Northern Sun: Book Four in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  The local cops who trained there understood that some of the activities that took place there were military by nature. Those officers were patriots and had no doubt that whatever was taking place up there was important to the country. If they pulled over a suspicious vehicle and the driver said he was on his way to the “shooting school,” they’d let him continue with no questions asked. That was their little contribution to keeping America free.

  The man who ran the facility went by the name of Earl Banks, and he’d been with the CIA for most of his career. He was in his late sixties and what some would have referred to as a “retired” agent if he’d ever retired, but he hadn’t fully. Banks taught classes, recruited instructors, and oversaw a vault of weapons the size of a starter home. If an agency called Banks and wanted to train an operative on any weapons he might encounter during an operation in Serbia, Thailand, or Yemen, Banks could arrange this. No one knew how many weapons were in the vault because no one but Banks had ever been allowed in there.

  As far as building the custom training sets went, Banks hired an old high school buddy, Kirk Fields, to live on the property and act as the construction and maintenance manager. He coordinated the building of any “special requests” and saw to the maintenance of the infrastructure. He used vetted contractors from outside of the area to limit local knowledge of the facility. Every contractor who set foot on the property underwent a background screening and signed a non-disclosure agreement.

  Ricardo had leased similar facilities around the country over the years for meetings and trainings. Even after the terror attacks occurred, demand for Ricardo’s services remained strong and no one wanted to see his operations curtailed by the national disaster. One particular government agency who was especially fond of working with Ricardo leased this facility for his exclusive use. Ricardo still maintained an office in DC despite the state of the nation’s capital. Like a lot of other people in his line of work, he refused to be run off because of a little inconvenience. His offices in Arlington had generator power, armed security, and communications. They still received visitors, though most came by armored vehicles or landed a chopper in the parking lot.

  The West Virginia facility had not been built with the intention they’d ever house an actual prisoner, but they were once contracted to assist with training a team of operators who were tasked with a prisoner rescue in Iraq. The contracting agency provided Kirk Fields with a scale drawing of a compound they wanted to mock up. They needed to practice the raid without word of the operation getting out. It had been Kirk Fields’ idea to build an actual concrete and cinderblock structure instead of a movie-set style mockup.

  “This will give you a capability you couldn’t offer before, Banks,” Kirk had explained. “You already have a chopper pad. Now if the government does a rendition in a foreign country, they can bring the prisoner straight here for interrogation. I’m not implying the government does such things, of course, and I’m definitely not implying that your school would ever take part in such activity, but if we’re going to build this set anyway, why not make it something we can continue to use for years? Why not make it into something that will continue to generate revenue?”

  Banks had been impressed with the idea. He saw the possibilities. “As long as you can build it and stay on schedule, go for it.”

  Kirk had, and the little concrete structure had generated substantial income in the years since it had been built. Sometimes Banks knew who was passing through the facility and other times he didn’t. He’d get a call that some entity needed that portion of his facility “cleared for work.” Kirk or Banks would make a pass through to make sure everything was functional and ready for the visitors. On their way out they’d close and lock the gates so someone taking classes at the facility couldn’t take a wrong turn and walk into something they shouldn’t see.

  After those cryptic calls, a chopper would eventually drop in. Sometimes it would stay, other times it would simply discharge passengers and move on. When the “work” was done, Banks would get a call that things were all clear, then Kirk would go in to make sure everything was locked up and the lights turned off. There was never any sign anyone had been there. There was never any trash, disarray, or any bodily fluids.

  It was this structure, known on the property as “the blockhouse,” where Omar was detained. After Shani and Conor were fed, showered, and changed, a vehicle pulled to the front of the Quonset hut and honked the horn. The two operators hurried out and climbed into the back of the vehicle. It was already dark on the early spring evening and they rode for several minutes over winding gravel roads through a forest of bare hardwoods. They stopped at a level clearing, the headlights sweeping across a stucco structure designed to resemble a mud-brick building one might find in the Middle East

  When they reached their destination, they climbed out of the vehicle, the moonlight revealing high ridges surrounding them, sheltering the area in a bowl of privacy. The driver kept the engine running and didn’t get out. He remained parked for a moment, headlights illuminating the building, while Ricardo spoke into a radio. When he got a response, Ricardo signaled the driver and he pulled away. It was only when he was gone that the door to the blockhouse creaked open and the three of them went inside.

  Conor, Shani, and Ricardo joined three men in a sparse room with walls painted to resemble the interior of a mud-brick building. All of the wiring was surface-mounted, routed through shiny metallic conduit. Harsh fluorescent light fixtures filled the room with a bright light that contrasted sharply against the shadowy nature of the work being done there.

  Ricardo addressed the three men already in the room. They were standing around, sipping coffee from white Styrofoam cups. He performed the sort of vague introductions he was practiced at handing out. “These are the two operators who delivered the package.”

  The men nodded in their directions. This was a group where introductions more commonly addressed a person’s role rather than their name. If you got a name out of someone, it was more than likely a fake one, such as the one used by Bill at the Duluth Air National Guard Base.

