by Don Mann
Crocker went over to join them and asked, “What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
“There used to be an underground storage chamber around here,” Jabril answered, pushing back strands of gray hair. “A German company helped us build it back in the nineties.”
Mancini and Akil retrieved an underground locating device, a shovel, and other tools from the back of the SUV. The locating device was a handheld gadget about the size of a toaster. Within minutes it started buzzing.
Akil removed his shirt and started digging. Under three feet of sand he struck a concrete door.
“That’s it,” Jabril said.
Akil cut through the lock with an acetylene torch.
A dozen concrete steps led down to a room that stank of mildew and rotting garlic. Mancini, holding a flashlight and wearing a white plastic hazmat suit and hood, went down first. He scurried back seconds later and removed his hood.
“What’s the matter?” Crocker asked.
“There are snakes down there. Lots of ’em. Give me the shovel. Davis, you hold the light.”
They’d brought only two suits, so Crocker descended nine steps and crouched down to look. It was a long, narrow room, approximately ten feet wide and sixty feet long. The side of the room to Crocker’s left was filled with racks of artillery shells and torpedoes, and the floor was covered with snakes.
The chamber looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years.
After they’d scared away the snakes by waving their arms and stomping on the floor, they managed to remove one of the artillery shells, which tested positive for sulfur chloride—a main ingredient of mustard gas.
Jabril said, “This whole area needs to be sealed off immediately. This material could be terribly dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands.”
“The mustard gas?”
“Even if it has decomposed, the substances it creates can be extremely toxic.”
Lasher used his satellite phone to notify NATO command, which said it was dispatching a team to secure the base.
“Tell them to get here fast.”
They stood in the afternoon sun and waited. Akil, whose mind always seemed fixated on women, asked Jabril if it was true that Gaddafi had surrounded himself with an entourage of sexy female bodyguards.
“He called them his Amazons and had sex with all of them.”
“How many of them were there?” Akil asked.
“Four or five hundred.”
Akil smiled. “Nice.”
“A group of them traveled with him everywhere, dressed in tight-fitting camouflage uniforms and high heels, nail polish, mascara. He also had a staff of Ukrainian nurses who stayed by his side all the time. His favorite was a girl named Galyna, a beautiful blonde, like a Playboy Playmate.”
Akil said, “I’d love to meet her.”
“She’s an old woman now.”
“What do you mean by old?”
“Fifty.”
Ritchie said, “As long as she’s still breathing, Akil doesn’t care.”
Jabril told them a story of traveling with the Libyan leader to Paris. Since Gaddafi didn’t trust elevators and didn’t like staying in hotels, he had ended up pitching his Bedouin tent on a farm outside the city.
Coincidentally, the soldiers who arrived to secure the base were French. There were a dozen of them, with German shepherds. They were businesslike and unfriendly. As they unloaded sandbags and rolls of razor wire from the back of a truck, Akil said, “I think we interrupted their nap.”
The French captain, who spoke English, got in his face. “I think you should show a little more respect.”
“Sorry, monsieur, I meant no offense.”
“He’s a wiseass,” Crocker offered, aware that NATO soldiers might be especially sensitive after the heat they had taken over the Sheraton attack. “He can’t help himself.”
The French captain grinned and, leaning toward Crocker, asked, “How much longer before this country turns into Iraq?”
It was a question that Crocker had been quietly asking himself for the past two days, and it was underscored by more gunshots and screams from the refugee camp.
“Brutal savages,” the French captain said with a sneer.
On the way back to the SUV, Crocker nodded in the direction of the camp and said to Lasher, “I think we should take a look.”
Sunshine gleamed off his Oakleys as Lasher shook his head. “Bad idea. Besides, we’re not allowed in there without permission.”
Lasher’s skin had turned bright red in the afternoon sun.
“Says who?”
“The NATO commander.”
“It sounds like they’re shooting people. We’d better find out what’s going on before it gets ugly.”
Remembering how NATO had been caught off guard at the start of the genocide in Rwanda, Crocker ordered the driver to proceed a couple of hundred yards farther east to the camp gate. Several dozen women were crowded in the shade of the concrete arches, waiting to get inside. Most were carrying food and clothing; some were accompanied by young children.
When they saw Crocker and his men getting out of the vehicle, they surrounded them and started pleading. Jabril, Lasher, and the driver elected to stay inside.
“What do they want?” Crocker asked Akil.
“They’re hoping for news about husbands and sons they believe are inside the camp.”
“It only houses men?”
“Apparently.”
“And it’s a refugee camp?”
“That’s what they call it.”
“Strange, don’t you think?”
“Very.”
A trio of buzzards circled overhead.
The dozen guards at the gate wore a motley collection of military and civilian clothes and ranged in age from teenagers to men in their forties. Some of the younger ones were cocky and menacing, shouting at the women and waving automatic weapons.
Another gunshot went off inside, and the women screamed together.
Crocker turned to Akil and said, “Tell the guards we’re UN inspectors and we have permission to enter.”
