Charles de Gaulle International Airport
Chapter 50
“IF YOU RUN, MADAMOSELLE, I will not hesitate to put you down. Are we clear?” Lucinda nodded her head in the affirmative.
“A rogue bitch is of no good to anyone, the man whispered in her ear, not even to General Nasser.”
Lucinda was deathly afraid of the man who was dragging her, unwillingly, through an airport terminal. He was not like her gentler handler, Hasbeeb. This man was a westerner and she had the feeling that he would not hesitate, as he had said, to ‘put her down’, i.e. kill her. In spite of the fear she felt, Lucinda was trying to keep her wits about her and focus on what was happening around her. She had a glimmer of hope, given the accent, that she had just arrived in Paris, France.
She wasn’t for sure of her location because every time they’d moved her, she’d been forced to wear the traditional female garb of the Middle East, burqa (body covering), hijab (scarf), and niqab (face covering). And the niqab had limited her view making the world no bigger than a few feet in front of her. Adding to that, her kidnappers had taken the extra precaution of covering the windows of whatever vehicle they’d place her in for the journey.
All she knew for sure was that General Nasser, the man who had beaten and raped her, was having her moved quietly and secretively from place to place – she’d assumed to make any attempt at rescuing her that much more difficult.
She had endured two weeks of hard travel before they had settled twice in the Middle East. The first place was a series of cold, dank caves in which she sat on the floor, ate on the floor, and slept on the floor. And always in the caves, there was the rumbling sound of trucks loaded down with heavy equipment going in and out. She was kept in that place for more than a week before she was moved to a place in the country.
The country place was more civilized. And she had her own room that included a bathroom with a toilet that flushed. It was heaven compared to the caves. In the country, however, there was a sound that was much worse than any truck. In the country place, there was the sound of artillery shelling. Some nights it shook the place from floor to ceiling.
Hasbeeb and another man by the name of Fahim had come for her early this morning demanding that Fereshteh, the gentle Afghan woman who brought her food and clean clothing to ‘get her ready to travel.’
All morning they’d flown. And from what she could see of the plane it was not a commercial flight but a private one.
And now she was being hastily pulled through the VIP section of a French airport. They were nearing Customs and Lucinda was about to tear away from the man who had a tight grip on her arm and make a run for it when he stuck the barrel of a gun in her side. “Keep your eyes down, Mademoiselle, and say nothing. The Customs Agents here are good friends of ours. You do not run! You do not speak!” As her new handler indicated, they cleared customs without a hitch.
She was hoping another opportunity to escape might present itself, once they were outside, but this foul new handler had such a tight grip on her elbow that she was sure she’d have a big fat purple bruise there tomorrow morning. Adding to her dismay, a Black Mercedes Benz with tinted windows, bearing a strange flag she couldn’t place, was waiting at the exit, with its motor running.
Speeding through the streets of Paris, she estimated that she’d been imprisoned under General Nasser’s dictate nearly six weeks. Over a month had passed since the night of January 3, 2013. And since that time, she had not been permitted to listen to the radio, read a newspaper, or watch television. She felt hopelessly at odds with the world and her part in it, especially as a soldier. But what worried her more, was that she was beginning to forget how to be a soldier and was reacting to everything like a normal woman. She should have taken her chance at the airport. A regular soldier would have.
Were General Nasser to ask her those same questions today, now that she knew what was in store for her, she feared she might be a little more forthcoming with the truth. Neither the instructors nor the textbooks had ever mentioned anything about being raped and hauled off to some God forsaken part of the world.
Was anyone looking for her? Where were they looking? With the war going on, would they have time to look? Was America winning or loosing the war? Was she facing Court Martial for her lack of heroism the night of January 3rd? Had Cornel Madison made it to NORAD Headquarters? Had her sacrifice of silence been in vain? What more could she have done?”
Somehow, she’d known that it was important that she not tell General Nasser that Cornel Madison was on his way to NORRAD. But whether or not he ever made it there, she had no idea. And from the looks of things, she was never going to find out.
In fact, she had no idea whether or not Cornel Madison had even made it off the Base. He and the Pentagon had planned a rather risky pick up for him — jumping onto a moving B52. For all she knew, Cornel Madison was lying in Joint Base Andrews morgue as a John Doe.
If General Nasser was holding her as some sort of swap, hoping Cornel Madison would take the bait, he was wasting his time. She rather doubted Cornel Madison, if he were alive, had any intentions of rushing to her rescue.
After all, she’d meet him only once and their initial meeting had not gone well to say the least. She had held him at gunpoint while Specialist First Class Shaffer ran his personnel file. Later, that same night, she’d vigorously opposed his orders to destroy Air Force One, which had only added to the ranker between them.
After thinking on it, during her long weeks of isolation, the discourse between them was probably what had led to his decision that she not attempt the pick up with him, but rather, remain behind and hold off any invaders as he ran for the plane. “No,” she thought, she could not, depend on Cornel Jim Madison coming to her rescue.
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By
Eliza Ankum
Author of
Flight 404
Ruby Sanders
STALKED! By Voices
onethreethirteen 