Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  John walked over to the unconscious man, who lay on a metal table that was positioned on a decline, his feet at the top. John stood behind his head at the bottom and prepared himself for what he had to do next.

  A loud smack echoed off the room’s concrete walls as John’s open palm connected with the man’s face.

  Eyelids momentarily fluttered, and he shook his head, as if in a dream.

  Come on. Time’s wasting, John thought, and hit him again.

  Smack!

  The eyes popped open, struggling to focus on the upside-down face of John Quick.

  “Listen, I know you understand us. So I’m not going to bullshit you right now. I’m going to be as brutally honest as I know how to be.”

  John bent down and raised the bottom of the metal table until the man was in a standing position. He pressed a lever and locked it into place.

  “There you go,” he said, stepping around the apparatus to look at the young man. “Now that we see eye to eye, so to speak, let me lay it out for you—although you’re already kind of laid out, vertically, that is.”

  “You see that beautiful woman right there?” John said, putting one hand on the man’s shoulder and pointing to Amira, who stood still several feet away in front of the door. “We’re out of time, and we need to know where our friends are, but you don’t want to tell us. I respect that. I really do. You’re tougher than I expected, especially after you let me goad you like that back at the cemetery.”

  John felt the man stiffen on the table, the reminder of his humiliation obviously affecting him. Good. Maybe you’ll save yourself some pain.

  “So I’m going to give you one last chance to tell us what we want to know. And if you don’t answer after the first time I ask, that woman is going to start cutting off your fingers until you either tell us what we want or you have two bloody stumps for hands. I don’t want to do that, and this man here,” John said, motioning to Wendell, “he really doesn’t want me to do it. But you’ve left me no choice because I need that information, and I’m willing to do anything to get it. It’s totally up to you.”

  John looked into his eyes to allow his words to sink in. He saw comprehension spread across the man’s face, another good sign that he was taking the threat seriously.

  “Okay, then. Let’s begin. We’re going to start with an easy one. What’s your name?” John asked.

  There was a long pause, until Amira broke the silence of the moment and stepped toward the metal table.

  “Cho. Cho Feng, but I go by Henry,” the young intelligence operative said quietly in crisp English.

  “See? Now that wasn’t so hard,” John said, “but this is where you’re really going to have to work for it.” He paused for effect, and said, “Now tell us where your base is and where my friends are.”

  Henry stared at him for a moment, and John could see his internal struggle. Come on, Henry. Don’t make us do this. Just as quickly, he saw the struggle end, and Henry lifted his head in acceptance. Good. That’s twice today, John thought, thinking he’d won.

  “Go fuck yourself and your arrogance. You really are a typical American. I’m not telling you anything, no matter what you do to me. I’d rather have my honor than my life,” Henry spat out.

  I guess I was wrong, John thought.

  Before he could open his mouth to respond, Amira appeared to slide across the floor toward the vertical table. With one swift motion, she raised the stiletto with her right hand, grabbed his left pinky finger, and quickly drew the blade across it, pressing hard.

  “Agghhhhh!” Henry shrieked, his cry of pain falling on deaf ears.

  Amira let go of his finger, and it dropped to the floor of the interrogation room, red droplets splattering across the linoleum. Blood pumped down the metal table, glistening in streaks as it raced toward the floor.

  Henry muffled a cry, trying to control the throbbing pain from the wound. He shook his head from side to side in agony, breathing hard in between choked sobs.

  “Henry,” John said. No response. He grabbed his chin in his hand and forced the man to look at him. “Henry, I told you I wasn’t playing around. You should’ve believed me. Please save yourself more pain and tell us what we need to know. Please.” The last word was spoken imploringly.

  There were tears in Henry’s eyes, but John couldn’t tell if they were from pain, anger, or both. It didn’t matter.

  “For a second time—and now we’re on to your ring finger; hope you’re not married—where are our friends? Where are you operating out of?”

