.Rescuing Roy - Tip leads to rescue in Iraq
EDITOR'S NOTE: The ransom demands had stopped, and the trail had gone cold. More than 10 months after U.S. contractor Roy Hallums was abducted in Iraq, a local man being interrogated by coalition soldiers claimed to know where the American was being held. This is the second part of a two-part AP serial narrative. This story is based on hours of interviews with Roy Hallums, Susan Hallums and Dan O'Shea, and their recollections of Roy Hallums' kidnapping in Iraq.
The coalition soldiers didn't know it, but this man they'd hauled in for questioning was about to deliver a bombshell.
Someone had fingered him as part of an extended family of kidnappers whose relatives abducted Iraqis and foreigners ---- it made no difference. The common denominator was money.
The interrogators were only five minutes into it when the man, trying to jump-start a plea for leniency, blurted the name of an American contractor who had been missing for most of a year and given up for dead.
"I know where Roy Hallums is," he said.
He knew about the house. He knew about the concrete prison under the backyard storage shed. He knew about the freezer covering the hatch in the floor.
The coalition soldiers jumped. In less than hour, they assembled a rescue detail and rolled, fully armed, charging in helicopters toward a barren farm in the Triangle of Death.
The rescue
Prisoners who'd shared the pit with Roy had come and gone ---- either ransomed, or let go, or worse. He had no way of knowing. He'd survived a freezing desert winter with nothing but a tattered blanket. Somehow he'd made it through summer, baking at 110 degrees in an airless, fetid hole ripe with fear and the stupefying stink of trapped men using a plastic bottle for a toilet.
It was now nearly fall, and the kidnappers had taken to disappearing for days at a time, leaving behind only water and sardines. For weeks, soldiers had been operating nearby. Sometimes Roy could hear them.
The soldiers had spooked his abductors, who poured concrete over the door in the roof. He heard the heavy scrape of something being shoved over the dried cement. It was a deep freezer.
Now they had to use a crowbar to open the hatch and drop in food.
The filthy track suit they made him wear hung like curtains on his emaciated body. He didn't know if he could stand up anymore. His knees throbbed from landing on them every time they'd bashed him to the concrete floor. His teeth felt like mossy stones.
Three hundred and eleven days had passed.
It was September 7, 2005. Just another ordinary day in the hellhole.
He had sardines for breakfast. He drank a little water. He had a new roommate, an Iraqi businessman. Roy tried to talk to him, even though it was forbidden, but the Iraqi spoke no English. Roy spoke only a few words of Arabic.
Lying on his side, Roy heard the whump-whump-whump of rotor blades. They grew louder and louder until it seemed the bird would land on the deep freezer. He heard more helicopters, and the sounds of running feet and shouts. His kidnappers were on the run.
Above him, someone was taking a sledgehammer to the concrete, so loud it drowned out the helicopters. Roy wriggled out of his blindfold. He forced himself to his feet. As he had more than 10 months ago, in his Baghdad office, he tried to stand. But in his tiny dungeon, he could only stoop.
The door came crashing to the floor. Splintered concrete rained from a thundercloud of dust and noise. A man jumped down. A man in military fatigues, dripping with weapons.
He handed over a tiny patch; an insignia of the American flag.
"Are you Roy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Let's get out of here."
"Good," Roy stammered.
But first, he extended his bony arms, so atrophied he could encircle them with his thumb and forefinger, and hugged the hole's newest arrival.
Life now
Even now, more than a year after Roy's rescue, Dan O'Shea is secretive about details of the military rescue.
Six months after he left Iraq, O'Shea won't even say where the soldiers were from. "I can't tell you that," he said. "Coalition soldiers."
Some members of the fleeing family of kidnappers were arrested and scheduled to stand trial. O'Shea isn't sure what happened to them.
Even Roy doesn't know a lot. "They won't tell me much," he said, laughing, talking on his cell phone in the Cleveland airport, waiting for a connection to Fort Bragg, N.C., where the military recently invited him to meet some of the guys who helped rescued him. The base is home to the Army's 82nd Airborne Division, paratroopers and special forces.
What would Roy say to them?
"I don't know," he answers. "Thanks? What can you say? They saved my life."
