Omega Sanction

by Bob Mayer

  "Camp Rowe?"

  "Used to be called Camp Mackall, but they renamed the main compound after Colonel Nick Rowe. He started up the SERE—survival, evasion, resistance and escape—school for Special Operations. He had a lot of firsthand knowledge he thought it was important to pass on. He'd been a prisoner of the Viet Cong for five years before escaping. He was a pretty remarkable guy."

  They had just passed a sign telling them they were back on a military reservation after traveling through the North Carolina countryside for half an hour.

  "You keep saying 'was'. What happened to him?"

  "Assassinated in the Philippines in 1989. Supposedly by communists."

  "Supposedly?"

  Dublowski sighed. "That's the official version." He reached a three-way intersection and turned right on a narrow dirt road with tall pines on either side.

  "And the unofficial version?"

  "Long story," Dublowski said. "The short version of the long story is that Rowe was helping investigate some people—our people, CIA and SF—for drug smuggling out of Colombia in the late seventies and early eighties. The Noriega connection. Quite a few people who were involved in that whole mess had accidents or were killed. Too many for it to be a coincidence. Someone was covering their tracks and they did it well."

  "Jesus," Parker whispered.

  "Yeah. Of course it just might have been a hit by the communists. Who knows? I sure don't." A fenced compound came up on their left. "There's the obstacle course." Dublowski pointed out the window. "It runs under this road in a tunnel they got to crawl through. That at least hasn't changed much since I went through."

  They drove around and reached the main gate for the camp. Two helicopters were parked across the street in an open field, a group of students clustered around them. Dublowski drove through the gate and parked.

  "This way," he said, leading her toward one of the many metal-sided, one-story buildings that filled the camp. The sign on the door said it was the camp headquarters.

  Dublowski walked straight through a small office area, ignoring the various people working there, and straight to a door marked camp sergeant major.

  "Don't you know how to knock?" a voice bellowed.

  Parker looked over Dublowski's shoulder. A small wiry man was sitting behind a very large desk. He jumped to his feet and came around the desk, walking with a limp. He began pumping Dublowski's hand as soon as he reached him. "Goddamn, Dan. Long time no see."

  "Good to see you, Pete." Dublowski turned. "Pete Kilgore, this is Colonel Parker. She wears a blue suit when she's on official business."

  Kilgore nodded. "Ma'am." He took in her civilian attire, and Dublowksi's comment and mood, and sat back down behind his desk. "What brings you out this way?"

  "I need information on a student," Dublowski said.

  "You could have got that from the Puzzle Palace," Kilgore said, referring to the Special Warfare Center and school headquarters at Bragg.

  "I could have got paperwork from SWC," Dublowski said. "But someone might have wanted to know why I was asking, and I also want some firsthand feedback on this guy."

  "So this really ain't official?"

  "No," Dublowski said. "I need a favor."

  "Well, I owe you a few," Kilgore granted. "But giving out info on students—man, you have no idea what it's like out here. We get guys actually bringing lawsuits against the school when we kick them out. Saying we weren't fair."

  "I remember when an instructor could look at the way a guy tied a knot putting up his poncho hooch and tell him to pack his shit and walk the forty miles back to Bragg. And he wasn't booting him because of the knot, but because the instructor knew the guy wouldn't make it on a team. Now you got to have a whole freaking file and consult a guy a half dozen times and document it and all sorts of crud to even begin the process of separation."

  "The person I'm interested in is a foreign student," Dublowski said. "Came through here about two years ago. You were out here then, right?"

  "Yeah, been here almost five years now," Kilgore said. He reached down and thumped something under the desk. "Ever since they chopped the old hoofer off. I can still ruck with the students, though. Makes 'em feel pretty small, to have a one-legged old man walking out in front."

  "This guy I want to know about was a Saudi," Dublowski said, cutting into Kilgore's ramble.

  The smile left Kilgore's face. "A Saudi? Two years ago?"

  "Name of Akil Matin." Parker spoke for the first time.

