The jet engines continued to turn as the sailors on the flight deck ran to place chocks around its wheels to keep it from rolling on the moving deck.
Two members of Rat’s team grabbed Duar’s arms tightly and walked him down the ramp. His face expressed shock and dismay when he realized he was on an American warship at sea. His head spun, searching in vain for some sign of land. Several Masters at Arms—the ship’s police force—walked to the helicopter to escort Duar and Mazmin. Duar’s legs stiffened as he resisted and struggled. Two SAS members lifted him up so only his toes were in contact with the ship’s deck as they hustled him toward the island of the carrier.
Rat stepped off the ramp of the helicopter and watched Duar fight his way toward the island. As the second helicopter was settling onto the fantail at the other end of the Belleau Wood, Rat followed Duar.
Mazmin fought his escorts even more than Duar had. He tried to spit on Rat as he walked by. Rat told the MAAs to stop. They quickly looked at him and noticed the Sudanese Army uniform and hat. The chief petty officer in charge of the group wasn’t about to stop for some African major. He looked at the major again. He noticed Rat’s dark skin but thought it was probably from a tan. Rat didn’t have the look of an African, or Middle Easterner. And his bright blue eyes were a dead giveaway. He noticed Rat’s arms, the highly defined taut muscles that showed great strength without bulk, and the carriage of someone who knew how to handle himself. The chief was very confused. He started to push Mazmin on, but Rat said, “I’m Lieutenant Rathman. Navy SEAL.”
“Sorry, sir,” the chief said. “The uniform threw me.”
“Threw him too,” Rat said, smiling. The smile vanished as he looked into Mazmin’s hostile eyes. He spoke to Mazmin in Arabic. “I’m going to visit you tonight, asshole. You think almost drowning in the desert was bad? Tonight it’s the real thing. Swim call. I’m going to drag you out of the brig and throw you over the side when nobody’s looking. You’ll fall into the black ocean yelling for help and nobody will hear you.” Rat smiled at him and walked a good distance behind him to the island.
“You cannot.”
“Just remember, my name is Rat. R-A-T. I’ll let you know it’s me before I get you out of the brig. I don’t want you to have any doubt in your mind about what’s happening. But remember, it will be very late tonight, when you’re asleep. I’ll expect you to get up well. No sleeping in. Make sure you set your alarm.”
“You are a whore,” Mazmin said.
Rat looked at him with a cold glare. He wanted Mazmin to think he was crazy, that he might do anything, like facing a pitcher that threw incredibly hard and was so wild you never knew where the ball was going. He wanted Mazmin to think of going to sleep as an act of courage. He gave the chief a nod to take Mazmin and they pushed him toward the island.
Groomer loved Rat and the games he played with bad people. “What the hell did you say to him? He looks like he saw a ghost.”
“Told him tonight he might get a chance to see what drowning was really like.”
“You’re cruel.”
“Just like to give them something to think about.”
“You doin’ the interrogation?”
“I’m going to ask to sit in. I don’t know who they’ve got aboard to do it. If they’ve got an Arabic speaker who knows his ass from his elbow maybe they’ll be okay.”
“Uh-oh,” Groomer said as they stepped through the hatch into the island. Several people were obviously waiting for them, including the captain of the ship.
“Are you Kent Rathman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. I’m Captain Larry Hogan.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“You got Duar?”
“Yes, sir. We did.”
“We’d like to hear the details of the operation.”
“Yes, sir. I have to send a message to my boss first, then I’d be glad to give you all a debrief.”
Hogan frowned. He wasn’t used to being put off. “How long will it take you to complete your message?”
“Not more than twenty minutes, sir.”
“Fine. Come to my wardroom when you’re done, and we can talk about it. Have some breakfast.”
“Very well, sir.”
“You know where it is?”
“I’m sure I can find it, sir.”
“Good. I’ve asked Petty Officer Brady to escort you and make sure you’re taken care of. See you at breakfast,” Hogan said, returning the way he’d come.
Rat turned to a sailor standing nearby. “Can you direct me to the comm center?”
“It’s kind of hard, sir. I’d be glad to escort you there.”
“Let’s go,” Rat said.
He and Groomer finished the message to Don Jacobs—the head of the CIA Counterterrorism Center, the CTC—in fifteen minutes. Rat noticed the sailor had not only escorted them there, he had waited for them. “You still here? You spying on us?” Rat asked, pulling his chain.
“Not at all, sir,” the sailor said, his face reddening.
