by Scott McEwen
He and his CIA copilot were flying a battered C-130 full of top-secret files out of the US Airbase at Bien Hoa bound for the Philippines. They were over the jungle when the aircraft suffered a catastrophic engine failure. To this day, Pope still suspected sabotage, but there would never be any way to know for sure. They went down in the jungle, and the plane was torn to pieces. The copilot was killed, and Pope was left with a broken leg. The plane caught fire, and he barely managed to drag himself clear before it exploded.
There had been no time for a Mayday, and the plane had no transponder, so Pope believed he would either eventually die of exposure there in the jungle or be found and murdered by the Viet Cong operating in that area. When the sun came up the following day, he made himself a crutch from a dead tree limb and hobbled around the burned-out fuselage in a halfhearted attempt to find anything that might be useful to his survival.
All he found was a single diplomatic pouch full of classified documents that had flown from the cargo bay as the fuselage was torn apart. Having nothing better to do, he sat down against a tree and went through the pouch. Within the documents were the names of dozens of American CIA operatives and officers, both in Vietnam and back in the States, who had spent the Vietnam War growing rich off of Air America’s illicit drug trafficking operations.
An A-Team of American Green Berets found him the next day, but they were ambushed by the Viet Cong en route to the extraction zone. When the firefight was over, only Pope and a single Green Beret noncom remained alive. The Green Beret’s name was Master Sergeant Guy Shannon. He carried Pope on his back the last click to the extraction zone, where they were finally lifted from the ground by an Iroquois Huey in a cloud of purple smoke.
Over the next few years, Pope had used the information contained in those classified files to encourage loyal patrons among the CIA’s upper echelon, and over time, these patrons helped him collect the names of vulnerable people working in branches of government outside the CIA as well. By the time his hair finally began to turn gray, almost no one in DC had the courage to refuse him a favor, their natural assumption being that if he was asking them for something, he must have information on them as well.
Pope understood better than anyone that information—not money or guns—was the true source of power in the emerging world, and that information was to be guarded at all costs and never shared . . . except with a trusted and worthy few.
33
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
Steelyard stalked into a room at the back of the hangar where Gil, Trigg, Forogh, and Lt. Commander Perez stood in a semicircle around Naeem, who now sat strapped to a steel armchair with a black bag over his head. The chief dropped his smoldering cigar onto the concrete and stepped on it with the heel of his boot.
“We have to do this fast,” he announced. “The second the Head Shed realizes who this prick is, they’ll send the MPs to take him away from us. Trigg, get me a box of garbage bags and fistful of nylon zip ties. Commander, you probably shouldn’t be here for this.”
Perez took a self-conscious glance at Gil before straightening his posture and putting out his chest. “It’s all right, Chief. I’ll stay.”
“You’re sure, sir? What I’m about to do is against the Geneva Conventions. Getting caught taking part in this type of interrogation could end your career.”
The very faintest of smiles crossed Perez’s face. “I know how much that would break all of your hearts, Chief . . . but I’ll stay.”
“Very well.” Steelyard gave Gil a nod, signaling for him to remove the black bag from Naeem’s head.
Naeem sat looking up at them, a defiant sneer on his bruised face. “Fuck you!” he said, still lisping because of the missing teeth.
Steelyard looked at Forogh. “Ask him where they took Sandra.”
Speaking in Pashto, Forogh asked Naeem where the American pilot had been taken.
Naeem smirked. “Fuck you.”
Long having recognized Naeem’s particular brand of contempt, Forogh said to him, “You’re Wahhabi, yes?”
Naeem stared back, his eyes glassing over with loathing.
Forogh looked at the others and shook his head. “He’s not going to tell us. He’s a Wahhabi fundamentalist. This is his chance to prove himself to Allah.”
“Does he speak English?” Perez asked.