Initially the guards didn’t want to let them in, but Akil threatened to call the prime minister and have them arrested.
“No problem…no problem,” said an eager young man with a big set of brilliant white teeth and a red baseball cap worn backward, stepping forward with what looked like a Russian submachine gun—a PP-91 KEDR. “We want no trouble. We are Thwar.”
“Thwar is the local word for militia,” Akil explained.
“Who left them in charge of this camp?”
Akil asked the young man in Arabic, then translated for Crocker. “He says they’re in charge of policing the whole area.”
“What about the national police?”
“All bad men here,” the young man said in broken English as he led them down a hallway that stank of human waste. Dirty water dripped from the ceiling.
The five unarmed Americans entered a large concrete room. The windows had been shot out, which created a big open space that overlooked the sea. But the breeze blowing in was foul with the smell of excrement and rot.
“Look,” Ritchie said, pointing down to a multitude of red, blue, green, and yellow plastic tarps. They had been used to create makeshift tents on the land below that led to the beach.
The rectangular space was surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire.
It was a dramatic juxtaposition—the calm turquoise water of the Mediterranean and the human degradation.
“What’s that saying, hell in a very small place?” Akil asked. “I think we’ve found it.”
“Revolting.”
Mancini: “Reminds me of a scene from the movie Saw.”
Crocker said, “Follow me.”
There seemed to be a stark contrast in skin color between the lighter men running the camp and the darker ones living there.
Crocker turned to the smil
ing young militiaman who strode next to him and asked, “Approximately how many people are housed here?”
He held up two fingers.
“Two hundred?”
“Two thousand.”
“All men?”
“Bad men.”
A table with one leg missing stood on a wooden platform on the left side of the room. Three men sat behind it wearing sunglasses, one of whom was enormously fat, with a brown shirt and dark goatee. They seemed to be presiding.
Beyond the table rose an aluminum fence, and behind it stood several dozen refugees watching with grim faces.
“What’s going on here?” Crocker asked.
“These men…mostly criminals. Killers. Gaddafi soldiers.”
“I thought this was a refugee camp.”
The young man shrugged.
“Who gave you authority to run this camp?”
No answer.
About twenty gaunt prisoners sat on the floor in front of the table with their hands and ankles bound by TUFF-TIES. All had pieces of bright green cloth clenched in their teeth. Some had soiled themselves. Some were bleeding, others had festering wounds.
“Some of these men need medical attention,” Crocker said. “Has the Red Cross been in here?”
Their escort shrugged.
“Do the men get a hearing? Is there a judicial process?”
The young escort frowned as if to say I don’t understand.
A guard jabbed one of the prisoners in the chest with the barrel of his AK-47 and shouted.
Earlier in his life, before he’d gone to BUD/S and become a SEAL, Crocker had served briefly as a prison guard at the Adult Correctional Institute in Rhode Island. He had witnessed degradation, but nothing on this scale.
“What’s he saying?” Crocker asked.
Akil: “He said this man is a former soldier who was captured in Misrata.”
The prisoners watching from behind the fence moaned and shifted anxiously. When the prisoner who was being accused got a chance to speak, his voice was barely audible.
Akil whispered, “He says he’s a cigarette vendor who was forced to join the army at the end of the war.”
Their escort said, “Don’t believe him. They all liars.”
“How can you be sure?”
He pointed to his nose. “We know.”
As Crocker and his team watched, the three men behind the table whispered to one another. The fat one in the middle extended his arm and pointed his thumb to the floor.
The guard raised the AK-47 and clubbed the prisoner in the head. Blood and teeth shot out of his mouth.
“Hey!” Crocker shouted. “Stop that immediately!”
Another guard pulled the prisoner up by the back of his collar and dragged him to the right side of the room, where a stripped metal frame had been attached to the wall. The concrete floor around the frame was spotted with blood.
Crocker turned to the militiaman and said, “Tell them to stop! You know what stop means?”
“Yes.” The young militiaman shouted, “Doapiful!”
Everyone in the room turned toward the Americans. The big man at the table stood and starting screaming.
Crocker said, “Tell these men that this isn’t the correct way to treat prisoners!”
“What?” the young militiaman asked, surprised.
“Tell them to stop, immediately. And drop their weapons, before I put them all under arrest!”
The young militiaman relayed this. The men behind the table laughed as if it were a big joke. One of them said something to the guard with the AK-47, who started to chain the prisoner to the frame. Another guard stepped forward with a five-foot length of metal pipe.
As the soldier drew back the pipe, Crocker grabbed the PP-91 KEDR from their escort and pointed it at the men sitting behind the table.
“Stop!” he shouted. “I mean it. I’m not fucking around!”
He shot a volley of bullets over their heads, into the ceiling. Guards and prisoners ducked and covered their heads.
“Tell your men to drop their weapons!”
Several of the guards complied. Others dropped to the floor. One of the men behind the table raised his weapon. Crocker turned and shot him in the hand, causing the rifle to fall to the floor.
The SEALs quickly retrieved the discarded weapons and established a fire circle. Within seconds they had gained the upper hand.