  Ricardo addressed Shani and Conor. “I need you to give these folks the same report you gave me earlier. On the right, you have the doctor who will monitor Omar during the interrogation. The gentleman in the center will steer the questioning from this room. The gentleman on the left is the technician who will be working directly with Omar to expedite his responses to our questions.”

  The innocuous description of the last man fooled no one. He was the torturer, a man specially chosen for his ability to perform this kind of work. Over the years, the intelligence community had succeeded in building a clear psychological profile of the type of person able to torture his fellow man and live with what he had done. Routine aptitude and psychological tests administered to folks in the military and intelligence fields were screened to locate folks with that special something that this job required. Those whose tests revealed the basics of sociopathy were often scheduled for more extensive testing. The government needed people with a lack of empathy, who didn’t feel remorse. Basically, they were searching for those borderline psychopaths who could follow orders and stop the application of pain when they were told to do so.

  “Will we be able to observe?” Shani asked.

  Ricardo gestured to a wide flatscreen monitor on the wall. “Indirectly, by means of cameras and microphones placed in the other room.”

  “Shall we get started?” asked the man designated to guide the questioning. He appeared to be in his late forties to early fifties, wearing a turtleneck with a down vest over it. He had an intensity about him that may have been his normal state of being or may instead have been a reaction to the prospect of gaining new intelligence on the terror attacks. “How about you call me Trent for the sake of convenience.”

  Ricardo gestured to the plastic folding table in the center of the room. Everyone with the exception of the doctor took a seat.

  “If you don’t need me for
this part, I’ll go ahead and prepare the detainee,” the doctor stated.

  Trent gave him a nod.

  Ricardo turned on the huge monitor and joined the others at the table. The black screen flashed on, then filled with the image of a stark interrogation chamber. Omar was strapped into a dental chair. He wore a hospital gown but was still hooded. On the monitor, the doctor entered the room. Omar jerked at the sound of the door opening.

  Without a word, the doctor began applying adhesive electrodes to Omar’s body. They could see Omar’s mouth moving as he questioned the doctor’s actions but he got no response. When each electrode was affixed, the doctor would snap a lead onto it and connect the other end to various pieces of monitoring equipment.

  “The good news is that the prisoner is medically stable,” Trent said. “He was slightly dehydrated, which we took care of with a few IVs of fluids. He also has the groin injury, which was packed and stabilized by the medic. Fortunately, the ketamine and the local are nearly out of his system. He’ll probably be getting a little uncomfortable and that’s good. He’ll be more receptive to painful stimulus, which will help us in initiating the conversation. What I need from you two is the same briefing that you provided Ricardo earlier.”

  Shani and Conor spent nearly a half-hour walking Trent through their entire operation, from the point they began observing Mumin’s compound until they returned to the shooting school. Unlike Ricardo, who’d only made minimal notes, Trent scribbled furiously.

  “In case you’re wondering, I’m not documenting your operation,” Trent pointed out. “These are personal notes concerning lines of inquiry stimulated by your observations. All points I want to follow up on with the detainee.”

  “Got it,” Conor replied.

  Shani simply nodded.

  Trent turned to the technician, raising a radio to his lips. “Earpiece functional?”

  The technician covered his ears with his hands. “Affirmative.”

  The technician was a hulking man, corded with thick muscle. Conor felt he had that same aura about him as other interrogators he’d met over the years. In some ways, it was an incredible level of controlled intensity. In others, it was the same vibe you got from the dangerously unstable.

  Trent looked around the table. “Good. Then let’s get started.”

  33

  While Shani, Conor, Ricardo, and Trent watched over the monitor, the technician carefully removed Omar’s hood, folded it neatly, and set it to the side. Omar blinked, his eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescent light of the room. The technician stepped out for a moment, then loudly dragged a table back into the room. He placed a rusty and well-worn toolbox on the table and began extracting tools from it one at a time, placing them on the table. He did it slowly—methodically—giving Omar plenty of time to see what he had to look forward to. A soldering iron, a propane torch, a variety of picks and hooks, pruning shears, a scalpel, and an assortment of bottles with handwritten labels. There was a box of nitrile medical gloves and a pair of heavier black rubber gloves, like a person might wear when working with an extremely caustic substance.

  Not to be left out, the doctor rolled an instrument tray alongside Omar’s chair and filled two syringes with liquid from glass vials. One was yellow, the other green.

  “What are those?” Omar asked.

  The doctor didn’t respond. The technician was the only one designated to address the detainee.

  “One syringe will remove the pain,” the technician explained. “The other enhances it.”

  The technician went back to pulling tools from the toolbox. A cordless drill with a wire brush attached, a curling iron, and a hammer.

  Omar pulled his eyes from the array of instruments on the table and looked at the technician. He spoke clearly. “I will tell you everything I know.”

  The technician grinned. “Oh, I know you will. I’m very good at my job.”

  Omar tried to shake his head but the restraints wouldn’t allow it. His eyes widened and he became frantic. “No. I mean you don’t have to do this! I will tell you what you want to know.”