  Henry looked at him, opening his mouth to speak, but then reconsidered at the last moment. He closed his eyes and shook his head in a defiant and silent no.

  “Do it,” John said to Amira, staring at Henry with pitiless exasperation.

  Once again, Amira stepped up to the table and lifted the blade.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  The door opened slightly, and Amira paused, turning toward the entrance, the blade inches away from Henry’s finger. She watched Wendell lean out the door for a moment and quickly return.

  “We have a location. We need to go,” Wendell said.

  Just as quickly, Amira stepped away from the table and exited the room.

  “What about him?” Wendell asked.

  John looked at Henry, still in excruciating pain, throbbing heat radiating into the whole hand.

  “Looks like you were just saved by the proverbial bell, Henry,” John said, and stepped away to leave. As he walked past Wendell, he said, “Treat his wound, put the finger on ice, and see if you can find a doctor who can reattach it here. No matter what, he doesn’t leave this embassy. Now let’s find out what the hell is going on,” John said, and walked out the door.

  Wendell stared at the finger and blood on the floor. This is definitely not in the interrogation section of the CIA handbook.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was always the donkey and the wheelbarrow.

  It wasn’t his first time running a convoy through Ramadi, but it was the first time he’d been asked to escort General Longstreet, the commanding general of the Multi-National Forces–West in Al Anbar Province, Iraq.

  “Sir, we’re only a click out from the Government Center,” said a voice from behind him.

  Why do I know that voice? He looked around and was confronted with a younger version of John Quick staring at him from the backseat of the up-armored Humvee.

  “I don’t like this idea at all, sir,” said young John. “We shouldn’t be here. This is insurgent territory.”

  Why were they here? He struggled to remember, grasping for a brass ring just out of reach as the carousel in his head went round and round.

  “I don’t trust these tribal leaders. They’ve allowed the insurgents to gain a foothold in this province,” John said. Suddenly, Logan realized that although every word was clear, John’s lips weren’t moving.

  As if a dark sky were breaking apart to let the sun shine through, he remembered. General Longstreet had reached out to the local Sunni leaders to discuss the endless cycle of violence that gripped the province.

  But Logan didn’t get a chance to respond. The driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, and the Humvee skidded to a halt. He heard the three vehicles behind him grind to a stop, and he turned back to look out the windshield.

  A teenage boy stood in the road ten feet away, blocking the path of the Humvee. The boy—who looked no older than fourteen—stared at him through the two-inch-thick bulletproof windshield. He wore a traditional white dishdasha robe, which nearly reached his sandaled feet. His arms hung at his sides. He was a motionless figure in the desolate street.

  But it was the eyes that Logan always remembered. They were angry, burning with hatred, accusing him of things he hadn’t done yet—and never would. For some reason, regardless of details that changed from time to time, he knew this part was real. The same boy. The same hateful eyes. It never changed.

  Next to the boy was an old battered wheelbarrow, hitched t
o a gray donkey that looked as tired and beaten as the cart it pulled by leather straps. It too stood still, its long forlorn face looking at him through the glass.

  A wave of overwhelming sorrow engulfed Logan. An uncontrollable grief from the never-ending tragedy of horrors racing through the country threatened to send burning tears streaking down his cheeks. There was no innocence left in Iraq—only death, extremism, and hatred. It was the loss of hope that hurt and paralyzed him. He knew that without hope, there could be no change, and Iraq would die.

  He closed his eyes and wished he were somewhere else. He knew what came next, and the familiar dread gripped him, cruelly propelling him forward to witness the horror one more time.

  He opened his eyes in time to see the boy, his right arm extended toward the Humvee, pointing at him in accusation.

  The IED hidden under the burlap cover in the wheelbarrow exploded, and his grief turned to suffocating panic.

  BOOM!

