Gitmo getaway, p.5
Gitmo Getaway, page 5
"That's impressive. Even so, he's a loose cannon, and you know it."
"Yeah, I do. I watch him like a hawk, and if he makes a mistake, he'll be kicked out of the Seals before he has time to recite the Lord's Prayer. But so far, he hasn't made any mistakes. And he saved our assess back in that Colombian prison."
"He almost killed that girl, the whore. Would you have shot him if he'd ignored the stop order?"
He stared at Will. "I asked myself the same question. I'm still working on the answer."
The truck started to slow, and it stopped. They'd reached Cárcel Modelo.
Bryce shrugged. "I reckon you've left it too late."
* * *
The 'Cemetery for the Living' was an appropriate nickname. The cell was designed to accommodate four prisoners. The walls were mostly bare brick, with a few remaining scraps of plaster that still clung to them. There was no furniture, no beds, no chairs, nothing. For a toilet, there was a foul smelling hole in the floor positioned in the corner. Men were crammed inside, sweating, stinking, cursing, and violent. At first.
They were tossed through the iron door, and it closed with a 'clang' that echoed along the corridor. The key turned, and the lock clicked shut. They stared at their new surroundings. There were seventeen men in that stinking pit, and with their arrival the number rose to twenty-one. In a split-second, the prisoners recognized the newcomers as Norte Americanos. They moved toward them, crowding them. The body language was menacing, and their intent obvious, to attack, hurt, brutalize and maim. To rob the four Americans of anything they may have smuggled in, and then to make clear who ran things inside the cell. And who didn't.
It was their first mistake; they hadn't met Navy Seals before. They gave Will Bryce a wide berth because of his formidable size. The man they went after was John-Wesley Ryder, due to his slight stature. That was their second mistake. Nolan, Bryce, and Rose were content to stand by the door and watch Ryder in action.
He moved like a striking black mamba, closing with his opponents, chopping, punching, kicking, and biting, like a tornado whirling around the cell. All the time his voice was calm, murmuring biblical quotes, his justification the injuries he did to his opponents.
"Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels. Praise the Lord, and punish the sinner. Be afraid, for he beareth not the sword in vain. He is a minister of God, a revenger. Wrath upon him that doeth evil."
After a couple of minutes, he stopped. He was breathing harder, and his forehead was damp with sweat. But it was obvious he had plenty in hand, if necessary. The other prisoners stopped, too, and regarded him with awe. Someone muttered, 'El Diablo'. The Devil. A fair comparison, except most men would sooner tangle with the Devil than with John-Wesley Ryder.
He stared back at them, still calm. Then he smiled. "You boys want to repent your sins?"
They stared back at him for several seconds, and then they shifted their gaze. They'd had enough.
Nolan found an empty patch of floor where they could sit, and they waited for someone to come for them. Either it would be from their own people if Jacks came across, or someone from Colombia to extradite them back to the condemned cellblock of Taraza prison. The stench was appalling, unbelievable, urine, feces, stale sweat, and semen. The odor of a vast body of men locked into an insanitary building, where even water was a luxury.
"How long do you reckon we'll have to wait?" Brad asked, to no one in particular.
Nolan had been thinking of nothing else. "You know Jacks, he'll get the cavalry moving, and I'd guess he'll have someone here inside of twenty-four hours. Of course, if the Colombians get here first…"
Rose nodded. "Yeah, they take us back."
"They take us back. It's a race. For now, we need to get some rest. We've been pretty busy since we hit Benitez. Who knows what we’ll have to face next.”
“A firing squad?” Brad suggested. He was serious.
Nolan grinned. “We’re not done for yet. We'll take it in shifts. Will, you and Brad get some shuteye; we'll do one hour and turnabout. That okay?"
They nodded. Will and Brad leaned back against the wall and tried to doze. He could hardly imagine what was in their thoughts and nightmares, assuming they did manage to sleep. Colombia was a whole heap nearer than and the US of A, and they'd want them back. They could only wait and hope.
