Gitmo getaway, p.4
Gitmo Getaway, page 4
"Hurry, get inside and hide the body. I'll give the signal. I pray to the Blessed Virgin those men are ready to come out. If the soldiers get wind of this, I doubt we'll even make it back out to sea."
The shooter clambered through the hole in the fence and began dragging the body behind a nearby sand dune. The other Colombian took a small flashlight from his pouch and pressed the button twice. Then he waited. Diego joined him, looking around nervously.
"I think we should go back. I heard something. It could be the Yankees."
"Give it a few seconds. It may be them."
He heard his friend muttering curses and complaining, but he ignored him. They saw the dark shadows moving silently toward them, a line of men crawling through the scrub and sand; men wearing distinctive orange prison uniforms. The first man reached them and smiled.
"Allah be praised, you have come. My name is Omar Nasriri, and these are my fellow fighters."
José shook the hand and nodded.
"Everything is ready, but be quick. We had to kill a guard, and when he fails to report in, they'll search the camp for him."
The man nodded. "Lead the way. You have the vessel?"
"We have everything. And you can thank Señor Montez. I suspect his bank balance is bigger than God's."
The Arab scowled at the comment but let it go. These men had come to free them, so he could give them some latitude. For now.
If the blasphemy continues, I’ll kill them.
José led the way across the sand down to the shore. Diego was right behind him, and then the line of escapees stumbling across the sand. They stared at the semi-submersible lying in the shallows.
"You men have scuba equipment. How will we breathe underwater?"
"You won't be going underwater; we will travel only partially submerged. It will take us less than an hour to reach Tortuguilla. There are people waiting there to take you on the next stage of the journey, and a change of clothes." He grinned, "Those orange jumpsuits are something of a giveaway. Don't worry, it is all worked out. My boss has been careful to make sure the arrangements are foolproof."
Nasriri nodded. "That is good to know. You're not Muslims?"
"Fuck no! We're Catholics, not camel jockeys. This is Cuba, not Sandland."
"I understand."
I understand more than you know. When this part of the operation is complete, I will kill him for his blasphemy. Infidels like this one do not deserve to live.
"Omar! We have a problem."
He turned to look at Abu Bakr, his second-in-command. Abu had helped the men keep their faith strong during times when they'd wavered. Some had considered taking American offers of privileges in return for information; even the offer of an early release. Like Omar, Abu had a simple philosophy, strict adherence to Islamic principles, or death. During the past twelve months, they'd killed two traitors by means of faked suicides. The rest of the fighters had stayed loyal, though Omar wasn't sure if it was from faith or fear. Did it matter?
"Abu, what is it? We have to leave."
"Daoud Khan, he's missing."
"Shit! Have you searched for him?"
"Of course, but there's no sign of him."
"I don't like to leave him behind, but we don't have a choice. Do you think...?"
"No!" Bakr shook his head emphatically, "Daoud would never betray us. If he is missing, it is for a good reason. Maybe he lost his way and blundered into a guard, who knows? But his faith is strong. Perhaps it is the will of Allah he stays behind."
"Perhaps. Very well, we go without him. They'll punish him severely when they learn of our escape."
Bakr shrugged. "As long as he stays silent. And he will."
He nodded and looked at the two Colombians. "Señores, we are ready."
"About fucking time," Diego snarled, "Get into the water, and take hold of the grab rails on the submersible. Stay low in the water, and keep your heads down."
Omar heard him muttering, "Fucking no good camel jockeys, don't know their head from their ass."
Another man to kill.
* * *
Nolan reflected on the difference between Colombian jails and Panamanian jails, or the lack of a difference. It was a close call.
They’d relaxed after they crossed the border and drove straight to Panama City. Brad persuaded them to visit a bar to celebrate their new won freedom. They were sitting in the bar enjoying ice-cold beers, the glasses dripping with condensation in the heat. All conversation in the room ceased, and they became aware of a commotion outside. He went to take a look and came back.
