Impossible Odds

there—whether it was Bashir, the Colonel, the Chairman, or some unknown Galmudug clan leader—somebody had just lost a ton of investment on us. Somebody was not only furious, but might feel the need to seek retribution to regain status in the eyes of his fellows.
    It struck me to wonder how hard would it be to dispatch a couple of khat -loaded killers to Hargeisa or Nairobi to take revenge on Erik. He was known to many of the local people, and it would have been easy to find him. With retaliation as a distinct possibility, I pushed my sluggish brain to think of something, do something, fight back the drowsy feeling and let these SEAL team fighters know this thing might not be over.
    I piped up over the engine noise, “We have to call Erik and tell him to get out of the house! To get away! By now the kidnappers could already be ordering someone to go after him!”
    The man just gave a small, confident shake of his head. “Not likely.” He didn’t say why he thought that.
    I nodded as if I understood, but only to hide that I had no idea what to say. I felt socially damaged, as if something had happenedto me while I was out there but I was only now realizing the effect. One of the guys showed me the photo they carried for the purpose of recognizing me, if it came down to a question of identification, which I suppose meant identifying my body. The photo was a still shot taken from the proof-of-life video. It was taken weeks earlier, and I was already looking bad at the time, hollow-eyed and distant. That begged the question of what I must look like at the moment; I was too tired to go anywhere near it.
    The rest of the flight went by in a state of melted consciousness between wakefulness and sleep. I had to let others take over and lead me around. One soldier handed me a Kashi granola bar, and I would have sworn then and there it was the most wonderful food on Earth. Actual nutrition—it seemed as if I could taste it with every cell in my body. Some other guy offered “chips and salsa,” which got a laugh, through I’m not certain there was any on board.
    We were still in the air when one of the SEAL warriors handed me a beautifully folded American flag. Simply said, I have never felt prouder to be an American.
    One of the guys was the FBI Hostage Rescue Team member on the scene, and he pulled a unit insignia patch from his uniform and handed it to me, saying it was a custom to award one directly from the strike team to any successfully rescued hostage. I didn’t know anything about such a custom, but it made no difference to me in that moment if it was a thousand years old or invented on the spot from one man’s kindness. I did my best not to completely break down under a very humble sense of gratitude and relief. There was mixed success with that one.
    It was so hard to respond, filled with indescribable emotions and completely overwhelmed. But once we were on the ground I was clearheaded enough to hurry to the cockpit and profusely thank the pilots for getting us out. I kept thanking each man on the team while I passed him in the aisle or he passed me. I think I thanked a few of them several times.
    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