Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  Lieutenant Commander Stricker had done a deployment at Camp Lemonnier in the early days of the Global War on Terror, referred to as the “GWOT.” Djibouti was hot, humid, and so oppressive it made Iraq seem like a cool breeze. He still recalled sitting outside his operations center on one extremely hellish day when two black birds had dropped dead out of the sky from the heat, nose-diving into the gravel next to his boots. Out of all the strange, surreal, and horrifying things he’d seen during his combat tours, it was the dead black birds that epitomized Africa for him. So forsaken even the birds couldn’t survive . . . fucking Africa . . .

  “What do we know about the location, sir? I need as much intel—imagery, SIGINT, whatever you have—that you can get before we launch them,” Lieutenant Commander Stricker said.

  The personal locator beacon had been activated more than fifteen minutes ago, and all rescue options were being explored. Due to the individual assigned to the beacon, it was no-holds-barred.

  An arrangement between the CIA and the International Cospas-Sarsat Programme—a satellite-based search and rescue distress alert detection and information distribution system—provided the monitoring of a sensitive list of beacons in the event they were activated.

  The initial 406-MHz signal had been detected by the mission control center in Abuja, Nigeria, which had then fed the information to the main US mission control center operated by NOAA and co-located with its Satellite Operations Control Center in Suitland, Maryland. A call had been immediately placed over a secure line to the CIA’s operations center, and all data associated with the signal was now being fed live to a local user terminal inside the operations center.

  “Our NGA folks are looking for stored imagery for that location, and they’re tasking the nearest satellites to start snapping pictures during the next passes. I’ve already contacted NSOC, and NSA is searching through its databases for any SIGINT reporting. And any HUMINT reporting we have on that area you’ll have within the next thirty minutes,” Glenn said. “What else do you need?”

  “That should cover it, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Stricker replied. “You calling the White House next? As you know, something like this requires either SECDEF or presidential approval. Once JSOC has it, it’s a ‘go,’ for all intents and purposes.”

  “What if we get the approval but still don’t have all the intel for you?” Glenn asked, considering the negative ramifications for the operation. He wanted to know what could go wrong and how bad it could be if they went in blind. Calculating all aspects of an operation was a habit he’d formed early in his career.

  Lieutenant Commander Stricker smiled. The question underscored the difference between the civilian and military mindsets. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it, and as long as civilians controlled the power of the military, it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Sir, they’ll go no matter what, especially in a situation like this. It’s what we do,” he responded confidently. “It’s who we are.”

  CHAPTER 31

  They were led to the end of the cellblock, through a solid metal door, and into a covered enclosure that served as the main entrance for the prison’s vehicles. The small tunnel was secured at both ends by fabricated, sheet-metal doors set on rails. An old, topless jeep sat parked in the middle, while a seven-ton cargo truck with a canvas cargo area was positioned behind it. The entrance to their right had an extra set of iron doors on hinges, secured by a padlock. Must be what passes for high-tech security in this part of the world, Logan thought.

  Logan and Cole were pushed toward a gap where a small area of light invaded the darkness under the raised door at the left end of the tunnel. Voices, cries of pain, and—most surprisingly of all—cheers emanated from the opening.

  As they neared the raised door, their captors shoved them hard, knocking them to the ground into the hot African sun.

  Logan stood up, his eyes sweeping the landscape of the enormous interior prison courtyard. Oh boy. This makes Alcatraz look like day camp.

  He’d read about horrible conditions in Third-World prisons—starvation, torture, overcrowding—but he never thought he’d experience them in the flesh. The idea of the existence of such places of human misery and suffering where unspeakable horrors were endured on a daily, relentless basis was much different than viewing it up close and personal.

  Logan felt the weight of it immediately and let out a long, slow breath to steady himself. He heard Cole’s similar response to the hellish scene before them.

  They were in a barren rectangular dirt courtyard. Their vantage point revealed that the prison was only three stories tall, constructed of dark-gray concrete, with iron-bar windows on all four sides. Logan thought he saw dark faces peering out from behind several of them.

  In each corner of the roof was a wooden, open-air guard shack that provided a view of the courtyard. Two guards were positioned at each ramshackle tower, AK-47s slung across their chests to provide quick access. Not exactly a marksman’s weapon, which means they don’t care how many inmates they kill if there’s a problem.

  In addition to the guard shacks, a large area of darkened glass at least thirty feet wide was built into the leftmost wall on the third floor of the prison. Must be the control room.

  To Logan’s right was a small, single-story square garage. It had a roof and one wall, but the side facing him was open, revealing multiple jeeps and an ambulance that looked like a relic of WWII. Doubt that gets much use, Logan thought. A barbed-wire fence with a padlocked gate surrounded the makeshift vehicle bay.

  In the opposite corner of the courtyard, three wooden poles stuck up out of the ground, fixed in place with bases of concrete, but it was what was on them that grabbed his attention.

  Unfortunate souls whose hands were secured above their heads so their arms were strained awkwardly had been tied to two of the poles. The position prevented the prisoners from sitting down or easing the tension in their arms. Logan knew how brutal that kind of torture could be after several hours without moving. When it was over, the relief of movement was almost as excruciating as the position itself.

