B009G3EPMQ EBOK, page 24
Sunrise came a little after six-thirty, and although we landed in early morning light we deplaned to a wave of heat so intense it nearly slapped me back inside. A whole new crowd of people were waiting for us at the plane’s exit, and they quickly whisked us out of there. I looked back for the soldiers who rescued us, but they had already melted away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jessica:
My first contact on the ground was a psychiatrist named Dr. Ray, who worked with the Department of Defense. Their concern was the specific level of treatment we experienced. I didn’t mind telling him whatever I could, but I doubt I was all that clear yet. We interviewed in his DOD van, and the air-conditioning was exquisite. While we talked he offered me the small supply of junk food they were able to pull from vending machines at that early hour. I was so starved for nutrition that these items were beyond delicious; I could actually feel my body soaking up the energy they provided.
I suppose he decided I was okay to pass on to the next stage of the debriefing process, pleased, perhaps, that I wasn’t raving. We went next to the clinic for a more thorough medical exam. The experience was extraordinary; they were all so kind. Maybe it was the contrast of their civility with months of random insults, outbursts of violence, and medical neglect. I kept choking up at the sound of civil voices addressing me with gentleness and courtesy.
A young female doctor took me to a private room and asked if I had been raped. There would be a much different protocol if the threat of HIV/AIDS was involved. I explained that I didn’t know why a full sexual attack never took place, given the callous attitudes of the men, but I was happy to report that unwanted pregnancy or STDs weren’t going to be an issue.
This greatly simplified my treatment, leaving me yet another reason to be grateful the SEAL attackers arrived before Jabreel’s inevitable attack, or Abdi’s, or that of any of the men who arrived and departed on the breezes out there. The more I thought about the perfection of the raid’s timing, right down to the dark of the moon and the careless guards, the more unreal it appeared. I had to get very small in my thinking and just take one moment after the next, to keep from being completely overloaded.
The nurse made a fresh pot of coffee and brought me a cup with sugar and cream. Until the moment I tasted the brew I hadn’t realized the taste of coffee with sugar and cream was a basic sense-memory for me, fundamental to the lines of memory running through my life. It was a warm reminder that this was all real.
At last I was allowed the luxury of a long, hot shower. Oh, it was good, though it wasn’t going to be too long, this time; since the FBI was eager to interview us and gain anything they could about the surviving kidnappers. I agreed to do whatever they asked, feeling no desire to argue with people who had just brought me back for one more chance at life, a surprise do-over after lengthy head-time spent considering how that life might best be employed, if it was somehow returned to me.
So I stood in that first shower washing away layers of dirt, noticing how bony I was to my own touch. I not only had a sense of being unreal within these surroundings, I felt unreal to myself. The dirt rinsed away well enough, but how dark were the stains on me going to be in the long run? I stood in the thick steam under the luxury of running water and safety and privacy, wondering who was under the hot spray.
I remembered who I had been, well enough. But I had no clear sense of who remained after this experience, or how I was to return to ordinary life, do ordinary things. All I felt certain about was that this experience had swept through my life with a wide broom, pushing away so much that seemed terribly important, right up until that first automatic rifle barrel was thrust into my face.
I soaped myself all over for maybe the fourth or fifth time and loved the sensations of shaving my legs. I know the ritual is considered pointless in some parts of the world, but it’s a basic part of my picture of myself, and I was surprised by how good it felt. The ritual had power, voodoolike in its ability to act on me and restore some of the fundamental sensations of how it is supposed to feel to be myself, living in my body as I know it, and in my world as I choose to exist in it. Simple personal grooming restored some part of me in a genuine rush of strength and determination.
I was already resolved to make it the first thing I did in this new second chance at life to convince Erik our priorities had been shifted by this thing. We had to start avoiding such long work hours. We had to stop taking risks in the field and instead live like people who intended to have a full family life together and survive long enough to live it out. And of course that meant we would resume our efforts to get pregnant and not allow this thing to interrupt what had been so important to us before it all began.
Because the one thing that emerged stronger and clearer to me out of this experience was the certain knowledge that I wanted more than anything else to be a mother. That and my love for Erik were ultimately the strongest forces to keep my hopes for the future intact when illness and despair would have otherwise taken me away, perhaps long before rescuers had the chance to arrive.
It’s funny how the act of getting nice and clean clears up your thinking. I stepped out of the shower convinced that even though I was still full of doubt over my impeded social abilities, I was now clearly focused on the next step for me in this life with Erik in Africa, or anywhere else we might live in the future. I dried with an actual bath towel, thick and freshly laundered, and then opened the toiletry kit some of the men had gallantly assembled for me. I noticed there were four sports bras in various sizes but no panties. Well-intentioned males: You’ve gotta love ’em.
I timidly asked a nurse about it. She gave an embarrassed laugh and had somebody bring me some underwear, but they turned out to be an extra-large pair of granny panties. Did I object? Are you kidding? They were actual underwear, clean, and meant for a woman.
