the same fools who had ordered the Americans to be caged like animals for transportation to the barracks at El Obeid had also organized this demonstration, rousing the people to a frenzy of hate. He couldn’t change his orders, but he could ensure his charges arrived in good health.
“No!” he shouted. “Have you forgotten who you are! We are civilized men!”
A fat, dark-complected man pushed his way in front of al Gimlas. He sneered at the tall captain, establishing his dominance. “They are infidels, American swine who love Jews!” He hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat on al Gimlas’s boots. It was a mistake. Al Gimlas knocked off the man’s kaffiyeh , a red-checkered headdress, grabbed a handful of hair, spun him around while lifting him off the ground, and launched him into the crowd.
A loud roar of anger washed over him in retaliation. The crowd was becoming a mob. The sharp rattle of an AK-47 split the air. The boy who had been buried in the cave-in was standing on the hood of the next truck in line, firing his weapon over the heads of the crowd. “Captain!” the boy shouted, throwing his AK-47 to him. Another weapon was passed up from the cab of the truck and the teenager chambered a round. Over fifty of al Gimlas’s soldiers ran from the barracks and shouldered their way into view. Loud clicks of magazines and bolts slamming home quieted the shouts.
Holding the submachine gun easily with one hand, al Gimlas motioned for the man who had spit on his boots to drop to all fours. When he hesitated, al Gimlas fired a short burst of three rounds over his head, barely missing him. The man dropped to his hands and knees as the crowd cleared a big circle around them. Al Gimlas motioned for the man to crawl forward and pointed at his boots. His tongue flicked over his upper lip in a licking motion.
The man hesitated and al Gimlas fired another burst into the dirt directly in front of him. Dirt kicked up into his face and the man scrambled forward. Just before he reached al Gimlas’s feet, the captain reached down and pulled him to his feet. “I prefer to be a civilized man and will never make a true follower of Allah lick my boots.”
The man clasped his hands, dropped to his knees, and looked up at al Gimlas, protesting that he was indeed a true believer. Again, al Gimlas pulled him to his feet and told him to go in peace. The crowd split apart like leaves before a wind as the man ran away, thankful for his near escape.
Al Gimlas turned to the Americans. “Bloody hell,” he said, sounding like a proper Englishman, “you two are an unbelievable amount of trouble.” He glanced up at the boy still standing on the truck and nodded. The boy looked down at his commander, his face full of awe.
A man standing in the second-story window of a nearby building stepped back into the shadows of the room and zoomed in on the cage. The two Americans were now standing in full view as the captain handed them a canteen. He continued to film until the convoy drove on.
4:01 P.M. , Thursday, April 29,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Lt. Col. McGraw took the phone call. Capt. Jefferson was to report immediately to the local detachment of the OSI in the security police building. She tapped her pencil on the message pad for a moment. Her decision made, she buzzed Jefferson. She was going with him.
Two agents were waiting for them and escorted them to an interview room. The senior agent made the introductions and told them the interview was being recorded. “Capt. Jefferson,” he said, “before we begin, I am required to read you your rights under Article Thirty-one of the UCMJ.” He produced a card and read Jefferson’s rights to nonincrimination and the right to be represented by a lawyer. “Do you understand everything I’ve said?” Jefferson nodded.
The junior agent took over the questioning. “Capt. Jefferson, last Friday, you were observed talking to an Egyptian national, Osmana Khalid.”
“That’s
“No!” he shouted. “Have you forgotten who you are! We are civilized men!”
A fat, dark-complected man pushed his way in front of al Gimlas. He sneered at the tall captain, establishing his dominance. “They are infidels, American swine who love Jews!” He hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat on al Gimlas’s boots. It was a mistake. Al Gimlas knocked off the man’s kaffiyeh , a red-checkered headdress, grabbed a handful of hair, spun him around while lifting him off the ground, and launched him into the crowd.
A loud roar of anger washed over him in retaliation. The crowd was becoming a mob. The sharp rattle of an AK-47 split the air. The boy who had been buried in the cave-in was standing on the hood of the next truck in line, firing his weapon over the heads of the crowd. “Captain!” the boy shouted, throwing his AK-47 to him. Another weapon was passed up from the cab of the truck and the teenager chambered a round. Over fifty of al Gimlas’s soldiers ran from the barracks and shouldered their way into view. Loud clicks of magazines and bolts slamming home quieted the shouts.
Holding the submachine gun easily with one hand, al Gimlas motioned for the man who had spit on his boots to drop to all fours. When he hesitated, al Gimlas fired a short burst of three rounds over his head, barely missing him. The man dropped to his hands and knees as the crowd cleared a big circle around them. Al Gimlas motioned for the man to crawl forward and pointed at his boots. His tongue flicked over his upper lip in a licking motion.
The man hesitated and al Gimlas fired another burst into the dirt directly in front of him. Dirt kicked up into his face and the man scrambled forward. Just before he reached al Gimlas’s feet, the captain reached down and pulled him to his feet. “I prefer to be a civilized man and will never make a true follower of Allah lick my boots.”
The man clasped his hands, dropped to his knees, and looked up at al Gimlas, protesting that he was indeed a true believer. Again, al Gimlas pulled him to his feet and told him to go in peace. The crowd split apart like leaves before a wind as the man ran away, thankful for his near escape.
Al Gimlas turned to the Americans. “Bloody hell,” he said, sounding like a proper Englishman, “you two are an unbelievable amount of trouble.” He glanced up at the boy still standing on the truck and nodded. The boy looked down at his commander, his face full of awe.
A man standing in the second-story window of a nearby building stepped back into the shadows of the room and zoomed in on the cage. The two Americans were now standing in full view as the captain handed them a canteen. He continued to film until the convoy drove on.
4:01 P.M. , Thursday, April 29,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Lt. Col. McGraw took the phone call. Capt. Jefferson was to report immediately to the local detachment of the OSI in the security police building. She tapped her pencil on the message pad for a moment. Her decision made, she buzzed Jefferson. She was going with him.
Two agents were waiting for them and escorted them to an interview room. The senior agent made the introductions and told them the interview was being recorded. “Capt. Jefferson,” he said, “before we begin, I am required to read you your rights under Article Thirty-one of the UCMJ.” He produced a card and read Jefferson’s rights to nonincrimination and the right to be represented by a lawyer. “Do you understand everything I’ve said?” Jefferson nodded.
The junior agent took over the questioning. “Capt. Jefferson, last Friday, you were observed talking to an Egyptian national, Osmana Khalid.”
“That’s
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