Baghdad, Iraq – 1991
The intelligence satellite slipped silently through the black void of space. SS-235 had been launched from the Space Shuttle nearly three years earlier. Since then, its camera’s had silently circled the Earth every ninety-one minutes. The silver solar panels provided an uninterrupted power source. The on board batteries guaranteed continuous pictures for at least five years. SS-235 was approaching the East Coast of Iraq.
Nighthawk blended into the darkness of the desert night surrounding him. He approached the brick wall and glanced upward. This was the only part of Operation Back Door that made him uneasy. He was surer of his ability to free the Ambassador than he was of the stability of the armory wall. Fearing that the bricks and mortar had been undermined by the constant assault of US bombs; he couldn’t be sure that his attempt to scale the four stories to the roof wouldn’t end with his crumpled body lying motionless on the pavement below. He knew that Iraqi hospitals were not known for their state-of-the-art medical treatment. But then, intelligence agents usually didn’t make it to the hospital anyway. The rope fibers strained as he neared the top of the building. He was home free if the grappling hook held for another ten feet. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled himself up over the edge of the building and onto the roof.
Gathering up the rope, he moved over to the skylight. Donning a pair of night vision goggles, he peered into the room below him. He could make out the lone figure of a man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The Ambassador’s legs were drawn near his chest and his head rested on his knees. Nighthawk reached into the pouch fastened about his waist and removed a glasscutter, a roll of duct tape and a suction cup. He cut a square in the glass just large enough for his slight but athletic body to fit through. After running the tape from corner to corner and side to side, he affixed the suction cup to the center and tapped the glass. After removing the broken glass from the skylight, he attached the grappling hook to the metal frame of the skylight and tossed the rope into the blackness beneath him. His leather-gloved hands slipped down the rope as he lowered himself into the darkness.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” The voice from the darkness was frightened and trembling.
“A friend, Mr. Ambassador. Sent by your uncle to bring you home.” Nighthawk replied. “Please try to relax, Sir, and stay silent.”
Nighthawk removed his backpack. Reaching inside, he withdrew four plastic rods each about two feet long. Grasping each one firmly, he bent them slightly at the center and then shook them briskly until they glowed an eerie shade of green. He positioned the rods near the Ambassador and then removed his goggles. He stared at the man whom he had been sent to bring home. His face was gaunt and his clothes appeared to have been slept in for all of his thirty days of confinement. He had a growth of beard that made him appear much older than his forty-nine years. His hands were shackled to the floor and a thick blindfold covered his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he removed the blindfold. The Ambassador blinked eyelids made heavy by weeks of nonuse.
Nighthawk smiled, “How do you feel, Mr. Ambassador?”
”Better now. How did you find me?”
“Let’s just say it’s your tax dollars at work.” Nighthawk replied. “I’ll have you out of these in a minute.” He said, gesturing at the handcuffs.He took a syringe from the pouch. The cuffs fell open seconds after the acid burned through the locks.
“Can you walk, Sir?” Nighthawk asked as he helped the Ambassador up from the floor.
“Yes. I got exercise whenever they let me go to the bathroom.” It was then that he noticed the rope hanging down. “But I’m afraid that I’m not up to climbing.”
“You won’t have to.” Nighthawk took a bundle of clothes from the backpack.
“Put these on, Sir. We don’t have much time.”
While the Ambassador changed clothes, Nighthawk began setting C-4 plastic explosives against the south wall. Then he checked the door. It was unlocked. It wouldn’t make sense to lock a door when your prisoner was shackled to the floor and blindfolded. Next, he shook the rope, dislodging the grappling hook from the roof. Nighthawk turned back to face the Ambassador who now resembled his captors. The beard lent one more bit of authenticity to the outfit. He smiled. The Ambassador looked at the boyish-looking, brown-haired, brown-eyed man who was about to risk his life for a stranger.
“You enjoy your work, don’t you?” he asked.
“I’m good at what I do, Sir.” Nighthawk replied.
“But you risk your life for no recognition and at government pay. Why?”
“I guess you could say that I like testing my limits and playing the odds. It makes life exciting for me.
"Besides," he said smiling, "I do get free hospitalization.”
“But doesn’t it ever get lonely?”
“At times, but in my line of work a home and family could get someone killed. I have enough trouble keeping myself alive without worrying about other people.”
The two men stared at each other in silence. Two men at opposite ends of life’s spectrum brought together by one of life’s ironic twists of fate. Nighthawk walked over to the C-4 and pressed a button on a small timer attached to one of the bricks of plastic explosive. The timer began counting backward from sixty. He walked back to the pile of rope in the middle of the floor.
“In fifty-five seconds, I want you to walk out the door, make a left then a right, then walk down a long hallway to a door that will lead you outside.” Nighthawk said as he began gathering up the rope. “You’ll be met by a man who will take you to safety.”
“And I supposed no one will try to stop me?”
“I think they’re all going to be too busy to notice who’s walking past them. Just keep your head down and keep walking.”
“Just out of curiosity, what are they going to be so busy doing?”
“Well, I figure that they’ll be trying their best to kill me. I’ll be doing my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Nighthawk glanced at the timer. “Get ready, Sir. We have ten seconds.”
The Ambassador walked to the door. He turned back to face Nighthawk. “I hope that someday we can meet again in more peaceful surroundings.”
Nighthawk readied the grappling hook. “Perhaps we will. By the way, we never met tonight.”
The explosion shook the building as the Ambassador started out the door. Nighthawk slipped into the darkness of the night. The Ambassador put down his head and kept walking. He could hear the sound of machine-gun fire coming from behind him.
