Authors: Richard Herman
Rahimi sat down beside Bryant and opened a folder. In quick order she handed him a series of photos and explained the situation. Finally she spread out the map that Cunningham had seen and summarized their planning. “We haven’t got much time before they disperse the POWs,” she said. “I calculate two months at the most before they start trading POWs as a sort of currency among the power factions in Iran—”
Mado interruped: “Please stick to facts.”
Rahimi nodded, wondering what he wanted—a photo interpreter or an analyst. She did not much like Mado and gave him low marks for his performance with Cunningham. Stansell had shown much more gumption in standing up to the crusty general. She had pegged Mado as just another of the sharks swimming in the Pentagon’s tank.
“So far,” Stansell said, disturbed by the general’s abrupt disagreement with Dewa, “we’re still in the planning stages and I’m trying to get F-15s to CAP the C-130s.” He quickly told about their meeting with Cunningham.
Bryant studied the map. “Cunningham said three things screw up these types of missions?”
“He named two,” Stansell said. “Poor intelligence and training.”
“He didn’t say what the third was,” Mado added.
“Poor maintenance,” Rahimi told them, hiding what she was thinking—challenge me on this one, General, and I’m gone.
Mado drummed his fingers on the desk.
“That was one of the lessons of Operation Eagle Claw,” she explained, ready to go at it with the general. “When we tried to rescue the hostages out of the American Embassy in Tehran the
helicopters
weren’t up to it and the mission died on a desert airstrip.”
He nodded. “Agreed. We need a training site. Suggestions?”
“It’s got to be desert and mountainous,” Bryant said. “Nellis is our best bet. Lots of training areas and activity to hide behind.” He stood up and walked to the U.S. map hanging on the wall. “Most of the area north of Las Vegas is deserted and we can avoid observation.” His eyes narrowed as he visualized the terrain. “And we can blend in with Red Flag.”
“Let’s make it happen then,” Mado said. “Relocate to Nellis as soon as you can. I’ll stay here and bring the C-130s and Delta Force on line. Also, we need a code name. Suggestions?”
“Task Force Alpha,” Stansell said.
“Good enough. Okay, get to work.”
As they filed out of the office, Mado gestured for Stansell to come back. “Please close the door,” he said when Bryant and Rahimi had left. “Colonel, I want an all-Air Force intelligence team on this one.
No
civilians
.”
Meaning Dewa Rahimi, who looked good and talked smart. Stansell had already chosen up sides.
*
Kermanshah, Iran
Mokhtari leaned back in his chair and watched the guards rip off the woman’s fatigues. For him it was merely part of the routine he would use to break the woman. He saw himself as a professional.
“You look ridiculous,” Mokhtari said in heavily accented, formal English. The woman was still standing at attention, wearing only her combat boots and the canvas bag over her head. He nodded at the guards, and one picked up a two-foot length of rubber hose while the other grabbed the top of the canvas bag. When Mokhtari nodded again, the coarse bag was yanked free.
The woman staggered, then came back to attention. Her eyes blinked against the harsh light, blue eyes turned crystal hard as she focused on the man sitting behind a desk in front of her.
“Don’t you salute superior officers?”
“I never salute without my hat on.”
A guard swung the rubber hose across her shoulder blades. She would have fallen to the floor except for the tug at her hair that pulled her upright.
Weakly, she raised her left hand in a salute. Mokhtari nodded again and the guard swung the hose, knocking her to the floor.
“Salute correctly.”
Slowly she stood and saluted with her right hand. Mokhtari did not see the rigidly extended middle finger of her left hand against her left thigh.
“I am Colonel Vahid Mokhtari, the commandant of this prison. You are a prisoner under my command. You will conduct yourself accordingly.” It was a rehearsed speech given many times to the other Americans in the prison. “You will answer all questions I ask.”
“Mary Lynn Hauser, captain, United States Air Force, serial number five-five-two dash five—”
Mokhtari nodded and the guard swung the hose, not hard enough to knock her down.
“…Date of birth: twenty November, nineteen-sixty.”
“Do you really think you can stand on the formalities of the Geneva Convention, Miss Hauser?”
