“Take her to a holding cell.”
One guard scooped up her clothes and the other jammed the canvas bag over her head before leading her into the hall toward the two cells in the administration building’s basement. Out of sight of Mokhtari, they treated her less harshly.
“This one has courage,” one of them said in Farsi.
“Don’t let Mokhtari hear you say that,” the other cautioned.
The cell door was open and they guided Mary Hauser to the narrow bunk and sat her down. The one carrying her clothes dropped them in her lap. “When the door opens be sure the bag is over your head,” he said in English. “The first rule for prisoners is silence.” They left, bolting the door behind them and turning out the light.
*
Mary Hauser lifted the bag off her head and threw it down. She moved her anus back and forth and reached over her shoulders, trying to massage her back. Well, she thought, at least I’m a better actor than I thought. She waited, hoping her eyes would adjust, but it was too dark to make out anything. Including the rat that scurried across her feet.
Chapter 7: D Minus 28
Holloman Afb, New Mexico
The FBI agent shook his head and handed Byers’ written statement to the Air Force OSI agent. “He’s almost illiterate,” he said.
“We don’t hire ’em for their literary ability,” the agent replied. “He’s the best crew chief in the Wing and tough as they come. I’ll get his story on tape and have a stenographer transcribe it.”
“Cussing and all, I suppose.”
“You should read his account of how he and his partner Sergeant Timothy Wehr escaped from Ras Assanya. A masterpiece, sort of. Top kicks take notes to improve their vocabulary.” The OSI agent shook his head, doubting if the FBI could appreciate the value of Staff Sergeant Raymond Alvin Byers. “I’ll call him in and try to get it down this morning. The Pentagon’s sending two officers out to interview him. Special project. They should be here this afternoon.”
*
Byers pulled at the necktie of his Class A uniform, trying to get comfortable. Frustrated with the poor-fitting uniform, he stood up and unbuttoned the coat and sat back down, not caring who saw him while he waited in the Office of Special Investigations. He jumped back to his feet when the two officers walked in.
“Sarge, how are you!” Thunder Bryant stuck out his big hand.
Byers wiped his hand on his uniform but for, once it was clean. “Captain Bryant, the last time I saw you, you were taxiing my jet out of the bunker at Ras Assanya. It’s damn good to see you. What happened to 512? She was a good bird.” He glanced then at the man who had walked in behind Bryant, and recognized him. “Colonel Stansell. Well, I’ll be…look a hell of a lot better than last time.”
Bryant said, “Five-twelve is at March Air Force Base with the National Guard. They’re taking good care of her. How’s your partner, Wehr?”
“Ah, you know Timmy, always screwing off. He’s launching our bird today and if I don’t get out of this monkey suit and get back on the line he’ll screw it up for sure.”
“Let’s talk,” Stansell said. “We heard what happened to you the other night. You sure they were Arabs?”
“I’m sure.” Byers hunched forward and clasped his big hands between his knees. “Heard enough Aye-rab lingo at Ras Assanya. They was Aye-rabs.” He recounted what happened the night at the pizza tavern. “Once I got my Jeep Baby Doll hid down in a gully I doubled back onto the road. Got close enough to hear ’em jabbering away and get their license number. They tried to follow Baby Doll and got stuck in the sand. Should’ve shot the fuckers.”
“Just as well you didn’t,” Stansell said. “We think the FBI got them when they tried to cross the border at El Paso.”
“Good deal.” Byers stood up, ready to leave, anxious to get back on his jet.
“Sarge, this is important,” Bryant said, “could they have been after you for a reason you haven’t told anyone about?”
Byers looked at the door, wanting to leave, “Shee-it, no. Not ’less one was a jealous husband.” He ran now for his Jeep, ripping off his coat and tie as he went.
“What do you think?” Stansell asked Bryant.
“Have to read the complete report. But I think we’ve got the meat of it.”
“Not good,” Stansell said. “Too many unknowns. Are they looking at me? I don’t think the mission’s been compromised, only a handful of people know about it. But can we take the chance?”
