by Steve Richer
“It could also be a case of the military just being the military,” he said with a shrug. “Hold on.”
He stopped in his tracks and headed for a drinking fountain where he took a satisfying sip. Pentagon coffee left much to be desired.
Meanwhile, Jasmine fished some instant hand sanitizer from her purse/briefcase and began to wash her hands. With 26,000 employees there had to be some nasty germs lurking about. She absentmindedly looked around and noticed an Army PFC walking toward them.
The young private was barely out of his teens and his shaved head still had echoes of basic training. He looked away when his eyes met Jasmine’s.
Gervasi finished drinking and they walked away once more. As they turned a corner, Jasmine glanced behind her and she saw the young soldier was still following, again avoiding her eyes at the last moment.
“I think we’re being followed,” she whispered.
“There are 26,000 people working in the Pentagon, Jasmine. I’m sure some of them have to walk around the building for their duties.”
“But this one keeps looking at me.”
“Well, no offense but you’re kinda hot.”
She shot him an annoyed look. She didn’t need that sort of shit from him.
She reined in her feelings and whispered, “I don’t like this.”
“Okay, let’s check things out.”
They rounded another corner and Gervasi dragged her with him as they flattened themselves against the wall. Moments later, the young enlisted man showed up and halted. He frowned his bewilderment, having obviously lost his subjects.
“Looking for us, Private?” Gervasi said, an edge in his voice, as he stepped forward.
The soldier was startled and turned toward the federal agents. He hesitated a moment and went to them. The nervousness was all over his face.
“I was asked to give you this.”
He handed Jasmine a folded piece of paper and hurried away.
“Meet me tonight,” she read. “At 9 P.M. Lincoln Memorial.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule but I think I can fit in the appointment.”
She barely heard Gervasi as she kept staring at the note. A nighttime meeting signified she was on the brink of learning a dark secret.
Chapter 25
The air was chilly, barely reaching into the mid 50s. At least there was no threat of rain. The sky was clear and the moon was bright. It would have been the perfect conditions for a meeting but Jasmine and Gervasi hadn’t come to Washington for such nighttime escapades and were thus underdressed.
She was especially assaulted by harsh memories of cold New Jersey winters. Her collar was turned up, her hands were buried in her pockets, and she was still shivering. She wondered how her partner could be so calm. Men had a higher tolerance level for cold, sure, but there was no way they could be that comfortable.
Suits me for being early to this damn meeting, she silently grumbled.
She tried thinking of something pleasant and failed. On the way over they had driven across the Tidal Basin. She had thought she would at least enjoy the sight of those thousands of cherry blossoms heralding springtime.
No such luck. Blooming season was already over and all she saw were a few pink petals on the ground waiting to be swept away by the wind.
Jasmine and Gervasi were at the top of the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, a stone’s throw away from the big man himself. They were the only ones visiting the Greek Doric temple this evening and the Mall itself was basically deserted save for a few tourists down by the Reflecting Pool.
“You think this could be a setup?”
Gervasi shrugged in reply. It was a perfect place for an ambush. If they had indeed stumbled across some type of nefarious plot, the conspirators could very well want them silenced. Dead. At one glance, he could think of 11 places where a sniper could be hiding.
“Look alive,” he said as he noticed someone walking toward the monument.
Jasmine took her hand out of her pockets, unbuttoned her jacket, and positioned her right hand on the butt of her pistol. You had to trust people, sure, but that didn’t mean you didn’t have to be prepared.
The person, a man, approached briskly and climbed the steps. There was something odd about him in the way he moved. He was limping.
Eventually close enough, he stopped and allowed the federal agents to see his face. It was Corporal Bruhl.
“Thanks for coming,” he greeted.
“You’re Lieutenant Colonel Anderson’s aide,” Jasmine said, removing her hand from her gun.
“You always set up meetings in shady places like these?” Gervasi asked. “You must be quite popular with the ladies.”
“Sorry about that, I just don’t like crowds very much and this place is on my way home from my gym.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
“I heard you talking about Staff Sergeant McSweeney earlier today. I prepared the file, I know there wasn’t much information in it.”
“Do you know McSweeney?”
“A little bit. We were at FOB Warrior together.”
“Excuse me? Where?”
“Kirkuk, ma’am. In Iraq. I was with the Fifth Combat Communications Group and he was with his Special Forces guys.”
Gervasi folded his arms across his chest. “And why do you want to talk to us?”
“Because he was a nice guy. He taught me how to shoot better when all the other SFs wouldn’t give me the time of day. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea about him.”
Bruhl sat down in the steps, a forlorn look in his eyes.
“And what idea would that be?”
“About his leaving the Army, about when he shot an officer.”
“What?” Jasmine exclaimed with astonishment and sudden curiosity. She was also extremely proud of herself at having established McSweeney as a killer right from the start. The promotion was hers.
“You’ll find out sooner or later but the reports probably won’t tell the real story.”
“Well,” Gervasi began. “Why don’t you tell us the real story?”