It was late afternoon before they heard the rattle of the key in the lock and the door creak as it swung open.
"The Norte Americanos, come!"
They looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. This was it, the moment of truth. Who would be waiting for them, a Colombian or an American? Two armed guards led the way, and they followed, with two more soldiers bringing up the rear. They were shown into a room that was almost as squalid and filthy as the cell they'd just left. Except instead of it being filled with prisoners, there was a rough wooden table and a long bench either side. What was more important was who sat behind the table. The first man was a major, wearing the uniform of the Panamanian military. The second man wore civilian clothes, of American cut. He jumped to his feet like an eager puppy and held out his hand.
"Danny Evers, at your service. Pleased to meet you guys."
He gave them a broad smile, and his handshake was firm. Nolan was skeptical. Everything about him, especially the smile, looked fake. The preppy clothes and Ivy League haircut screamed CIA deskman. A bureaucrat.
"We're pleased you came, Evers. I'm Nolan. These men are Bryce, Rose, and Ryder. What's the deal?"
"We've managed to reach an agreement with the Panamanian government. You won't be extradited to Colombia. Instead, we're taking you into custody."
"Custody! But we're serving…"
Evers interrupted, and the ersatz smile faded. "Forget it, bud." His voice had become harsh after the cheery greeting, his manner had iced over.
I was right he first time. A bureaucrat, and that means he sees us as a nuisance, keeping him from drinks around the pool after a couple of hours at his desk.
"Effective immediate, you're discharged from the US Navy. You'll serve out the sentence of the Colombian court in a military prison because of your previous good service, but it'll be in the US. I know our prisons are bad, but I gather the jails in Colombia are a lot worse. Think yourselves lucky. The execution order has been waived."
Nolan looked at him for a few moments, hating him. Hating his fresh-faced, 'gee shucks' smile, his fussy, preppy mannerisms, his clean clothes while they were still dressed in prison rags. He was slim and short, like a long distance runner. Good looking, stylish haircut, and a neat mustache, probably to make himself look older, maybe more authoritative. He had a kind of naive enthusiasm, as if he'd decided to make the world a better place. They say you shouldn't shoot the messenger. He was sorely tempted with the shiny spook.
"Think yourselves lucky," he said again.
"The fuck you say," Brad snapped, "If that's what you call lucky, I'd hate to think what bad luck would look like."
Evers fixed him with a hard stare. "I told you; it's the best deal we could get, and the way things are right now with our War on Drugs, it could have been worse. As for the alternative, it would have been a Colombian prison. And a firing squad." He picked up his papers and gathered them in a neat stack, "I have to leave now and make arrangements for your transfer to US custody. There's a ship moving through the canal right now, headed for San Diego. They'll take you back."
Nolan stared at him. He'd been in plenty of situations that were bad, but this one was different. His own people were about to imprison them, for what? Obeying orders, that was all, and to satisfy the delicate political situation between the US and Colombia.
"So that's it? We're being thrown to the dogs?"
Evers met his gaze. "I'm sorry, I really am. There's nothing more I can do. I'm just the messenger boy."
John-Wesley stared at him, and Nolan smiled inwardly. Evers was another man who should be careful he never came within a hundred miles of the Texan killer.
The CIA man looked at them all and smiled. "I guess that's it then. Good luck, guys." He looked at the Panamanian officer. "Major?"
The officer knocked on the door, and it opened. They left the room, the door clanged shut, and for several minutes they stared at each other. Finally, Will spoke.
"So we're fucked. Well and truly reamed by our own people."
His voice was bitter and angry. Maybe he was another man the spook would do well to avoid.
"Not quite." They looked at Nolan, "We haven't heard from Admiral Jacks. He won't take this lying down, not in a million years. Let's wait and see before we throw in the towel."
Brad looked dubious. "I dunno, Chief. Jacks carries a lot of clout, but I don't think..."