  The middle pole was vacant, but even from afar, Logan saw it was stained with large, dark splotches of what could only be blood. He didn’t want to fathom how many men had suffered agonizing deaths on the wooden posts.

  As disgusted as he was at the torture, it wasn’t the worst part of the courtyard. It was the event under way, a display of medieval human savagery, that told Logan all he needed to know about the prison—there was no value placed on human life. The guards were using the inmates as sport, both for their own sadistic personal amusement and as a way to manage the behavior of the prisoners, hoping to provide a psychological release that made them easier to control. Unfortunately to Logan, it looked like the prisoners, with no alternative choice, had become participants in the human degradation.

  In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by cheering and shouting inmates, was an Everlast boxing ring, complete with a black base, black-and-white corner posts, and white ropes. It glistened in comparison to its environment, a modern creation in stark contrast to the abject depravity and surrounding degradation. Inside, two men battled, although to call it any kind of fair fight was a gross misrepresentation.

  A gigantic Sudanese man with a beard and short hair that stood out in wild tufts on his enormous head wielded a machete and an old bat adorned with ugly, metal spikes on one side. His face was covered in dark markings, but Logan couldn’t tell if they were scars or tattoos. He stood more than six and a half feet tall but moved gracefully for a man of his size and girth. The only article of clothing on his body was a worn pair of jungle-pattern camouflage pants, over which hung a loose layer of fat.

  Thud!

  The spiked bat slammed into the ring, sending a tremor through the surface.

  His opponent, a shorter, younger, and much skinnier man, backed away from the attack. He held a bat in his right hand, but it was obvious he didn’t know how to use it. Eyes wide with h
orror and fear, he looked around, pleading for help. None was offered—only more shouts in Arabic and other languages Logan didn’t recognize. This isn’t going to last much longer, and there’s nothing I can do about it, Logan thought helplessly.

  The giant stepped forward, holding the machete and bat at his sides like extensions of his limbs.

  In a moment Logan recognized as acceptance, the young man’s fear turned into resolution, and rather than die cowering, he chose to act. He pulled the bat backward and then swung with all the might he could muster, targeting the giant’s left side.

  The giant smiled—a malevolent, cruel grimace—and Logan knew the end was near.

  Amazingly light on his feet, the giant stepped aside and back, and the smaller man’s bat sailed harmlessly in front of him. The crowd roared in primal pleasure, sensing the coming kill. He whipped the bat around with his right arm, aiming under the young man’s failed strike.

  A sickening smack was heard as the spikes drove into the man’s rib cage, impaling him. He screamed in agony and dropped the bat, blood trickling from the puncture wounds in his side. He bent forward from the pain, but the giant raised his arm, standing him up with his brute strength.

  Defeated and knowing his death was near, the man looked up into the face of his killer. The executioner’s grin broadened, amplifying the evil glee on his face. The man let his head fall, and Logan saw him begin to mouth something. Logan realized what it was, and the knowledge sent a wave of empathy and pity coursing through him. He’s praying before he dies.

  The defiant act outraged the giant, and he swung the machete over his left shoulder, all the while holding his prey up like a butcher with a skewered piece of meat. The blade flashed through the air toward the back of the man’s bare neck.

  Thwack!

  The machete plunged into the man’s flesh, severing his spinal column at the base of his neck. Blood poured from the grievous injury, and his body began to spasm in its death throes. Yet somehow the giant held his kill up, withdrawing the machete quickly and pulling it back for a second blow. Blood splashed in buckets to the black canvas, and portions of the crowd went wild with approval.

  But not all, Logan thought. Some of these prisoners have some humanity left . . . somehow.

  The giant unleashed a primal scream and struck a second blow, the machete severing the man’s head, which fell to the canvas and rolled, ending facedown when it finally stopped. Blood sprayed into the air, and a red mist covered the ring, his killer, and several inmates who stood next to the ring, hands banging on the canvas floor.

  You don’t get that kind of ringside experience in Vegas, Logan thought, his sarcasm alive and well, even in the face of pure evil. His wit kept him from the edge of insanity as he was faced with the incomprehensible human suffering.

  The killer yanked the bat from the side of the body, and the corpse fell to the floor, blood quickly pooling around it. The giant stood in the middle of the ring and raised the weapons over his head, turning and posing in victory for the wild crowd.

  Logan realized that whoever these inmates had been before their imprisonment, those lives were gone. A large percentage of the population had acclimated to their environment so well that they enthusiastically participated as cheering fans. This monster was truly their champion.

  “Jesus . . . fucking . . . Christ,” Cole said from beside him.

  “I don’t think he’s around right now,” Logan said drily. “And I don’t think this is going to be a very fun visit.”

  When the cheering faded, the giant stepped out of the ring, and a six-man inmate crew leapt onto the apron with several buckets, towels, and mops. Two of the men grabbed the headless corpse by the arms and dragged it to the edge of the ring, callously pushing it under the ropes until it dropped out of sight onto the dirt.