  "I remember him," Kilgore said. "Son-of-a-bitch. He was a hard ass. Lots of foreign students, especially from certain countries, they just want to punch their ticket and go home, expending minimal effort in the meanwhile. Once they figure out we ain't gonna fail them, that is." Kilgore looked at Parker. "Long time ago we used to grade foreigners just like U.S. students. Flunk 'em out if they weren't up to snuff. Then we failed a couple of guys from a certain African country. When those guys got home—swack—their heads got chopped off for disgracing their country. State Department didn't think that made for too good diplomacy so the official, unofficial policy is to not fail the foreigners."

  "But this Matin guy, he didn't need no help. That was one tough hombre." Kilgore shook his head. "Why do you want to know about him?"

  "I think he might have killed my daughter," Dublowski said. "Or, if she isn't dead, he's holding her somewhere."

  "Holy fuck," Kilgore exclaimed. "You're shitting me." One look at Dublowski's face, though, and he knew this wasn't a joke. "What can I do to help?"

  "I'm going to go after Matin," Dublowski said. "One way or another, he and I are meeting. Anything you can tell me will help."

  "Damn," Kilgore said. "Be careful. He dislocated a guy's elbow in the pits during hand-to-hand training. Got him in an elbow lock and pushed it. Everyone could hear it go. I'd have kicked the SOB out, but he was a foreign student. He's good with his hands. Good shot too. But mean. And he didn't play well with others, to put it nicely. Not a team man at all. A loner."

  "Did you ever meet his brother, Jawhar Matin? Chopper pilot?" Parker asked.

  "No."

  "Any idea where his home is?" Dublowski asked. "Where he might hole up?"

  "No, but we got another Saudi officer here right now," Kilgore said. "Want to talk to him? He might know something about this Matin fellow."

  Dublowski had already turned for the door. "Yes."

  They walked out of the headquarters building and followed Kilgore across the compound to the east side, where a sixty-foot wooden tower was set in a small clearing. A line of men waited to climb the stairs to the top, where instructors were hooking in students to ropes and sending them over the side to rappel down.

  "Where's al Arif?" Kilgore asked one of the men wearing a green beret who was supervising the men holding the ropes at the bottom on belay.

  "Over at the east LZ for STABO," the instructor answered.

  "This way." Kilgore could move amazingly fast for a man with an artificial leg.

  They walked along a narrow path through the pine trees. Parker could hear the sound of a helicopter coming closer. They came to a field where a group of students and a couple of instructors were clustered. Dublowski nudged her and pointed up. A Blackhawk helicopter was coming in from the west. Parker squinted, trying to see what was dangling on a rope fifty feet below the chopper.

  She stopped as she realized there were four men, arms linked, at the end of the rope. The chopper came to a hover high overhead, then slowly descended, the men coming closer to the ground. They touched down and quickly unhooked from the rope. They ran clear as the chopper came in and landed.

  Parker returned her attention to the ground. Dublowski was standing next to one of the Green Beret instructors, talking to him. Parker walked over.

  "There's al Arif." Dublowski pointed at a man wearing lighter, sand-and-brown-patterned camouflage among the green-camouflaged Americans. He walked through the students and tapped the Saudi on the shoulder. "I'd like to speak
to you."

  "Yes?" al Arif looked from Dublowski to Parker and back.

  "About Akil and Jawhar Matin."

  There was a slight hesitation that Dublowski caught before the other man answered. "I do not know those names."

  "Akil and Jawhar Matin—Hakim Yasin's bastards," Dublowski amplified.

  "Oh, no," al Arif's head was on a string, jerking back and forth. He stepped back. "I will not talk about them."

  Dublowski tapped him on the shoulder. "We're going for a ride together."

  "What?" Parker asked, but Dublowski was already walking forward, pulling al Arif with him. He grabbed a small FM radio from one of the instructors, clipping it onto his belt, running the wires up inside his shirt and putting the headset on, the boom mike in front of his lips and the earpiece in.

  He picked up a STABO harness and strapped it on, pulling the green nylon straps tight. It went around his chest, with two straps through his legs and over his shoulders. Arif was having a harness put on, assisted by one of the instructors. The blades of the Blackhawk were still turning, the crew chief making sure the rope was free of any snags.

