Down in the Depths

23 February 2009

HELMAND AFGHANISTAN (Reuters) - Two unnamed journalists employed by CNN International (CNNI) disappeared and were presumed abducted today near a Taliban checkpoint in the Sangin Valley. While the journalists have not been officially identified, consistent with the "news blackout" often observed by news agencies regarding kidnapped journalists, an internal message by CNNI Senior Vice President Thaddeus Lowe confirmed the event and instructed employees not to comment…

oooo

Be patient.

Will kept thinking this would be cleared up soon. The chieftain in charge of this particular band of tribal militia would show up and give the word to release them. They might be roughed up a bit, but the scare was designed to reinforce the leader's status, not really hurt the American journalist and his Afghan fixer.

He had been blindfolded, although the blindfold was more like a hood and stank of something old and rancid, and his hands were secured in front of him with a zip-tie. They had been transported in the back of a truck—Will had felt the cold, wet corrugated metal of the truck bed beneath him—then, upon arrival at a place he couldn't see, pushed onto a cold, wet cement floor.

There were other voices, preemptory and challenging, but they were slightly removed, as if they came from another room. Someone wheezed heavily beside him, and Will assumed it was Rahim; they hadn't spoken to each other in hours, had been commanded not to, and neither of them dared incite their abductors.

And that was another reason why Will thought this was just a waiting game. Surely, some over-zealous, low-level clowns had shown the wrong kind of initiative in snatching them, and once this matter was elevated to the proper chieftain or his deputy, everything would be put right and they would be released.

He didn't want to consider any of the other possibilities that were trying to infiltrate his mind. (Roxana Saberi, held 101 days; David Rohde, held 8 months; Terry Anderson, held 7 years—don't even go there...) Focus on the minute, that's what the Centurion hostile environment training had stressed. Controlling the inevitable imaginings of torture and worse would prevent panic and reduce fear. So Will tried to focus on something positive and familiar, something requiring concentration.

Trying to remember the positions of the E Aeolian mode on the guitar fretboard.

That would do for a start.

Another round of loud voices outside interrupted his thoughts and he flexed his hands, trying to improve circulation. The zip-tie was too tight, but he'd hold the complaint for now, not wanting to provoke his hosts. He leaned back against the cinderblock wall and finally dozed, the inevitable adrenal crash of hours spent keyed up.

Suddenly, there was a sharp thwacking sound, and more voices , louder and nearer, and the shuffle of footsteps. He was groggy, still trying to differentiate dream from memory. It had been just a flash, but it had seemed as though she

Arms pulled him roughly to his feet and his pockets were rifled. He tried to remember the contents: passport and CNNI credentials, his phone, a wallet with about $20 of local currency, cigarettes and lighter, and a thumb drive.

Finally, the hood was ripped from him and he blinked in the bright light of a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

One of his captors held a still camera.

A visibly agitated Rahim turned to Will. "He says to say your name and that your government must leave this country."

Ah. That was a relief. It indicated he was regarded as a hostage, either for propaganda or ransom, but it implied value. Most importantly, it suggested he was unlikely to be summarily executed.

Will complied, but it was hard to form words, even those as familiar as his own name, because his mouth was so dry.

Once the exercise was completed, the hood was replaced over his head. There was conversation between the other men.

"Don't make noise. No talk." It was obvious he was being addressed now.

As the shamble of footsteps receded, Will tried to process the encounter.

There was proof of life now. Once CNNI got the video, negotiations could begin.

He hoped CNNI wasn't in a cost-saving mode. Ransom negotiations weren't a place for economy, for anything other than simply, "How much?" and then assembling the cash. No one wanted to be bargained over. And he didn't want to sacrifice fingers or ears for some grim counter-offer by his captors.

He appreciated the irony of being commodified in this manner, but he was unsure whether his mild celebrity as an on-camera correspondent would prove an asset. Might nudge the ransom toward the stratosphere.

Okay, bad news for CNNI.

Some period of time later, they were moved again. Thrown in the back of a truck, as before, and driven over a rough road. Will tried to think how to keep track of the time, which might help him calculate distance, but could only fall back on one-one-thousand, and that seemed kind of pointless after a very short time. Anyway, there was no way for him to gauge direction, a crucial element to knowing where he was being taken.

When they got to the new place, wherever it was, their previous captors no longer seemed to be in charge; there were new voices. Will was made to stumble up bare concrete stairs to another room. He heard a jingle of chain, felt a tug, then his hood was removed again. A chain was wrapped around his ankle, and the eight foot lead terminated at the wall of a windowless, doorless room.

The zip-tie around his hands was roughly cut off and he began massaging his wrists, willing away the painful tingle of pins and needles.