"I didn't mean he'd just try and talk to them. He'll do more, much more. Blackmail, calling in favors, and when that fails, he's liable to get a squad together and come and get us out himself. Don't underestimate Jacks."
"But if he can't do anything," Bryce pressed him, "If he comes up against a brick wall?"
This time, it was Ryder who answered, "In that case, there's gonna be some killing. They ain't gonna hold us. Not if they want to live."
Nolan stared at the sallow Texan.
He means it, no question. If Jacks doesn't come across, God help the people who did this to us.
Chapter Three
The air in the Situation Room was so thick with tension it was a struggle to breathe. Four-star General Benjamin Walker had taken over the meeting when the President had to leave. As he walked out the door, Walker thought back to the conversation with President Anderson.
"The intel we got from that prisoner Daoud Khan, you're certain it's accurate?"
"As sure as we can be, yes, Sir."
"So we could be facing another 9/11. Or worse."
"It's possible, yes."
"It's incredible, a total fuck up. I don't care what it takes. If you have to declare war on Cuba, I want those prisoners back in custody. At all costs, is that clear, General?"
"Yes, Mr. President. Crystal clear."
"Good. See to it."
"Yes, Sir."
The order had been clear, but the rest of it was anything but. The jurisdiction was hopelessly tangled. With different countries involved, it would take an army of diplomats and lawyers to unravel everything.
He stared at the screens arrayed in front of him on the wall. He was in the middle of a crisis conference call, with video links from Guantanamo and the US Embassies in Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and Mexico.
They were the countries to which the escapees may head, countries where it was easy to land a boat, which they'd have to use to get off the island of Cuba. Countries from where it would be a simple overland journey to reach the US and then disappear. To re-emerge at their target, wherever that was. All they had was New York City, but where? As well as the Embassy links, there was a screen connected to the Delta Force command at Fort Bragg, and another to the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, home of a major command of Navy Seals; also the home of Seal Team Bravo and their commander, Rear Admiral Drew Jacks.
They were talking quietly among themselves, and he called for quiet.
"First order of business, does anyone have any idea where these characters are right now?"
Shaftoe scowled. The Commandant of Gitmo was incandescent with rage after the escape, which would undoubtedly cost him his career.
"They're on Cuba, no question. We've looked at the satellite overheads, IR pictures taken on a pass shortly after they left. The bastards landed at a quiet beach a few miles north of here on the Cuban mainland. They used some kind of semi-submersible craft, very hard to detect, but when they came ashore, they showed a heat signature."
"Who helped them?" General Walker interrupted, "What are we up against here?"
"We're still looking into that," Shaftoe replied. He sounded demoralized, and rightly so. It was a catastrophe for his command.
"I have an idea, General," the man from Panama responded. The nameplate in front of him read, 'Danny Evers, CIA, Panama'.
"Go ahead, Mr. Evers."
"The only people around here who have that capability are the Colombian drug barons. They're known to use semi-submersibles for putting their product ashore. The craft are ideal for short-range clandestine insertions, and we know they can carry a limited number of people. They hang onto the side of the hull, with most of their bodies underwater, and they're almost invisible to radar."
Walker looked skeptical. "The Colombians? It doesn't make sense. Why would they help Al Qaeda operatives get out of Guantanamo just to make an attack on the United States?"
"They could be working together," Evers replied, "We've hit them pretty hard lately, both the drug trade and Al Qaeda. If they want to hit us back, it makes perfect sense for them to form an alliance. The cartels have the money and the resources, and Al Qaeda has the men to carry out suicide attacks."
"Jesus." Walker sighed, "If what you say is true, we're in the shit. Deep shit. In which case, the question is how do we deal with it? How do we hunt these people down and kill them?" No one offered an answer, "It looks to me as if we need to send in a Special Forces team." He glanced at Jacks' screen, "I guess that's your department, Admiral."
Jacks nodded. "That's what they pay us for."