I was getting anxious to see Erik, but one of the first things they got across to me in my initial psych interview was their official concern for how and when Erik and I were to be reunited. Nobody knew if I was going to go hysterical, blame him somehow, scream recriminations, slap and claw at him—I guess they’d seen a wide range of behavior from people held in captivity for long periods.
I felt no such anger or desire to cast blame on him, but I also had to privately admit I wouldn’t really be able to judge the effect of all this until Erik and I were back together and in a situation where we could talk it out. I knew he’d been racked with worry, and it seemed obvious the best way to bring a halt to that was for us to reunite without delay. So while I was eager to cooperate with my rescuers, their concerns sounded a little dramatic to me.
They told me my initial phone calls to Erik and my father should be kept to a maximum of five minutes each. So I steeled myself for another couple of stilted, brief conversations that would at least be something, some small bit of direct contact.
My first attempt to get through to Erik failed, so I tried my dad’s cell phone and got him on the first try. “Jess!” he cried out, and this man who was usually not an emotional guy sounded ecstatic. He called to my sister, who was right there with him, and she got on the line with us. We all cried together in sheer relief, and I apologized profusely for putting them through months of hell. Our call was short, but the effect on each of us was powerful.
Shortly afterward, one of the FBI agents walked in with his phone, saying Erik was on the line. As eager as I felt to take that call, from the moment we lurched into the conversation, I began to understand the reasons for restricting initial contact. The floodgates of emotion opened wide. We were both completely overcome, dissolving into tears. I felt nearly too stunned to speak. His voice sounded so good, just as I remembered it, sweet and loving. We could do little more than assure one another, over and over, that we still loved each other, no matter what.
“But, Erik,” I told him just before the phone was taken away from me, “I need to tell you that we’re going to have to have a long talk.”
“Of course, Jess! Of course! We have so much to talk about, everything that happened—”
“No, Erik,” I interrupted him. “I mean us. We have to do things differently from now on.”
“We will! We will, Jess. Whatever you want. Your NGO is arranging to fly me to you as soon as possible. Jess, I can’t wait to see you! Honey, I’m so sorry that all this happened, but we have the rest of our lives to figure things out. It will all be good.”
“I can’t go there now. We have to talk. We have to do better this time. For now, I just want you to please get out of Hargeisa and away from any revenge these guys might be planning. We have to think about their desire for retaliation.”
“All right, I’m leaving for the airport soon. God, Jess, I can’t wait to see you!”
We hung up a few moments later, each one assuring the other our love was alive and well. Still, as soon as the call ended I felt the full force of the wisdom behind the restricted time on first calls to loved ones. I was emotionally wrung out.
Somebody brought more coffee, and then somehow, running on adrenaline and repeated doses of caffeine, I sustained eight straight hours of interviews. We drew up a complete list of the kidnappers, including names, physical characteristics, personality traits, and personal strengths and weaknesses.
Once the FBI and the doctors were finally convinced they had learned everything they were going to get from me and the doctors had tested everything there was to test, they finally released me to go get some sleep. Poul and I ran into each other in the clinic hallway, and all I could do was put my head on his shoulder and weep. He just stood there and quietly hugged me back.
I got my first sleep on the plane, at last, twelve hours after arriving in Djibouti. I lay down wrapped in a thick sleeping bag and strapped into a canvas medical stretcher on the biggest cargo plane I’ve ever seen, this one bound for a U.S. military base in Italy. I was soon oblivious and slept soundly for most of the trip, unperturbed by the noise of the engines or the other people around me. It was my first safe sleep in months, and that narrow little stretcher was a beautiful luxury. The sense of peace and safety was so strong, a deep slumber held me in its grip throughout the flight.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Erik arrived in Italy to learn that the authorities wouldn’t allow him to see Jessica yet and required him to wait until the following day. The psychologists with the hostage reintegration program had long experience in working with hostage returnees and believed even five minutes together might be too much for reunited loved ones. Their experience showed them how immersion back into one’s life needs to be slow and careful, like climbing into a steaming hot tub.
Jessica remained in a private room with the first real bed she’d been on since her capture. The staff traded her ragged clothing for fresh, warm winter items and the first shoes she had felt in months. She was surprised by how strange it felt to have real shoes on her feet.
The next day she paced the floor in her room with the door cracked open a few inches while she waited for Erik to arrive for their first brief session together. She gasped when she saw his fingers reach around the edge of the door and pull it open. A moment later, there he was for her and there she was for him, and they fell into each other’s arms, both of them openly sobbing.
“Jess,” Erik struggled to speak, “before we say anything, I want you to know your family has been so strong—all of us are much closer because of this—and they feel the same as I do. We’ll do anything we need to, in order to get you one hundred percent back to your life. I want you to know that whatever happened to you, Jess, I don’t care. I love you. I’ll always love you. If you need time away from me, just tell me. Please. I’ll give you all the room you want.”
