Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War

by Acts Of War [lit]

  Electric lights had been strung along the roof of the narrow passageway, and Siriner's bunker was protected by an iron door. The door had been made from the hatch and armored plate of a Syrian tank destroyed by the Israelis. It was cool ten feet below the surface of the cave, and within the bunker itself a pair of large fans stirred the musty air. The room was nearly square and roughly the size of a large freight elevator. The walls were naked, and the low ceiling had been covered with a clear plastic tarp. The plastic was pulled tight and bolted in the corner to protect the room in the event of artillery shelling. There were rugs on the dirt floor, a small metal desk, and folding chairs with embroidered cushions. Beside the desk was a shredder. Behind it there was a radio with a headset and stool.

  Commander Kayahan Siriner was standing behind his desk when Mahmoud and Ibrahim entered. He was dressed in a drab-green uniform and a white kaffiyeh with a red band. He wore a .38 in a holster on his belt. Siriner was of medium height and build, with dark skin and pale eyes. He had a very thin pencil moustache on his upper lip and a ring on his left index finger. The gold band sported two large silver daggers crossed beneath a star. Like Walid, Commander Siriner bore a scar. This one was a deep, jagged scar which ran from the bridge of his nose to the middle of his right cheek. He had obtained the wound as the leader of the Kurdish food parties in Turkey. It was his job to lead small bands against non-Kurdish villages to obtain food. If the villagers didn't give it willingly, the Kurds took it by force. Turkish soldiers were killed out of hand whether they resisted or not.

  Commander Siriner did not leave the cave unless it was necessary. Even at night, there was the fear that he might be assassinated by Turkish or Iraqi snipers positioned in the peaks around the base.

  It was both a relief and an honor that Siriner was standing. An honor because the commander was showing the men respect for what they'd accomplished. A relief because he attached no blame to them for the loss of Walid and Hasan.

  "I thank Allah for your safe return and for the success of your mission," said Siriner, his deep, resonant voice filling the room. "You have come with a trophy, I understand."

  "Yes, Commander," said Mahmoud. "A vehicle of some kind which the Americans use to spy."

  Siriner nodded. "And you are certain that in bringing it here, you yourselves were not spied upon?"

  "We used it to blind the satellite, Commander," said Ibrahim. "There is no doubt that they cannot see us."

  Siriner smiled. "As their flyovers of the region suggest." He looked at Mahmoud. "Tell me what happened to Walid's ring and to Hasan."

  Mahmoud took a step forward. Hasan had radioed the base about Walid's death, and the guard had just informed Siriner of Hasan's death. Now, Mahmoud gave their commander the details. The commander remained standing as he spoke. When Mahmoud was finished, Siriner sat down.

  "The American is here, in captivity?"

  "He is," said Mahmoud.

  "He knows how to work the equipment you've captured?"

  "He does," said Mahmoud. "Several of the captives appear to know something of its operation."

  Siriner thought for a long moment, and then called for a soldier who served as his master-at-arms. The brawny young man hurried into the office and saluted. Military formalities were strictly observed among the twenty-five soldiers who were permanently stationed at the base.

  The commander returned the salute. "Sadik," he said, "I want the American leader tortured where the others can hear."

  Ibrahim wasn't convinced that the American would break. However, he didn't offer his unsolicited opinion. The only answers Siriner accepted from his people were "Yes, sir," and "I'm sorry, sir."

  "Yes, sir," the master-at-arms said.

  "Mahmoud," said Siriner, "I've heard that there are women prisoners as well?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Siriner looked back at Sadik. "Select a woman to watch the torture. She will go second. I want this vehicle working for the next part of our operation. It may help us guide the infiltrators."

  "Yes, sir."

  Siriner dismissed his master-at-arms. He turned back to Mahmoud and Ibrahim. "Mahmoud. I see you wear Walid's ring."

  "Yes, sir. He gave it to me before he---left us."

  "He was my oldest friend," said Siriner. "He will not die unavenged."

  Siriner walked from behind the desk. His expression was a strange mix of grief and pride. Ibrahim had seen the expression before in the faces of people who had lost friends or brothers, husbands or sons to a cause that was equally close to them.

  "As we expected, Syrian Army troops have begun moving to the north. Mahmoud. You're acquainted with the role that Walid was to have played in the second phase of our operation?"

  "I am, sir," Mahmoud replied. "Upon his return he was going to relieve Field Commander Kenan. Kenan is going to lead the raid upon the Syrian Army outpost in Quteife."

  Siriner stood in front of Mahmoud and peered into his eyes. "The raid is vital to our plan. However, Allah is merciful. He has returned you to us. I see in that a sign, Mahmoud al-Rashid. A sign that you and not Kenan are to take Walid's part."

  Mahmoud's tired eyelids raised slightly. "Commander?"

  "I would like you to lead the Base Deir group to Quteife and then Damascus. Our man there awaits the signal. Set out with the others and I will give it."

  Mahmoud was still surprised. He bowed his head. "Of course, Commander. I am honored."