“Iran has signed the Geneva Convention and I’m a captain in the military. I assume I’m a POW and not a hostage.” She could hardly believe she was standing naked in front of three men and arguing, giving a speech…
“If your country is stupid enough to use women in its Air Force and put them in a war, then you must expect to be treated as any other prisoner when you are captured. We do not play children’s games, Captain Hauser. What were your duties as a radar controller and what type equipment did you use?”
“Mary Lynn Hauser, captain, United States…” She couldn’t believe the frontal, unsophisticated approach of this man.
Mokhtari nodded and the guard laid the rubber hose across her back, much harder than before. She staggered and grabbed at the edge of the desk.
“You’re terrorists—”
“Again.”
The guard swung the hose, knocking her to the floor.
“Again.”
She rolled over to take the blow on her back. The two guards pulled her to her feet. She tried to raise her right arm in a salute but the pain stopped her.
If Mokhtari had been left on his own he would have ordered the guards to drag her out and hang her from a hook in the basement ceiling with piano wire. He would have enjoyed watching her jerk and twitch as she strangled, wearing only boots and the canvas bag over her head. But his orders did not allow him that personal pleasure, and there was the matter of his past…
“Take her to a holding cell.”
One guard scooped up her clothes and the other jammed the canvas bag over her head before leading her into the hall toward the two cells in the administration building’s basement. Out of sight of Mokhtari, they treated her less harshly.
“This one has courage,” one of them said in Farsi.
“Don’t let Mokhtari hear you say that,” the other cautioned.
The cell door was open and they guided Mary Hauser to the narrow bunk and sat her down. The one carrying her clothes dropped them in her lap. “When the door opens be sure the bag is over your head,” he said in English. “The first rule for prisoners is silence.” They left, bolting the door behind them and turning out the light.
*
Mary Hauser lifted the bag off her head and threw it down. She moved her anus back and forth and reached over her shoulders, trying to massage her back. Well, she thought, at least I’m a better actor than I thought. She waited, hoping her eyes would adjust, but it was too dark to make out anything. Including the rat that scurried across her feet.
Chapter 7: D Minus 28
Holloman Afb, New Mexico
The FBI agent shook his head and handed Byers’ written statement to the Air Force OSI agent. “He’s almost illiterate,” he said.
“We don’t hire ’em for their literary ability,” the agent replied. “He’s the best crew chief in the Wing and tough as they come. I’ll get his story on tape and have a stenographer transcribe it.”
“Cussing and all, I suppose.”
“You should read his account of how he and his partner Sergeant Timothy Wehr escaped from Ras Assanya. A masterpiece, sort of. Top kicks take notes to improve their vocabulary.” The OSI agent shook his head, doubting if the FBI could appreciate the value of Staff Sergeant Raymond Alvin Byers. “I’ll call him in and try to get it down this morning. The Pentagon’s sending two officers out to interview him. Special project. They should be here this afternoon.”
*
Byers pulled at the necktie of his Class A uniform, trying to get comfortable. Frustrated with the poor-fitting uniform, he stood up and unbuttoned the coat and sat back down, not caring who saw him while he waited in the Office of Special Investigations. He jumped back to his feet when the two officers walked in.
“Sarge, how are you!” Thunder Bryant stuck out his big hand.
Byers wiped his hand on his uniform but for, once it was clean. “Captain Bryant, the last time I saw you, you were taxiing my jet out of the bunker at Ras Assanya. It’s damn good to see you. What happened to 512? She was a good bird.” He glanced then at the man who had walked in behind Bryant, and recognized him. “Colonel Stansell. Well, I’ll be…look a hell of a lot better than last time.”
Bryant said, “Five-twelve is at March Air Force Base with the National Guard. They’re taking good care of her. How’s your partner, Wehr?”
“Ah, you know Timmy, always screwing off. He’s launching our bird today and if I don’t get out of this monkey suit and get back on the line he’ll screw it up for sure.”
“Let’s talk,” Stansell said. “We heard what happened to you the other night. You sure they were Arabs?”
“I’m sure.” Byers hunched forward and clasped his big hands between his knees. “Heard enough Aye-rab lingo at Ras Assanya. They was Aye-rabs.” He recounted what happened the night at the pizza tavern. “Once I got my Jeep Baby Doll hid down in a gully I doubled back onto the road. Got close enough to hear ’em jabbering away and get their license number. They tried to follow Baby Doll and got stuck in the sand. Should’ve shot the fuckers.”