~ ~ ~ ~
It was the middle of the night and the streets were deserted. The once prosperous oil city of northern Iraq, the battleground of past empires, including Babylonia, was now in shambles. There had been ethnic cleansing under Saddam Hussein, the American invasion, and finally the insurgents striking back.
It was peaceful no more.
Walking in the middle of an alley was Preston McSweeney. He looked decidedly unmilitary with mop top hair, mismatched uniform, and a beard of several weeks. Despite all that, he had a sidearm strapped to his right thigh and his M4 carbine was at the ready. It was the attire of choice for US Special Forces.
“McSweeney had been separated from his team after fighting outside the city,” Corporal Bruhl narrated. “He was rallying back when he ran into something terrible.”
Preston stopped as he heard noises coming from a small house to his left. Cautiously, he approached the grimy window and peeked inside. The sight was unmistakable. There were two corpses, a boy and a man. In another corner of the room, what he saw was even worse.
An Iraqi woman, her skin dark and barely wrinkled, was struggling against a man who was restraining her from behind, his arms around her neck and her waist. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and hoarse cries only just escaped her mouth.
The man holding her was white and old enough to know better. He was wearing an American uniform with the three chevrons of a buck sergeant. There was a perverse grin on his face as if this was the highlight of his day.
Next to him were two other soldiers, a private and a second lieutenant, both younger. They were also enjoying what was happening on the ground in front of them.
Preston followed their eyes to the obvious main attraction. On the floor was a fourth soldier, a corporal, and he was grunting, lying on top of a young girl, no more than 12 years old.
The girl’s eyes were squeezed shut and there
where dried tears on her face. She was all cried out. The corporal was obviously not the first to rape her this evening. She was resigned, silently enduring the pain and indignity.
“McSweeney did what anyone would have done in the circumstances.”
Preston left this place at the window and headed for the nearby front wooden door. He kicked it in and entered, startling the soldiers. The two who were not busy raised their rifles at him.
Instantly understanding these guys were wired and trigger-happy, probably juiced up on some illicit substance, Preston let his weapon hang across his chest. The idea was to appear non-threatening since he was visibly on the losing end of a standoff.
“He tried to argue with them to release the Iraqis,” Buhl explained. “But it didn’t work.”
Using all his negotiating skills, Preston desperately attempted to talk them into releasing the civilians. He had seen combat for many years, knew that it could scramble someone’s brain like nothing else. He didn’t excuse the gang rape these guys were performing, far from it, but he had to appeal to their soldier senses.
It wasn’t working, which Preston had anticipated. All through this short conversation, he stepped forward little by little, taking small enough paces as to not be obvious.
“Finally, McSweeney didn’t have a choice.”
In one swift move, Preston swept the M-16 rifles away from the private and the officer and at the same time drew his own pistol.
He quickly shot the rapist in the head, the man who had been his target all along, the one who had done the most damage in the room so far. Blood spattered the little girl and her screaming resumed.
The sergeant let go of the mother and pointed his own assault rifle at McSweeney. The gesture was imitated by the private. In a flash, Preston took hold of the now adjacent officer, gripping him in a choke hold, as a shield.
Calmly but in an authoritative voice, McSweeney urged the sergeant and the private to drop their weapons. At last, to emphasize his point, Preston fired a round in the lieutenant’s knee before returning the handgun to the other soldiers who ran away in fear.
~ ~ ~ ~
As per her habit, Jasmine was taking notes. This was mind-blowing. No wonder so much was blacked out from the official Department of Defense file.
“Then what happened?” Gervasi asked.
“The lieutenant was fresh off West Point, the nephew of some senator, or something. The Army thought it would be inconvenient to bring charges against him. At the same time, they knew they couldn’t ignore gang rape so McSweeney wasn’t brought up on charges and he was honorably discharged.”
“What about the rapist McSweeney killed?”
“Officially? Killed in action, stepped on an IED. They even awarded him a Bronze Star posthumously.”
“And what happened to the lieutenant?”
“Medical discharge, I think. Everybody on the base knew about what McSweeney did. He was a hero but just because the guys he shot weren’t Iraqi he didn’t get any medals.”
That was the Army for you. He stood up and limped away, leaving the federal agents with their own problems. God knew he had enough of his.
Chapter 26
The Toyota’s air-conditioning was broken and Preston was driving old school with the windows down and his left elbow protruding from the opening. Driving through narrow, unfamiliar streets was the best way to get acquainted with a foreign town. You got to not only learn the lay of the land but also the behavior of locals.
Sitting next to him was Hewitt who was a genuine advertisement for the LL Bean catalog with his cargo shorts and safari shirt, all beige. He had in his hands a clear plastic water bottle with a Naya label although he wasn’t fooling anyone now.
“What’s the best coup d’état ever carried out?” Preston asked.
“That would have to be Iran, 1953. It took only a few weeks and suitcases full of cash.”
“Care to share?”