  Siriner embraced Mahmoud. He patted his back. "I know you must be tired. But it is important that I be represented in Damascus by a hero of our cause. Go and see Kenan. He will give you your instructions. You can sleep while you wait for the Syrians."

  "Again, sir, I am honored."

  Siriner moved over to Ibrahim. "I am equally proud of you, Ibrahim."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Because of your role in the day's victory, I have special need of you," Siriner said. "I wish for you to remain with me."

  Ibrahim's mouth fell at the edges. "Sir! I would like to be allowed to go with my brother!"

  "That is understandable," Siriner said as he hugged Ibrahim. "But I need a man who has dealt with the Americans and their van. This is not a question of courage but of efficiency."

  "But commander. It was Hasan who spoke---"

  "You will remain here," Siriner said firmly. He stepped back. "You drove the van from Turkey. You may have seen something that will prove helpful. And you have experience with machines. That in itself is more than many of my soldiers have."

  "I understand, sir," Ibrahim said. He looked narrowly at his brother without moving his head. He fought hard to conceal his disappointment.

  "I will have a talk with the Americans," Siriner told him. "For now I want you to rest. You've earned it."

  "Thank you, sir," Ibrahim replied.

  Siriner looked at Mahmoud. "Good luck," he said, and then went back to his desk. The men had been dismissed

  Ibrahim and Mahmoud turned smartly, then returned to the tunnel. They stood there facing one another.

  "I'm sorry," Ibrahim said. "I belong at your side."

  "You will be even closer," Mahmoud said. He touched his chest. "You'll be in here. Make me proud of you, little brother."

  "I will," Ibrahim said. "And you be careful."

  The men hugged for a long minute, after which Mahmoud walked deeper into the cave to meet with the field commander.

  Ibrahim walked toward the makeshift barracks, where he sat on an empty cot and removed his boots. He lay back slowly, stretching toes and leg muscles which were happy to be free of their burden. He shut his eyes. Ibrahim was aware of the soldiers trooping past him, toward the cells.

  Siriner would have a "talk" with the Americans. He would torture them. They would break. And then their leader would have nothing to do but help the other Kurds run the computers and drive the van.

  It wasn't glorious. He wasn't even convinced that it was useful. But he was tired and perhaps he wasn't thinking clearly.

&
nbsp; In any case, he hoped the American did break. He wanted him to capitulate, to cry out. What right did any foreigner have to interfere with the fight for Kurdish freedom? And to take the life of a fighter who had displayed compassion as well as heroism was unforgivable.

  He listened as the grates creaked open, as two prisoners were pulled out, as the others shouted from their cells. Their cries were like a campfire on a cold night, warming him. Then his mind drifted to the events of the past day and visions of the storm they would unleash before this day was through. He thought of his brother and the pride he felt for what he was about to do. And the warmth settled over him like a blanket.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 11:43 a.m.,

  the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

  When she was a young girl, Sondra DeVonne used to help her father Carl as he worked in the kitchen of their South Norwalk, Connecticut, apartment. By day, he managed a fast-food hamburger restaurant on the heavily traveled Post Road. By night, he mixed ingredients by the bowlful looking for a custard recipe which would taste better than anything else on the market. After two years, he came up with a soft ice cream which his wife sold on weekends at Little League games and carnivals. A year after that, he quit his job and opened an ice cream stand on Route 7 in Wilton, Connecticut. Two years later, he opened his second stand. A few months before Sondra joined the United States Air Force, he opened his twelfth Carl's Custard and was hailed as Connecticut African-American Businessperson of the Year.

  Watching her father at night, the ten-year-old girl learned patience. She also learned dedication and silence. He worked like an artist, intense and unhappy with distractions. Sondra always remembered the time he'd gotten so much powdered sugar on his face that he looked like a mime. She'd sat on the small, butcher-block kitchen table for nearly sixty full minutes, turning the crank of the ice cream maker and swallowing back a laugh. Had she succumbed, her father would have been deeply offended. For that long, long hour she kept her eyes shut and sang silently to herself---any top-forty tune that would keep her mind off her dad.

  This wasn't her small kitchen in South Norwalk. The man in front of her wasn't her father. But Sondra had flashes of being small and helpless again as her hands were pulled behind her and cuffed to a waist-high iron ring. In front of her, on the other side of the cavern, Mike Rodgers's shirt was cut off with a hunting knife. His arms were pulled up and handcuffed to a ring which hung from the stone ceiling of the cavern. His toes barely touched the floor. As an afterthought, the man with the knife cut a bloody pencil-mustache over Rodgers's upper lip.

  In the glow of the single overhead bulb, Sondra could see Rodgers's face. He was looking in her direction though not at her. As the blood ran in streams into his mouth and down his chin he was focusing on something---a memory? A poem? A dream? At the same time he was obviously marshaling his energy for whatever lay ahead.

