The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel by Joel C. Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page A

them?” I asked, moving toward the door.
    “Absolutely not,” al-Mufti said.
    General Jum’a concurred and the prince was about to, but I spokefirst. “Please, sir, I need to see this. You said it yourself   —this is why you’ve got me here.”
    “It’s out of the question, Mr. Collins,” al-Mufti shot back. “His Majesty said you’d be at his side during the crisis, not out in the field.”
    “Please, Your Majesty, Colonel Sharif can go with me,” I said. “He’ll keep me out of trouble. But I need to go, sir. I need to see the rescue operation. The world needs to hear this story from me, not from a government spokesman.”
    When the king said nothing, the prince spoke up. “What if it goes badly, Your Majesty?”
    “All the more reason,” the king said. “Okay, Collins   —I want you to go. But Sharif goes with you, and nothing gets published unless he or I approve it.”
    “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
    “You’re welcome. And may God be with you.”

7

    Lieutenant General Abdul Jum’a led the way to the tarmac.
    Colonel Sharif and I followed close behind and soon found ourselves climbing into the back of an MH-6 helicopter. Known as the “Little Bird,” the chopper would serve as the command-and-control aircraft for the unfolding mission as the general directed the movements of six Black Hawk helicopters and the elite SF operators they were carrying. And Sharif and I would be able to see and hear everything that was happening in real time.
    We were still buckling up as the two-man crew up front lifted off. Soon we were racing south by southeast to an area not far from Queen Alia International Airport, where the emergency beacon’s signal was coming from.
    So much was still unknown. Were the president and his security detail out in the open or in an urban area? Were they alone or under assault by ISIS forces? And what exactly was the rescue strategy?
    With the president’s life potentially in imminent danger, there was no time to develop a detailed and proper plan. Rather than gather all kinds of intelligence and put his men through several hours or days of training, the general was going to have to improvise, and that was going to make a risky situation all the more dangerous.
    I had a hundred questions. Was there any way to approach the target by stealth? If not, what would be the best way for the general’s men to get to the president and extract him? How was Jum’a going to handle the fact that it was the middle of the day and we weren’t going to have the cover of darkness? What if the enemy had RPGs? Would it be possible for the approaching aircraft to be shot down? If that happened, then what? If there was no plan A, what was plan B?
    These and other questions were racing through my mind, but for the moment I didn’t dare ask any of them. It seemed best merely to keep quiet and observe.
    The general was sitting in a row of seats ahead of the colonel and me, just behind the pilot and copilot, before a communications console he was powering up and preparing to use. I had no idea what he was thinking. But nor did I want to bother him. For whatever was unclear at the moment, two things were clear: this guy did not want me on his chopper, and time was of the essence.
    My job, I knew, was to document everything that happened without getting in the way or complicating a tense situation more than I already was. One thought crossed my mind: I was dying to take some pictures. In times of crisis, readers wanted to see what was happening behind the scenes. They wanted to try to understand how leaders made decisions and what it was like to be “in the room” in moments of great stress and drama. My phone had been taken away, so that wasn’t an option. But just then, as if he were reading my thoughts, the colonel nudged me. Without saying anything   —only the pilots were talking   —he handed me a small backpack he’d brought on board and motioned for me to open it. As I did, I was