“Just as well you didn’t,” Stansell said. “We think the FBI got them when they tried to cross the border at El Paso.”
“Good deal.” Byers stood up, ready to leave, anxious to get back on his jet.
“Sarge, this is important,” Bryant said, “could they have been after you for a reason you haven’t told anyone about?”
Byers looked at the door, wanting to leave, “Shee-it, no. Not ’less one was a jealous husband.” He ran now for his Jeep, ripping off his coat and tie as he went.
“What do you think?” Stansell asked Bryant.
“Have to read the complete report. But I think we’ve got the meat of it.”
“Not good,” Stansell said. “Too many unknowns. Are they looking at me? I don’t think the mission’s been compromised, only a handful of people know about it. But can we take the chance?”
Bryant nodded. He realized the colonel’s concern and wanted to break the connection between the rescue mission and what had happened to Byers. But Stansell knew the facts and read them the same way he did. Just like Waters, Bryant decided, you don’t run away from the hard decisions.
“Okay,” Stansell said, his decision made, “you go on to Nellis, I’m going to get us an Eagle driver.”
*
Langley, Virginia
Allen J. Camm liked his office as Deputy Director of Intelligence for the CIA. The room was large, comfortable, well lit and tastefully furnished. Unlike his last office this one had windows. Camm had been a Baron, one of the area division chiefs buried safely inside the bureaucracy of the CIA. He had exercised almost feudal control over his division, the Middle East, and developed a reputation as a corner. Now he had reached a position that had real power—much more than he had ever imagined.
The door swung open and two men entered unannounced. The first one in held a finger to his lips and handed him a card—a routine security sweep for bugs. The second man ran a wand over the walls, looking for magnetic abnormalities. The first man then connected a delicately calibrated ohmmeter to Camm’s phone con-sole and made a dialing motion. Camm was to test the phone. Camm, who had been through the routine many times, picked up the phone and punched the button to Susan Fisher’s office.
“Susan, please bring in the file you’re working on, say in about five minutes.” He hung up. The two men continued to sweep the office. They gave him a thumbs-up signal and left, Susan Fisher passing them as she came in.
She handed Camm the file on the Islamic Jihadi agents the FBI had arrested in El Paso.
Camm smiled at the young woman and shook his head. “My God, this reads like Keystone cops. They haven’t got a clue about how to kidnap someone.”
“They got their training on the streets of Beirut,” Fisher said. “What works there doesn’t work here. But they’re tough, the FBI hasn’t been able to crack them.”
“Is the Bureau onto the agents here?”
“No. We’ve also backed off and lost contact with the Jihadis. The FBI would be upset if they discovered us working their turf. We could drop them a few more hints, claim we monitored a phone call in Beirut.”
“No,” Camm told her. “Make them work for it. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I want the Agency to interrogate the bastards. By the way, have we turned the woman they’re using?”
“Yes. We told her she could expect a quick deportation to Iran if she didn’t cooperate. Also, to get her chador cleaned. I’m not sure which did the trick.”
He didn’t smile. “We can use the woman to flush out the agents.” A plan was taking shape. “Monitor Colonel Stansell’s movements. The next time he comes to Washington have the woman tell the Jihadis. We’ll pick the Jihadis up when they try to get Stansell.”
Fisher nodded. “We’ve never dropped Stansell.”
Camm was pleased with his case officer. She understood what was needed and did it. Both of them knew that if the FBI found the CIA operating inside the U.S. they would be in deep shit. The National Security Act of 1947 that established the CIA had been very specific: the CIA would have no role inside the U.S. or the power to arrest. Those two functions were the FBI’s. And the FBI had a simple remedy when they found the CIA infringing on their territory—publicity—the one thing no intelligence agency could stand.
But that would be nothing compared to what Congress would do if they learned about “Deep Furrow.” In the late 1970s, feeling hamstrung by Congressional oversight, the Director of the CIA had looked for ways to bypass the Congressional watchdogs, and found his solution in transferring agents from the closely watched Directorate of Operations to the Directorate of Intelligence. Agency money and personnel mushroomed in the Directorate of Intelligence, all accounted for in other departments. The DDI, the Deputy Director of Intelligence, had barely started moving into the covert operations business when the President fired the Director of the CIA, and the new head shook the headquarters building at Langley from top to bottom. Out of that Camm found himself the new Deputy Director of Intelligence.