[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel by Richard Marcinko Read Free Book Online Page B

uplifting conversion to Islam ever, certainly in this prison. And that, naturally, required an e-mail message to headquarters that very morning.
    A message intercepted by Shunt, who had hacked his way into the pitifully primitive system used by the jailers.
    The response from Riyadh was immediate—a high-level team of clerics would arrive the next day.
    I’m not sure if it was the shower or the meal, which included something similar to meat, that tipped me off that salvation was on the way. Maybe it was the fact that the afternoon beating wasn’t nearly as severe as the earlier ones, or that the waterboarding was at best halfhearted. I should note that Saudi law does allow certain prisoners to be released if they memorize a passage from the Koran and truly convert, revert, and pervert, and the administration was undoubtedly used to dealing with phony prophets.
    My conversion was anything but phony. I propounded on the Divine Plan for the Kingdom, which naturally included exalted places for the conduits of my message—the torturers who had corrected my grammar and helped with the difficult questions of where to place the accents.
    Whatever. I slept better that night than I had in months, aware that salvation was at hand.

(III)
    I woke to the fervent baritone of the jail guard as he sang his praise of the early dawn, muttering in Arabic that the curs of Allah better get their butts up before they were flailed with the stick of heavenly persuasion.
    I greeted him at the door of my cell most reverently, head bowed.
    “You,” he muttered. “I have heard of you.”
    I lowered my head even farther. “I am not worthy of your attention,” I muttered in poorly accented Arabic.
    How poor was my accent? To the uninitiated, the words might have sounded like “You are the bastard son of a goat-fucked mother.” But surely I can’t be blamed for my poor diction.
    He rapped on the cell with his stick. I bowed my head lower.
    “True believers fear the almighty and powerful,” I told him. “And screw your mother, too.”
    This clearly placated him, as evidenced by the fact that he only poked me twice in the face with his stick before moving on.
    I sang his glorious praises, thanking him for his gift of compassion.
    My two cellmates were understandably cautious, and gave me a wide berth as I shuffled out to the hallway. I found new inspiration in the hall, realizing that the entire staff was worthy of a place in paradise, and all should get bonuses of five thousand dollars (American) come the Sabbath. My proselytizing reached a fevered pitch as I walked trembling out to the yard. I was moved by the spirit—and the prods of the guards behind me.
    Word of my conversion had spread through the jail. Practically everyone was watching as I took my spot for the morning prayers. I’m sure they were expecting me to lead them with some profound revelation. But conviction is best understated. I went deep within myself, barely moving my lips in prayer.
    My words wouldn’t have been heard even if I were shouting, for as I began uttering them, a helicopter thundered overhead. The Russian-made Mi-8 was in so-so condition, offered for sale at the bargain price of only $550,000: an incredible deal, though at that price one had to expect some sort of mechanical deficiencies. Which no doubt explains the engine problems and the near crash landing in the second courtyard of the building, a feat that took considerable skill.
    Have you met Trace Dahlgren, vice president of Red Cell International and part-time helicopter pilot?
    *   *   *
    I know what you’re thinking: Dick is going to scoop Garrett up and run to the helo in a blaze of gunfire. Trace will gun the engines and they will sail off into the sunrise, just like in that movie …
    The Saudi guards thought something similar. They rushed to the helicopter en masse, discovering Trace and the very frightened salesman trying to put out a small fire under the instrument panel. There were