“Stop,” she quietly told him. “Stop. I don’t need time alone and we aren’t splitting up.”
“Jess, as long as we’re together, I can do anything. I want you to know I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Anything you need.”
“Listen,” she whispered into his ear. “Listen to me. We’re not splitting up. You aren’t going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. Erik, I never thought I’d see you again. It was the thought of us together that kept me alive. “She leaned back and looked into his eyes. “But we’re going to have to do things differently, now.”
“Okay.”
“More time together. No more workaholic hours.”
“Yes. Okay. Good.”
She smiled at him. “And I want us to go right back to starting our family. I want a baby.”
He threw his arms around her again and suddenly neither of them had much more to say except to assure each other that no damage to their love and devotion had taken place. They spent most of that first session holding each other and murmuring terms of endearment.
Before they knew it their scheduled hour was over. They made arrangements to meet for lunch the following day for a longer session under doctor’s supervision, for more detailed conversation and the million questions each one had. By the time Erik left her there after that first encounter, not even her happiness and gratitude could escape the exhaustion gripping her.
They met the next day for a much longer session. The emotions were powerful, but by the time their second day’s meeting was over, Jessica and Erik knew their relationship had survived. They went through the rest of their family reunions as a dedicated couple, amazed at their good fortune and determined not to waste this second chance at life.
For John Buchanan, as well as Jessica’s brother and sister, the final payoff came when they all united in Portland, Oregon, to spend a week together and do nothing but work on reconnecting with one another. His steadfast patience and faith in the eventual outcome had brought him back to a full reunion with all three of his children.
• • •
President Barack Obama addressed the press about the rescue in Somalia by SEAL Team Six on January 25, 2012, saying, “The United States will not tolerate the abduction of our people, and will spare no effort to secure the safety of our citizens and to bring their captors to justice.”
Back in Somalia, at the ruined campsite outside “The International City of Adado,” there was no room for doubt about the truth of the president’s statement for the ones hauling away the bodies of the felled captors. The folly of attracting military attention by kidnapping innocent civilians will undoubtedly be discussed in the lairs of future kidnappers. One of them will undoubtedly be Jabreel himself.
Dan Hardy showed Erik a text message he sent to Jabreel’s phone after the rescue. Though Jabreel was lucky enough to have been absent from the camp that night, he surely felt less fortunate when the message arrived. Nobody on the case was forgetting how Jabreel had toyed with them over long months of negotiations. Nor were they forgetting about his personal torments of Jessica throughout that time, which now were known by everyone involved. The message contained only three simple words, sent for him to consider while he looked back on the experience, as he would surely do.
“You’re next, motherf**ker.”
Jabreel’s cell phone account immediately went dead.
The statement was hardly mere bravado, as Jabreel and the surviving kidnappers now know from experience. Matt Espenshade confirmed that in spite of the deaths of so many of the kidnappers, many more are still at large, including their leaders. Those men might hope to be forgotten; they are not. The FBI has continued its investigative interest in those involved with the kidnapping. The leaders, especially, are of prime interest to the Bureau. And now the considerable unseen assets in that region are steadily feeding back information on these targeted individuals to learn their operational methods and their locations and hunt them down.
The surviving kidnappers and their colleagues are welcome to sneer at the danger. It may help them pass the time, just as it did for Bin Laden’s henchmen to chuckle at the idea of payback. If the men nobody sees coming are dispatched to capture or kill them, the surviving kidnappers will find themselves dealing with a force of air, sea, and land fighters so obsessed with the work they do that they have trained themselves into the physical and mental toughness of world-class athletes. They will carry the latest in weapons, armor, visual systems, and communication devices. Whether they are Navy SEAL fighters, DEVGRU warriors, Army Delta Force soldiers, Green Berets, or any of the elite soldiers under United States Special Operations Command (SOCOM), they will share the elite warriors’ determination to achieve success in their mission assignment.
The news that they are coming for you is the worst you could receive. But nobody gets advance warning from these men. They consider themselves born for this. They have fought like panthers to be part of their team. For most of them, there is a strong sense of pride in succeeding at missions nobody else can get done; in lethal challenges. They actually prefer levels of difficulty so high it seems only a sucker would seek them, the sorts of situations seen more and more often these days. Impossible odds.
Afterword
Erik:
I was especially moved by prayer groups that steadfastly remained active on behalf of Jess and her colleague, Poul Thisted, because they did this without inquiring whether Jess or Poul held their beliefs. In today’s divisive climate, how often is such acceptance shown?
Before anyone gets caught up in useless debates about religion, there is the simple question of whether one feels a sense of spirituality in the experience of being alive. Either we do or we don’t. All dogma aside, it seems to me that the perception of a benevolent source of order to our existence is all that’s necessary to truthfully claim a spiritual life.
And I can say no matter what forces kept Jess alive and protected from murder or rape by ideologues or by thugs, those forces worked magnificently well and beyond any practical explanation. She was somehow protected from the worst, in a time and place where the worst was very likely to occur.
