Battleline (2007)

by Jack - Seals 05 Terral

  "Did I say 'saved their lives'? Well, two of them did; the third, who had been badly wounded, was not destined to receive mercy from his war-mad captors. You see, ladies and gentlemen, this unfortunate man who had come to offer succor and aid to suffering Afghanistan people who are being smashed under the boot heels of the American occupiers turned out to be a burden to the murderers. Imagine! They would have to actually carry him--or have his unhurt companions do the job--but it was an inconvenience either way because it slowed them down. And what was their solution to this bother? I imagine many of you have already guessed the answer to that question. For those of you who are in suspense, I shall tell you what these brave Green Berets did. They shot him in cold blood. Yes! As he lay there in agony, unable to defend himself, they fired a bullet into his head." He paused again to let his words be contemplated by the viewers. "And when I return, I will provide more grisly details of this wanton criminal act."

  The floor director signaled that the commercials were running. Don Allen gave Wallenger a thumbs-up. "That's the way, Dirk! Give 'em hell!"

  Wallenger winked back at him, arranging his notes for the continuance of the program.

  .

  USS COMBS

  PERSIAN GULF

  16 JULY 0830 HOURS

  THE MH-60G chopper came down onto the helipad on the aft end of the ship, landing softly. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan stepped out and was met by Commanders Tom Carey and Ernest Berringer. There were no vocal greetings because of the noise of the aircraft's engine, only an exchange of salutes. Brannigan, carrying his M-16 and a bandolier of ammo, followed the other two officers off the landing area into the ship's superstructure.

  They could speak in the passageway as they hurried farther into the vessel's interior. Brannigan, who was between the two, was not in a good mood about being pulled out of the SEAL base camp. He spoke angrily to Carey, to his front. "What the fuck's going on--sir?"

  "You have an appointment with General Leroux," Carey answered over his shoulder.

  "Who the hell is he?"

  Berringer replied, "He's Army and the CG of the SFOB aboard the Combs. He's also a representative of the JCOS and has direct access to other command levels at the snap of one of his impatient fingers."

  "Shit!" Brannigan blurted, thinking, What the fuck did I do now?

  A marine stood at the entrance to Leroux's compartment and immediately opened the door as the three men walked up. Carey led the way in, where another door was opened for them by a Special Forces sergeant, who was obviously part of the SFOB staff. At that point Carey indicated that Brannigan was to step in first.

  When he entered he found himself facing a grizzled U. S. Army brigadier general who had the look of someone who was more at home in the field than in an office aboard a naval destroyer. Leroux leaned back in his chair and returned Brannigan's salute. He didn't say anything for a few moments, then growled. "So you're Brannigan, are you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There's a chair in the corner," Leroux said. "Grab it and drag it over here, then plop your ass down on it." He waited until the order was obeyed. "Alright, Brannigan, what's this shit about you shooting a wounded EPW?"

  Brannigan, now aware that both Carey and Berringer were standing behind him, took a deep breath. It was all coming home now. "It's true, sir."

  "Well now, ain't that some shit," Leroux said. "One of them pansy journalists at a White House press conference brought up the situation and it went out on the eleven-o'clock news. Real nasty, Brannigan! So you just tell me what happened. And I don't want any bullshit."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Goddamn! I'm getting real tired of all this sailor shit and this fucking boat and everything else," Leroux spat. "With me it's 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir,' not this 'aye' and 'nay' or whatever else y'all use. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir," Brannigan said.

  "Now, I know all about your Operation Battleline, so you can leave that out," Leroux said. "Tell me what happened at the ambush that led up to this wounded raghead getting killed."

  "Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "We were back at the LZ waiting for the chopper to begin the exfiltration with the three EPWs we'd captured. One of them suddenly jumped up and made a run for it."

  "Ha!" Leroux exclaimed. "So you shot him trying to escape, huh?"

  "No, sir," Brannigan said. "He tried to get into a bunch of boulders when a cobra bit him."

  "Jesus!" Leroux said with a laugh. "The son of a bitch was snake-bit?"

  "Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "Two of my men had chased him up to the spot and saw that the poison was spreading fast. There was nothing any of us could do to save him. So one of my men shot him in the head to put him out of his misery."

  "Was he following your orders when he killed the guy?"

  "Negative, sir. I was still back with the main group, and he did it on his own," the SEAL explained. "The guy is one of my best men, but he's impetuous as hell."

  "How did you handle the shooter?" Leroux asked.

  "I gave him the choice of a court-martial or administrative punishment," Brannigan explained. "He chose Article Fifteen, so I put him on watch-and-watch with plenty of chores to tend to between his stints of duty."

  "Okay, Brannigan," Leroux said. "We're going to have to do some fudging on this, understand? When the guy made his escape attempt, he was not wounded or injured at that time, right?"

  "That's right, sir."

  "Good," Leroux said. "The other two EPWs are confined at the Barri Prison in Bahrain. The source of the information might have come from one of them or maybe one of your guys. Have any of them been out of your OA since the incident?"