  After a few minutes, two men arrived. The first one held a small butane blowtorch. The blue-white flame was already lit and hissing. The other man walked with an imperious strut. His hands were clasped behind him and his pale eyes shifted from Rodgers to Sondra and back again. There was no remorse in those eyes, nor lust. There was just a sense of cold purpose.

  The man stopped with his back to Sondra. "I am the commander," he said in a rich, thinly accented voice. "Your name does not matter to me. If you die, it does not matter to me. All that matters is that you tell us everything you know about the operation of your vehicle. If you do not do so quickly, you will die where you are and we will move on to the young lady. She will suffer a different punishment"---he looked at her again---"a far more humiliating one." He looked back at Rodgers. "When we are finished with her we will move to another member of your group. If you elect to cooperate, you will be returned to your cell. Though you murdered one of our people, you did what any good soldier would have done. I have no interest in punishing you and you will be released as soon at it can be arranged. Do you wish to tell us what you know?"

  Rodgers said nothing. The man waited only a few seconds.

  "I understand you withstood a cigarette lighter in the desert," the man said. "Very good. So that you will know what to expect this time, we will burn the flesh from your arms and chest. Then we will remove your trousers and continue down to the bottom of your legs. You will scream until your throat bleeds. Are you sure you don't wish to speak?"

  Rodgers said nothing. The commander sighed, then nodded to the man with the blowtorch. He stepped forward, turned it toward Rodgers's left armpit, and brought it forward slowly.

  The general's jaw went rigid, his eyes widened, and his feet jumped from the floor. Within seconds, the smell of burned hair and flesh made the thick air fouler. Sondra had to breathe through her mouth to keep from retching.

  The commander turned toward Sondra. He covered her mouth to force her to breathe through her pose. He was simultaneously pushing up on her jaw so that she couldn't bite him.

  "It has been my experience," said the man, "that one member of a party always tells us what we wish to know. If you talk now you can save them all. Including this man.Your people were oppressed. They are oppressed still." He removed his hand. "Can you not sympathize with our plight?"

  Sondra knew she wasn't supposed to speak to her captors. But he'd given her an opening and she had to try reason with him. "Your plight, yes. Not this."

  "Then put a stop to it," the commander said. "You're not an archaeologist. You're a soldier." He nodded toward Rodgers. "This man has been trained. I can see that. I feel it." He stepped closer to Sondra. "I don't enjoy doing this. Talk to me. Help me and you help him. You help my people. You will save lives."

  Sondra said nothing.

  "I understand," the commander said. "But I won't let dozens of women and children die every day because others do not approve of our culture, our language, our form of Islam. Hundreds of my people are in Syrian prisons where they're tortured by the Mukhabarat, the secret police. Surely you can understand my desire to help them."

  "I understand," she replied, "and I sympathize. But the cruelty of others doesn't justify your own."

  "This is not cruelty," he said. "I would like to stop. I have been tortured. I have suffered for hours with electric wires threaded inside my body so there would be no bruises. A dead animal hung around your neck in a steaming-hot cell leaves no marks. Nor do the flies it attracts or the vomiting it induces. My wife was raped to death by an entire Turkish unit. I found her body in the hills. She was violated in ways which I hope are worse than you can imagine." He looked back at Rodgers. "Other nations have made halfhearted efforts to help us. The United States special envoy tried to bring together the feuding Talabani and Barzani factions in Iraq. He had no budget, no arms for them. He failed. The United States Air Force tried to prevent the Iraqis from bombing Kurds in the north. They succeeded, so the Iraqis simply poisoned their water supply. The Air Force could not prevent that. It is time for us to help ourselves. For one of us to lead all of us."

  This is why we aren't supposed to talk to them, Sondra thought. The man was making perfect sense. And the Kurd was right about one thing. Someone would probably talk. But it couldn't be her. She had taken an oath of allegiance, and part of that oath was to obey orders. Rodgers did not want her to speak. She couldn't. She wouldn't. Living with that shame would be worse than dying.

  She continued to look at the commander as Rodgers's handcuffs rattled against the iron ring. After a minute, the torch was moved to Rodgers other side. He jumped this time, and so did she, as the flame was applied. The jaw was no longer so strong. His mouth fell open, his eyes rolled, and his entire body trembled. The tips of his feet kicked up and down vigorously. But he didn't scream.

  The commander watched with a relaxed, confident expression as the flame was moved to Rodgers's back. Rodgers arched and shook and shut his eyes. His mouth went wide and there was a gurgling deep in his throat. As soon as Rodgers became aware of the sound he forced his mouth shut.

 
Though tears formed in her eyes and fear dried her mouth, Sondra refused to say a word.

  Suddenly, the commander said something in Arabic. The torturer stepped away from Rodgers and shut off the burner. The commander turned to Sondra.

  I will give you a few minutes to think without having to see your friend suffer." He smiled at her. "Your friend... or your superior officer? No matter. Think about the people you can help. Yours as well as mine. I ask you to think about the German people during the Second World War. Were the patriots those who did the bidding of Hitler, or those who did what was right?"