And as much as, as a journalist, she should appreciate the opportunity to get up close and personal with Idi Amin, doing it as a hostage was less than ideal.
The country’s dictator made daily visits to the building where she and the other hostages were being held, during which he spoke to them directly. He told them that he’d personally convinced the hijackers to extend the original deadline for their demands to be met. He assured them he was doing everything in his power to get them released.
That was rich, since all actions indicated he supported the hijackers whole-heartedly by offering them shelter in his country and the visible protection of his armed forces.
She was ready for this to be over. It was hot as hell in the terminal. The food they were being fed was horrendous. Some of the hostages were getting sick, probably from the food that she herself barely touched.
But more than all that, she was starting to fear she'd made a grave mistake.
Days ago, well over a hundred non-Israeli hostages had been released. She could have been one of them. She chose not to be. To instead stay with the ninety-plus passengers and the twelve members of the Air France crew.
But when she had chosen to stay with those still being held, she never considered that a week later she’d still be there.
She should have realized. Should have known better. Governments didn't like to negotiate with terrorists. Would they do it now to save the lives of those there with her? To save her?
They were certainly taking their time with it. Had it really been a whole week she'd been held in Uganda?
What day was it? She’d begun to lose track, but if her calculations were correct, it was July third, maybe?
The following day would be Independence Day in the United States.
The entire country would be celebrating the bi-centennial and two hundred years of freedom. How ironic, considering she couldn’t be further from being free at the moment.
The hundred or so remaining hostages and Marty were all being kept in what appeared to be a waiting room in an empty terminal at the airport. The original four hijackers were there along with four more who had joined them.
She’d managed to hide her small notebook and pen and keep them with her, taking notes when she could, but her passport and camera had been taken.
Marty didn’t have a watch, but she could tell it was late at night. The guards had changed shift and they’d been served dinner hours ago.
Most of the hostages had lain down and were trying to get some sleep. Marty was too keyed up. She could always doze during the day tomorrow. It wasn’t like she had anything else planned.
Maybe she could rest if she closed her eyes . . .
A loud bang had her eyes flying back open. The noise of the front doors of the terminal crashing open elicited a few startled cries from the hostages in the waiting room.
What had to be over two dozen uniformed men ran inside, the sound of their boots pounding against the hard tile floor echoed off the ceiling and the walls.
She sucked in a breath. Were these members of the Ugandan Army? Or more members of the PLO coming to help the hijackers?
Why were they here and why now? To kill the hostages? Was this it, then?
A bullhorn broadcast a message in what sounded like Hebrew. She glanced around to find someone to interpret for her, but then the sound of more amplified words being spoken this time in English stopped her search.
“Stay down! We are Israeli soldiers come to rescue—” The end of the message was made inaudible by the sound of gunfire.
From what Marty could tell it was coming from both sides, the rescuers and the hijackers. The screaming came from the hostages.
One passenger, a young man, stood. She watched in horror when he immediately crumbled to the floor as a crimson stain bloomed on the front of his shirt.
The sound of crying and the sight of people huddling around two more fallen figures on the ground told her that more than one of the passengers was down. Caught in the crossfire as the battle raged on and on and on.
Marty slumped to the floor.
Keeping as low as possible as she crawled to the restroom, she pushed through the door, seeking shelter there. Meanwhile, the gunfire on the other side of the door continued.
Others joined her. Just as frightened. Just as helpless as three rapid explosions shook the floor she pressed against.
Had they all survived the past week only to be killed during the rescue?
She didn’t know how long they sheltered there before the door opened and one of the commandos who’d come to rescue them shouted, “Come! Follow me.”
They moved as a group, but safety was still far away.
She heard the shots continuing outside the building. Saw perhaps a dozen flaming aircraft scattered on the airfield like broken toys.
The hijackers inside the building were apparently dead, but Amin’s troops were retaliating, still firing on the rescuers as they herded the hostages between armored vehicles in an attempt to shield them.
The passengers, Marty among them, literally ran for their lives toward a large aircraft parked just outside the terminal, while their rescuers took and returned fire.
The worst of the wounded had to be carried on board.
Marty helped one man who’d been shot climb the stairs as she braced herself for the impact of a flying bullet that thankfully, never came. But others weren’t so lucky.
The rescue was a success in some ways and a failure in others.
The body of the leader of the mission to save them was loaded onto the plane last, carried by the men he’d led, before they finally secured the door and took off.
In the air as they flew away from the hellish reality, she learned that in the end three hostages had been killed in addition to the one rescuer. And ten passengers had been wounded.
It was with mingled relief and sadness over those lost that they flew to Nairobi in Kenya, where they boarded another flight to Israel.
And then, finally, a full nine days after she was supposed to have been home from her dream vacation, Marty boarded an American military aircraft headed for Virginia.
She was the lone female and the only former hostage on the flight filled with what looked like American military.
“You all right?” The male voice had her jumping in the sideways-facing seat she was strapped into.
“This isn’t exactly the first-class seat I had going to Greece, but I’ll deal with it. Thanks.” She snorted out a laugh as she glanced up.
“No doubt.” The guy smiled as he held on to a strap on the wall.
A memory niggled at the back of her brain. She frowned. “Do I know you?”
“You know my best friend, Peter Greenwood. I was at the bar with him the night you two met. I’m Tim.”
The mention of Peter brought about an increasingly familiar flutter in her stomach, along with a clenching in the vicinity of her heart.
She missed him and she was no longer afraid to admit that. She’d made that realization during the past week when she’d honestly thought she’d never see him again.
“He must be worried,” she said.
Tim let out a huff. “I think that’s an understatement. I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but rumor has it some upstart legislative aide lied his way into the FBI offices in D.C. and wouldn’t leave until the hostages were safe. Wanna make a bet that was Peter?”
As surreal as the past week and a half had been, that story about Peter was even more so. So was this man’s presence on this plane with her.