F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

They were being sorted. Dark eyes gleamed contemptuously as the rifle barrels pointed their directives with a calm and certain precision. The DC-9 sat sadly in the sand like an abandoned house, robbed of the passengers and crew from which it had drawn life, its gun-compelled landing a thing of horror to remember. Even the desert was sad, without majesty or menace it was simply dreary. The welcoming committee was numerous and nondescript and like the land itself. They had come from nowhere to this place in jeeps and trucks and a Volkswagen. There was even a camel. There was not a building in sight.

There were a few guttural words behind the guns. But it was the man in the Saville Row clothes and the kaffiyeh whose English was lucid, direct and frightening.

You will obey or be shot. Resistance means instant death. We have no time for heroes.

His eyes roved up and down the ranks. In them, too, was the faint contempt for a race whose day was past. Cooperation can save your lives and earn you comfort. We do not wish to kill. We are about to dispose of you as suits our convenience. Please obey. Please ask no questions. The men have orders to be brutal. He turned impatiently away to confer with an aide.

Standing alone where the automatic rifle had shepherded her, Stacie cherished no illusions of heroics. Her fear was but slightly modified when she was joined by a girl from the passengers and a stewardess. The three exchanged bewildered glances and watched.

The elderly and infirm were now being prodded back into the plane, they accounted for half the total. One more young woman was extracted from the ranks and sent to join the trio. Her eyes asked a question they could not answer. The balance of the passengers were marshalled in a line. Among them a woman raised her voice.

What are you going to do with those four girls?

The impeccably attired director of activities was curt and brief. You were told: no questions. He irritably surveyed the feminine quartet and conferred with a cohort. We have no interest in them, he announced brusquely. They are free to go. There is a village beyond the farthest hill, a couple of miles. It will provide their needs. He turned and glared at the four young and frightened faces. Go! He waved an impatient arm. Begone, you are lucky.

Feminine bewilderment deepened. Walk out in the desert, alone . . . like this! the stewardess protested.

Would you prefer to join the hostages?

The word itself was chilling. The eyes of the four girls roved from one horror to another in a dilemma they were ill equipped to deal with. The leader observed their hesitations with what may have been sympathy, but sounded more like impatience. He turned and shouted: Salim!

Stacie judged the gangling youth to be no more than thirteen. He was attired in tattered remnants and seemed composed entirely of large liquid eyes and a wide ingratiating smile. Words flew back and forth.

The boy will guide you. The brief words dismissed them.

The august personage returned his attention to more pressing affairs.

Am fine young man, a most good guide. Salim beamed at his four responsibilities with immense panache. Am talking such fine American.

Stacie looked at her companions. They were as baffled as herself. Shrugs were exchanged. With a final longing glance at the hi-jacked plane they turned to follow the Arab boy across the sand. When the staccato commands and clash of equipment fell well behind them, the stewardess summed up their sentiment. I dont like it! Makes no sense . . .

Where are we?

This has to be Jedrah, not that thats any help.

Is Jedrah, Salim confirmed with pride. Much fine place.

Traversing the first undulation to rob them of backward glances at the plane, Stacie knew unreality. Four white girls and an Arab boy walking in the desert on a track that was no more than a few weaving tire impressions, destination unknown. It was hard to feel relief at what might or might not be a reprieve.

One of the passengers gave her companions a half-hearted grin. Has it occurred to you girls: were not a bad looking collection. In fact were four damn good looking females. Add that to the place were in and this fool walk, and I get an answer I dont like.

Harems?

That or worse. I know it sounds silly, but is it!

Sensing the dolor of his charges, Salim made a cheerful suggestion. You fine ladies please to show me your tits.

It was like being asked to produce your passport. Stacie repressed a giggle.

Drop dead, kid, the stewardess was emphatic.

Salim was unabashed. Arab girls wear much clothes, he explained equably. American girls have little cover up. Lovely tits stick out front. Salim much like to see real thing.

Stacie once more wanted to giggle. The mammary equipment of herself and her companions was admittedly well in evidence. Perhaps, by his own codes, Salims request was reasonable. We dont show them either, she told him, not unkindly.

Well then, just one girl take off all clothes so Salim see.

Hey, kid, where dyou get the idea?

Salim looked surprised. On fine movies. All American girls undress. Much naked.

A couple of actual giggles acknowledged his point. But retorts were halted by a fresh vista, they had topped a rise. Wheres this lousy village? a passenger asked fretfully.

Is much close, Salim reassured. Ah see! Soon we beg ride.

Half a mile distant a small van stood lonely in the vast landscape. Its hood was up, two or three figures seemed busily engaged. Little as it might be, it conveyed an encouraging impression of life. Will give us nice ride. Salim pride-fully took credit for the apparition.

A dusty trudge disclosed two men and a girl, all Arab. The men were as faceless as their land, but the girl in jeans and T-shirt might have stepped off an American sidewalk. All wore guns. Salim engaged them in a chatter of Jedrah. We have fine ride, he announced jubilantly.

The four girls were examined by eyes in which there was none of Salims effervescence. My name is Rannah, the girl announced without cordiality. I do not like you, but you will ride. She opened the back of the vehicle and climbed within.

What happened then was pure nightmare. Stacie would always look back at it as the beginning. She followed the first girl to where Rannah offered an inviting hand. As her companion climbed aboard she beheld a thing that held her rooted and, for a moment, speechless. Running the length of the van were bench seats, fixtures, hard and uninviting, one on each side. Above them, fastened firmly to the sidewalls were the open jaws of handcuffs.

The girl about to take her seat saw them too. She also saw the look in Rannahs eyes. Without preamble she leaped from the open door and screamed: Run!

One of the men tripped the fleeing girl and struck her a brutal blow on the side of the head. She lay sprawled upon the sand, dazed. Two guns menaced the remainder of the quartet. Stand still! There was no mistaking the intent behind Rannahs command.

You dont mean to use those things on us? Stacie asked incredulously.

Of course we do.

But its . . . its . . . silly. All we want is a ride. Well pay. Why do you want to . . . to fasten us? She could not bring herself to use a less pleasant word for what she had seen.

The half-stunned girl was slowly getting to her feet, her fear-filled eyes seeing only the muzzles of the guns. She was prodded apart to stand alone.

You do as we tell you or we shoot her, Rannah stated calmly. She gave her attention to the trembling hurt girl. Understand? When the others are in the van youll get in too. Her gaze scanned the four of them. We are prepared to kill one of you to make the surviving three accept what you must.

It was spine chilling. But Stacie tried: But what must we accept! What do you want? We dont know.