"Do you guys believe in déjà vu?" They looked mystified, "It's happening again. We're surrounded by cops and paramilitaries. I'd guess about forty of them, a re-run of Colombia. They know we're here, no question."
"What the fuck…"
Before Will could finish the sentence, a loudhailer blared outside in the street.
"Americanos, you are surrounded. I have a warrant for your arrest and extradition to Colombia."
"Don't try anything stupid. I'll go talk to them," Nolan advised them, "We're outgunned. Ditch the weapons; we'll have to go along with this until our people can pull us out. We haven't broken any laws in Panama, so it shouldn't be a problem. Will, there's a phone on the bar. Before we go out there, use it to call Admiral Jacks. He'll get us out. Make it fast. I won't be able to delay them too long. Call me when you're done."
“Copy that.”
Admiral Jacks, based at Coronado Base, San Diego, California, was the commander of their branch of the Seals. When they entered Colombia, they had in their possession encrypted communications gear to contact their controller. Everything had been taken when they were captured, and they were forced to fall back on old-fashioned means; like the telephone on the bar.
He walked to the door and put his hands in the air.
"Don't shoot. I'm unarmed."
"Come out with your hands up!"
He stepped outside into the sunlight. Facing him was an officer standing in the rear of a Humvee, with a loudhailer in his hand. Next to him was a trooper who manned a machine gun. Unless he was mistaken, Nolan identified it as an American-made M-60. Belts of ammunition hung down from the breech, the shiny brass cartridge cases glinting in the sun.
American vehicle, American machine gun. Shit.
The M-60 was aimed directly at his guts, and he was careful to move very slowly.
"Lie down, flat on the ground," the officer, a captain, grated. His voice was harsh and tense. Nolan had little doubt he would give the order to shoot without a second thought. But it was too soon to capitulate, not until Will was done.
"What is this?" he shouted, "We haven't done anything wrong. We're American citizens. Is there some law against enjoying a cold beer?"
The officer stared at him for a moment. Despite the heat, he wore full uniform, complete with peaked cap, rows of medal ribbons, and mirrored shades to hide his eyes. He had a pistol in a button flap holster but clearly didn't feel the need to draw it.
Why should he? He’s backed up by forty men, and all heavily armed. And then there's the machine gun.
"I told you to lie down on the ground, American. Do we have to shoot you?"
Nolan lowered his arms very slowly and held them out wide, palms upward, the universal gesture that said, 'Look at me, I'm unarmed, and not a threat to you'.
"Yeah, I'll do that. But first, you gotta tell me what this is all about."
The Panamanian officer sighed. "We have a warrant from the Colombians."
"A warrant? What kind of a warrant?"
"An extradition warrant, I already told you."
"Let me see it?"
"See what?"
"The warrant. Surely I have a legal entitlement to view the warrant? How do I know it exists?"
The man sighed again. "Very well." He shouted across to a young trooper. "Corporal Morales, hand me the warrant."
The man looked puzzled. "Warrant? But Señor Capitano, it is in your desk at the barracks! You…"
"Enough! Bring it here. We'll wait. Rapido!"
The corporal ran to a military truck parked nearby, spoke to the driver, and then climbed aboard. The vehicle drove away in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes.
"This will take some time. I told you to lie flat on the ground."
Nolan looked at the captain. Even though the mirrored shades hid his eyes, it was obvious he was pissed. He'd made the officer look stupid in front of his men, and he'd want to recover a degree of his macho Latino pride. The other paramilitaries had caught his mood of anger and held their weapons in that alert posture that precedes the start of the shooting.
Touchy bunch of bastards. I need to be careful.
He kept his hands wide and clear of his body. "You're absolutely right. As soon as I see that warrant, I'll instruct my friends to come out, and we'll all lie on the ground exactly as you ordered."
Play along with them, whatever they want. Every minute we gain for us is a minute less for them. Provided Admiral Jacks can intervene.