Bryant nodded. He realized the colonel’s concern and wanted to break the connection between the rescue mission and what had happened to Byers. But Stansell knew the facts and read them the same way he did. Just like Waters, Bryant decided, you don’t run away from the hard decisions.
“Okay,” Stansell said, his decision made, “you go on to Nellis, I’m going to get us an Eagle driver.”
*
Langley, Virginia
Allen J. Camm liked his office as Deputy Director of Intelligence for the CIA. The room was large, comfortable, well lit and tastefully furnished. Unlike his last office this one had windows. Camm had been a Baron, one of the area division chiefs buried safely inside the bureaucracy of the CIA. He had exercised almost feudal control over his division, the Middle East, and developed a reputation as a corner. Now he had reached a position that had real power—much more than he had ever imagined.
The door swung open and two men entered unannounced. The first one in held a finger to his lips and handed him a card—a routine security sweep for bugs. The second man ran a wand over the walls, looking for magnetic abnormalities. The first man then connected a delicately calibrated ohmmeter to Camm’s phone con-sole and made a dialing motion. Camm was to test the phone. Camm, who had been through the routine many times, picked up the phone and punched the button to Susan Fisher’s office.
“Susan, please bring in the file you’re working on, say in about five minutes.” He hung up. The two men continued to sweep the office. They gave him a thumbs-up signal and left, Susan Fisher passing them as she came in.
She handed Camm the file on the Islamic Jihadi agents the FBI had arrested in El Paso.
Camm smiled at the young woman and shook his head. “My God, this reads like Keystone cops. They haven’t got a clue about how to kidnap someone.”
“They got their training on the streets of Beirut,” Fisher said. “What works there doesn’t work here. But they’re tough, the FBI hasn’t been able to crack them.”
“Is the Bureau onto the agents here?”
“No. We’ve also backed off and lost contact with the Jihadis. The FBI would be upset if they discovered us working their turf. We could drop them a few more hints, claim we monitored a phone call in Beirut.”
“No,” Camm told her. “Make them work for it. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I want the Agency to interrogate the bastards. By the way, have we turned the woman they’re using?”
“Yes. We told her she could expect a quick deportation to Iran if she didn’t cooperate. Also, to get her chador cleaned. I’m not sure which did the trick.”
He didn’t smile. “We can use the woman to flush out the agents.” A plan was taking shape. “Monitor Colonel Stansell’s movements. The next time he comes to Washington have the woman tell the Jihadis. We’ll pick the Jihadis up when they try to get Stansell.”
Fisher nodded. “We’ve never dropped Stansell.”
Camm was pleased with his case officer. She understood what was needed and did it. Both of them knew that if the FBI found the CIA operating inside the U.S. they would be in deep shit. The National Security Act of 1947 that established the CIA had been very specific: the CIA would have no role inside the U.S. or the power to arrest. Those two functions were the FBI’s. And the FBI had a simple remedy when they found the CIA infringing on their territory—publicity—the one thing no intelligence agency could stand.
But that would be nothing compared to what Congress would do if they learned about “Deep F
urrow.” In the late 1970s, feeling hamstrung by Congressional oversight, the Director of the CIA had looked for ways to bypass the Congressional watchdogs, and found his solution in transferring agents from the closely watched Directorate of Operations to the Directorate of Intelligence. Agency money and personnel mushroomed in the Directorate of Intelligence, all accounted for in other departments. The DDI, the Deputy Director of Intelligence, had barely started moving into the covert operations business when the President fired the Director of the CIA, and the new head shook the headquarters building at Langley from top to bottom. Out of that Camm found himself the new Deputy Director of Intelligence.
He was delighted, especially when he found he had field operatives working in the area he had specialized in—the Middle East. When he learned that neither Congress or the new Director knew what he had, he decided to resurrect covert operations and make the CIA into the kind of organization he believed in. A good bureaucrat, he saw a chance to build an empire with himself at its head. And it was he who called his growing operation in the Middle East “Deep Furrow.”