Forogh shook his head again. “Only enough to say, ‘fuck you.’ ”
Steelyard snatched one of the black garbage bags from Trigg, saying, “That’s all I needed to hear.” He slipped the bag over Naeem’s head, smoothed the plastic over his face to remove the excess air, and looped a zip tie around the prisoner’s neck, jerking it tight. “Tell him he’d better start talking pretty fast.”
Forogh told Naeem that if he didn’t reveal where Sandra had been taken, the Americans would let him suffocate.
“Fuck you!” Naeem gasped, already beginning to struggle for air. Each time he tried to draw a breath, the plastic would suck into his mouth and he would blow it back out in a panicked gasp. He shook his head around in a furious attempt to locate a pocket of air within the bag, but to no avail. Within a few seconds, he began to panic, screaming and jerking wildly at the restraints in an impotent attempt to free himself.
Gil gripped the back of the chair so Naeem could not rock it over onto the floor and attempt to tear the bag against the concrete.
“Tell them where the woman is.” Forogh urged him. “Tell them now, or you’re going to die!”
A few moments later, Naeem lapsed into complete panic, like a man drowning in a pool, jerking madly around within his restricted scope of movement, arms and legs immobilized, repeatedly sucking the plastic in and out of his mouth, over and over again with increasing desperation. He began to grind his teeth against the plastic in a frantic, last-ditch effort to put a hole in it, but Steelyard boxed his ears between the rock-hard palms of his hands, dazing the shit out of him. Naeem swooned deliriously around in the chair. At last, his head lolled off to the side, and his body convulsed for a few horrible moments before growing still.
Steelyard tore a hole in the bag and jerked it down over Naeem’s head so the unconscious, blue-complexioned man could begin to breathe again.
Perez looked a little green around the gills himself. “How many times does this usually take?” he asked nervously.
Steelyard met Gil’s gaze. “This tough fucker might be able to fight for longer than we’ve got.”
Forogh stood watching them uncomfortably. This was his first such interrogation, and he was beginning to have misgivings.
“Can we move him someplace else?” Gil said.
“No,” Perez said. “No place else is secure.”
Naeem was beginning to come around.
Gil turned to Trigg. “Run and find Doc! Get him to give you a bottle of albumin and a hundred-cc syringe.”
Trigg gave the box of trash bags to Perez and ducked out of the room.
“Any chance we can reason with the MPs when they get here?” Gil ventured.
Steelyard took another garbage bag from the box in Perez’s hand. “Nope. Hardcore MPs don’t break the rules for Special Forces people. They’re too busy resenting the shit out of us.”
Gil took smelling salts from his pocket and cracked it under Naeem’s nose. “Wake up, fucker.”
The Taliban came to almost instantly, jerking his head away from the burning aroma of the smelling salts.
“Where is the American woman?” Forogh quickly demanded.
“Fuck you!” Naeem swore, spitting on Forogh’s tunic.
Gil viciously boxed Naeem’s ears from behind, causing him to cry out with pain as Steelyard slipped the second bag over his head, repeating the same process as before, only this time jerking the zip tie around his neck even tighter, cutting off the blood flow to the brain and causing intense physical discomfort.
Naeem flailed around in the chair even more hysterically than before, gasping horribly as he began to str
angle. He blacked out in half the time, and Steelyard used a pair of diagonal cutters to snip the nylon tie-down from his neck, restoring the blood flow to his brain and pulling the plastic bag from his head.
Naeem’s face was distorted into a puffy, purple effigy of itself.
“Bring his ass back around fast,” Steelyard said. “We’ll have another go.”
Naeem came awake to the smelling salts once more and began struggling to get free even before the bag was placed back over his head.
“Tell them where the woman is!” Forogh pleaded. “Tell them now and this will stop!”
Naeem gnashed his teeth, calling them the filthiest names he could think of, wailing that they were all going to hell. “Allah will punish you all!” he shrieked, nearly berserk with rage and shame. “He will punish you all for this!”
Forogh looked uneasily at Steelyard. “He’s beginning to crack.”
A Humvee squealed to a halt on the far side of the hangar. Trigg came through the door in that same second. “It’s the fucking MPs!”