* * *
Daoud Khan was in more pain than he'd believed possible. It was one of those accidents that shouldn't have happened, but it did. He'd stepped in a tiny hole made by a small animal and tripped, fracturing his ankle. He compounded the problem by banging his head against a rock as he fell. When he came to, he was in the camp infirmary, chained to the cot by his wrists and ankles. He had no idea of the extent of his injuries.
He would remain silent. He knew the grim-faced soldiers who loomed over him wanted to know one thing. How they'd got away, and where were they going. No way would he give them anything, not ever. He was a soldier of Allah and would die before he ratted on his fellow fighters. A stab of pain almost forced him to cry out. He admitted even the soldiers of Allah may sometimes need medical treatment.
He resisted the urge to scream in agony and tried to keep his voice steady, although he could feel the sweat running down his face and pooling inside his clothing. They would have noticed it, too. They were clever.
"I need treatment, painkillers. Please, I must have something for the pain."
He recognized the man standing nearest to him, wearing camo uniform, Colonel Robert E. 'Bobby' Shaftoe, the officer in charge of Gitmo. He was a Marine, tall, tough, and erect, with buzz cut graying hair. He was also a fitness fanatic who kept his unusual command running like a Swiss watch. Right now, the Swiss watch had broken. And he only had one man within reach who he could blame for his woes. Daoud Khan.
"Sure, Mr. Khan. You can have all the painkillers you need. Just like your people would give one of our men painkilling drugs if you captured him. Isn't that right, son?"
He understood the irony but ignored it. "I need them now, please!"
Shaftoe smiled. "Yeah, I'll send someone to the dispensary right this moment. It's no problem. You're going to tell us how you got out and where your friends are heading. You wouldn't expect us to give freebie drugs to a man who withheld information about an enemy?"
"I have nothing to say."
His voice was a hoarse whisper, and he was doing everything possible to rein in the terror and agony gripping his body. Colonel Shaftoe nodded, his face calm.
"In that case, son, there's nothing I can do for you. Not to ease the pain." He looked at another man, a medic in a white coat. "Doc, go ahead and inject the drug?"
The physician, a Marine captain, raised his eyebrows. "You sure, Colonel? He’s had a hard time. A dose of this stuff, well, I wouldn't like to be on the receiving end. Not in his condition."
"You're not on the receiving end, Captain. He is. And that's an order, so do it."
He loaded a syringe from a small glass phial and stood over Khan. He swabbed an area on his upper left arm with alcohol and injected the fluid. Then he looked at the Colonel.
"About ten minutes, Sir. It could be less, but I warn you, when it gets into his system, he's liable to go crazy."
Shaftoe nodded. Daoud Khan regarded them with alarm. "What is it, what have you put into my body?"
"Something to help, that's all."
Both men looked at their watches. Waiting. The substance was new, a development of Mescaline. At first, it made the subject drowsy, but when the chemical started to break down in the body, the victim would feel as if wild animals were ripping their body apart with razor sharp claws. The Captain, a qualified medical doctor who specialized in interrogation techniques, had tried it on himself as part of his training. But only once, he'd sworn never again. He still had nightmares.
After the injection the patient relaxed on the cot, assuming he had nothing to fear. After all, Americans had a reputation for being soft and weak. He was wrong. His eyes flicked open as the drug started to take effect, and his body arched in terrible agony, like nothing he'd ever known. His screams echoed around the building, a tortured voice from hell calling for forgiveness. Five minutes later, he started to talk.
"Please, no more. I will tell you. Stop the pain. The target is in New York."
"New York City?"
"Yes, yes. I think so, yes."
"Where in New York City?"
"They never told me."
A minute later, Shaftoe was on the phone to the Pentagon. Another fifteen minutes elapsed before Daoud Khan's heart suddenly stopped and refused to restart, no matter what they tried. The target location died with him.
* * *
The legal row stretched for two hours while they sweated and argued in the Panamanian sunshine. Eventually, the truck returned, and the corporal rushed up to his captain, clutching a faxed sheet of paper.
"The warrant, Capitano."