  "No, sir."

  Berringer, the intelligence officer, interjected, "I've spoken with the S-Two at Station Bravo, and we've come to the conclusion the leak came from inside the prison. We're prepared to start a probe."

  "Do it!" Leroux said. He turned back to Brannigan. "Okay, here's how it's gonna be. The official report of the investigation--which we just had right here in this office, by the way--is that a healthy, uninjured EPW was shot while trying to escape. I want you to make sure all your men understand this. It's not an outright falsehood, but the truth of the matter is that the guy got killed during an escape attempt. Now, if somebody pops up and happens to ask if he was bitten by a snake, we'll have to handle that a different way. But that's not much of a possibility. Hell! It's not even a probability."

  "Alright, sir. I understand."

  Leroux's demeanor relaxed, and he actually smiled. "So how's everything going in Operation Battleline?"

  "We're just sitting tight, sir," Brannigan said, "waiting for the worst-case scenario to unfold."

  "Do you need anything?"

  "No, sir. We're loaded for bear. This has been first-rate as far as supplies go."

  Leroux stood up and offered his hand. "You've done a fine job out here, Lieutenant Brannigan. Well appreciated."

  "I'll pass the word to my men."

  "Now keep in mind what I've said about this dead EPW," the general reiterated. "I don't want to see any American serviceman getting into trouble over this incident. And, believe me, there are some real bastards back home who love it when they can stick it to one of our ladies or gentlemen."

  "I understand, sir."

  Another exchange of salutes and Brannigan left the general's presence.

  CHAPTER 11

  STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN

  BARRI PRISON

  20 JULY 0215 HOURS

  FRED Leighton stood at his office window, looking down on the compound. Barri Prison had a stark, antiseptic appearance behind the razor wire and guard towers that rose off the desert floor. The white buildings with yellow trim were square, monotonous, and bland to the senses. But it wasn't designed to be an architectural masterpiece; this was a place of confinement for two-hundred-plus Arab prisoners swept up in various operations, not only throughout the Middle East but in other parts of the world as well. A few had been yanked off various airline flights afte
r their names were discovered on lists of terrorist suspects; others had been policed up for some deadly mischief in Europe. Like those captured in places such as Afghanistan and Iraq, these were brought to this place of confinement at the far western end of Station Bravo. The facility, fast taking the place of Guantanamo Bay, was isolated from the rest of the garrison by continual motor patrols keeping a 24/7 surveillance on the immediate area.

  This was Leighton's base of operations--not only because he was the area's principal CIA operative, but also because his fluency in Arabic put him on call for various interrogation tasks that popped up. His language skills gave him a psychological edge over the detainees during periods of intense questioning. Leighton had only the slightest trace of accent, and his complete knowledge of the Arabic tongue included not only the academic, technical, scientific, and military aspects, but also the latest slang and political rhetoric. As a boy growing up in several Middle East countries where his father worked as an oil field operations supervisor, Leighton spoke to every social class of Arab that existed, from intellectuals right down the social gamut to the rough-tough guys who did the muscle-work out on the derricks.

  His phone rang, and he turned around to answer it. The few words spoken informed him that the prisoner he requested had been taken to interrogation and was waiting for him.

  "Right," he responded, then hung up.

  HAMZA Qazi was alone in the room, sitting at a table with an empty chair on the other side. He could tell this place was for informal or even friendly interrogations, in contrast to other areas where he had been taken. For the first few times when he faced questioning after he arrived at the prison, there was nothing in the stark chambers except for the inevitable bright light in the ceiling. At those times Hamza would be wearing clothing much too large for him. This put him at a serious psychological disadvantage, since he had to make an effort to keep his pants from falling down. Additionally, he was forced to stand and wait for hours until a visitor appeared. The man usually brought a chair with him, and the man made himself comfortable while conducting the interrogation. Then another man would appear--sometimes friendlier and sometimes much more hostile--and take over the procedure as Hamza's legs trembled with fatigue and he struggled with his baggy attire. Eventually this second interrogator's place would be taken by the first or perhaps a third in a rotation that seemed endless.

  The door opened slowly, almost gently, and a man entered whom Hamza recognized, although he didn't know his name. The visitor smiled, saying, "Kaeyfae haelik?"

  "I am fine, shokran" Hamza replied.

  Fred Leighton sat down. "Would you like some coffee? I can have some brought in."

  "That would be nice," Hamza said, relaxing now.

  Leighton got up and went to the door, opening it and speaking some words in English, then came back and sat down again. "It's been a while since we've chatted, Hamza."

  "Yes, effendi"

  "How have you been? Are you getting enough to eat?"

  Hamza nodded, feeling more encouraged by the considerate questions. "Please, effendi, how long will I be here?"

  "I cannot say, Hamza," Leighton replied, noting that the prisoner did not include his friend Rahmat Nahayan in the question. "It depends on how you behave and cooperate."