He says life is good. He sleeps at night. He doesn't have nightmares. He is, at heart, a most gentle soul. But it took months for him to build up his weight, to learn how to walk again after lying so long on a cold, hard floor. Cartilage was torn in his knee and shoulder. Walking is still painful.
He spends much of his time with his infant grandson in Memphis, where he lives near his daughter, Amanda. He likes to hold the baby and rock him.
Susan Hallums thinks her ex-husband is doing fine. She worries sometimes about his health, and the fact that Roy seems to walk slower, talk slower, think slower.
"It's like he's had a stroke," she said. He remains her good friend. She talks to him nearly every day. "He has to be one of the kindest, nicest people in the whole wide world," she says. "I'm glad he's the father of my children."
She is asked, quite often, if she and Roy will get back together. This makes her laugh. "Oh no," she said. "We have too great a relationship. I wouldn't want to ruin it."
'I'm not done'
Dan O'Shea lives in Florida and has started a security consulting firm.
The Hostage Working Group was called minutes after Roy was rescued. "We were, of course, happy as hell," he said. But they went back to work, sending FBI agents to collect evidence from the farm, securing the area, talking to the neighbors.
O'Shea went, too. And he went down in the hole. "It was disgusting," he said. "I was thinking my God, how can anyone survive in here, without any hope?"
Roy was being flown out of Iraq by the time O'Shea returned from the hole. This summer, he flew to Memphis to meet Roy in person.
He apologized for not being able to get Roy out sooner. He regrets that Roy was one of few success stories for the group. The release of Christian Science Monitor reporter Jill Carroll, he says, was another.
In some ways, O'Shea appears more haunted than Roy. "I was there for two years and I still don't understand. Except that there's just evil in the world," he said.
When he speaks as a security consultant, he says no one is safe in Iraq, no matter what mission they're on.
"Kidnapping is an accepted way of doing business in Iraq. Don't walk into the lion's den. Goodwill and hearts-and-flowers and prayer are not going to prevent what happened to Nick Berg."
He considers this work another kind of war, and his own private mission. "I'm not done," he said. "There's still people missing. Jeff Ake is still missing."
Jeffrey Ake, an American contractor from Indiana, was kidnapped in Iraq in April 2005. He had gone to Iraq to help repair water bottling facilities.
He has four children. After his abduction, a man telephoned Ake's wife and demanded $1 million. A video was broadcast on Arab television, showing Ake with men carrying assault rifles.
He has not been seen or heard from since.
NCTimes
The coalition soldiers didn't know it, but this man they'd hauled in for questioning was about to deliver a bombshell.
Someone had fingered him as part of an extended family of kidnappers whose relatives abducted Iraqis and foreigners ---- it made no difference. The common denominator was money.
The interrogators were only five minutes into it when the man, trying to jump-start a plea for leniency, blurted the name of an American contractor who had been missing for most of a year and given up for dead.
"I know where Roy Hallums is," he said.
He knew about the house. He knew about the concrete prison under the backyard storage shed. He knew about the freezer covering the hatch in the floor.
The coalition soldiers jumped. In less than hour, they assembled a rescue detail and rolled, fully armed, charging in helicopters toward a barren farm in the Triangle of Death.
The rescue
Prisoners who'd shared the pit with Roy had come and gone ---- either ransomed, or let go, or worse. He had no way of knowing. He'd survived a freezing desert winter with nothing but a tattered blanket. Somehow he'd made it through summer, baking at 110 degrees in an airless, fetid hole ripe with fear and the stupefying stink of trapped men using a plastic bottle for a toilet.
It was now nearly fall, and the kidnappers had taken to disappearing for days at a time, leaving behind only water and sardines. For weeks, soldiers had been operating nearby. Sometimes Roy could hear them.
The soldiers had spooked his abductors, who poured concrete over the door in the roof. He heard the heavy scrape of something being shoved over the dried cement. It was a deep freezer.
Now they had to use a crowbar to open the hatch and drop in food.
The filthy track suit they made him wear hung like curtains on his emaciated body. He didn't know if he could stand up anymore. His knees throbbed from landing on them every time they'd bashed him to the concrete floor. His teeth felt like mossy stones.
Three hundred and eleven days had passed.
It was September 7, 2005. Just another ordinary day in the hellhole.