“What does Deep Furrow tell us about the Jihadis?” he now asked Fisher.
“Quite a bit. The Council of Guardians in Iran is the mover behind the Islamic Jihad. The Albanian Embassy is providing support for the Jihad’s operations in the U.S. along with some help from Libya. We’re trying to find the channel they use for moving people in and out of the States. We’ve got an operative inside the POW compound at Kermanshah, who tells us they’ve got a Captain Mary Hauser and are…interrogating her.” She took a deep breath. “Another operative in Tehran reports that the Council of Guardians is putting on the heat to capture Captain Carroll. So far, he’s still on the loose. We’ve got our operatives trying to make contact and bring him out.”
“What in the hell is he doing there?” Camm asked.
“No idea, sir.”
“We’re running out of time on this one and need to fill in the gaps. Nail the two Jihadis. Turn them over to primary section. They’ll talk. Terrorists are like rats, see one, and be sure there’s more in the woodwork.”
She stood to leave.
“Susan, time’s critical. If Defense fumbles at Kermanshah…I want Deep Furrow to rescue the POWs.”
And he, of course, would get the credit. Maybe even be in line for Director.
*
Luke Afb, Arizona
“Whoever’s on that baby that wants to see me must be important,” Captain Jack Locke said to his wife. The two were standing in front of Base Operations at Luke Air Force Base watching a C-20 taxi in. The sleek military version of the Gulfstream HI looked elegant in its blue-and-white paint scheme, and the two Rolls Royce Spey engines on the small executive jet were much quieter than the F-229 engines on the F-15.
Gillian, Locke’s English wife, had picked him up at the squadron after a Wednesday’s doctor’s appointment when a sergeant had run out of the building, telling them the Command Post wanted him to meet a VIP flight that was landing in ten minutes. The inbound pilot had radioed ahead the request. Gillian had protested that she was two months pregnant, but Locke had told her, “You’re beautiful, you can charm whoever it is with your tony English accent.”
He had driven her over to Base Ops, where the C-20’s engines spun down and the hatch flopped down. “Well, I’ll be…that’s Colonel Stansell.” Locke shook his head. “I thought he was a first-class ass when I first met him, comparing him to Waters. Turned out to be a decent guy.”
Locke saluted when the colonel was still several feet away. “Got your message, sir.”
Stansell waved a salute back and the three stood together for a few moments while Locke introduced Gillian. Not the type I’d have guessed Jack to marry, Stansell thought, she’s real pretty but not the flashy type our ace used to favor. I better quit trying to match up people. I’d never have put Waters with his wife Sara either…
“Gillian, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to talk to your husband and I am pressed for time.”
Gillian bestowed a dazzling smile on him. “I’ll wait, Colonel.” What else was new?
As the two officers walked along the ramp and passed the waiting C-20, Stansell was aware of the contrast between them—Locke, almost six feet tall, dark blond hair, rugged looking. His green Nomex flight suit looked like it was tailored for him, and he could model for an Air Force recruiting poster, except for the scars over his right eye and along his left jaw.
“Jack, I’m on a special project. I need your help. Can’t tell you much more except that it will mean temporary duty at Nellis for a few months and it could be…interesting…”
“Ah, damnit, Colonel. Gillian’s two months pregnant, I can’t leave her alone—”
“Thunder’s on board, he’s at Nellis right now.”
Locke froze. “He gave up his ASTRA assignment?”
Stansell nodded.
“It’s got to be the POWs,” Locke said, understanding. “Okay, okay, count me in, Colonel. I owe Waters and the 45th big time.” An emotion Locke could not identify worked through him. “I know most of them.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.
“Thanks. I need all the help I can get.”
“Then you need Chief Pullman. Best first sergeant and dog robber in the Air Force. He can cut through red tape faster than anyone. I think he holds markers on half the NCOs in the Air Force. He’s really a great first shirt.”
“I met him once,” Stansell said, “at Ras Assanya. Where is he now?” He remembered the big chief master sergeant who had helped with the evacuation of the 45th out of Ras Assanya. It had been Pullman who had shanghaied the extra C-130 that had made the difference for so many of them, except for the unlucky POWs.
