A hand grabbed Brandon’s head by the hair and jerked it rearward. He felt pain and pressure at his left earlobe and then the right.
“Colonel, be reasonable. I’m an enlisted man. I don’t know the big picture stuff. I don’t know any secrets.”
“What is the name of your unit?”
“My unit doesn’t have a name.”
Brandon’s teeth crashed together and his chin was drawn to his chest. His body shook violently. The electricity that flowed to his earlobes burned the skin and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Power had been applied for five seconds. Thirty seconds later, the question was repeated and Brandon’s answer was the same. His recently dislocated jaw slammed shut with the ferocity of a bulldog. Brandon bellowed through clinched teeth as current surged, and slumped like a rag doll when it stopped.
“What is the name of your unit?”
“Colonel, may I speak?” Brandon inquired weakly.
“Yes, Sergeant, that is the object of this exercise.”
“Think about this. You can’t use me against my fellow prisoners because there are none. Obviously you won’t use me for propaganda purposes because the war is over. What would be the point in parading me through the streets or putting me on TV? If you did that, the world would know, and I’m a secret project. Right? So, I’ll tell you what I know because I won’t be breaking the Code of Conduct when I do. It will be an exercise in futility, because truthfully, I don’t know squat.”
“Nice speech, Sergeant. What is the name of your unit?”
“Fifth Special Forces.”
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. What was your mission on the day of your capture?”
“Recon. It was just a probe, and we encountered two of your men who opened fire, and one thing led to another.”
“Name of your commanding officer?”
“New guy, a lieutenant Colonel, I never learned his name.”
Brandon bellowed as the juice surged through the wires, and his chin thumped on his chest.
“Turn it off!” The Colonel ordered, “Turn it off!” and Omar reluctantly obeyed.
The power had been applied for ten seconds and flame had begun to flare at Brandon’s ears.
“I told you. No more than five seconds.”
“I am sorry, sir.” Omar lied. “I do not have a watch and I was fascinated by the body’s reaction to electricity. It will not happen again.”
“No, it will not happen again because you have ruined the experiment. Is he dead, Massoud?”
Massoud donned a stethoscope and searched for a heartbeat. “I think so.”
“Curse my luck. Get him onto the gurney and prepare the paddles.”
Brandon was dropped onto the table and more electricity was applied but this time to his heart. The brief jolt of electricity made his body bounce off the bed. On the third try, Massoud announced, “He is alive.”
“Dump him in his cell. We are finished here, thanks to Omar.”
“Sir, I am sorry. But you did gather important data for your report. Did you not? Mukhabarat can learn from this experience as I have.”
“You simpleton! Do you think the Directors do not know what it takes to kill a man?” The Colonel stormed from the garage.
Massoud spoke next. “Omar, your hatred for the American will be your undoing. He may survive this, but you will not. Mark my words.”
A week passed and became two. Brandon was on the mend. Each day brought healing and strength. A man named Hosni was responsible for his recovery. Hosni was young with a sparse beard like Castro’s, a why-bother insult to his face. He was taller than Omar and shorter than Massoud, but slightly built and less muscular than either of his companions. It was he who brought food and water and applied salve to Brandon’s burns. Massoud maintained a careful watch.
“You were told to feed the prisoner, not to treat his wounds, Hosni.”
“He is a soldier like you, Massoud. Do you not treat a combatant’s wounds? We are not animals, and Mohammed teaches us mercy.”
Massoud nodded, not willing to argue religion. He was not one of the faithful.
Omar had no such objections. “Hosni, you are a moron. You are a useless piece of lint.” To Massoud he said, “I should cut his balls off just for the fun of it. What good is he? He has no initiative. He does not follow my orders; I must repeat everything twice.”
“The Colonel loves the soups he prepares and they practice English together. Better not touch his balls. The fact that he doesn’t follow your orders may just mean he is not as dumb as you think.”
“Up yours, Massoud.”
Massoud laughed.