  Dublowski gave the crew chief a thumbs up and the Blackhawk lifted off, the rope pulling up below it. Dublowski walked to the end of the rope and clipped the snap link to the front of his rig. He gestured for al Arif—who was looking a bit confused to be singled out to go next—to come closer. He snapped Arif in.

  "Clear," Dublowski said into the mike.

  "Lifting." The pilot's voice was a crackle in his left ear.

  Dublowski smiled at al Arif, who was looking up with wide eyes at the chopper fifty feet overhead. "Relax and enjoy the ride," Dublowski advised him. He reached down, fingers running along al Arif's harness. "Here, let me adjust this for you."

  "I do not want to do this!" al Arif cried out.

  "Too late." Dublowski felt the harness tighten around his body, then his feet leave the ground. Al Arif's body was pulled up against his. He heard a whine of pain from the other man as the leg strap he had "adjusted" tightened against al Arif's testicles, the man's body weight adding to the force.

  Dublowski reached with one hand and grabbed the Saudi by the neck, while with the other he pulled the strap back into proper position. "I think you want to talk to me now, don't you?"

  Tears were coming out of al Arif's eyes. The Blackhawk began moving horizontally and they were pulled along, flying a hundred feet above the treetops.

  "What's going on down there?" the pilot asked over the radio.

  "Just fly," Dublowski growled into the mike. He tightened his grip on al Arif's neck. "Jawhar and Akil Matin. Talk to me."

  Al Arif started to shake his head, then realized he better not. He gasped the words out with each tortured breath. "I cannot speak of them. It would be dangerous."

  "This is dangerous," Dublowski said. "This is dangerous now. You can worry about the Matin brothers later or me now. Your choice." He released his grip on al Arif's neck and reached down to the snap link connecting the other man's harness to the rope. He turned the locking screw until it was free.

  Al Arif tried to fight Dublowski, but the Green Beret blocked the smaller man's efforts. He pressed the snap link gate in. "Long way down," Dublowski said.

  Al Arif's eyes were wide open, staring down at the pine trees rushing by below his dangling feet. "Please!"

  "What the hell are you doing down there?" The pilot's voice was worried.

  Dublowski looked up. He could see the crew chief leaning out of the cargo bay, watching them.

  "Just fly the helicopter," he said into the mike. "Tell me about Jawhar and Akil," he said to Arif, shaking the smaller man's harness.

  "They are very powerful. Their father is very, very powerful." Al Arif looked down at the open gate. "Please, close it!"

  Dublowski let it snap shut, but he didn't screw the lock down. "More."

  The Blackhawk was banking, turning back toward the landing zone.

  "They are army like me, but they are more than army. They work for the secret police."

  "Do they kidnap girls?"

  "I don't know."

  The chopper was slowing as they approached the LZ.

  Dublowski pushed on the snap link once more, opening the gate. "Do they kidnap girls?"

  A1 Arif's head bobbed anxiously. "I have heard rumors."

  "Where do they take them?"

  "I—" a1 Arif thought better of what he was about to say. "I have heard only rumors. A place. A secret place. Called Nabi Ulmalhamah. I do not know where it is. I swear on Allah!"

  The tops of the tall pine trees were fifty feet below them. Dublowski could see the large open area where the airfield was off to the northeast.

  "What are they up to?" Dublowski lifted the Saudi up, free of the snap link, his legs dangling.

  "I do not understand!" al Arif whined.

  Dublowski felt something wet on his leg. He looked down—al Arif had wet himself.

  "They met with some arms dealers in Germany. Why?"

  "I do not know! I swear. What Prince Yasin does, no one knows except him."

  The chopper was lowering them straight down. Dublowski let go of al Arif. The other man yelped, his eyes closed. The harness clicked into the snap link. Their feet touched down. He unhooked as Sergeant Major Kilgore and Colonel Parker came rushing up.

  "What the hell was that?" Kilgore demanded. "The pilot's been having a fit over the radio."

  Dublowski pulled free of the rope. Al Arif collapsed on unsteady legs, an instructor unhooking his harness from the rope. The Blackhawk sidled over and landed about sixty feet away. The pilot was out the door and striding over to them.

