If he got them sent, he had a chance to live.
Another thud from the battering ram dented the door. It would be close.
The fiber-optic Internet lines ran through heavy steel piping buried deep underground. His pursuers couldn't break that connection without a massive explosion somewhere on the base. Even they wouldn't risk that. Not here. Not in the Green Zone of Baghdad, Iraq. Even they couldn't do that on the massive U.S.-military-controlled base.
He knew which e-mail to send first. Quickly, he typed his father's Pentagon e-mail address and triple-tabbed to the body section of the e-mail. He typed only one word—"DELTA"—and hit SEND. At least his father was now alerted.
The latest blow against the door caused some weakening of the steel. Simpson heard the metal bend and give, an earsplitting shriek of metal being slowly rent apart. He ignored the attack and started typing his second e-mail. This one could not be short. It had to be correct the first time.
Even with the threat of life and death, Simpson remained calm under the pressure. His e-mail was professional, detailed, and complete.
What he didn't know was that the major was a very determined man. He wanted to stop Simpson from doing anything, and he was using every tool available to him. The men under his command were all highly trained ex-military men with years of hard combat experience behind them—the sharp edge of the sword.
The major ordered one of them to go grab some C-4 explosive and some blasting caps. The battering ram was taking too long. If applied correctly the explosives would blow through the steel door, ripping out the locks. The major and his men knew just how much of the plastic explosive to use and where to place the charges.
Simpson was typing his name into the e-mail, considering if he had time to proofread it, when the concussion from the explosion slammed his head against the table. Dazed, his right ear bleeding from the blast, he lost track of time. Everything moved into an even slower motion for him.
He remembered looking back toward the door and seeing two men forcing it aside, using the steel pipe as a battering ram. Once they were in, two more men quickly, professionally flowed into the room. They came at Simpson.
They were fast. Even in his slow-motion haze they seemed to flow like demon-possessed specters coming at him. All he could think of was sending the second e-mail. He turned back toward the computer bank and watched his hand slowly go toward the ENTER button, which would send the e-mail.
He remembered seeing his index finger just a couple of millimeters from that button when he felt a hard fist slamming against the side of his face. Then a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked Simpson back. The chair crashed to the floor with him in it. The back of his head slammed hard against the gray concrete floor.
Jim Simpson blacked out not knowing if he had sent the second e-mail.
Copyright © 2011 by Joe Domenici