  The explosion tore the donkey and the boy to pieces, scattering large chunks of body parts across the dusty street. The boy’s head slammed against the windshield with a loud, wet thwack! and for a brief moment, Logan looked into his lifeless eyes. Suspended against the glass, the eyelids blinked reflexively, and then the head fell to the hood of the Humvee, bounced once, and rolled off and out of sight.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  More explosions from behind, and he realized—all over again as if for the first time—the boy had triggered an ambush.

  “You may want to do something, Logan, or your men will die,” said the eerily calm young John.

  He looked once again into the backseat, but no one was there.

  “That’s right, Logan,” said a disembodied voice. “We’re gone already. You’re the last one left. Why does everyone always have to die around you? Do you know how selfish that is?”

  “It’s not my fault, John. You know that,” Logan tried to explain.

  Silence, mocking him in its unique way, torturing him with guilt he couldn’t avoid.

  “John? John! JOHN!” Logan screamed.

  The Humvee trembled, as if being struck by gunfire. He looked out the window, but all he saw was a dark, amorphous gray. Smoke surrounded the vehicle, eager to suffocate him.

  The trembling built in crescendo until the Humvee was knocked back and forth, violently jerked from side to side.

  “Logan,” said the disembodied voice.

  He tried to open his mouth to speak, but his lips were sealed shut. He touched his face and discovered his mouth and nose had been duct-taped closed. He tried to pry the thick adhesive from his skin, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic gripped him as he fought for breath.

  “Logan! Logan!” shouted the voice. Other sounds invaded his ears. More screams of outrage . . .

  It would all be over soon. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the symphony of horror, and finally gave in to the pain, accepting it with its guilty burden. He opened his eyes . . .

  And looked up into the face of Cole Matthews, who was studying him with obvious concern.

  ———

  “Logan, are you okay? You were mumbling and screaming, but I couldn’t understand you,” Cole said. “I need you with me.” There was a pause. “We’re in a bit of a bind.”

  Logan sat up, his back propped up against a rough concrete wall. He looked around and realized they were in a small prison cell, complete with iron bars and a door that was ajar. Someone forgot to lock us in? Why would they be so careless? Unless there’s nowhere to go . . .

  His senses were suddenly assaulted. The fetid stench of human waste rushed at him from all around. There was a steady roar of unintelligible screams. For a moment, he almost wished he were back in the recurring nightmare from Ramadi. At least it was familiar to him.

  “Why do I have a sinking feeling that that’s going to be the understatement of the year?” Logan finally said, placing his hands on his bent knees and forcing himself to stand up. A wave of dizziness hit him. Aftereffects of the gas and whatever else they drugged us with. Fun times.

  “Any idea where we are or how long we’ve been out?” Logan asked, bending over to steady himself.

  “It’s still light outside. So I’m guessing a couple of hours, maybe. As to where we are, I have no idea, but I can tell you one thing—it’s definitely not Paradise Island,” Cole said sarcastically. “I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of prison.”

  “How long have you been awake?” Logan asked.

  “Ten minutes or so.” Cole examined Logan. “Don’t worry. The effects should wear off in a couple of minutes. The first few were the worst.”

  More cries of pain emanated from deep inside the building. Voices carried into their cell, suddenly accompanied by footsteps.

  Cole stuck his head through the open iron-bar door and located the source of the footfalls. Their cell was positioned in the middle of a cement passageway lit with exposed lightbulbs connected by free-hanging wire. It extended about eighty feet in both directions, ending at a right-turning corner junction at the left end. Cells lined both sides, and he saw hands and bare feet sticking out between the bars. To his right, the corridor ended in a single metal door, but his view was partially obstructed by six men, dark-skinned Africans in an assortment of ragtag clothing purposefully striding down the filthy passageway.

  “We’ve got a problem. Six men. No weapons. I think it’s our welcome wagon. We need to buy time,” Cole said urgently, looking back at Logan. “Before you woke up, I activated a personal locator beacon I had hidden on me. It’s on the sill in that tiny window above you. Hopefully, there’s enough clearance to transmit the signal. If so, the agency will already be figuring out a way to reach us. We just have to stay alive long enough for the rescue team to find us.”

