The Artifact (2 page)

“Good evening,” Frank said to the camera, his confident reportorial demeanor augmented by the force of his bass presentation. “As we have promised during the past week in our own National News on-air announcements and repeated in other media, the following special news program will bring you a startling report on the preliminary findings of an exclusive story that began a year and a half ago in Iraq, but has only recently solidified through the diligence of an investigative team of NNC reporters.

“In March 2003, on an excursion into the Syrian Desert to join a contingent of U.S. soldiers seeking to intercept the presumed escape of deposed dictator Saddam Hussein, veteran NNC correspondent Andrea Madigan and her party were accosted and detained against their will by a band of Bedouin nomads. This incident has not been reported previously for reasons that will become clear momentarily.”

The studio camera pulled back to reveal a huge wall-mounted television screen within which

Frank and Andrea were frozen on videotape, seated across from one another at a small table of

polished wood.

“Preparatory to bringing you our firsthand report live from Andrea Madigan at Fort Bragg, North Carolina,” Frank continued, “we will show you an interview conducted here in our studio on April 5
^th
, 2003, a mere ten days after Andrea and her crew were released by their Bedouin captors.”

Camera One zoomed past Frank to close in on the wall monitor behind him, on which the taped Frank Morrissey became animated. “Welcome back, Andrea, from what sounds like a harrowing experience.”

“Not nearly as harrowing as puzzling, Frank,” Andrea replied.

“So I understand. Exactly what happened during your encounter with the Bedouins?”

“My party consisted of NNC cameraman Steve Sarno, a mercenary pilot known as Mad Dog Murphy, our local guide Amman Habakee, plus his four relatives employed as driver/laborers. Eight people in all traveling in three aging, four-wheel-drive Land Rovers.”

Andrea shifted her attention from the anchor to the camera recording their interview. “From the ‘Dark Dawn’ mission briefing I attended prior to my unceremonious prohibition from the jump aircraft, I knew the five platoons of Bravo Company would deploy at the outer extremities of three points of the compass from Baghdad—north, east, and west.”

Frank looked up from consulting a sheaf of paper on the table between them. “That mission to apprehend President Hussein succeeded last December in the city of Tikrit, Saddam’s birthplace and tribal stronghold.”

“But not by the original Bravo company of the 82nd Airborne,” Andrea added, “which

subsequently took on the tougher combat assignment of suppressing rebel fanatics in Fallujah

before rotating back to the States in July of last year.”

“Exactly where did you encounter the Bedouins, Andrea?”

“The Syrian Desert extends from Syria, south through Jordan, western Iraq, and the western portion of Saudi Arabia,” Andrea answered, as a colored topographical map of the region replaced the two newspersons, filling the video screen. A green arrow was superimposed over it, pointing at the tiny silhouette of a helicopter moving from Kuwait in the south, across the barren desert, hovering above the junction of a major highway and what appeared to be a road under construction, as Andrea continued speaking off-camera.

“Our chopper landed at Qasr al Khubbas, roughly 200 kilometers, just over 300 miles west of Baghdad, between a secondary route from the capital and highway 12, a major artery north to the convergence of the Iraq, Jordan and Syrian borders. Since that was the fuel range limit of the chopper, we engaged our guide there, who rented vehicles and purchased camping equipment and provisions. Then we proceeded north in Land Rovers.”

The image of the helicopter on the screen changed into a truck as the green arrow continued across the map toward the Euphrates River, halting finally in a wide-angle shot covering the vast wasteland northwest of Baghdad.

“The airborne troopers had dropped some 150 miles north of the capital three days earlier, so I decided to attempt my interception of their patrols as they converged on Saddam’s logical escape route west of Tikrit.”

The green map arrow followed the tiny vehicle as it zigzagged over the sandy track, halting some distance below the Syrian border before the topographical chart dissolved, and the video returned to the two broadcasters on tape, Frank looking at Andrea, her eyes still on the camera lens as she continued speaking directly to her audience.