Guards and prisoners looked at one another, nervous and confused.
Davis shouted, “Boss! Now what?”
“Anyone who points a gun at you or makes an aggressive move, shoot.”
“Check.”
“Follow my lead.”
Crocker was making it up as he went along. He took aim at the men behind the table. The fat man smiled and held up his arms.
“You think this is funny, you big piece of shit?”
Crocker was about to pull the trigger when the big man shouted something and the last two guards lowered their AKs, which Ritchie and Mancini quickly wrestled away. A murmur of excitement rose from the prisoners behind the fence.
Akil whispered, “Careful, boss, or we’ll incite a riot.”
Crocker grabbed their escort by the shoulder and said, “You tell these men that what they’re doing is illegal. There’s something called the Geneva Conventions.”
“Geneva…what?”
“It states that all captured soldiers have to be treated with respect. If any of them are accused of crimes, they have the right to stand trial. But not like this!”
The militiaman translated. The men behind the table spoke all at once.
Crocker cut them off. “STOP! Tell them to listen. If they don’t do as I say, if they harm another prisoner, I’ll call in NATO troops. There’s a battalion of them right next door. All I have to do is give the signal and they’ll come in here weapons blazing, arrest all of you, and throw you in the same compound with the prisoners. You understand me?”
The leaders behind the table seemed to comprehend this time.
“No more beatings. No more abuse!”
“Yes. Yes.”
Akil whispered, “Maybe we should get out now, while we still have the upper hand.”
Crocker: “Alright. Slowly move toward the exit.”
As they did, the prisoners behind the fence started to shout.
Crocker said, “What the fuck are they screaming about now?”
Akil: “They say that there are more rooms downstairs where they torture the prisoners.”
“I want to see them.”
“Bad idea, boss.”
“Then tell these assholes that all this shit has to stop immediately. There are NATO troops next door. More inspectors will be here tomorrow. They need to clean this place up, now, before they’re all arrested!”
After Akil delivered the message, the fat man started shouting at the top of his lungs.
“He says that this is their country and they’ll do what they want.”
“Tell him I’m placing him and his two colleagues under arrest!”
“He wants you to leave.”
“Tell them to keep their hands on their heads and their mouths shut!”
When the young man who escorted them tried to grab his PP-91 back from Crocker, Crocker clocked him in the face. The man went down, blood spurting from his lip. Another guard made a quick move for a pistol in his belt. Mancini fired the AK he was holding and hit the guard in the leg.
Crocker released a long salvo from the PP-91 that flew over the guards’ heads. All the soldiers and prisoners dropped to the floor, except for the three men behind the table, who stood with their hands on their heads.
Davis: “Boss, this is getting ugly.”
Akil: “Real fucking nasty.”
Ritchie: “Just the way I like it.”
Crocker fired again. As the smoke cleared, he said, “Grab those three bastards. We’re taking them with us. They’re under arrest.”
Ritchie and Davis moved quickly and seized
the three men roughly.
Akil: “Now what?”
“Back out slowly. Shoot anyone who raises their head.”
They exited in formation, with the three prisoners in the middle, past the startled guards at the gate, who lowered their weapons. As they scrambled into the SUV, Mancini shouted, “Start the engine, fast!”
The driver complied, spun the Suburban in a half circle, and flew down the road.
Jabril: “We heard shooting.”
Akil: “That was fucking insane.”
Lasher pointed to the three prisoners Davis and Mancini were tying up. “Who are they?”
Crocker: “The men handing out the punishment. I arrested them for war crimes.”
Lasher: “On what authority?”
Crocker: “My authority.”
Ritchie: “Is anyone really in charge of this shithole country?”
Akil: “Boss, you did the right thing.”
Crocker turned to Lasher and said, “Tell Remington that they’re torturing and executing people over there.”
Lasher: “I warned you not to go in.”
Crocker: “Call Remington!”
Lasher: “You’re a madman.”
Ritchie: “Fuck you, Lasher.”
Crocker: “Alright, everyone calm down.”
They rode back in silence, grumbling to themselves, a dozen thoughts swirling in Crocker’s head. He decided he wanted to complete their mission and get out of Libya as soon as possible. The place was starting to remind him of Somalia in the early nineties, when lawlessness prevailed as warlords running teenage gangs vied for power. He’d been in Mogadishu back in October 1993 when nineteen U.S. Special Forces soldiers lost their lives. The bloody rescue was re-created in the movie Black Hawk Down.
He’d also served in Iraq after the fall of Saddam and seen American soldiers and civilians caught in the middle of the Sunni-Shiite violence there. A good friend of his had been overwhelmed by a gang of Iraqis, stripped naked, hung from a bridge, tortured, and killed.
Peacekeeping missions could be ugly and difficult. He much preferred missions that targeted a specific enemy.
But who was the enemy here? Nobody seemed to know.
After dropping off the prisoners at NATO headquarters and his men at the guesthouse, Crocker continued with Lasher to the embassy. Both men were upset.
