IV: Hostage-O

NEWS-SENTINEL: Knoxville, Tennessee. February 2, 1991.
Editorial Written by Barry Dana, Reuters, on Location in Iraq.

Pending reports on the border capture of Bob Simon, a journalist from CBS News, by Iraqi forces, journalists are expected to stand down here in Kuwait. We have to date limited capability to go near the front lines, and must vet our reports with the military brass. Next to me, my photographer, Garrett, spends his days playing with a Game Boy and his nights telling stories with the men. It is all I can do not to scream our frustration to the military brass, but nobody will listen. Even Simon's name has been a joke around here, a oft-cited reason to limit journalists' access to troops and action. (NOTE TO SELF: FINISH BY FEBRUARY 1. - B. L. Dana.)

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"Rather ironic, don't you think?"

He amused himself, but the portly blond man before Sayid did not look entertained. He did not look comfortable, either, and briefly Sayid wondered if Dana had ever been held at gunpoint before. From the darting looks the fat man kept on giving the Kalashnikovs, he suspected that the American had never been in such a situation.

They'd thought they had caught the journalist in a moment of carelessness, but Sayid was now ready to instead attribute it to stupidity. The jalopy that the journalist had borrowed to sneak in and go behind enemy lines had broken down, and rather than go into hiding and pray that he wasn't found, Mr. Barry Dana had decided to wave his arms wildly and shout for help in American-accented English, loud and clear to at least the nearby ridges. Perhaps the man had figured that he was close enough to the border that American forces would reach him before Iraqi Republican Guardsmen. He had miscalculated.

"I thought American forces would be on their way."

Sayid tried to keep the amazement out of his voice, if only halfheartedly. "Have you never heard of a patrol battalion?" He leaned forward, waving one of the rifles away. "You have made a monumentally foolish decision this afternoon, Mr. Dana. We will treat you well, though. Better than the fellow journalist who is being held. Have no fear we will act otherwise."

They were phony words. He could feel their plastic quality, and was uncomfortable with it. He pressed his lips together in something that he figured at least approximated a smile, and waved for the man to be helped up.

"What – what's goin' to happen to me?"

Sayid almost lied, told him he would be fine, before thinking better of it. The journalist had been a fool. He deserved to die a fool's death. He did not deserve dishonesty, cheating. "I don't know," he said, making an effort to meet Dana's eyes, to connote his honesty. "You will be taken back to our reserve theater. I am not in charge of making those decisions, however. Ibrahim! Yalla!"

At Sayid's command to hurry up, his bespectacled acquaintance took charge of the journalist, a hand encircling the man's immense arm. They were fairly matched, Sayid thought. One was skinny and weak, the other fat and weak. The symmetry of it pleased him, although he knew nobody else would understand why.

"Yalla – what does that mean? I don't speak Arabic. I'm just a troop reporter. I ain't a – I ain't a front lines guy," Dana bleated.

"It means you shut up, man of fat," Ibrahim said, more than a bit halting in his command of English. He pushed Dana forward.

Although he just about corrected that, Sayid almost instantly saw no need to give the proper translation. There was no need to give Dana the impression that they were anything less than a unified front. Another phony smile sufficed as his response. So onto the truck they went, Ibrahim and himself sitting in back with the prisoner, as the vehicle set off for the checkpoint, tugging Dana's stolen jalopy in its wake with a rope.

As he studied the dullard of a journalist, Sayid thought, The reporter has a curious accent. I've seen it in that old American film, with the man who frankly doesn't give a damn, and others as well. Tennessee Williams' plays. He resolved to find out precisely where the accent came from. He could only hope the man wouldn't have his tongue cut out before that point.