  The technician stared at Omar, taking his measure. “I don’t believe you.” He reached for the hammer, centered it on Omar’s kneecap, and raised it high above his head.

  “No!” Omar screamed. “I will! I’ll tell you everything!”

  The technician practiced his swing, giving Omar time to anticipate what awaited him, time to imagine the pain. He paused in his motion, studying Omar again. “Are you sure?”

  Omar tried to nod but couldn’t. “I’m sure! I’m sure!”

  The technician placed the hammer back on the table. “I’m going to keep everything handy until I’m certain you’re telling the truth. If you lie, if you hesitate, there will be no stopping me next time. You need to understand that.”

  Omar began to throw up. Because the strap across his forehead prevented him from turning to the side, the vomit sprayed onto his face and rolled down his neck. The doctor released the strap on his head to prevent him from choking.

  “Please replace his hood,” Trent said into his radio. “Do not clean him up.”

  The technician grabbed Omar’s hood and yanked it back over his head, down over his stained face.

  In the observation room, Trent stood up from the table. He slid his radio to Ricardo. “I’m going to address the detainee. If you think of anything relevant, please relay it by radio. I’m wearing an earpiece also.”

  Trent entered the room. Omar flinched at the sound of the door opening but couldn’t see Trent due to his hood.

  “I’m going to be asking you some questions,” Trent said. “The other two folks will remain in the room in case I feel you’re not being truthful with me. If I suspect at any point that you’re holding back, I will leave the room and not return for one hour. During that hour, you will be subjected to all manner of unpleasantness. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Omar replied, his voice cracking.

  “Were you involved in the attack upon the United States?”

  Omar hesitated.

  “Remember what I told you,” Trent said. “If you fail to respond, these fine gentlemen get one hour to render you more compliant.”

  “Yes, I was involved in the attack,” Omar said quickly.

  “In what city?”

  “I was in Chicago.”

  “Did you come from overseas or were you already embedded in America?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, none of the men who were part of the American host cells are still alive. That was always part of the plan. We were to kill the handlers who assisted us before going into hiding.”

  “So everyone with you at Mumin’s camp was involved in the Chicago attack?” Trent asked.

  “No. Men from the Minneapolis, Milwaukee, and Detroit attacks were also there in the house. Some didn’t make it to the compound. We assume they were killed before they could reach it.”

  “Are there other compounds in the United States providing shelter to people who participated in the attacks?”

  Again, Omar hesitated.

  “Hammer!” Trent shouted.

  In the darkness of his hood, Omar heard a hand scrabbling for the hammer on the plastic table. “NO!!” he screamed.

  Trent held up a hand to stop the technician, who already had the hammer in his hand, drawing it back. “Do I have to repeat the question, Omar?”

  “No, I heard you. Yes, there are other encampments.”

  “Do you know the locations of any of these camps?”

  “Each of us had a primary location to go to after our work was done. If that location was compromised, we each had a backup that would allow us to connect with other teams. I am aware of my backup and that’s all.”

  “I’ll need that address.”

  “There were no addresses provided, only coordinates.”

  “Do you remember them?”

  Omar sighed. “They were contained in the background of a photograph in my room at the compo
und. I assume the photograph is burned to ash.”

  Trent turned and looked at the wall-mounted camera with a questioning look.

  Understanding his question, Shani nodded at Ricardo. “As we said, their dwelling was fully-engulfed. Parts of the structure had already collapsed when we were extracted.”

  “Operator confirms,” Ricardo said into his radio. “Their quarters burned to the ground.”

  With a nod of acknowledgment, Trent turned his attention back to Omar. “If you can’t provide the coordinates I need your best guess as to where that location was. Surely you had a rough idea of where to go if Mumin’s camp was compromised?”

  Omar gave only the slightest pause, apparently not wanting to risk the hammer. He hadn’t heard it being returned to the table so he had to assume it might be raised over him somewhere, ready to drop at the slightest provocation. “There were teams working in Oklahoma City, Kansas City, and St. Louis. When they were done they were supposed to head toward a fishing resort near Branson, Missouri. It was on a lake called Table Rock Lake. I only remember the name because I imagined a stone table when I heard it. We were told that a supporter of the cause bought the resort and closed it for remodeling so he could hide us there. He sheltered those teams prior to the mission, and they were supposed to return there when they were done.”

  “What was the point of returning there?”

  Omar didn’t reply.

  “It’s not a difficult question,” Trent said. “Why return to a base instead of fighting to the death? You could certainly have inflicted more damage if you’d kept pushing forward and killing more Americans. Why stop? Were you awaiting extraction? Was everyone promised a ride home?”

  When Omar didn’t answer this second inquiry, Trent nodded to the technician. The hammer was short-handled but had a four-pound head. Omar’s kneecap offered no more resistance than a walnut. The sound of the blow was gut-wrenching. In the observation room, there were grimaces and expressions of disgust. This was something no one wanted to see or hear. No one wanted it in their memory because there was no way to ever forget it.