  The voices grew louder, angry, shouting now in an African dialect Logan didn’t recognize.

  “For how long?” Logan asked, preparing for a fight he knew was coming.

  “Four to six hours, depending on how close the nearest team is,” Cole said. The footsteps were right outside the door.

  “This should be interesting,” Logan said, having regained most of his bearings. “Let’s play nice-nice and see what they want. Fight if you have no other choice.”

  The presence of the greeting party had agitated their fellow prisoners in the surrounding cells. Screams and the banging of metal filled the corridor. It’s like a goddamned prison riot, Logan thought.

  “Okay,” Cole agreed. “Here we go.” He moved to the back of the cell and raised his arms, following Logan’s lead.

  The first man appeared in front of the door.

  He stopped outside their cell and stared at them, assessing them with open hostility and contempt. The man wore a tattered brown tank top and green cargo shorts. His head was shaved and revealed a dent in the left side of his skull that ran from the top of his head to the top of his left eye, which was a dead, milky white.

  He smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth, and Logan swore he could smell the man’s stench from the back of the cell. He’s half-crazed, probably on khat, thinking of the leaves that were chewed in this part of the world for an amphetamine-like high.

  The man crossed his wiry, muscular arms in front of his chest as the rest of his greeting party stepped into view. Five more African men, all in similar attire, stood quietly and stared at them.

  “Why are you here?” the dead-eyed man finally asked, speaking in broken English with a thick accent. He said nothing else, waiting for a response.

  “Actually,” Logan replied in a clear and steady voice, “we thought you might be able to help with that. Why are we here? And where exactly is here?”

  Deadeye nodded, as if the question made complete sense. He smiled and stepped aside, providing enough room for two of his henchmen to enter the cell.

  The two men quickly approached Logan and Cole—arms still raised over their heads—and struck both of them in the stomach. Both men doubled over and fell to th
e grimy floor, unprepared for the blows.

  Two more men entered the cell, and within moments, Logan and Cole were being dragged down the passageway toward the lone metal door.

  I guess that was the wrong answer, Logan thought, as he let himself be carried to whatever surprise awaited them next.

  CHAPTER 30

  CIA Operations Center, Langley, Virginia

  Lieutenant Commander Rob Stricker hung up the classified phone to JSOC—the Joint Special Operations Command—headquarters in Fort Bragg and walked to the senior watch officer’s position in the center of the operations floor.

  A former Navy SEAL platoon commander for SEAL Team 4 and the executive officer of SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team 2, based in Little Creek, Virginia, he loathed the Beltway lifestyle, especially the tailored suit that covered his athletic frame. Unfortunately, it was those years of tactical experience in Iraq, Afghanistan, and off the coast of multiple African countries that highly qualified him for his current assignment—JSOC liaison officer to CIA headquarters.

  His job involved coordinating activities all over the world to provide Human Intelligence—simply referred to as HUMINT—in support of JSOC operations and JSOC tactical support to CIA covert and clandestine operations. As much as he despised staff work, it was a critical function, and he excelled in the daily, fast-paced operational environment. It also guaranteed his promotion to Navy commander, although his selection wouldn’t be official until next month’s promotion board.

  “Sir, we’ve got a team on standby at Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. They can be wheels-up in forty-five minutes and over the target in two hours. They’ve got a C-17 on standby,” Lieutenant Commander Stricker said to the senior watch officer, Glenn Saxton, a senior executive, former case officer, and one-time station chief.

  Camp Lemonnier was the US base in the Horn of Africa, established in the months after 9/11, when the headquarters element of the 2nd Marine Division officially transformed into the headquarters element for the new Combined Joint Task Force–Horn of Africa, CJTF–HOA. It was strategically positioned, accessible by ship at the port city of Djibouti and by aircraft at the Djibouti International Airport, directly adjacent to the camp.