Battleline (2007)

by Jack - Seals 05 Terral

  "Yeah," Chad said, getting to his feet. "But . . ." He stopped speaking for a moment. "I guess I'm emotionally flummoxed about the whole affair."

  "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," Guy said. "You sound like you're uncertain about how you feel about her."

  "Yeah."

  Chad walked over to his own area and sat down on the mattress, staring out the bunker entrance. Guy noticed he hadn't opened the letter; it was almost as if he dreaded reading it. Chad didn't seem to be exactly disturbed, but he wasn't relaxed and at ease either.

  It's gonna be real interesting to see how all that works out when we get back to Coronado, Guy thought. He settled down and turned his attention back to his Western.

  .

  STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN

  BARRI PRISON

  23 JULY 1000 HOURS

  SERGEANT Arjumand Allawi sat in a chair outside the office door, working hard at trying to appear nonchalant. He was from an Army Reserve Military Police unit in Buffalo, New York, and had been in his present position as a guard at Barri Prison for nine months.

  He had grown up bilingual, speaking both Arabic and English, acquiring fluency in both languages with the ease of all youngsters exposed to a multicultural environment. Both his parents were from Syria and were well established in the local Islamic community in Buffalo. The family had an ethnic grocery store that sold all sorts of canned and packaged foods from the Middle East. They even stocked soft drinks and fruit juice that most customers purchased for sentimental reasons rather than for any superiority over American products.

  The door next to him opened, and Allawi turned to see Fred Leighton looking out at him. Allawi always thought there was something weird about the guy; he wore BDUs like everybody else, but he sported no unit or rank insignia on the uniform. Rumors abounded about who he might really be, the suppositions ranging from a CIA agent to an operative of the Saudi Arabian intelligence service. Those who heard him speak Arabic noted it was flawless, with an exotic sort of accent.

  Leighton finally spoke after a moment of staring at Allawi. "Come in."

  Allawi walked into the office, noting there was a desk in the center rear of the room, and a table and chairs off to the side. That was where he was directed with curt gestures. Leighton walked around and sat down. He didn't say anything for almost a full minute. Allawi was annoyed. "I'm not gonna stand here all fucking day, dude."

  "You'll do what I tell you," Leighton said.

  "You don't show any rank, pal," Allawi said. "So unless you produce a fucking ID card that shows you're an E-Six or above, I'm not taking any shit off you."

  "Sit down."

  Allawi obeyed, noting there was something about Leighton that was far, far out of the ordinary. "So what do you want?"

  "You're a reservist from Buffalo, New York, right?"

  "Right," Allawi said.

  "And you attend Nijmi-min-Islam mosque in that city, do you not?"

  "Well," Allawi said, "I've attended services there, but I'm really not religious. I went because my father insisted. You know how old folks can be about stuff like that. I haven't been inside the place in a couple of years."

  "You were there about six times last year in the week of the second to the eighth of May," Leighton said.

  Cold fear gripped Allawi like ice water thrown over him.

  "And you've been present at the house of Askary Shareef on many occasions," Leighton stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "Why?"

  "Well, y'know, I went there, y'know, with friends," Allawi said. "Some guys I knew were invited, and they asked me to come along. It was social. Just sitting around and talking."

  "What were you talking about?"

  "Hey, am I in some kind of trouble here?" Allawi said in nervous anger. "Just in case, I want a lawyer. Understand? I'm not going to sit here and go through a third degree."

  "Yeah, you will."

  The tone in Leighton's voice was one of finality, clout, and power. Here was a man who, for whatever reason or authority, could go far beyond the norm of legality and not have to worry about it.

  "Let's just wait a minute," Allawi said. "This is getting too weird."

  "You like to talk to the prisoners, don't you?" Leighton asked, ignoring his statement.

  "Well, yeah, it's always in the line of duty," Allawi said. "Well, sometimes I do some chitchat, y'know. It's a normal thing." He cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

  "I believe it's called communication."

  "Who do you talk to after your chitchats with the prisoners?"