He was disturbed that Rahim was no longer with him and he was unsure for whom that boded more ill. The new captors didn't seem particularly interested in his needs. He'd had no water or food since being taken at the checkpoint and this didn't seem a very hospitable stop. At least the floor was dry, but it was still chilly and there was no bedding, just a tattered blanket wadded up in a corner. Weary, but his mind still racing, he dropped into a crouch against the wall of the small, almost perfectly square room.

oooo

At Charlie's insistence, Sloan had seen MacKenzie home.

Mac had been quiet, altogether too quiet, ever since Charlie had called them all together that morning to warn them of a back channels report about McAvoy. Uncertain, Charlie had emphasized, then he had been so damned solicitous (because he'd never bought any of the crap excuses Mac had offered for the broken engagement), proposing ridiculous and far-fetched scenarios of mistaken identity, impossible heroics, and last minute sanctuary.

It was clear Charlie believed the worst.

And equally clear that Mac was in no way prepared for the worst, despite trying to hold her emotions in check.

So Sloan had lingered at Mac's place from a sense of responsibility, before finally sensing the utter awkwardness of being there, of studying Mac like some exotic butterfly.

She needed to give Mac privacy. Allow her the dignity to handle the news about McAvoy in her own way, on her own schedule.

So Sloan made her promise to get some sleep and then reaffirmed that they would see each other in the morning.

Mac was relieved by Sloan's departure. She knew it was the last line cast off.

She selected some music and made a cup of tea. Then, she turned off the lights, allowing the garish neon of Times Square to flood the room, and turned off the phone, which had been ringing at regular intervals. She sat for a very long time, drinking the tea and watching light and shadow chase around the room.

Her mistakes were so apparent now. Falling for Brian's line, allowing the frisson of seduction to momentarily obscure the inevitable consequences. Confessing to Will—which at first seemed the honorable thing to do, and also the most personally painful thing to do. She'd actually expected the pain to be cleansing in some way.

It hadn't been, of course. Merely led to another cycle of destruction and despair.

So, although there were pills in the cabinet, this really needed to hurt. Because when you irretrievably lose the center of your life, when you understand that nothing you can ever do will make things right again, you should feel it.

Surprisingly, the first cut didn't hurt at all. Not that deep because the first one should be experimental. She wasn't exactly sure how much was needed and how much would be overkill.

Overkill.

That was funny.

So little had seemed funny lately. Bitterly ironic, yes. But it took a pun, mere misplaced word association, to put some wit into this situation. This black comedy of errors.

The gallows humor faded. Might as well do this right.

Then she put the blade back to her wrist and took a breath and tried to hold her hand steady for a deep, even, really efficacious cut.

And it did hurt this time. Well, not hurt, exactly—more like banging your crazy bone. An intensely unpleasant tingle.

Now, just the waiting.

oooo

Three nights later, a bright flash, eerily detached from sound, woke him. The concussion arrived a millisecond later, stirring the fine grit in his tiny cell, and the sound came last, the deepest roll of thunder Will had ever heard.

Grayish smoke roiled through the air and Will coughed at the acrid smell. He stayed on the floor, uncertain whether the events indicated a change in the better for his situation.

Best to sit tight.

From outside came a muffled whap-whap of slugs on metal. He assumed it was bullets hitting vehicles outside. He heard a few shouts but he couldn't distinguish identifiable words—his understanding of Pashto and Dari was ludicrously limited, given his present situation.

Two bright lights bobbed along the corridor then turned into his cell, blinding him. Will squinted and threw up an arm in front of his face to shield the glare.

"You McAvoy?"

oooo

"Fuck, Mac—"

She felt mild surprise. Jim wasn't supposed to be here—

She saw Sloan was there, too, speaking into her phone, a sharp tone of panic raising the timbre of her voice.

"I wanted—before anyone—"

"Shut up. Shut up! God, Mac, what did you—" He cast a glance to Sloan and got the confirmation he sought. "We're going to push this back—"

"Don't—"

"Shut up!"

She recognized he was screaming at her. Why was he so angry?

"They're on their way—stay with me, give us five minutes." He had wrapped a towel around her wrist and held it up, but the blood still ran down her arm.

Sloan pressed a blanket on her and Mac was suddenly aware of how cold it had gotten. Aware that interior lights were on now, not just the residual light from outside. Aware that the music was still playing, an incongruous accompaniment to this pathetic little drama.

She closed her eyes, knowing she had screwed up again, that there was shame and hurt in forcing your friends to tip you back across the fulcrum, yank you back from death's tender caress.

oooo

28 February 2009

KANDAHAR AFGHANISTAN (AP) – Today, a unit of the U.S. Navy Special Warfare Development Group (SEALs) conducted a pre-dawn raid at a Taliban safe house near Karz, where it had been suspected western hostages were being held. U.S. forces killed three militiamen and one civilian in the assault. They subsequently located and rescued an unidentified American soldier who had been captured in Sangin two weeks ago, as well as CNNI correspondent Will McAvoy, abducted three days earlier. An Afghani journalist abducted with McAvoy was badly wounded in the crossfire and died of his injuries before he could be evacuated...