He had sardines for breakfast. He drank a little water. He had a new roommate, an Iraqi businessman. Roy tried to talk to him, even though it was forbidden, but the Iraqi spoke no English. Roy spoke only a few words of Arabic.
Lying on his side, Roy heard the whump-whump-whump of rotor blades. They grew louder and louder until it seemed the bird would land on the deep freezer. He heard more helicopters, and the sounds of running feet and shouts. His kidnappers were on the run.
Above him, someone was taking a sledgehammer to the concrete, so loud it drowned out the helicopters. Roy wriggled out of his blindfold. He forced himself to his feet. As he had more than 10 months ago, in his Baghdad office, he tried to stand. But in his tiny dungeon, he could only stoop.
The door came crashing to the floor. Splintered concrete rained from a thundercloud of dust and noise. A man jumped down. A man in military fatigues, dripping with weapons.
He handed over a tiny patch; an insignia of the American flag.
"Are you Roy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Let's get out of here."
"Good," Roy stammered.
But first, he extended his bony arms, so atrophied he could encircle them with his thumb and forefinger, and hugged the hole's newest arrival.
Life now
Even now, more than a year after Roy's rescue, Dan O'Shea is secretive about details of the military rescue.
Six months after he left Iraq, O'Shea won't even say where the soldiers were from. "I can't tell you that," he said. "Coalition soldiers."
Some members of the fleeing family of kidnappers were arrested and scheduled to stand trial. O'Shea isn't sure what happened to them.
Even Roy doesn't know a lot. "They won't tell me much," he said, laughing, talking on his cell phone in the Cleveland airport, waiting for a connection to Fort Bragg, N.C., where the military recently invited him to meet some of the guys who helped rescued him. The base is home to the Army's 82nd Airborne Division, paratroopers and special forces.
What would Roy say to them?
"I don't know," he answers. "Thanks? What can you say? They saved my life."
He says life is good. He sleeps at night. He doesn't have nightmares. He is, at heart, a most gentle soul. But it took months for him to build up his weight, to learn how to walk again after lying so long on a cold, hard floor. Cartilage was torn in his knee and shoulder. Walking is still painful.
He spends much of his time with his infant grandson in Memphis, where he lives near his daughter, Amanda. He likes to hold the baby and rock him.
Susan Hallums thinks her ex-husband is doing fine. She worries sometimes about his health, and the fact that Roy seems to walk slower, talk slower, think slower.
"It's like he's had a stroke," she said. He remains her good friend. She talks to him nearly every day. "He has to be one of the kindest, nicest people in the whole wide world," she says. "I'm glad he's the father of my children."
She is asked, quite often, if she and Roy will get back together. This makes her laugh. "Oh no," she said. "We have too great a relationship. I wouldn't want to ruin it."
'I'm not done'
Dan O'Shea lives in Florida and has started a security consulting firm.
The Hostage Working Group was called minutes after Roy was rescued. "We were, of course, happy as hell," he said. But they went back to work, sending FBI agents to collect evidence from the farm, securing the area, talking to the neighbors.
O'Shea went, too. And he went down in the hole. "It was disgusting," he said. "I was thinking my God, how can anyone survive in here, without any hope?"
Roy was being flown out of Iraq by the time O'Shea returned from the hole. This summer, he flew to Memphis to meet Roy in person.
He apologized for not being able to get Roy out sooner. He regrets that Roy was one of few success stories for the group. The release of Christian Science Monitor reporter Jill Carroll, he says, was another.
In some ways, O'Shea appears more haunted than Roy. "I was there for two years and I still don't understand. Except that there's just evil in the world," he said.
When he speaks as a security consultant, he says no one is safe in Iraq, no matter what mission they're on.
"Kidnapping is an accepted way of doing business in Iraq. Don't walk into the lion's den. Goodwill and hearts-and-flowers and prayer are not going to prevent what happened to Nick Berg."
He considers this work another kind of war, and his own private mission. "I'm not done," he said. "There's still people missing. Jeff Ake is still missing."
Jeffrey Ake, an American contractor from Indiana, was kidnapped in Iraq in April 2005. He had gone to Iraq to help repair water bottling facilities.
He has four children. After his abduction, a man telephoned Ake's wife and demanded $1 million. A video was broadcast on Arab television, showing Ake with men carrying assault rifles.
He has not been seen or heard from since.
NCTimes
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