Hewitt allowed himself a smile and took a small sip of his beverage, wincing as the liquid burned his throat.
“First, a little bit of context, lad. I’ve learned through the years that with a little bit of background information you can understand any subject. Hell, one could even get to understand the female psyche, given enough time.”
He guffawed good-naturedly and Preston found it impossible not to join in.
“Okay, okay,” Hewitt continued. “Perhaps this is too daunting a task. Anyway, back to our Persian subject.”
Preston looked out at some children who were happily chasing each other by the side of the street, playing tag or some other local version of the game.
“Iran was a constitutional monarchy, much like Britain. The king, over there he was called the Shah, was Mohammed Reza Pahlevi but his powers were limited. In 1951, a man named Mohammed Mosaddeq was democratically elected Prime Minister. He was a smart man, an intellectual, and he was widely popular among Iranians. What made him admired mostly was his nationalist agenda. He was a proponent of a free, democratic Iran.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Preston wondered.
“Nothing if you’re Iranian. However, if you’re British, you’re looking at a heap load of foul-smelling troubles. You see, up until then the vast oilfields – Iran has 10% of the world’s oil reserves – this oil was controlled by one company, the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Funny,” Hewitt snorted. “I saw you give them money just the other day, you filled up the tank of your truck at the BP station near your caravan park.”
“That’s owned by the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company?”
“The AIOC eventually became British Petroleum, yes. Anyway, this corporation was at the time owned mostly by the British government and they had exclusive rights to the oil. Premier Mosaddeq made a move to nationalize Iranian oil, which would cut out the British completely. It was the largest British company, the most important foreign British investment.”
“Oil nationalization bad thing, got it.”
“So we Brits consulted with you Yanks and your President Truman didn’t want to overthrow a democratically elected government, plus he was busy with that Korean conflict. So the British instead organized an international boycott of Iranian oil, forbade AIOC employees to help the Iranians, and the British Navy stepped in with a blockade to limit exports. This led to a jolly old financial crisis.”
“But the British were losing out as well, no?”
“Which is why a coup was necessary,” Hewitt agreed. “By 1953 Eisenhower had become president and he was in favor of a joint American-British operation. Another consideration in favor of taking action was the fact that this was the Cold War and the Soviets had an eye on Iran.”
“Nationalization is the first step towards socialism.”
“A deal was struck and the CIA called it Operation Ajax. The man in charge was Kermit Roosevelt, President Teddy Roosevelt’s grandson. He bribed newspaper editors and religious leaders to denounce the prime minister as a communist. He got gangs to wreak havoc in the streets and he paid police officers to look the other way.”
Hewitt swallowed some vodka and then offered the bottle to the young man who declined with a shake of the head. The notion that he was driving never crossed his mind.
“Before long, most of the population was against the Prime Minister and Kermit organized large protests in the streets. It led to a battle in front of Mosaddeq’s house. Eventually, Iranian officers on the CIA’s payroll showed up and the Prime Minister gave himself up.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, at first the battle seemed lost and the Shah fled to Italy. It took Stormin’ Norman’s father, Major General Norman Schwarzkopf, Sr. to bring him back into Iran. Once he was back and that Mosaddeq was in custody, General Fazlollah Zahedi was installed as the new prime minister. However, to make this work the Shah was granted more powers and it became in essence a dictatorship. The reign of the Shah began.”
“Didn’t th
at lead to the Iranian Revolution, Ayatollah Khomeini, the embassy hostages, all that shit?”
“Indeed, in 1979. This was the first CIA coup and at first it was considered a glowing success. The country was pro-West once more and 80% of oil revenues were split between American and British interests. French and Dutch companies also got their piece of the proverbial pie.
“What nobody had anticipated at the time was the blowback. Everybody knew the CIA had meddled in Iranian internal affairs and had trained the Shah’s vicious secret police. Dissent fermented, communists gained ground, and the radical clerics led the opposition. Twenty-six years later, the best coup became a disaster.”
Preston left a narrow street and turned onto a wider boulevard. He stopped the car across the street from the Katoga TV building. They both saw that a few soldiers were guarding the entrance now.
“I guess we can’t use that approach now, uh?” Preston commented.
“They’re just being extra careful, lad. That’s all. We can’t use the Kermit approach, anyway. The people are too apathetic in Katoga. It would be smashing to have popular support, riots in the streets, but it’s not absolutely essential.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Come on, lad, let’s check out the newspaper building and then the library.”
He took another, deeply satisfying sip.
Chapter 27
Their trip to the only newspaper building in the country was quick. The place was of the same architectural design as the TV building, only smaller. There were no guards and it made sense.
Storming the building was not tactical sound as any terrorist wanting to quickly get a story published would have to deal with the sluggish presses and an even lengthier distribution process. It wasn’t as instantaneous as television.
They stayed long enough to take a few pictures, note the basic geography, and be mindful of any police or military patrols. Preston had no intention of getting arrested again.
After no more than 10 minutes in the area, they went to the eastern part of the city where the Katoga Library was located.