Free Kicking the Can by Scott C. Glennie Page B

his captor’s car.
    For the next nine days, Dain stood on the balls of his feet, his arms shackled above him. They referred to it as “stress positioning” in the interrogation manual: the subject forced into positions that caused physical pain to muscles and joints. A guarding officer continually slapped Dain’s face when he fell asleep. He experienced visual and auditory hallucinations from sleep deprivation. It was the month of February, and temperatures in Baghdad plummeted to the midthirties at night. In a cold cell, continually doused in water, his body shook violently from hypothermia.
    After that, it was a series of different tortures and interrogations. On a daily basis they beat him with a rubber truncheon on his bare feet and shoulder blades. On one occasion they pulled the hair off his scrotum and inflected electric shocks by wrapping a ground wire to his big toe and the hot wire to his genitals. Strapped to a chair, his forearms duct-taped to armrests, his captors removed fingernails, one at a time, using super-heated pliers, by gripping his nails and rocking the pliers back and forth slowly until the nail pulled away from the bed.
    Two hours each day he was confined to a four-by-six-foot cell. It was during this time he was able to communicate with two other American soldiers. In retrospect, it was the only thing that kept him alive through the ordeal. Nineteen days elapsed before his captors fled and Dain and his comrades were rescued by US soldiers liberating Iraq.

TEAM BUILDING

33
    C hris Drummond descended the steps to the tarmac. Thirteen hours had passed since he boarded the plane in Seattle. He had no idea of the local time—well past midnight—and the corporate jet terminal was deserted. The outside temperature was comfortable. They had told him not to pack a heavy jacket. He was led to a black Lincoln Town Car parked thirty feet from the jet. Twenty minutes later, the driver pulled into a marina. Drummond gathered his suitcase and briefcase and walked down a ramp to an enormous dock system where countless yachts were moored. They boarded a sixty-five-foot cruiser named
Worlds Apart
. Drummond opted for the stairs to the flying bridge. Lights reflected off the water, a cascade of colors emitted from the cluster of high-rise buildings hugging the shoreline. The contemporary architecture and silhouette of five crane towers on the horizon were evidence the city was young.
    “Seventy-five-minute ride…something to drink?”
    “Water, please.”
    Drummond watched from the stern as they moved out beyond the breakwater. Fifty minutes later, the city skyline was a fleck of light. He moved toward the bow. Moonlight illuminated white sandy fingers of land, toonumerous to count, all undeveloped. Seventy minutes into the journey, Drummond saw their final destination. As they neared, the island mass was definable, perhaps three miles in length. The yacht passed through a breakwater and made a sixty-degree turn. Using thrusters, the pilot maneuvered the craft, securing it to a dock and two-story structure held in place by pilings. Two men standing on the dock stepped forward.
    “My name is Mohammad. I’m the concierge. This is Ahlam.”
    Mohammad spoke with an accent. Both men had fair skin.
    “Please take Mr. Drummond’s bags to the presidential suite.”
    Drummond handed Ahlam his suitcase.
    “I’d prefer to keep my briefcase.”
    “Very well, Mr. Drummond.”
    “Where are we?”
    “I’m not at liberty to say. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to call on me. If we don’t have it here, I’ll send for it on the mainland.”
    “Who else is here?”
    “You are the first guest to arrive. We have another party joining us tomorrow; the remaining guests will arrive in thirty-six hours. We’re self-contained. Cala is our cook. Her husband, Fahad, is caretaker. We have two young people, a male and female, staffing the spa. Ahlam, whom you’ve met, is my assistant. We also have two