  "I don't know what you mean," Allawi said.

  "I'll be more explicit," Leighton said. "When you pick up information from the prisoners, who do you pass it on to?"

  "I have no idea where this is leading."

  "I'll be even more explicit," Leighton said. "Who did you tell about the two prisoners Hamza Qazi and Rahmat Nahayan and their buddy who was bitten by a cobra? I'm really interested in hearing about the guy who was snake-bit while he was an EPW. Now, who was it you passed that information on to? And why?"

  "Look, whoever you are, I'm not putting up with this shit, understand?"

  "Now let me explain something to you, Sergeant Allawi," Leighton said in a very calm tone of voice. "You can either be cooperative here or somewhere a lot worse. If you're not careful you're gonna end up so deep in the federal prison system they'll have to pump fresh air and sunshine in to you."

  Allawi glared back defiantly.

  CHAPTER 12

  SEAL BASE CAMP

  24 JULY 0615 HOURS

  ALL hands, or as SCPO Buford Dawkins would have said, "every swinging dick" of Brannigan's Brigands was standing-to at their posts. Those who had been off-duty had been summoned from their billets by the noise of several helicopters on the Zaheya side of the valley. The disturbance brought the SEALs rushing to the MLR with weapons and bandoliers, expecting the worst-case scenario. The aircraft, out of sight behind the western mountain range, could be heard settling down on the LZ to the rear of the enemy's fortified area. The telltale remnants of dust clouds drifted into the SEALs' collective view on the southern portion of the OA.

  Lieutenant Bill Brannigan dispatched the RTO, Frank Gomez, to make a transmission to the USS Combs for a quick surveillance flight over the area. Gomez returned a little less than a couple of minutes later with a scribbled message, and handed the note to the Skipper. He read the missive, wadded it up, and threw it over the parapet, to be buffeted by the wind along the mountainside.

  Brannigan spoke into his LASH. "We're gonna stay on a hundred percent alert until further notice. SFOB isn't able to provide any aerial recon right now, since all available aircraft at Shelor Field are committed to other missions."

  The Odd Couple occupied the OP just above headquarters, and they both peered over no-man's-land, carefully looking for some indication of activity. Dave Leibowitz shook his head. "I don't see anything unusual."

  "Me neither," Mike Assad said. "Them guys are out of sight in their positions, and nobody's scurrying around. Everything seems laid back over there."

  "That doesn't mean the shit isn't about to hit the fan," Leibowitz said.

  They heard some scuffling below, and a few moments later the Skipper came through the hole, keeping low as he crawled over to join them. "We couldn't see anything from the MLR. Have you guys picked up on any activity?"

  "Negative, sir," Assad replied. "There hasn't been a thing going on over there. As usual, we can't see any coming or going. But it's obvious some choppers have come in to visit the bad guys. I'd give my next payday to find out what's going on."

  Brannigan had his own binoculars trained on the site. "Maybe it's just a supply delivery or something like that. But you never know." After a quarter hour of observation, he was ready to leave. "Keep your eyes peeled, guys. The whole detachment is going to be on watch for a while. When I decide we can stand down I'll send somebody up here to relieve you. It'll probably be Miskoski and Puglisi and their snipe
r rifles. Stay alert!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  Brannigan wiggled back through the hole and made his way down into the bunker.

  MAJOR Arsalaan Sikes Pasha watched the fifty newcomers unass the pair of Iranian Army French-manufactured Aerospatiale helicopters. The newly arrived Arabs wore nondescript fatigue uniforms that had evidently been culled from supply quartermaster warehouses of at least a trio of nations. Now that they were on the ground, the group milled around in confusion amid a trio of large bundles they had brought with them. Then Sikes spotted a familiar figure emerging from the nearest aircraft, stepping gingerly to the ground. The Brit instantly recognized him as his former mentor in the Jihad Abadi.

  "Hey there, Khalil!" Sikes called out. "Wot the bluddy hell are you doing here?"