On the first day of April, Brandon was summoned.
“Sergeant, rest and relaxation seem to agree with you. As you see, I have been relaxing too. At the moment, I am reading your personnel file. Surprise, surprise, the gallant soldier was a very bad boy.”
Brandon failed to take the bait.
“You struck a Colonel.”
“Actually he was a lieutenant Colonel.”
“Yes, but a superior officer.”
“He acted superior but he wasn’t. He only wore the rank. You, of all people, should understand the difference.”
The Colonel laughed sardonically. “As I was saying, Sergeant, you were a naughty boy. Disgraced, demoted, and sent across the world to fight and die for oil. Now you are abandoned. Yes, I said ‘abandoned.’ You’ve been written off, Sergeant. KIA. You are dead. It says so right here. Care to see?”
The folder was handed to Omar who delivered it to Brandon as Massoud stood stoically at the Colonel’s side. Brandon leafed to the back page and saw the final entry, KIA. For some reason it affected him more than he would have thought, but he hid his feelings with nonchalance.
“Your specialties are demolition and language. What a strange combination of talents.”
Brandon had forgotten that his file would contain his assignments to language school and expected the Colonel to speak to him next in Arabic.
“It says you are fluent in Spanish and Russian. I am sure when you worked with the DEA in Columbia that Spanish was helpful. Where did you practice your Russian?”
Brandon realized from the Colonel’s remark that his transfer to Arabic had not been recorded in his file. When Iraq invaded Kuwait in August 1990, he had been transferred within the language departments of the school.
“I never got to practice, never had any direct contact with the Russians. I expected a posting to our embassy in Moscow but the war changed that.”
“After reading your file and giving it hours of serious thought, I have discovered a use for you that far exceeds your value to Mukhabarat. You will make me a wealthy man.”
“Really?”
“Yes, absolutely. Outside this compound are thousands of acres of cultivated soil. My country is not blessed with abundant fertile land, but I am. I grow cotton primarily, and you will soon learn the art of picking it because your vacation is over. In Afghanistan they grow poppies in poor soil and reap enormous profits, as do the Columbians. I will plant poppies too, Sergeant, and when the time is right you will help me onto the world stage.”
Brandon didn’t have a clue as to what the Colonel meant, but he looked forward to working outside and rebuilding his strength for an escape. “Fine. I would be happy to help.”
“Good. Then it is settled.” Turning to Massoud, he ordered, “See to it that the Sergeant begins working in our fields and move him into the servant’s quarters near the kitchen. Place a guard on his door and keep him under surveillance at all times. Otherwise, he is to be treated as any other field hand.”
Hosni folded his apron, turned a burner to simmer and followed Massoud and Brandon out a side door. Omar trailed along. At the cotton field a short walk from the house, Massoud spoke to Hosni. “Tell the American what he
needs to know. Say it in Arabic and then in English.”
Hosni began. “The time to plant cotton seeds is when the sun begins to warm the earth. That time is now. You will be given a hoe to create the seedbeds. Others will be working near you. Observe them. If you are given seeds to plant, place them in the seedbed two inches under the soil. Seedlings will appear in five days. You will then weed the seedbed and tend the cotton plants until harvest. The work is hard and you will toil long hours at this backbreaking work. These men will see to it. They are your overseers. They are tough men, strong and ruthless. They will not tolerate insolence or laziness. If you break the rules, these fearsome men will flog you.”
Hosni paused and looked toward Massoud who folded his brawny arms across his chest and with his head tilted upward, lips in a scowl, he nodded perceptibly. Hosni had seen World War II footage of the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, and wondered if Massoud had seen the same film and was emulating Il Duce.
Brandon remained expressionless as he listened and thought, “This guy can’t be serious. Fearsome men? He must be bucking for promotion.”
Massoud was pleased and ordered Hosni to translate into English. “I am instructed to explain what is expected of you. It is hard work that is all there is to say. Watch others and copy them. Please know that I am not the enemy. I am a friend. I hate these bastards as much as you, maybe more.”
