The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel by Joel C. Rosenberg Page A

what?”
    “Meaning just report the facts. Nothing more. Nothing less. We don’t know where the president is. That’s a fact. The rescue attempt failed. That’s a fact. A massive manhunt for the president remains under way. Also a fact. But you can’t say the president is in the handsof ISIS. That’s speculation. I know you fear that. We all do. But that’s what I mean   —don’t guess, don’t surmise, don’t provide commentary or analysis. Not now. Not in the middle of a fast-moving crisis. Let the pundits back in the States or wherever do the speculation. And obviously you can’t mention any sensitive military or intelligence information, either, like where I am, what base we’re at, and so forth. The colonel will make sure there’s nothing classified or sensitive in your piece.”
    I deeply rejected the very concept of a military censor. I’d fought it all over the world   —in Afghanistan, in Iraq, and wherever I went. But there was no time to fight it at the moment. And there was no point. The king understood what I was trying to do. He wasn’t asking for me to paint Jordan in a good light. He was just asking me to be a reporter, not a commentator, and under the circumstances that seemed fair enough.
    I nodded, then asked, “What’s the second requirement?”
    “Speed,” the king said. “Get some version of the story out fast. To write up the whole battle story will likely take you most of the night. But the American people can’t wait for the whole thing. Nor can anyone else. They need to know the most crucial facts right now. So don’t write it all up at once. Do a first draft. Get the basic details out there. We’ll let you transmit additional paragraphs with more details every thirty to forty-five minutes throughout the evening, if you’d like. It’s a world exclusive no matter what. No one else has the story. People will be hanging on every word. The Times web traffic will be off the charts. But at least everyone will know the lead right away. Agreed?”
    “Photos too?” I asked.
    “A few at a time, sure.”
    “Then agreed,” I said.
    “Good. Can you give the colonel a first draft in fifteen minutes?”
    “I can do it in ten.”
    “Even better.”
    With that I was dismissed. Sharif led me out of the bunker, through a vestibule, down the hall, and into a complex of offices where staff members were hard at work coordinating sorties of fighter jets against various ISIS targets and managing the air portion of the enormous manhunt for the president. We came to a small, unoccupied office that apparently had been set aside for the colonel and me. Everything had been cleared from the shelves. The desktop was cleared off as well. But there was a new laptop waiting for me and a laser printer, along with a Keurig machine and a supply of coffees and teas. There was also a small refrigerator, like the kind I’d had in my college dorm room a million years ago, stocked with water and soft drinks.
    I soon realized the phone on the desk was disconnected, and while there was Wi-Fi, the colonel said he wasn’t authorized to give me the password. Still, it was clean and quiet and far better than what Abu Khalif had provided me. So I sat down, took some more pain medication for my arm, and got to work.
    Ten minutes later, as promised, I was done with the first draft.
    *   *   *
    Four hours later, I slid the laptop across the desk.
    On the screen was the final draft. The colonel, as bleary-eyed as I was, carefully reviewed my copy, struck out only four sentences, and cleared it for publication. Then he plugged in a memory stick, downloaded the file, and took it to another room to e-mail it to Allen MacDonald.
    While he was gone, I pulled out my grandfather’s pocket watch and wound it up. It was now just after midnight. Over the past several hours, I had spoken to Allen three times, under the colonel’s supervision, on a borrowed satphone. After assuring Allen that I was physically okay, I’d