5. I am ushered, along with the blonde girl from my unit, into a waiting Soviet-built Mi-4 "Hound" transport and command helicopter with the insignia of the dreaded Mukhabarat emblazoned on its hull.
I am shown to a jump seat on one side of the fuselage. I tug self-consciously at my desert camouflage pants, which are open in front and have slipped precariously low on my hips before I sit down. My arms are immediately raised above my head and shackled there.
As a Mukhabarat chopper, the interior has clearly been equipped for the transport of prisoners. My blonde companion is taken to the rear of the machine, where there is a separate compartment. She disappears behind a closed door.
The engine revs and the rotors begin to turn. With a shudder, the chopper lifts off, struggles to gain altitude, swings to one side and banks sharply before leveling off and setting a course.
I crane my neck during the steep bank to look out the small porthole next to my head, and take in the smoldering wreckage of the base below. I wonder how many, if any, of the other prisoners from my unit survived the carnage.
At first we ride in silence. The head of the Mukhabarat who has made a special trip to fetch me seems lost in thought. I look away. Exhaustion has set in and the vibration of the chopper lulls the brain.
But after a while I stir, turn and lean forward as far as my shackled wrists will allow and ask where we are going.
The curt reply is simply "Baghdad."
I follow up by asking what is going to happen to us there.
He turns and regards me thoughtfully. For a moment his eyes lock on my bare chest, fascinated perhaps by the way the vibration of the engine and rotors cause my breasts to wobble and shake; then his gaze wanders down to the slope of my tummy where it plunges into the v-shaped gap of my open pants.
After what seems an awfully long pause, he straightens up, looks me straight in the eye, and answers my question.
"You are going to Section 7 headquarters in Baghdad, where we plan to stage a "show trial" in which you will be charged with bombing innocent civilians … a cowardly act of violence that killed dozens of families while they slept in their beds. The trial will be broadcast around the world as proof of the wanton barbarity of your country's unprovoked attack on the people of a peace-loving Iraq."
“That's crazy! I am just a lowly private ... an army reservist assigned to a transport company, not a pilot. And besides, women don't fly combat missions."
"No, THAT Barbara Moore died when her convoy was destroyed in the desert. Her body was never recovered. You are a different Barbara Moore, a U.S. pilot … a clever invention of our intelligence people, who will produce copies of your service record as proof. We also have your flight suit with your name on it, and pieces from the wreckage of your A-10, as well as video footage of the bomb damage, dead bodies, and mourning families."
"No one is going to buy that. My government will deny it as the fabrication it so obviously is."
"No Pvt. Moore, the world will believe it when you confess to your crimes on camera, and condemn the cowardly aggression of your country and its coalition."
"I will never do that."
"You may think so now, but when they are finished with you in the cellars of Muhabarat headquarters, I can assure you that you will confess to anything we say," he replies, his dark eyes flashing.
"Well, it won't work. The coalition will roll up the Iraqi army and be in Baghdad in no time. I will be rescued, and it will be you, not me, who will go on trial."
"Oh, our intelligence is very good, Pvt. Moore. Do not underestimate the Mukhabarat. As we speak your President is preparing to call a halt to his operation for fear world opinion will turn against him. We plan to use you to help make that happen anyway. You Americans are too soft, and too stupid. Rest assured. Baghdad is perfectly safe. No one is coming to your rescue!"
"Why put me, a woman on trial? Haven't you captured any men? Besides, women do not fly combat missions. Everyone knows that."
"Ah, but there is so much propaganda value in showing that they do. And, remember you will confess. The idea of a woman at the controls will enrage our people at home, and shock sensibilities abroad. Do you think your Arab coalition partners will approve of deploying women pilots to slaughter innocents in their beds?"
"And what if I am convicted?"
"You will be convicted. There is no ‘what if’. And after your trial you will be paraded on camera in the streets of the very town devastated by your cowardly attack and you will be publicly executed there, with worldwide media coverage.
"And what of her?" I ask, nodding toward the rear compartment, from which despite the noise of the rotors I can hear muffled thumps and screams.
"Oh her ... Ah, yes ... she will confess to being your co-pilot."
TO BE CONTINUED