“We’ve got to go to the captain’s wardroom. Can you get us there?”
“Yes, sir.” He hurried out of the comm center. “Right this way.”
They were there in less than three minutes. Brady opened the door for Rat, and he and Groomer, the only other officer on the team, stepped into the beautiful, carpeted room where the captain ate his meals and had staff meetings. It could comfortably seat twenty. There were five mess specialists in crisp white jackets serving breakfast to the officers around the table.
As soon as Rat smelled the bacon his mouth began to water. He realized how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten anything since boarding the C-17 the night before. The Air Force had offered some mysterious packaged food while they were circling over the desert, but Rat had passed. He didn’t want stomach cramps as he dived out of a jet at twenty-five thousand feet.
Rat saw the captain sitting at the head of the table. He was directly under one of the many spotlights in the overhead that gave the room its special look. His bald head reflected the spotlight like a mirror. Rat tried not to laugh.
“Rathman! Come in!” Hogan yelled. “Sit right up here at my table. What’s the name of your other man?”
“Ted Groome,” Rat said.
“Both of you, sit here. You must be starving. What’ll it be? They’ll fix you anything you want.”
Rat took a deep breath as he let his imagination run away with him. He looked at the mess specialist who waited expectantly for this oddly dressed American to decide. “Can you fix a waffle? A big, fat, Belgian waffle with maple syrup?”
“No problem, sir. Want some bacon and scrambled eggs on the side?”
“Absolutely,” Rat replied. “Thanks.”
“You, sir?” he asked Groomer.
“Same,” Groomer said.
“Coffee?” the captain asked as he passed the silver coffeepot down the table.
Rat nodded and extended his cup.
Hogan spoke loudly over the din. “Attention, everyone. I’d like everyone to keep quiet, while Mr. Rathman here tells us how the mission went, and how he got the famous Wahamed Duar.” It was the first many had heard that Duar had been captured. Their eyes showed their surprise and excitement. Hogan lowered his voice. “I predict right now that we will be asked to conduct the first major tribunal right here aboard this ship. It is imperative that we keep it confidential for now. If it leaks out, it could be catastrophic. No e-mails to your wives or husbands explaining to them that we have Duar and are going to put him on trial. Just keep that knowledge in your own little heads. Now, I want to give Mr. Rathman here a chance to tell us all what happened. So,” he said, turning to his left where Rat was sitting. “The floor’s yours.”
Rat nodded. “It went as briefed. We happened to be the closest when the signal went out. We jumped—”
The door to the wardroom flew open. A red-faced captain stormed in. Rat noticed the medical insignia on one of his collars. The
ship’s surgeon no doubt, and pissed. He had a light complexion and blondish hair, what there was of it. It was mostly combed over to cover a growing bald spot, and some of the longer hairs had fallen down on the wrong side, tickling his ear. The fact he didn’t notice was a bad sign to Rat.
Hogan looked irritated. “This is our ship’s surgeon, Dr. Tim Satterly. What is it doctor?”
Satterly could barely speak. “Sir, one of those men that was just brought on board isn’t doing too well,” he announced with an air pregnant with implication.
“What do you mean?” Hogan asked.
“This man described how some maniac had tried to kill him. Had, in fact, tortured him.” The doctor looked around the room, wondering if the maniac was in the room. His cheeks were blotchy.
“He looked okay to me,” Hogan said, smiling.
Satterly didn’t see the humor. His outrage was growing. “Sir, he was tortured with water. It was poured into his nose and mouth until he almost drowned. He lost consciousness. They had to revive him.”
Hogan shook his head. “He’s delusional.”
“He just collapsed in sick bay, Captain. He has a temperature, sir. I ordered a chest X ray. He has pneumonia that has been brought on by something very intrusive. What he described could do it.”
“That fast?”
“Yes, sir.”
The wardroom grew deathly quiet. The mess specialists, unaware of the tension in the air, came rushing out of the kitchen and placed the two large plates of food in front of Rat and Groomer. Rat stared at it. He wanted the doctor to leave so he could eat.
Having finally noticed the two odd uniforms in the room, Satterly directed his gaze at Rat. Captain Hogan waited until the messmen had withdrawn. Everyone had stopped eating. No one even reached for a coffee cup. They all wanted to avoid whatever was going to happen next. The hum of the ship, the general noise that had been mere background until then suddenly dominated the room. Captain Hogan turned his head and looked at Rat. “You want to explain this to me?”