  Khalil Farouk showed a smile of genuine pleasure at the sight of his English friend. He waved and hurried over. "Arsalaan! It gives me much pleasure to look upon you again." They embraced in the manner of Islamic males. "You are looking most soldierly, my friend."

  "I been doing more'n just a bit o' soljering, you can believe that," Sikes said. He gestured to the crowd of young Arab men.

  "Are them the poor buggers wot's gonna blow themselves up then?"

  Farouk nodded. "Yes. It was deemed necessary that drastic steps be taken to loosen the Americans' grip on this area."

  "I ain't very pleased with this, Khalil," Sikes said glumly, giving the volunteer suicide bombers a somber gaze. "Most o' them blokes look like they ain't got the sense to come in out o' the bluddy rain."

  "You must look upon this with cold logic, Arsalaan," Farouk said. "Their deaths will be a great help to our cause and will save having trained soldiers killed."

  "Well," Sikes conceded, "I suppose you're right, but I ain't too keen on it; not by a long shot."

  The helicopters revved up and climbed back into the sky, the rotors kicking up clouds of blinding, stinging dust that swept over the scene, causing everyone to duck and turn away. When the disturbance dissipated, Khalil looked up at the mountain next to the LZ. "I see no fortress, Arsalaan."

  "Oh, it's there, don't you worry none about that," Sikes replied. He looked around, then barked at his warrant officer. "Mr. Hashiri! Get over there and get them blowsy bastards organized! And detail a few of 'em to carry that gear with 'em." Just as Hashiri trotted off to take care of the task, the Brit added, "And be careful of them bundles. They're bluddy bombs!"

  Hashiri organized the crowd of Arabs into a reasonable semblance of orderliness and got them to pick up everything they had brought with them. When he was satisfied they were under control, he led them off the LZ toward the ingress that would give them access to the interior of the fortified mountain.

  Sikes Pasha and his friend Khalil Farouk followed, renewing their friendship with animated conversation.

  .

  STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN

  BARRI PRISON

  26 JULY 1320 HOURS

  PO2C Mike Assad and the CIA operative Fred Leighton were not in the main building of the prison. The two had just entered a small cell block under the escort of a taciturn guard. The lockup was a square cement structure with three rows of cells that were connected by short hallways. No windows offered outside views or natural illumination for the foreboding interior of the structure. The lights in the ceiling were extremely bright, giving the place an aura of brilliant, stark hopelessness. And that was exactly the intent of the architects who designed the place.

  When the trio reached the end of the first hallway, they halted. The guard turned to a steel door, pausing only long enough to open a viewing port. After a quick glance, he inserted a key into the heavy portal and pulled it open. Mike and Leighton stepped inside. A single prisoner sat on his bunk, looking at them. He wore an orange jumpsuit in the stark atmosphere of his cell, and he was listless to the point of appearing to have no interest in his surroundings.

  Leighton, turning to the SEAL, pointed at the inmate. "Do you know this guy?"

  Mike, his BDUs still smelling of wood smoke and sweat after his quick departure from the SEAL base camp, walked in front of the man and looked down at him. "Yeah. I know him. I'm not sure of his first name, but his last is Allawi."

  Sergeant Arjumand Allawi studied his visitor for a moment, noting he was an Arab-American. Then he shrugged. "I never saw this guy before in my life."

  "Nobody's asking you questions about our guest, Allawi," Leighton said. He turned his attention to Mike. "Where do you know him from?"

  "Buffalo, New York," Mike said. "The Ninji-min-Islam mosque."

  Allawi sneered. "You was never there."

  Mike, in accordance with previous instructions from Leighton, remained silent, stepping back toward the cell door.

  Leighton walked to a point in front of Allawi, standing with his feet apart and arms crossed over his chest. "This man with me is a SEAL in the United States Navy, Allawi."

  "Whoopee," Allawi said sarcastically.

  "He was undercover at that mosque as an operative," Leighton said. "He took all the classes of indoctrination and showed the right attitude. When they figured he was ready, he was shipped off to Pakistan to join the al-Mimkhalif terrorist group." He paused. "I should have said the defunct al-Mimkhalif terrorist group."