© 2008 Mark Jacobson
The intelligence satellite slipped silently through the black void of space. SS-235 had been launched from the Space Shuttle nearly three years earlier. Since then, its camera’s had silently circled the Earth every ninety-one minutes. The silver solar panels provided an uninterrupted power source. The on board batteries guaranteed continuous pictures for at least five years. SS-235 was approaching the East Coast of Iraq.
Nighthawk blended into the darkness of the desert night surrounding him. He approached the brick wall and glanced upward. This was the only part of Operation Back Door that made him uneasy. He was surer of his ability to free the Ambassador than he was of the stability of the armory wall. Fearing that the bricks and mortar had been undermined by the constant assault of US bombs; he couldn’t be sure that his attempt to scale the four stories to the roof wouldn’t end with his crumpled body lying motionless on the pavement below. He knew that Iraqi hospitals were not known for their state-of-the-art medical treatment. But then, intelligence agents usually didn’t make it to the hospital anyway. The rope fibers strained as he neared the top of the building. He was home free if the grappling hook held for another ten feet. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled himself up over the edge of the building and onto the roof.
Gathering up the rope, he moved over to the skylight. Donning a pair of night vision goggles, he peered into the room below him. He could make out the lone figure of a man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The Ambassador’s legs were drawn near his chest and his head rested on his knees. Nighthawk reached into the pouch fastened about his waist and removed a glasscutter, a roll of duct tape and a suction cup. He cut a square in the glass just large enough for his slight but athletic body to fit through. After running the tape from corner to corner and side to side, he affixed the suction cup to the center and tapped the glass. After removing the broken glass from the skylight, he attached the grappling hook to the metal frame of the skylight and tossed the rope into the blackness beneath him. His leather-gloved hands slipped down the rope as he lowered himself into the darkness.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” The voice from the darkness was frightened and trembling.
“A friend, Mr. Ambassador. Sent by your uncle to bring you home.” Nighthawk replied. “Please try to relax, Sir, and stay silent.”
Nighthawk removed his backpack. Reaching inside, he withdrew four plastic rods each about two feet long. Grasping each one firmly, he bent them slightly at the center and then shook them briskly until they glowed an eerie shade of green. He positioned the rods near the Ambassador and then removed his goggles. He stared at the man whom he had been sent to bring home. His face was gaunt and his clothes appeared to have been slept in for all of his thirty days of confinement. He had a growth of beard that made him appear much older than his forty-nine years. His hands were shackled to the floor and a thick blindfold covered his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he removed the blindfold. The Ambassador blinked eyelids made heavy by weeks of nonuse.
Nighthawk smiled, “How do you feel, Mr. Ambassador?”
”Better now. How did you find me?”
“Let’s just say it’s your tax dollars at work.” Nighthawk replied. “I’ll have you out of these in a minute.” He said, gesturing at the handcuffs.He took a syringe from the pouch. The cuffs fell open seconds after the acid burned through the locks.
“Can you walk, Sir?” Nighthawk asked as he helped the Ambassador up from the floor.
“Yes. I got exercise whenever they let me go to the bathroom.” It was then that he noticed the rope hanging down. “But I’m afraid that I’m not up to climbing.”
“You won’t have to.” Nighthawk took a bundle of clothes from the backpack.
“Put these on, Sir. We don’t have much time.”
While the Ambassador changed clothes, Nighthawk began setting C-4 plastic explosives against the south wall. Then he checked the door. It was unlocked. It wouldn’t make sense to lock a door when your prisoner was shackled to the floor and blindfolded. Next, he shook the rope, dislodging the grappling hook from the roof. Nighthawk turned back to face the Ambassador who now resembled his captors. The beard lent one more bit of authenticity to the outfit. He smiled. The Ambassador looked at the boyish-looking, brown-haired, brown-eyed man who was about to risk his life for a stranger.
“You enjoy your work, don’t you?” he asked.
“I’m good at what I do, Sir.” Nighthawk replied.
“But you risk your life for no recognition and at government pay. Why?”
“I guess you could say that I like testing my limits and playing the odds. It makes life exciting for me.
"Besides," he said smiling, "I do get free hospitalization.”
“But doesn’t it ever get lonely?”
“At times, but in my line of work a home and family could get someone killed. I have enough trouble keeping myself alive without worrying about other people.”
The two men stared at each other in silence. Two men at opposite ends of life’s spectrum brought together by one of life’s ironic twists of fate. Nighthawk walked over to the C-4 and pressed a button on a small timer attached to one of the bricks of plastic explosive. The timer began counting backward from sixty. He walked back to the pile of rope in the middle of the floor.
“In fifty-five seconds, I want you to walk out the door, make a left then a right, then walk down a long hallway to a door that will lead you outside.” Nighthawk said as he began gathering up the rope. “You’ll be met by a man who will take you to safety.”
“And I supposed no one will try to stop me?”
“I think they’re all going to be too busy to notice who’s walking past them. Just keep your head down and keep walking.”
“Just out of curiosity, what are they going to be so busy doing?”
“Well, I figure that they’ll be trying their best to kill me. I’ll be doing my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Nighthawk glanced at the timer. “Get ready, Sir. We have ten seconds.”
The Ambassador walked to the door. He turned back to face Nighthawk. “I hope that someday we can meet again in more peaceful surroundings.”
Nighthawk readied the grappling hook. “Perhaps we will. By the way, we never met tonight.”
The explosion shook the building as the Ambassador started out the door. Nighthawk slipped into the darkness of the night. The Ambassador put down his head and kept walking. He could hear the sound of machine-gun fire coming from behind him.
© 2008 Mark Jacobson
