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

speechless. Inside the bag I found a nearly brand-new digital SLR camera. And this wasn’t any old model. It was a six-thousand-dollar Nikon D4, professional grade, top-of-the-line. As I dug deeper, I found a high-powered Nikkor telephoto lens as well. I couldn’t believe it. Sharif hadn’t let me head into the field empty-handed after all.
    I smiled and slapped the colonel on the back to thank him. This was far more than I needed and probably more than I knew how to handle. I was a war correspondent, after all, not a photojournalist, and this was like handing Tiger Woods’s personal clubs to some kid at a miniature golf course. Nevertheless, with the colonel’s gesture of permission, I took a few shots of the general at work and then quickly attached the telephoto lens.
    Then Colonel Sharif nudged me again. As I turned, he handed me a pair of headphones with an attached microphone. He was already wearing a set and pantomimed that I should put mine on immediately. As I did, I could hear the general’s cool, professional, unflappable voice. And he was talking to me.
    “Mr. Collins, can you hear me back there?”
    “Yes, General, I can.”
    “Good. Now listen, back at the palace, when you were preparing to evacuate the king and his family, you were one of the last people to see the president, correct?”
    “Yes, sir, that’s true.”
    “You saw him get into the Suburban next to the king’s vehicle?”
    I thought about that for a moment. I wanted to say yes, but it wasn’t exactly true. “No, I saw the SUV pull away, but the president and his men were already in the vehicle.”
    “How many agents were with him?”
    “Well, at least two, but maybe not more,” I said, closing my eyes and trying desperately to remember every detail. “I saw the driver and another agent in the front passenger seat. But I can’t say there were more. Most of them were killed in the firefight, as you know.”
    “The king just radioed me,” the general replied. “He says he’s pretty sure he saw an agent in the backseat, covering the president with his own body.”
    “That could be,” I said. “I don’t know. I was just trying to get our Suburban started.”
    As I said this, I noticed the chopper was now banking toward the desert, not toward Amman. And it wasn’t just us. All six Black Hawks beside and behind us were changing course too. Why the new course? Why weren’t we heading back to the area around the airport? Was the president on the move?
    The general relayed the information I had given him to the rest of the troops. The president had at least two agents with him, possibly three. But even if there were four agents with him, which was possible but seemed unlikely, it wasn’t going to be nearly enough protection if they really had been found and attacked by ISIS.
    Worse, while the Chevy Suburban the president was in was solid   —armor-plated with bulletproof windows like all the Suburbans used by the United States Secret Service   —it wasn’t nearly as secure as the fleet of presidential limousines, each of which was known by agents as “the Beast.” These specially designed Cadillacs were essentially luxury battle tanks. Each door was made of reinforced steel eight inches thick, built to withstand the direct impact of an antitank missile. The trunk and gas tank were armor-plated. The windows could withstand armor-piercing bullets fired at point-blank range. Each limo had its own oxygen supply, fire-suppression system, and special steel rims supporting Kevlar-reinforced tires that could continue at high speeds for miles even after being blown out in an attack. Each model also had a supply of the president’s blood type on board, the most secure satellite communications known to man, night-vision technology, and even a state-of-the-art system that would allow its driver to navigate through fire and smoke. The Suburban the president was in couldn’t possibly compare. How long could he and his men hold out