As the man snatched it from him, Nolan heard a call from inside the bar.
"We're good to come out," Will Bryce shouted.
It meant he'd talked to Admiral Jacks. Provided the Admiral could persuade the Panamanians to hand them over to the Embassy, or one of the few US outposts that remained in the canal zone, they should be okay. Otherwise, they'd be back in the shit.
He glanced through the warrant and was able to understand the relevant parts, which were all in Spanish. It would need a lawyer to make real sense of it, but it looked official. Besides, when you're faced with overwhelming force, legality was moot. The men came slowly out of the bar and lay face down on the street. The Captain climbed out of the Humvee and walked over to them. Nolan knew what was going to happen, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. The macho bastard had to demonstrate to his men how hard he was.
The heavy boot slammed into his kidneys, and he felt an agonizing stab of pain. The second kick slammed into his head. The Captain spat on him and cursed.
"Hijo de puta! Next time I give you an order, you obey, instantly! You're not in America now. This is Panama. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
He grunted in satisfaction and barked a stream of orders to his men. They grabbed the Seals, pulled them to their feet, and hustled them into the truck. At the rear, two troopers guarded them, both men holding tiny submachine guns, Ingram MAC 10s.
More American-made hardware. Shit!
The truck started to move, and he called to one of the guards.
"Señor, is this barracks nearby? How long will it take to get there?"
They needed time, time for Admiral Jacks to go through the channels and secure their release. The man smiled, and it wasn't just his blackened teeth that made the smile less than pretty.
"Barracks? Who said anything about a barracks? They ordered us to take you to Cárcel Modelo in Panama City. Perhaps you have heard of it?" He chuckled, "In Panama, they call it the 'Cemetery for the Living'. We're arranging for your transfer back to Colombia, but of course that depends on whether you survive Cárcel Modelo. Most don't."
He laughed aloud, and the other man joined in. He looked at Nolan.
"Does that answer your question, American?"
He didn't reply. Cárcel Modelo translated to 'Model Jail'. The building was constructed during the 1920s. It rapidly acquired a reputation for violence and overcrowding that made it one of the most notorious institutions in South America. Will looked at him, his expression stony. Brad said nothing, just sat in silent contemplation. John-Wesley's lips were moving as he regarded the two Panamanians with a calm stare. It was well they didn't know the Texan.
Nolan had seen the far-away look before. Ryder would be murmuring a silent prayer, probably something bloodcurdling from the Old Testament book of Leviticus, and planning how he would kill those two soldiers.
"Will."
The big Seal glanced at him. "I'm still here."
"We have to figure a way to get out of this."
"Again? We just did that, back in Colombia, and look where it got us. Out of the shit and into the manure."
"Yeah. What did Jacks say?"
"It's going to be difficult, but he knows of a guy in Panama City. Jacks said he'd get him to talk to the right people, and see what he can do."
"CIA?"
Bryce shrugged. "I guess. He could be Eagle Scouts for all I care, as long as he gets us out."
"Let's hope he gets to us before they send us back."
"At least we finished off Rafael Benitez."
He nodded, and they both looked at John-Wesley as his voice became louder.
"Yea, you must destroy them totally. Make no treaty with them, and show them no mercy."
It was loud enough for the guards to hear. "Shut up, or we’ll shut you up," one of them snarled, gesturing to his Mac 10.
Ryder glanced at him. If he'd known Ryder better, he'd have been wise to start running.
"What're you going to do about him?" Bryce asked, "He's as crazy as a coot. How did he make it into the Seals?"
"He breezed through 'Hell Week' like it was a Sunday afternoon stroll. His scores were off the scale.”
Will raised his eyebrows and looked impressed. The greatest challenge of BUD/S training was during week four of the first phase. Wannabee Seals were in constant motion; cold, hungry, and wet. Medical personnel stood ready for emergencies and to monitor the exhausted trainees. Sleep was rare, maybe three to four hours at the end of the week. Many men gave up, exhausted, beaten by the punishing regime.
