Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [110]
This is why we aren't supposed to talk to them, Sondra thought. The man was making perfect sense. And the Kurd was right about one thing. Someone would probably talk. But it couldn't be her. She had taken an oath of allegiance, and part of that oath was to obey orders. Rodgers did not want her to speak. She couldn't. She wouldn't. Living with that shame would be worse than dying.
She continued to look at the commander as Rodgers's handcuffs rattled against the iron ring. After a minute, the torch was moved to Rodgers other side. He jumped this time, and so did she, as the flame was applied. The jaw was no longer so strong. His mouth fell open, his eyes rolled, and his entire body trembled. The tips of his feet kicked up and down vigorously. But he didn't scream.
The commander watched with a relaxed, confident expression as the flame was moved to Rodgers's back. Rodgers arched and shook and shut his eyes. His mouth went wide and there was a gurgling deep in his throat. As soon as Rodgers became aware of the sound he forced his mouth shut.
Though tears formed in her eyes and fear dried her mouth, Sondra refused to say a word.
Suddenly, the commander said something in Arabic. The torturer stepped away from Rodgers and shut off the burner. The commander turned to Sondra.
I will give you a few minutes to think without having to see your friend suffer." He smiled at her. "Your friend or your superior officer? No matter. Think about the people you can help. Yours as well as mine. I ask you to think about the German people during the Second World War. Were the patriots those who did the bidding of Hitler, or those who did what was right?"
The commander waited a moment. When Sondra said nothing, he walked away. The torturer left with him.
As their footsteps died, Sondra looked at Rodgers. He raised his head slowly.
"Say nothing," he ordered.
"I know," she said.
"We are not Nazi Germany," Rodgers gasped. "These people are terrorists. They'll use the ROC to kill. Do you understand?"
"I do," she said.
Rodgers's head dropped again. Through tears, Sondra looked at the dark, raw burns under his upraised arms. Rodgers was right. These men had killed thousands of people by blowing up the dam. They'd kill even more if they were able to use the ROC to watch troop movements or listen to communications. The Kurds were oppressed, but would they be any better under a warlord like this? He was a man who had suffered, yet he was willing to burn hostages alive and keep them in pits to get his way. If he were Syrian, would he tolerate the Turkish Kurds? If he were Turkish, would he tolerate the Iraqi Kurds?
She didn't know. But if Mike Rodgers was prepared to die to say no to him, she was too.
And then she heard the footsteps returning. Sondra saw Mike Rodgers breathe deeply to bring up his courage and resolve and felt her own legs weaken. She pulled on the handcuffs and wished she could at least die fighting their captors.
The torturer reappeared without the commander. After lighting the burner, he moved toward Mike Rodgers again. And impassively, as though he were igniting a barbecue pit, he turned the flame on Rodgers's breastbone.
And after his head rolled back and he fought for a long moment to keep his teeth clenched, the general finally screamed.
* * *
THIRTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 3:55 a.m.,
Washington, D. C.
Bob Herbert started working on his fourth pot of coffee while Matt Stoll finished off his seventh can of Tab. Except for bathroom breaks, neither man had left Stoll's office, even when the night shift came on duty.
The two were examining photographs of the Bekaa Valley which had been taken from 1975 through the present by satellites, infiltrators, and Israeli Sayeret Tzanhanim paratroopers. They knew the ROC was somewhere in the valley, but they didn't