The Admiral was unusually terse. General Walker knew of the situation with his Seal Team and was sympathetic. But he also knew the pressure they were under from the Colombian government. They wanted blood, in return for the men who were killed. They'd threatened to call off all efforts to stop Colombian drug shipments to the US, which would have meant a torrent of cocaine going into the States, almost enough to cripple the country. The Seals had been thrown to the dogs; there was no question. But what else could they have done? He nodded to Jacks.
"What are our options? I assume we have to send a Special Forces unit into Cuba to track them, maybe more than one?"
Brooks smiled, but his eyes were cold. "Cuba, General? Assuming they're still there and haven't reached the mainland, it would take a lot of time to fix it all up. We'd need the cooperation of the Cubans to send in US military personnel, and that isn't going to happen overnight."
Walker nodded. Normally, there'd be no question of asking the Cuban government; they'd just go in. But he couldn't blame Jacks for playing cagey, not after the Colombian business. He looked at the screen for Delta Force.
"Colonel Moore, I want you to put a unit of Deltas to readiness. They'll be..." He stopped, as he saw Moore shaking his head. "What is it?"
"Two things, General." Moore stared back at him, his face hard and weathered. He looked like he'd been hewn from solid oak, and his skull was almost bald, with a buzz cut that would have looked short on a marine. "First, as Admiral Jacks said, we'd need to get the okay from the Cubans. Second, this is an amphibious operation, which makes it a Seal mission. It's not what we train for."
So that's the way it’s going to be. Jacks forewarned them.
He managed a tight smile. "I guess if I contacted MARSOC, or the FMF, they'd say the same."
The US Marine Corps Special Operations Command, MARSOC, and the Fleet Marine Force, existed to carry out clandestine missions. Usually.
Colonel Moore shrugged. "You'd have to ask them, General. But it wouldn't surprise me."
Another voice intruded, "General Walker."
He looked at Danny Evers, the CIA man from Panama.
"You have something to contribute, son?"
"Not exactly, no. It's just that the kind of operation you're suggesting is a political minefield. CIA has been working to get on good relations with these countries for years. You can't just send in Special Forces to trample across their borders. It could create an international incident and set us back a decade. Apart from other considerations, we'd break enough laws to tie up the international courts for years. We have to wait until they cross into our territory, General. When they get here, we have more than enough resources to locate them once they're on US soil."
He scowled at the spook. "You trained as a lawyer, son? Before you joined CIA?"
Evers looked surprised. "Yes, as a matter of fact I did, Sir. How did you know?"
"I guessed." He paused and glanced around the room, and at the screens. "The President's order is simple. These men are to be located and stopped at all costs, up to and including all-out war. Do I make myself clear?" Heads nodded, "Good. I need suggestions. How can we do this? I'd prefer it didn't result in war with our neighbors, so let's look at what's on offer before we consider parking our tanks on Castro's front lawn."
The man sitting opposite him coughed to get his attention, the senior Air Force liaison. "Sir, we could put up every surveillance aircraft and UAV we have in the area."
"Any guarantees, Colonel?"
"No, Sir, but it has a good chance of..."
"Anyone else?"
The CIA Chief of Station, Mexico, spoke, "We need to get these countries to cooperate. With their help, we can..."
"Can you guarantee we can do that before these people reach US soil?"
"No, of course not. These things take time, General."
"Which is one commodity we don't have. It has to be now. Right now. We need someone to go in, find them, and eliminate them. Anyone suggest a unit we can send after these bastards, before they hit us with another 9/11?"
There was a silence. Finally, he sighed, and nodded at Jacks.
I'd hate to play poker with the Admiral.
"Okay, Drew, what do you suggest?
Jacks waited, and the seconds ticked by as the pressure built. His eyes were unblinking, his expression neutral, his emotions carefully hidden.
"We have a Seal fireteam almost on site, a team that is one of the most experienced in the world; men who will stop at nothing to carry out their mission, no matter what. The toughest most feared killers in our arsenal. All you need is to say the word."