Hosni stopped to flex and pointed at Massoud, who nodded knowing this was the part about his being tough and strong.
“The short one is a brainless dolt, but dangerous and ruthless. The taller man lost an eye fighting the Iranians. He is the more intelligent of the two but not to be trusted.” Hosni concluded by shaking his fist in Brandon’s face.
Massoud added, “Tell him he will be fed if he works hard. If he does his job and gives me no trouble, he will sleep in the servant’s quarters near the kitchen. He does not want to know what I will do to him if he does not work hard and well.”
Hosni nodded his understanding and turned back to Brandon. “You get to sleep in a room near the kitchen and you will eat with the servants. That is good. I am the cook. You will eat well. I will help you if I can but I have no time to explain.”
Omar stepped forward and interrupted Hosni by giving Brandon a shove toward the cotton field. “Enough. Tell him to get busy.”
“Sergeant, take this hoe and create a ridge and furrow as others are doing. That will be the seedbed for the cotton crop. Get busy. Omar is itching to punish you. I am sorry.”
The warning came too late. The only crop that interested Omar was the riding crop he held in his right hand. And he used the looped lash at its business end with relish. The braided rawhide whistled through the air and cut into tender flesh. Omar had never flogged a man before, but he enjoyed it.
13
Recruit The Team; The Plan Takes Shape
Phil Roberts had returned to Fort Hood the next weekend to meet Daniel Stiles and to hear the plan Smitty said, “Just might work.”
“First off,” Daniel began, “We’ll get no help from the Defense Department; I spoke with C.K. McNamara and got a warning and the old heave-ho. I’ll tell you about that later. Bottom line—now we go to plan ‘B’. It will take five men to pull this off. I have a buddy, who’ll follow me through fire if I ask, but I can’t come up with the other three. Can you guys scare up a few more just like him?”
Without hesitation, Phil piped in, “That’s affirmative. Brandon has a lot of friends, and some of them owe him big time, not the least of whom served with Brandon and me in Panama. We were ambushed by Pan Am soldiers who were supposed to be friendlies, but who turned out to be Noriega loyalists. Could have been a disaster, and would have been but for Brandon.” Phil shook his head, remembering, and laughed. “Can you imagine how careful and suspicious a guy has to be to booby trap friendlies?”
“He booby trapped the Panamanians on patrol with you?” Smitty questioned admiringly.
“Yeah, these Pan Ams were bivouacked with us, they ate chow with us, and when we went on patrol with them, one guy faked an injury, a twisted or broken ankle. Two other Pans stayed with the cripple to carry him out and the rest of us pressed on. Their man was on point a couple of hundred yards ahead. He fired a warning shot and we all took cover. The remaining Pans used this signal to separate from us as we fanned out. The three we left behind flanked us on our left and were joined by the point man. The other five had scattered right and we were the lambs led to slaughter, caught in a classic crossfire. Pinned down with no good cover, it was just a matter of time. Our radioman, Willy Brown, took the first round and Jerry Peppers, our medic, caught one soon after and before he could reach Willy. The ambush was well coordinated and perfectly timed. We were out on a limb, and it was sawed damn near through when reinforcements seemed to arrive by magic. I knew Willy hadn’t radioed for help, but somebody was definitely helping. There were small explosions left and right, screams, and then someone cried out, ‘No mas, no mas,’ and Brandon yelled, ‘Cease fire’ as one very scared bushwhacker emerged from the brush with his rifle high over head. We waited for others to surrender but soon discovered he was the lone survivor. Brandon had rigged every Pan Am’s pack for remote detonation while they were eating chipped beef and powdered eggs.”
“Good God,” Daniel said, “I knew Brandon was careful, but I didn’t know he was paranoid. Why did he spare the lone survivor?”
“Misfire. Mechanical failure. Did you think he was feeling charitable?”