  At that moment, Logan spotted a Chinese man studying him, gazing at him across the blood and gore in the ring. No older than Logan, he stood motionless, his demeanor screaming military. He’s part of the operation that captured us, although he wasn’t at the cemetery. He must work for the young leader I saw barking orders. Has to be. It’s not a coincidence.

  “You see him?” Logan asked quietly amid the chaos. “He’s the one we want.”

  “Or who wants us,” Cole replied.

  “Shut mouths!” one of their captors yelled, striking Logan in the back with a black baton.

  Logan staggered forward but maintained his balance, his eyes locked on to the Chinese man, his face set in stone. The man finally broke the stare and leaned in to whisper to a prison guard in dark fatigues next to him.

  Logan didn’t know what was said, but it didn’t matter. The end result was the same—the guard approached them. Here we go.

  “Get ready,” Logan muttered to Cole.

  “For what?” Cole asked.

  “Absolutely anything,” Logan replied as the guard reached where they stood and issued quick instructions in Arabic to the man who’d led them from their cell.

  The inmates surrounding the ring hadn’t left, an ominous sign that the day’s entertainment was only at an intermission. They cleared a path as Logan and Cole were shoved to the other side of the ring, a short trip that ended in front of their newfound admirer.

  Logan and Cole remained silent, waiting for their captor to initiate the conversation.

  The moment stretched before them, magnified by the chaos and bombardment of sound. They were in the center of a storm, and the Chinese man was the only port in sight.

  “Mr. West, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your scar gives you away,” the man said in nearly perfect English. He looked at Cole momentarily. “Mr. Matthews, I don’t know a lot about you, but it doesn’t matter. I have only two questions, both of which I encourage you to answer honestly, the first time,” the man said. “What are you doing here? And what do you know about us?”

  Logan considered the questions, his green eyes revealing nothing, including the alarm he now felt. How the hell does he know my name? Someone sold us out. We’re screwed. He had no options, no proverbial cards to play. The only commodity that mattered for their survival was time, and he needed to buy some.

  “We were hoping you could tell us, since you apparently know more than we do,” Logan replied. He looked at Cole and turned back to their inquisitor. “I’m afraid we’re at a loss.”

  “I thought that might be the case. You remember when I told you that what I know about Mr. Matthews didn’t matter?” the man asked.

  “How could I forget? It was only seconds ago,” Logan replied sarcastically.

  “Well, that’s because he’s about to die. We only need one of you, and sacrificing Mr. Matthews to the ring satisfies the thirst for blood these men have. Watching others die in combat provides them a temporary escape from the crushing sense of imprisonment and makes them less”—he paused, searching for the right word—“confrontational, at least with the guards,” the man said icily, and nodded.

  Before he could react, several pairs of hands gripped Logan and held him in place, his arms bent behind his back. More hands grabbed Cole, and he was violently shoved forward toward the ring. The crowd reacted enthusiastically, a low roar of encouragement growing in intensity.

  Cole was spun around and slammed into the ring’s apron, sending a bolt of pain up his back. A gun appeared in the guard’s hand, and he aimed it point-blank at Cole’s head, nodding for him to step into the ring.

  “No need to play rough,” Cole said calmly. “I get the idea.”

  As he hoisted himself up onto the apron, still facing the crowd and Logan, he said, “I hope you have a plan.”

  He stepped between the ropes into the makeshift gladiator ring, and the din of the crowd boiled over into a roar of uncontainable excitement. The main event was about to begin.

  “Yeah. Don’t die,” Logan said calmly, disguising his roiling emotions beneath.

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” Cole said, shook his head, and stood to face his fate
.

  CHAPTER 32

  US Embassy, Khartoum

  “We’ve actually got two locations,” Wendell Sharp said as he hung up his classified voice-over IP telephone and turned to the assembled group, which now included Tim Greco.

  “What does that mean?” John asked.

  “It means that we know where both the ONERING and Logan and Cole are being held, but there’s a problem. They’re not in the same place,” Wendell said.

  “Where are our friends?” John asked.

  “They’re being held at some kind of off-the-books Sudanese prison. We didn’t know it existed until Cole triggered a miniature personnel locator beacon. Due to its size, the device only stays active for one minute every half hour until its battery dies.”

  He grabbed a map from the cabinet behind him and placed it on his desk. Khartoum was figured prominently in the center. He pointed to a bend in the White Nile a little more than a hundred miles south of the city.

  “Here. Langley is sending me a file that has details, satellite imagery, and anything else they have, but it’s limited since we didn’t know about the place. God knows what they do or who they keep there, but it can’t be good,” he said.

  “How do you know?” John asked.

  “Because the prisons that we do know about are completely inhumane, with conditions that make one of our maximum security facilities look like a spa resort,” Amira said, looking at John. “Trust me. I’ve been in them,” she said, recalling flashes from a previous assignment in Uganda.

  “Seriously?” John asked, unable to contain his amazement.

  “John,” she said, pointedly using his first name, amused at his reaction, “have I struck you as someone who would make up something like that?”

  “Of course not,” John said, pausing. “I’ve seen you in action. Sorry. No offense intended.”

  “None taken,” Amira said, and smiled, her blue eyes sparkling at him.