Gil grabbed the syringe and the bottle of albumin, looking at Perez. “Commander, you have to stall them—two minutes.”
Perez began to protest.
“Damnit, sir, will you just act like a SEAL for once in your goddamn life!”
Perez glared at him and fled the room.
“That wasn’t cool,” Trigg muttered, worried that Perez might tell the MPs to arrest them all.
Gil spoke to Forogh as he held up the bottle of blood expander and stuck the needle into it to fill the big plastic syringe. “Tell him this is swine serum—made from pig blood. Medics use it as a blood expander to keep wounded men from bleeding to death.”
Forogh hesitated, started to stammer.
“Translate what I said, goddamnit!”
Forogh did as he was ordered, and Naeem’s eyes filled with genuine fear for the first time.
Steelyard slipped the bag back over his head, and Gil grabbed his arm, jamming the needle into a bulging vein.
Naeem jerked his head wildly around, screaming in vain for Forogh to help him.
“Tell him his ass is going straight to hell,” Gil ordered. “No Muslim could ever get into heaven with swine blood in his veins.”
Forogh was a Muslim himself, and the notion of what Gil was about to do shook him on a very fundamental level. “Gil, you can’t . . . it’s not—”
“Fucking tell him!” Gil shouted. “Tell him now!”
“Brother!” Forogh said in a panic. “Please! Tell this crazy infidel where the woman is. He’s going to make you filthy in the eyes of Allah—you’ll spend eternity in hell!”
“Stop him!” Naeem shrieked. “For the love of Allah, I will tell him!” He was shaking with genuine terror now, sure that he could already feel the foul swine serum burning in his veins. “I will tell him—I will tell him! Just make him stop!”
“Where is she?” Gil bellowed. “I’m injecting now.”
“Brother, he’s pressing the plunger!”
“Bazarak—she’s in Bazarak in the Valley of Panjshir! You have to stop him!”
Forogh translated, spitting out the words as rapidly as he could.
“Is he telling the truth?” Steelyard demanded. “Do you believe him?”
Forogh stood adamantly nodding his head. “Yes! Yes, I believe him. He’s terrified—he’s only seconds away from meeting the devil!”
Steelyard gave Gil a wink just as the door flew open and six towering Army MPs came barging into the room.
“We have orders from General Couture to take this prisoner into custody,” announced a hulking first sergeant who looked as though he’d been carved from black oak.
Gil depressed the plunger, and Naeem let out an unholy shriek of terror. “He’s all yours, First Sergeant.”
The MPs shouldered their way past and unbuckled the straps securing Naeem to the chair. Naeem went limp in their arms, blubbering and refusing to bear his own weight as he began to babble away with despondent prayers for forgiveness.
The first sergeant looked at Steelyard and shook his head in disappointment. “I really wish you hadn’t put me in this position, Master Chief. I gotta report this.”
Steelyard took a Cohiba from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth. “This piece of shit sodomized one of our female Night Stalkers, and we were trying to find out where they’re holding her . . . but you do what you have to, First Sergeant.”
A crease formed in the first sergeant’s brow. “You’re telling me they’ve got one of our female GIs out there somewhere?”
Steelyard took a moment to strike a match. “That’s still classified at the moment.” He paused long enough to light the cigar. “But yes, First Sergeant, that’s what I’m telling you.”
The first sergeant told his men to put Naeem in the Humvee. He watched them carry him out the door, then stood thinking things over. “I’ll leave the chair and the needle out of my report,” he decided. “But don’t ever put me in this situation again.” With that, he turned and left.
Perez came back in right after.
Gil and Steelyard stood glaring at him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with indignation. “I had them convinced they were at the wrong hangar until you assholes started screaming back here.”
Forogh shoved Trigg out of the way and made for the door.
Gil grabbed his jacket. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”
Forogh wheeled him, eyes full of fire. “You’re a liar! You said you wouldn’t inject him if he told you where she was. You lied to me—and now his soul goes to torment unnecessarily. You’re a bastard liar, and I won’t work with you anymore.”
