Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [66]
Ibrahim and Hasan entered the van, and Mahmoud hurried over to Rodgers. The Syrian held the submachine gun in his right hand and a hunting knife in his left. Mahmoud sliced away the cord which held him to the handlebars, but left Rodgers's legs tied. Then he motioned for his prisoner to go to the van. Rodgers got into a squatting position, stood, and hopped ahead. It would have been easier to crawl, but that was not something Rodgers did. Though the earth seemed anxious to reject his feet, he managed to keep his balance.
As he approached the van, Rodgers saw Coffey, Mary Rose, and Katzen. The three were splayed groggily on the floor of the ROC. They were tied to the column beneath the passenger's seat, their ankles bound. While Ibrahim left to drag Colonel Seden over, Rodgers hopped up the step. As he looked to the left, toward the back of the van, his flesh went cold.
Pupshaw and DeVonne were draped over the chairs of the computer stations. The Strikers were tied hand and foot to the legs of the chairs and were just beginning to stir. Rodgers felt his bowels tighten. They looked more like hunting trophies than like soldiers.
Whatever had gone wrong didn't matter right now. The fact was that they were all captives. And to determine how they would be treated for however long they were held was going to require a long, complex dance.
The first thing Rodgers had to do was try to help the Strikers. When they woke and found themselves tied like this, not only would their heart and fight be extinguished, but their dignity as well. Though wounded and physically abused, they both could survive this. But without pride, they would have nothing even after they were set free. In training for terrorist situations and in talking to the new Striker commander, Brett August, a former Vietnam POW, Rodgers had learned that more hostages took their own lives a year or two after being released than died in captivity. The feeling that they had been degraded and dishonored left them feeling ashamed. That sense was heightened if the victims were in the military. Rank and medals were the outward recognition of courage and honor, which were the blood and breath of the soldier. When those qualities were compromised in hostage situations, only death could reclaim them. It could be death like a Viking, facing an enemy or presumed enemy with a sword in one's hand, or it could be death like a dishonored samurai, alone with a self-inflicted cut to the viscera. But there was no facing life any longer.
Rodgers also had to run the first of his four remaining military assets up the flagpole for the sake of the Strikers. He had to risk his life. When he was stationed in Cam Ranh Bay in southeast Vietnam, there were always casualties. The physical ones were written in blood. The psychological ones were written in the faces of the soldiers. After soldiers had cradled a friend whose legs or hands or face had been blasted off by a mine, or comforted a buddy dying from a bullet wound in the chest or throat or belly, there were only two ways to motivate them. One was to send them out for revenge. That was what the military psychologists now called a "spike high." Rooted in anger rather than purpose, it was good for quick strikes or fast fixes in tough situations. The second way, which Rodgers had always preferred, was for the leader to put his own life in danger. That created a moral imperative for the platoon to get back on its feet and support him. It didn't heal the scars, but it built a bond, a camaraderie which was greater than the sum of the parts.
All of this Rodgers considered in the time it took him to glance at the Strikers, give the faster recovering Private Pupshaw a supportive little smile, then look back at the front of the van.
While Hasan checked the crew for concealed weapons, Rodgers felt a gun barrel pressed into the small of his back. Mahmoud pushed him to the left. He wanted him to go into the back of the van.
Rodgers stood where he was and hip-butted