“Not likely,” Smitty chimed in. “Brandon always had good instincts. Did Willy and Jerry make the cut?”
“Yeah, Willy came within an inch of speaking in a higher octave, but he’s okay, Jerry too. From that squad, I’m sure I can round up three men for this mission. Give me a week.”
The Plan Takes Shape (Saturday, 13 August 1994)
“Looks like the party started without me, Smitty,” the orderly said jokingly as he entered to check on his patient. He was pleased to see so many visitors. “I’m sorry I don’t have water for everybody,” he said, “but there are cups over there by the sink. If Smitty won’t share his ice water with you, the tap water doesn’t taste half bad.”
Smitty thanked the orderly for dropping by, and waited for him to close the door behind him. He nodded at Daniel to continue the meeting.
“This is a classified mission and no one outside this room is to know what is said here tonight. Agreed? No one spoke but every head quietly acknowledged.
“My brother, your friend, needs our help. I have shown you a copy of the transcripts of radio transmissions that preceded and followed the explosion of the storage bunker at El Sharif. You’ve heard Smitty’s comments too. Gentlemen, it is clear to us that Brandon was captured, not killed as reported. I’ve told this same story to SECDEF and CIA. C.K. McNamara doesn’t want to hear it and he shut the door to further inquiry. John Keiley at CIA is a believer, but unfortunately he’s lower on the food chain than McNamara. He’s taking Brandon’s case to his boss Frank Anderson who is responsible for the Near East Division. Hopefully, Anderson will then run it by James Wooten, the Director. It’s up to Wooten to take it to the White House. Even if it goes that far, it’s likely the White House staff will intervene. My bet is that he’ll get stonewalled along the way, and the President will never be asked to confront the issue.”
There was low volume agreement as the assembled acknowledged the likely scenario.
“If you need additional proof that Brandon is alive, what I’m about to tell you should cinch it. Have you ever heard of Muleshoe?”
Phil Roberts had. He visited Muleshoe with Brandon years ago, and was at Brandon’s funeral, but this was Daniel’s show so he let the question go unanswered.
“It’s a town in West Texas where Brandon and I were raised. It’s a typical small town. If you’re having an affair, your wife finds out about it before you do. Brandon was a
town hero, Mister Touchdown. His exploits on the gridiron still stand as records today. The older folks in Muleshoe have long memories and they hold Brandon in the highest regard. Because of that, I was able to pull a few strings, actually, one string. Judge Amy Baker is an old family friend and I told her enough to get an exhumation order. Two weeks ago, we had Brandon’s coffin unearthed. The gravediggers were ready to lift the lid, but the Judge ordered them to back away. ‘This is private,’ she said.”
As Daniel paused to take a sip of tap water, only the sound of water still dripping from the spigot could be heard in the hushed silence of Smitty’s room.
“The Judge nodded her okay, and I raised the coffin’s lid. The two of us stared at each other and back at the coffin a couple of times just to make sure. She patted me on the arm and I closed the lid. The cemetery crew put everything back the way they found it, and the Judge and I waited until that was done.”
“What did you see?” Jerry Peppers asked.
“Two sandbags,” Daniel answered.
Smitty nodded his understanding, but the others murmured and exchanged comments of surprise.
“I told you,” Daniel interjected, “Brandon is in Baghdad, not Muleshoe. I didn’t know what we’d buried, but after talking with Smitty and reviewing the transcripts, I knew it wasn’t Brandon.”
Jerry Peppers raised his hand.
“Hey, Jerry, you don’t have to raise your hand, just speak up. We all want to hear what you have to say.”
“Roger that. When you saw McNamara did you tell him about your visit to Brandon’s grave?”
“I did, and he just nodded like it happens all the time. What he said was, ‘That changes nothing.’ I couldn’t believe it. That’s when he made the veiled threat about me having classified material, took it and showed me the door.”
“Thank God for Xerox,” Harold chimed in, and everyone hooted.
Price For A Patriot Page 13