Gil let go of the jacket and exchanged smiles with Steelyard. “You wanna tell him, Chief, or should I?”
Forogh stood looking back and forth between them. “Tell me what?”
Steelyard took the cigar from his teeth. “Son, the only thing in that bottle was saline solution. There’s no such thing as albumin made from swine blood. But we needed you to believe that’s what it was so that rapist son of a bitch would believe it, too. Otherwise, it might not have worked. Desperate moments sometimes require desperate measures.”
Forogh went slack in the jaw. “It was a trick?”
Gil chuckled. “And don’t be mad at me. I voted to shove a pork chop up the fucker’s ass, but the chief here, he didn’t think that would have the same effect.”
34
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
Crosswhite and the four wounded SEALs were all rushed into surgery moments after the returning Black Hawks had set down on the tarmac. No one from the top brass had been there waiting to ask them any questions, and as far as anyone else on the airbase still knew, Bank Heist had been a sanctioned operation.
By now, night had fallen, and still no one from the SOG brass had arrived to arrest Crosswhite or even to debrief him. He sat propped up in his hospital bed still feeling loopy from the anesthetic and the pain medication he’d been given. The bullet wound to his leg wasn’t particularly serious, but an Air Force spinal surgeon had been called in to remove the bullet from his back near his spine. After the hour-long procedure, the surgeon had gravely informed him that he’d come a mere five millimeters from being paralyzed.
He looked over at Gil and Steelyard, who’d come to sit with him after having first visited their wounded shipmates. “Know what?” he said. “I’m going to recommend Doc for the DSC. He saved Blane’s life. If our medics in Somalia had been trained to do a cut-down like that in the field, Jamie Smith probably would have survived that fucking battle.” Corporal Jamie Smith was the US Army Ranger who had bled to death on October 3 back in 1993 during the infamous Black Hawk Down mission to capture Mohammed Aidid in the city of Mogadishu. Smith had been shot too high in the upper thigh for either a tourniquet or direct pressure to stop the bleeding from his severed femoral artery.
Gil rolled his eyes. “That’ll go over like a
fart in church.”
“Fuck ’em.”
Steelyard waited for Crosswhite’s nurse to finish taking his vitals. When she was gone, he said, “We’ll be lucky to avoid landing in the brig after this fucked-up mission, you idiot. And you want to start making recommendations for the Distinguished fucking Service Cross?”
Crosswhite winked at Gil. “Would you remind your mentor there that he’s addressing a superior officer?”
“I’m pretty sure he knows,” Gil said grimly, the bullet wound to his ass still very sore.
“What’d Captain Metcalf have to say about that rapist prick we brought back?” Crosswhite suddenly wanted to know. “He hasn’t even dropped by to see how I’m doing.”
Steelyard grimaced, signaling for Gil to push the door closed. “Captain Metcalf knew nothing about the mission—that was the agreement. The onus was on us to pull it off . . . and we failed.”
Crosswhite sat almost straight up in the bed, his many IV lines pulling against the steel post where his IV bags were hung, threatening to topple it over. “Hey, Chief . . . we didn’t fail at a goddamn thing. She wasn’t fucking there!”
Gil sat forward to put his hand on Crosswhite’s leg. “Dan, that’s not what he meant. Relax.”
“That’s the morphine talking,” Steelyard muttered, crossing his arms. “Listen, Dan, you’re right. I misspoke. We took our shot, and the fuckers moved the target. That’s just how the cookie crumbled this time. The silver lining is that you brought that rapist son of a bitch back with you—that and none of our people got killed. This way we may at least stand a chance of avoiding the brig.”
The door suddenly opened and in strolled General William J. Couture, wearing a starched ACU with four black stars down the front. He was flanked by Captain Metcalf of the United States Navy and his aide-de-camp, a tall, hard-nosed looking army major with a Ranger tab and a .45 caliber Glock pistol suspended beneath each arm.