“Still at RAF Stonewood in England. Why don’t you give him a call while I try to explain to Gillian what’s happening.”
They walked back into Base Ops. Locke found Gillian while Stansell used the AUTOVON line to England. Within minutes Stansell was back with them. “The retirement ceremony for Chief Master Sergeant Mortimer M. Pullman is Friday afternoon,” he said.
“He’ll cancel that if he knows. That C-20 belong to you?”
“For a while.”
“Let’s use it.” Locke turned to Gillian. “Sorry, honey. I’ve got to do this.”
“Not to worry, you go. I’ll get us moved to Las Vegas.” She touched her husband’s face. “I’m really a camp follower at heart, you know that.”
“Jack, you go home and pack,” Stansell said. “You’re going to Stonewood. I’ll have the crew refuel and file a clearance for England. I need to pick up my car, I’ll drive to Nellis.”
“You need to touch base with my boss,” Jack said.
“I’ll talk to your wing commander. He’s not going to like me stealing you so easy.”
Locke, often a joker in the past, looked at the colonel. “Sir, this mission may be impossible, but it’s my meat. Thanks.”
*
Phoenix, Arizona
Barbara Lyon decided that her exercise classes were definitely worth the effort as she bicycled home. Four times a week she pedaled to the gym three miles from her condominium in Phoenix, went through the routine, studied herself in one of the wall mirrors, then went through the process of comparing herself to the young instructors.
I’ve still got a few good years left, she calculated. Not bad for a thirty-seven-year-old ex— She cut the thought off and pushed her bike through the condo gate, almost running into Colonel Stansell. “Well, Rupe”—she smiled warmly—“you’re back.” She leaned forward over the handlebars, looking at the suitcases he was carrying. “Trying to sneak out?”
“Caught.” Stansell laughed, dropping the bags. Barbara was hard to ignore, wearing tight shorts and a cut-off top. A scarf held her hair back in a loose ponytail. “I left a note under your door. Been reassigned to Nellis at Vegas.” He wanted to say more of what he felt but the words weren’t easy.
“Then we might see each other again. I go to
Vegas quite a bit to take care of an apartment building I own there.” She sat back on the bicycle seat and stretched her legs out. “I just finished a major remodeling and most of the apartments are vacant. Why don’t you stay there?” She waited, hoping he would take her offer. He nodded. “Super,” she said. “Can I catch a ride with you? I need to see how things are going…”
And to herself: You’re not going to be the one that got away, Colonel Stansell.
Chapter 8: D Minus 27
RAF Stonewood, England
As the C-20 Gulfstream taxied into the blocks at RAF Stonewood the pilot turned around and frowned at Locke. “We’ve got to go into crew rest,” he announced, wondering why the captain was getting such VIP treatment. “Where to next?”
“Be back here in twelve hours,” Locke told him, “we’re going to Nellis.”
“Captain,” the pilot muttered at Locke’s back, “there’s a shorter way to Nellis from Luke.”
Locke commandeered the Follow Me truck and headed for Chief Pullman’s office, passing a parade practice being held in front of the Base Operations building. “For Chief Pullman’s retirement ceremony Friday morning,” the driver told him.
Locke found the chief in his office in wing headquarters. Pullman didn’t look surprised to see him. “Don’t tell me you came over here to wish me bon voyage and good luck in my future life.”
Locke shook his head. “Chief, this is important. I need your help for a few months. Will you postpone your retirement until then?”
The chief stared down his big nose at the captain. “I got me one great retirement ceremony going, complete with band and general. Now, you think I’m gonna shitcan that because you need my help?”
Locke tried to think of a way to convince Pullman without telling him about the rescue mission. “Chief, I’ve seen you kick the Air Force into action. I’m working on a special mission that’s going to take a lot of ass-kicking to make it work and you’ve got the best boot around.” Locke could tell the chief was not moved. “It’s for Waters,” he said, not wanting to say more.
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