  Allawi glanced at Mike again. "I still don't know him."

  "Let's not say you don't know him," Leighton said. "Let's say you don't remember him or maybe you don't recognize him. But he knows you, and that's what's important."

  Allawi shrugged. "He's bullshitting you, Leighton."

  Leighton glanced over at Mike. "Tell us what you recall about the prisoner here, Petty Officer Assad."

  "When the other guys in my group and I first arrived at the mosque to get with the terrorist program, he gave us an indoctrination and explained the setup," Mike said. "He also taught a couple of classes on the Arabic language and alphabet."

  "Sure," Allawi said. "I gave classes on Arabic because there were lots of guys who had been born in America. Some of 'em were second-and third-generation and hadn't been exposed much to written Arabic. The mullahs taught religious stuff because some of the guys hadn't had much of an Islamic environment in their homes. Hell, there's nothing wrong with that, is there? It's called going back to your roots; very hip and trendy."

  Mike said, "What I recall most vividly about this guy is that he was the organizer of a program to get some of the students to enlist in the reserve components of the armed forces. I'm talking about the National Guard, reserves, and outfits like that to get military training, and learn the SOPs of the various units. He led the way when he joined the Army Reserves. They made a big deal out of it at the mosque."

  "See?" Allawi said. "I was a patriot and wanted to serve my country."

  "Bullshit," Mike said. "I remember your hate-America talks and all that death-to-the-infidels crap you preached."

  "I'm not talking to you two fucking guys anymore," Allawi said.

  Leighton walked over and banged on the door. When it opened he motioned Mike to follow him out into the hall. Mike walked over to the exit, then turned and looked back at Allawi.

  Dude, you are so compromised.

  .

  OVAL OFFICE WHITE HOUSE

  28 JULY 1430 HOURS

  WHEN Liam Bentley walked into the Oval Office he was surprised to see not only the President standing at the front of the desk, but also the woman and two men sitting in nearby chairs, like it was a casual visit among neighbors. The Chief Executive stepped toward the visitor with his hand extended. "Welcome to the Oval Office, Mr. Bentley."

  "Thank you, Mr. President," Bentley said, holding on to his briefcase as he shook hands.

  "This is somewhat of a historical moment," the President said. "The newly created post of FBI White House Liaison Officer goes into effect at this time and date. This is something entirely fresh and innovative."

  "Yes, sir," Bentley said. "I'm honored to be the first."

  "Let me introduce you to my
White House chief of staff, Ms. Arlene Entienne; the press secretary, Owen Peckham; and Colonel John Turnbull of the Special Operations Liaison Staff." He chuckled. "We seem to have our full share of liaison today."

  Bentley took an empty chair as directed, putting his briefcase in his lap. "I'm most happy to join this group, and I'm looking forward to all the coordinating and information-sharing aspects of the arrangement. I'm sure we'll be able to accomplish many meaningful tasks that will increase the effectiveness of the homeland security program."

  Colonel Turnbull decided the guy was probably a damn good agent, but he had way too much urbanity to be a soldier. Probably too much to be a field operative for the bureau either, but well suited for a supervisory or administrative position.

  The President took another chair with the group, looking directly at Bentley. "I have been told you can bring us up to date on this matter in which a member of the press made inquiries involving the shooting death of a wounded enemy prisoner of war."

  "Yes, sir," Bentley said. "And speaking of briefings and the like, the CIA brought me up to date, since their representative to the White House is in the Middle East."

  "Yes," Arlene said. "That would be Edgar Watson. He's another member of our group, as is Dr. Carl Joplin, who is also in the war area."

  "Well, to get started," Bentley said, retrieving a report from his briefcase, "the journalist in question--Dirk Wallenger of Global News Broadcasting--didn't seem to have all the facts straight, or he changed them to suit his own purposes. The prisoner was not wounded. As a matter of fact, he had been bitten by a deadly, poisonous snake. It was a cobra."