“Two days after embarking from Qasr al Khubbas we were confronted by a band of fifty or

sixty nomads, about half of them women and children. The remainder were men armed with modern rifles, bandoliers and traditional swords, who arranged their camels and donkeys across our path. Amman, our guide, stepped down from the lead truck and went to speak to the tribal leader. I told Steve to record the incident on tape, but as he aimed his camera at the Nomads, a young Arab advanced menacingly, signaling Steve to desist. After a great deal of signing and apparently hostile discussion, Amman returned to tell me that we could go no further. The Bedouin chief had ordered us to make camp until they decided what to do with us.”

Andrea’s eyes clamped shut for an instant as she drew a deep breath before continuing. “Fully cognizant of the Arab tendency to sadistic torture, Mr. Kelley, our mercenary pilot hired to accompany us as bodyguard, chose that moment to dismount from his vehicle, brandish his automatic weapon, threatening their tribal leader at close range as he gestured at them to leave. A young man nearby began shouting at Kelley, waving his arms in frantic protest as his camel pranced closer to the mercenary standing some distance from our Rovers, even as the tribe appeared to retreat.”

She emitted an audible sigh and slow shake of her head at a recollection that was obviously painful. “Amidst the young Arab’s distracting hysterics and flailing arms, the tribal leader produced a glistening scimitar, leaned down from his saddle, the blade of his sword flashing in the sunlight, as it struck Kelley on the crown of his head, splitting his skull in two.”

Frank’s expression displayed his revulsion at the manner of the mercenary’s death. “That must have been a ghastly experience. Were you personally threatened in any way?”

Andrea seemed distracted by her own description as she turned to answer the anchor. “It

depends on what you mean by threatened. The harsh punishment imposed on Kelley was a frightening demonstration of our own possible fate. We were forced to make camp in the little wadi where we’d been accosted. That first night, Steve and I watched the silhouettes of the Bedouin tents and campfires on the berm of the depression all around us. We had seen in what low regard our captors held human life. Our guide was adamant in his refusal to attempt an escape, nor did we possess the skills to find our way out of that arid landscape on our own. We had little hope of rescue since travelers in that remote region were unlikely. Even if some of the troopers we were seeking stumbled upon the Bedouin camp, we could be easily hidden from them, or if engaged, their limited firepower might not be able to overcome the desert-savvy nomads with their own automatic rifles.”

“Those nomadic killers held you hostage for what, Andrea, five days and nights? Terrorized, not knowing if you would live or die?”

Andrea pushed the gray band in her brown hair back over her left ear. “We were not hostages, Frank, since they never bargained for our release. Amman had initially claimed that this ‘stopping’, as he called it, was unusual; but the summary execution of Kelley was not an uncommon reaction from these lawless bandits. Our Iraqi guide and his cousins, while equally disconcerted as Steve and I, shrugged off the murder of Kelley as the consequence of foolish infidel aggression.

“Amman kept a running dialogue going with the Bedouin chief, during which the main interest of the nomads seemed to be Steve’s camcorders, our laptops and GPS units they had appropriated along with our tents and camping gear. The vehicles were no use to them because they had no regular access to gasoline, believe it or not, with most of the oil in the world right under their feet. So we were forced to crouch in the narrow shade of the trucks from the searing heat by day,

and huddle inside them at night against the cold desert air under a few shared blankets.”

“What good was your electronic equipment to these roving Bedouins?” Frank asked her.

“We could see some of the younger tribesmen in front of their tents in the near distance

hovering over the battery-powered units, pushing buttons, flicking switches, running down the battery packs. At about the time Amman had determined the core of our problem, the young nomads were totally frustrated by our electronics and had transferred their anger to us.

“Amman came to me one afternoon with a look of grave concern that I had not seen since the hours following Kelley’s death. ‘This is now quite serious,’ he told me. ‘Chief say you Americans attack and kill his people while stealing buried hoard of precious gems and gold from their land. This is reason why he stop you.’”

Andrea turned again from Morrissey to the camera that had pre-recorded their interview on videotape a year ago April, as it zoomed-in tight on her head and shoulders.

