some kind of Security Police plant, to keep tabs on the group certainly—possibly to help them.”
“Sounds reasonable, I guess. … But what does that mean for us? I mean, do we really want to surrender at Jabrin? The government might just fly our asses back out to those people. We could fly to ’Arada, which is over the border in the Emirates. Would they be in on the plot?”
“No, but they’d count the bodies in here and then hold us until the proper Saudi authorities can sort the matter out. Can you make it all the way to the Petramin Compound in Riyadh?”
“You mean, without being spotted? In a bright pink helicopter? Dripping blood out of a smashed-up nose bubble?”
“The Saudi Air Force isn’t that thick in the sky.”
“But those people back at Abaila certainly have radios to warn them with.”
“Right. … What about ditching short of some town and walking in?”
“All right,” I said. “My instruments include a compass and a wristwatch. I have no accurate topo maps of this area. And, anyway, all they would show is rolling dunes. So, you tell me when you think we are ‘short of’ some place, then we find out how far we have to walk.”
“Ouch!”
“Exactly.”
“I guess, then, we fly to Jabrin and trust our luck with that famous Arab hospitality,” Corbin said. “And there’s just a chance that, seeing we’ve gotten free, they won’t have the balls to send us back. They might just play us straight and sacrifice the whole group at Abaila.”
“Think so?”
“Nah!”
But that is exactly what the Security Police did. When we brought the Mixmaster shuddering and groaning into a sideways landing at the Jabrin airstrip, the first people to reach the craft were uniformed police. So they may have had some kind of tipoff. But they came with their sidearms holstered—until they saw the busted plexiglass and bloody tatters hanging off the nose of our bird. Then they all pulled their guns and sank down on one knee to get steady aim.
We climbed out with our hands up. Corbin talked to the nearest man and the man’s pistol for three minutes in that halting, grade-school Arabic he used. I wondered if his phrasebook had words like “terrorist” and “submachine gun.” I was left watching their hands and faces. When I saw both relax, I started to bring my hands down. From there, things happened fast.
Corbin led them back across the runway toward the hangers, walking quickly. He was using the command stride he would perfect later, during the war: hands always in motion, pointing, gesturing, emphasizing, and always in beat with the tempo his feet set. He had a way of looking at the man on his right and talking to the one on his left, wrapping them all in the scope of his thoughts. I do not understand how, but he still held the burp gun that had killed the big terrorist— and the Security men let him carry it.
An ambulance, a converted Cadillac with a truck body welded onto the back and all painted white with red crescents, rolled past us, out to the shot-up helicopter to take Sybil off. I would not see her for another three weeks and then under much different circumstances.
There were a few shaky moments when we were brought to the colonel in charge of the post. From something Corbin said in that strangled Arabic, the colonel must have assumed I was one of the terrorists. They separated us, leveled their sidearms at me, and brought out the handcuffs.
Jay talked fast then, pausing only to find the right words. The policemen hesitated and looked at their colonel. He finally said two words and I was released.
Inside of half an hour, the entire force was being mustered. They were breaking out riot guns and grenades, warming up helicopters and light airplanes. I took Corbin aside and asked what was going on.
“We’re going back.”
“They are returning us to—?”
“No, no. Colonel Museddes thinks he can catch the whole group on the ground before they call in support from Oman or
“Sounds reasonable, I guess. … But what does that mean for us? I mean, do we really want to surrender at Jabrin? The government might just fly our asses back out to those people. We could fly to ’Arada, which is over the border in the Emirates. Would they be in on the plot?”
“No, but they’d count the bodies in here and then hold us until the proper Saudi authorities can sort the matter out. Can you make it all the way to the Petramin Compound in Riyadh?”
“You mean, without being spotted? In a bright pink helicopter? Dripping blood out of a smashed-up nose bubble?”
“The Saudi Air Force isn’t that thick in the sky.”
“But those people back at Abaila certainly have radios to warn them with.”
“Right. … What about ditching short of some town and walking in?”
“All right,” I said. “My instruments include a compass and a wristwatch. I have no accurate topo maps of this area. And, anyway, all they would show is rolling dunes. So, you tell me when you think we are ‘short of’ some place, then we find out how far we have to walk.”
“Ouch!”
“Exactly.”
“I guess, then, we fly to Jabrin and trust our luck with that famous Arab hospitality,” Corbin said. “And there’s just a chance that, seeing we’ve gotten free, they won’t have the balls to send us back. They might just play us straight and sacrifice the whole group at Abaila.”
“Think so?”
“Nah!”
But that is exactly what the Security Police did. When we brought the Mixmaster shuddering and groaning into a sideways landing at the Jabrin airstrip, the first people to reach the craft were uniformed police. So they may have had some kind of tipoff. But they came with their sidearms holstered—until they saw the busted plexiglass and bloody tatters hanging off the nose of our bird. Then they all pulled their guns and sank down on one knee to get steady aim.
We climbed out with our hands up. Corbin talked to the nearest man and the man’s pistol for three minutes in that halting, grade-school Arabic he used. I wondered if his phrasebook had words like “terrorist” and “submachine gun.” I was left watching their hands and faces. When I saw both relax, I started to bring my hands down. From there, things happened fast.
Corbin led them back across the runway toward the hangers, walking quickly. He was using the command stride he would perfect later, during the war: hands always in motion, pointing, gesturing, emphasizing, and always in beat with the tempo his feet set. He had a way of looking at the man on his right and talking to the one on his left, wrapping them all in the scope of his thoughts. I do not understand how, but he still held the burp gun that had killed the big terrorist— and the Security men let him carry it.
An ambulance, a converted Cadillac with a truck body welded onto the back and all painted white with red crescents, rolled past us, out to the shot-up helicopter to take Sybil off. I would not see her for another three weeks and then under much different circumstances.
There were a few shaky moments when we were brought to the colonel in charge of the post. From something Corbin said in that strangled Arabic, the colonel must have assumed I was one of the terrorists. They separated us, leveled their sidearms at me, and brought out the handcuffs.
Jay talked fast then, pausing only to find the right words. The policemen hesitated and looked at their colonel. He finally said two words and I was released.
Inside of half an hour, the entire force was being mustered. They were breaking out riot guns and grenades, warming up helicopters and light airplanes. I took Corbin aside and asked what was going on.
“We’re going back.”
“They are returning us to—?”
“No, no. Colonel Museddes thinks he can catch the whole group on the ground before they call in support from Oman or
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