  They were interrupted when an MP guard rapped on the door, then stepped into the room. He sat a thermos pitcher of coffee on the table with a tray holding cups, sugar, and milk, then made a silent exit.

  Leighton poured the coffee and gestured to Hamza to help himself to the sugar and milk. "Some of those guards are nice fellows, aren't they?"

  "Yes, effendi," Hamza said. "And some are very strict and unpleasant." After dumping in three servings of sugar and a generous pouring of milk, he stirred his coffee.

  "Yes, you are right," Leighton said. "Have you found any who are particularly friendly and helpful to you?"

  "Only one I can truthfully say I like," Hamza said.

  "Oh? And who might that be?"

  "Arjumand Allawi," Qazi answered. "He is a sergeant."

  "I see," Leighton said. "Do you and Arjumand talk a lot?"

  "Yes," Hamza said. "He was born in America but he speaks Arabic just like I do. His parents are from Syria."

  "What do you talk about?"

  Hamza shrugged. "Many things, effendi. He tells me about his home and I tell him about mine. Or sometimes we talk about football. Arjumand likes to play as much as I." He smiled modestly. "I was quite good back in my hometown league."

  Leighton knew he was talking about soccer, not the American brand of football. "I guess you miss the excitement of the games, lae?"

  Hamza grinned, saying, "It was my fondest dream to play in the World Cup."

  Leighton smiled back. "Perhaps someday you will." He let a moment of silence slip by as they both sipped their coffee. "Did Sergeant Allawi ever ask you about the circumstances when you were captured?"

  "Oh, yes," Hamza said. "He was very interested in that."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him what happened," Hamza said. "I told him how my friend Taqqee tried to run away and escape but was bitten by a snake."

  "Really?" Leighton said, feigning surprise. "How unusual. What happened?"

  "The Americans that captured us could not save him," Hamza said. "Taqqee was in great pain and dying. He said his prayers as loudly as possible as if he would have to shout for Allah to hear him. So one of the Americans had to shoot him so he would not suffer more."

  "It must have been a very large snake," Leighton said.

  "Oh, yes, effendi," Hamza said. "It was a cobra. People cannot survive such a serpent's poison. It is a sure awful death."

  "How terrible for Taqqee," Leighton said. He poured them each another cup of coffee. "Tell me more about your friend Sergeant Allawi. He seems a very nice fellow."

  The conversation settled into a pleasant chat, and Leighton paused after a while to go back to the door and request some pastries to go with the coffee.

  .

  SEAL BASE CAMP

  THIRD SECTION BUNKER

  21 JULY 2010 HOURS

  PO3C Chad Murchison came in from his stint on the second dog watch, going over to his living area. After setting down his M-16 and bandolier of ammunition, he knelt to pull some MREs out of his rucksack.

  Guy Devereaux, lounging on his foam mattress with a paperback Western, looked over at him. "You got a letter, Chad. It's over in Greene's area. He said he left it out where you could find it."

  "Thanks," Chad said. He walked over to his team leader's sleeping place and found it with some other letters for members of Foxtrot Fire Team. It was from his girlfriend, Penny Brubaker. "Ah, shit," he said.

  Guy chuckled. "What do you have there? Something from a bill collector?"

  "Naw," Chad said. "I don't know why I said that. It's from Penny."

  "That should put you in a good mood," Guy said. All the men in the detachment knew Penny Brubaker, having met her in Afghanistan when she worked for UNREO in a relief effort for the indigenous people. "I heard she's taken a house in Coronado and is waiting for you to finish your tour over here. She's a nice girl, man."

  Chad walked over and settled down on the bunker floor next to Guy. "Yeah. She's a nice girl, alright."

  Guy put his book down and sat up. "She must be lonely there."

  Chad shook his head. "She's got her cousin and her cousin's husband staying with her. So she's got company."

  "Are you two getting married when you get back?"

  "I don't know," Chad said. He looked at his buddy. "I'm really confused about how I feel about her."

  Guy raised his eyebrows. "What's the problem, man? She's a real doll. You must be a babe magnet to get a girl like her. She could be one of them supermodels."

  "I've known her all my life," Chad said. "I always had a big crush on her when we were kids, and we started going steady in prep school."

  "Oh, yeah," Guy said. "You didn't go to a regular high sc
hool, did you?"

  Chad shook his head. "It was a private high school. She and I were day students because we lived close. That was when I became quite fond of her in a romantic way."

  Guy chuckled. "You really express yourself funny at times."

  Chad grinned. "I know. At any rate, I was a year ahead of her and went to Yale while she finished her senior year. Well, to make a long story short, she threw me over for a jock. It shook me up bad, so I joined the Navy."

  "That's right!" Guy said. "When you ran into her over here you two hadn't seen each other for a long time." He showed an expression of puzzlement. "Wait a minute! You two was getting along great, as I recall. And in a 'romantic way,' as you would say with such sophistication."

  "She had dumped the guy and decided I was the one she wanted all along."

  "What the hell's the problem, buddy?" Guy exclaimed. "You turned out to be the best man after all."