“With all due credit and deepest thanks to Amman Habakee, our brave Iraqi guide negotiated for our lives that scorching afternoon, when he understood that the tribal elders were debating whether to dispatch us as they had Kelley or take us with them as slaves. He persuaded the Bedouin chief to allow Steve to recharge the video equipment on the truck batteries and instruct the younger nomads how to use it. Then performed translation magic by first getting the Bedouin chief to speak with me, a mere female; making him understand that we two Americans had killed no one; convincing him that we could be instrumental in bringing the real killers to justice; and securing his permission to record his story on camera.”

The video cut to the full image of the anchorman addressing his audience from behind his curved studio desk. “With your appreciation of the crucial events leading up to our revelation of this major newscast tonight,” he told his viewers, “we will now bring you a firsthand update of these circumstances live from Andrea Madigan on the scene at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. To date, a mysterious news story in-the-making which NNC feels compelled to share with you now. Andrea?”

The video monitors in the studio cut to the female correspondent in belted trench coat

standing outside the gates of a high chain-link fence beneath the glare of unseen spotlights illuminating a huge 82nd Airborne Division sign and two military police standing at ease in the background beside their guard shack and striped barrier-arm across the gateway. Andrea brought the microphone up to her chin.

“Thank you Frank. I may be on the scene, but I am decidedly not in the Fort. This has been one of the most frustrating assignments I have experienced during all my years as a reporter.

“The video clip you will see next was shot in March 2003 just weeks before U.S. Marines began their assault on Baghdad. As you have heard moments ago in our interview recorded last year shortly after our return from Iraq, our NNC party was overpowered by a group of nomadic bandits somewhere in the northwest section of the vast Syrian Desert. The Bedouin spokesman you will see is the son of the tribal chief, whose words are translated by Amman Habakee, our Iraqi guide.”

The TV picture cut back to the large studio screen behind the anchor desk that now depicted a desert scene containing Andrea wearing a khaki outfit consisting of a wide brimmed pith helmet, a long-sleeved shirt darkened by perspiration, shorts and high-top hiking boots laced to mid-calf. She was perched on a folding campstool opposite a young Arab in kaffiyeh with a thin mustache and scraggly goatee, wearing a stained beige robe cinched with a belt of hemp rope. The Arab sat cross-legged on an oblong rug whose intricate pattern of multiple colors and golden tassels had been faded long ago by the implacable sun that seared them then.

The man/boy scrutinized this impertinent western woman through aviator sunglasses, holding a brown cigarette between thumb and forefinger as he exhaled smoke in her direction. His chieftain father and several older men in full beards of various shades of gray and black squatted behind him in traditional haik, vary-colored burnoose and turbans, sucking on water pipes in the shade of an awning extending on poles from the entrance of the canvas tent behind them. The Arabs seemed to ignore the dry heat from which Andrea believed she would surely suffocate before their meeting had ended.

“Where did you encounter these American soldiers, Habu Roka?” Andrea asked the young man.

Amman translated her question into an Arab dialect. “He say, ‘That cannot be known.’ He will not say this,” the guide added in halting English that bore a subtle British accent.

“Tell him we must know the location of their encounter if we are to bring the guilty soldiers to justice and recover their treasure.”

Habu Roka turned to the elders seated behind him for several minutes of animated discussion, who finally nodded their reluctant agreement.

“They will show you there,” Amman said without enthusiasm.

“What happened when you met the soldiers,” Andrea asked.

Upon hearing the translation the young Arab swung his arm toward the surrounding desert, making additional gestures as he spoke, which became clear as Amman interpreted his words.

“It was at the setting of the sun,” the guide translated. “We approached from behind a dune, therefore did not see their camp until upon it. At least one hundred, more, in their number,” the guide held both hands up palm out, opening and closing his fists rapidly as Habu Roka had done. The young Arab nodded repeatedly in agreement. “Therefore we came to them in peace past a deep

hole in the sand. They did not have our tongue and held their rifles at us.”

Andrea urged Amman to tell the Bedouin to continue.

“We see ancient amphora before their tent with precious gems and gold spilled out on canvas sheet where they sparkled to harm the eyes of the beholder. When we asked to observe the treasure they had taken from our land they told us to go. They were many to our small number, but we refused. Then more soldiers tricked us from behind trucks to our side and fired their bullets at our people. Three of our tribe killed. Six wounded. We are forced away.”