  "Who the hell do you think you are?" the pilot pulled off his helmet and demanded of Dublowski.

  "Whoa!" Parker yelled as Dublowski pulled a pistol out from under his shirt and pulled the slide back. She stepped between the sergeant major and the pilot. "Why don't we all calm down a little here?"

  "Don't get in my face," Dublowski yelled at the pilot.

  "Who the fuck—"

  "Enough!" Parker yelled, pulling her ID card out and shoving it in the pilot's face. "I will take care of this man. Is that clear?"

  The pilot saw the rank on the ID card, but his face was still flushed. "He could have killed that man—" He pointed at al Arif. "When we're in the air, every person attached to that helicopter is my responsibility, ma'am."

  "I understand that," Parker said. "And as I said, I will take care of this man. He's under my command."

  "Let's all just chill out here," Kilgore said. "We're just training. The sergeant major was just introducing our allied friends to a form of interrogation."

  The pilot shook his head and walked away. Parker grabbed Dublowski by the arm and pulled him in the opposite direction. "What the hell was that?" she demanded.

  "Our friend was reluctant to talk," Dublowski said. "I helped him open up."

  "You're a flaming asshole," Kilgore said with a laugh. "Surprised your little friend didn't shit in his pants."

  "Can you keep him away from a phone?" Dublowski asked as they passed the rappelling tower.

  "Hell, yeah," Kilgore said. "Al Arif's entire class is going to the field for two weeks. Ain't no phones out there in the woods."

  "Thanks," Dublowski said. "I owe you."

  They walked though the compound to Dublowski's truck.

  "Anything else you need, give me a call," Kilgore called out as they climbed in.

  Dublowski started the car and drove out the gate.

  "Stop the car," Parker said as they turned onto the dirt road.

  "What?"

  "Stop the car."

  Dublowski braked and they stopped in the shade of the pine trees. "What's up?"

  Parker turned in her seat until she faced the sergeant major. "Are you going to be under control?"

  "I was—"

  "You could have killed that man and he wasn't the enemy," Parker said.

  "I just—"

>   "Are you going to be under control?" Parker spit the words out flatly and harshly. "I understand your concern for your daughter, but I'm not going to have the cure be worse than the disease here. I've been there before and I'm not going there again. Is that clear?"

  Dublowski stared at her for several seconds, a muscle on the side of his face jumping. Then he nodded. "Clear."

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Ukrainian colonel came to an abrupt halt three feet inside the door as he caught sight of the bed.

  "What is that?"

  Jawhar pushed the door shut behind the colonel and put an arm around his shoulder, pulling him farther into the room. He smiled. "I call it art."

  "It's a woman," the colonel said.

  "Yes. My friend Katrina. She has kept me occupied while I waited for you."

  "Is she alive?"

  Jawhar let go of the colonel and looked at the bed. "Yes."

  The bed was soaked with blood from the body. Long slices crisscrossed Katrina's body. Some were still slowly oozing blood, others had scabbed over already.

  "What is that?" The colonel pointed at a bag attached to a coat hanger looped over the top stanchion of the headboard. A tube ran from the bag to the woman's neck.

  "Plasma. I wouldn't want her to bleed out on me," Jawhar said. "It cost me quite a bit on the black market, but fortunately everything is for sale here." He took a step closer to the bed. "As I cut, I replace what comes out. This can go on for a very long time."

  The Ukranian colonel was a hard man, but his face was white.

  Jawhar held out his knife. "Would you like to contribute to my work in progress?"

  "No." The colonel cocked his head as he heard a faint mewling noise.

  "Her screams." Jawhar held up a glass from the nightstand. There was something floating in it. "Her tongue. I removed it first to keep working conditions tolerable and the neighbors from investigating."

  The colonel stepped back. "But the police—"

  "Oh, come, now," Jawhar said. "You know as well as I do that the police will not care about some prostitute. Besides, I will be long gone before she is found, will I not?"

  "But I am associated with this room." The colonel couldn't take his eyes off the woman on the bed.