36

SOMEWHERE IN SOUTHERN LEBANON

Marcus Ryker finally came to.

He was no longer hanging from the ceiling. Nor being electrocuted. He was still bound and gagged, but now he was lying in a fetal position, engulfed in utter darkness, and it felt as if the entire earth were shaking.

Was it the Israelis? Were their bombs dropping closer? Were their mechanized forces approaching? It took a few minutes, but such hopes proved a mirage. It finally dawned on Marcus that he was in the trunk of a vehicle, on the move over choppy terrain. The hum that filled his ears was a diesel engine that had seen better days. But where was he being taken?

Marcus was not blindfolded, yet though he strained to see even a single speck of light, there was none to be found. For some, that would have been terrifying. It certainly would have been for his late wife, Elena. She had always been scared of the dark.

Once when he and Elena had gone spelunking in high school, he had turned off his headlamp, pretending it had shorted out. Elena had freaked, and Marcus had nearly died laughing. It was not that he wanted to frighten her. Not really. Yet he remembered with great fondness how Elena had clung to him for comfort until he had “gotten the light to work again.” Even now he could feel the warmth of her body against his, her breath on his neck, her hands holding his. And despite the searing pain of burns all over his chest and feet and the cramped darkness that surrounded him, Marcus found himself smiling. He had no idea where he was or what the future held. But he was not scared. He just felt . . . peaceful.

Marcus had never shied away from danger. To the contrary, he’d always been drawn to it—thrived on it. Jumping out of planes. Bungee jumping from bridges. Scuba diving in seas teeming with great whites. Rafting the most intense white-water rapids he could find. He had always loved adventure, loved testing the limits, loved pushing the envelope, and loved being with other people who loved it too.

True, as a kid, he had been an idiot. He’d taken crazy, unnecessary, foolish risks, and not just with his own life but with Elena’s. Fortunately, God had been watching out for them. “Don’t die, and don’t get arrested,” his mother had always said. And they hadn’t. They had not died. They had not been arrested. Not on their adventures, anyway. Not while trying to suck the marrow out of life. They had walked away with memories Marcus would cherish for eternity, most of which he had never told to another soul.

His years in the Marines had taught him to push the boundaries even further, as for the first time in his life, he had had commanders who thought like he thought, wanted what he wanted. These were men who knew what the human body and mind were capable of, what the limits were, and how to take him there, all the way to the edge of death before backing him off just a smidge. He had thrived on it. All of it. The years he had spent on Parris Island and then on the battlefields of Kandahar and Fallujah and the mean streets of Baghdad and Mosul were some of the most difficult of his life, but also some of the most thrilling and rewarding. He had looked death square in the face and survived and worked to protect the lives of others in the process.

His years in the United States Secret Service had been far more stressful. He had enjoyed the training and the drills. But going into the job, he had never stopped to consider how much of the life of a Secret Service special agent was sheer boredom. Standing post in empty hallways. Rainy rooftops. Windswept tarmacs. Quiet stairwells. Waiting for something terrible to happen and praying it never did. And all the while spending so many nights on the road, away from home, alone in cold hotel beds, eating bad fast food and drinking lousy instant coffee.

Marcus had done it because he believed it was what God had called him to do. He hadn’t always loved it. Elena certainly had not. Indeed, his time in the Secret Service had put stresses on their marriage they had not always been certain they could endure. But there was no point wallowing in regret. They had made their choices. They had made them in prayer. They had made them together, and he refused to look back.

Now he was back in the fight. He was being tested like he had never been tested before, and while he certainly wished he could have avoided being captured and tortured, he loved having a purpose. His mission was not simply to protect his country but to rescue Kailea and Yigal and get them back to freedom, back to their families and friends. If it cost him his life, so be it. He knew where he was going when he died. They, so far as he knew, did not.

In the darkness, Marcus found his thoughts drifting back to the SERE manual and specifically the appendix titled “The Will to Survive.” He’d been giving a lot of thought to the section on the psychology of survival. But it occurred to him there had been a section after that, one on spiritual considerations. He didn’t recall Commander Connolly or any of the guys in his training class spending any time discussing it. Yet while some of the details were still fuzzy, others were returning.

Marcus remembered his surprise at seeing an official U.S. government publication talk about anything spiritual. This was not something given to him by a chaplain, after all. These were official recommendations on how to survive in captivity. To be sure, some of the suggestions were vague, even superficial, instructing prisoners of war and those trapped behind enemy lines to take the time to “collect your thoughts and emotions. Identify your personal beliefs. Use self-control. Meditate. And remember past inner sources to help you overcome adversity.”

Others, however, had struck him as particularly helpful. “Pray for your God’s help, strength, wisdom, and rescue. Remember Scripture, verses, or hymns; repeat them to yourself and to your God. Forgive yourself for what you have done or said that was wrong, and forgive those who have failed you. Praise God and give thanks because God is bigger than your circumstances. Because God will see you through (no matter what happens). Because hope comes from a belief in heaven and/or an afterlife. Never lose hope. Never give up. If you’re with others, encourage each other while waiting for rescue, and remember—your God loves you.”

Marcus had only been twenty-two when he had read those words, and not especially strong in his faith. Yet even so many years later, he remembered how impactful these spiritual recommendations from the American military’s most senior commanders had been. Upon finishing the SERE training, Marcus had sought out a chaplain and asked for a Bible. He had begun reading it as often as he could. He had even started attending a church service on base, and though he did not make it every Sunday, it was a practice he continued whenever possible when he was deployed overseas.

Marcus was starting to feel sleepy again. Still, he silently said a prayer for his colleagues and for his mother and sisters and their families. He prayed for Pete and Bill and the president and the NSC back in Washington. He prayed for Annie Stewart and Jenny Morris and for Nick Vinetti’s widow and her children. His list was long, and the more he prayed, the drowsier he became. Nevertheless, he made himself recite Psalm 23, one of his favorite passages of Scripture, one that his mother had made him memorize after the death of his father. It seemed more apropos right now than ever before.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul. . . . Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. . . .

And with those words echoing in his mind, and the steady hum of the diesel engine throbbing all around him, Marcus Johannes Ryker drifted back to sleep.