Chapter
3
The Marine guard nodded at Rat, who opened the steel door and stepped through. Rat was one of the few people allowed automatic access to the prisoner. The door closed behind Rat and was locked again by the Marine from the outside.
Rat had changed to his American desert camouflage uniform with no insignia or indication of service. The other man in the room wore the standard Navy officer’s uniform, the short-sleeve khaki uniform that was ubiquitous on the ship. He wore the rank of a commander, with two rows of ribbons and no name tag. He had come onto the ship to do the interrogation, and was thought to be with naval intelligence.
Only Rat knew that Ken Barone, the man in the uniform, had never served a day in the Navy. His full name was Kendall Pierce Barone, which he sometimes used, but just as often he was called KP. He was legendary for being able to speak perfect Arabic, even regional dialects. He could speak Jordanian Arabic, or Egyptian, or Syrian, with the appropriate minor differences in pronunciation and usage. He was from the DO, the Directorate of Operations of the CIA, and was their best Arabic-speaking interrogator. He had been waiting on the Belleau Wood in the hope someone of significance would be captured. He knew Rat and agreed to let him come and go during the interrogation. There were two other American interrogators and the promise of a fourth, a man from Sudan.
Rat looked at Duar for the first time since loading him aboard the helicopter. He was sitting on the other side of a standard Navy metal table with his hands on the table. Rough hands that knew manual labor. Duar’s skin was dark from the sun and his eyes shone from the deep sockets where they were buried in his face. His eyes were set so deep they looked considerably darker than in the photograph. Rat spoke to Barone in English. “Any progress?”
Barone looked at Rat cautiously. “You sure he doesn’t speak English?”
“No. How long you been going?”
“Just getting started. He’s not giving us much yet.” Barone watched Duar out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe if you give him the same treatment you gave that other guy . . .”
Rat thought of the red-faced doctor. He knew he hadn’t heard the last about it. Rat watched Duar, who showed no recognition. “Keep going. I just want to listen.”
Barone turned back toward Duar and spoke in a resonant Arabic. “Where do you live?”
Duar shook his head.
“What is your name?”
“Mohammed el-Mahdi.”
“You were meeting with Pierre Lahoud in Sudan. Why?”
“I was meeting with no one.”
“To purchase nuclear material.”
“No.”
“Lahoud brought nuclear material with him. We have it.”
Duar turned away from Barone.
“Do you deny that you were there to buy nuclear material? To see if it was of sufficiently high quality to make a nuclear weapon?”
No answer.
“Who were you going to get to build the bomb? Where were you going to use it? Did you have a plan?”
Rat watched the back of Duar’s head as Barone’s questions bounced off. He was listening carefully. There was something funny about Duar’s approach. He seemed to be trying to learn, not protect information. He was alert and careful, but not afraid.
Rat stood quietly and reached across the table. He slapped Duar in the back of the head sharply. “You’re not answering the questions.”
Duar spun around angrily. “You cannot attack me!”
“I can do whatever I want,” Rat said.
“You cannot violate the Geneva Convention!”
“Never heard of it.”
Duar breathed heavily.
Barone looked at Rat. “Can I talk to you outside?”
Rat nodded. They walked to the door and knocked on it. The Marine opened the door and let them out into the passageway. He closed and locked the door behind them.
“I don’t know about this guy,” Barone said. “He’s a strange one.”
“Only the most wanted terrorist in the world.”
Barone nodded. “He’s sure not going to tell us anything voluntarily.”
“Give me a few minutes with him.”
“We need more tools. We ask questions, they refuse to answer them. Same old story.”
“Just wear him down. Stay on him.”
“Oh, I will. Sleep deprivation, lights on all night, the usual stuff. But I’m not getting a good feeling about this one. I’ve done a lot of the interrogation at Gitmo: same story. Bad attitudes, not helpful, lying to us, telling us a bunch of scary stuff that they just make up, basically flipping us off, and our hands are tied.” He considered the information they had gotten from others. “Why is it they can murder us, and we can’t even touch them?”
“Let me have him to myself for a while. I don’t think he responds well to getting smacked in the back of the head. Make him angry. Don’t show him the respect he’s used to getting. Tell you what, just tell him I’m a maniac and you’re going to let me do the interrogation if you can’t get anything out of him.”
Barone kept a serious face. “I just might.”
“Tell him I told you I’m going to throw him over the side tonight, and you believe me. If he doesn’t start talking, you’re going to let me.”
“I never tell them anything that isn’t true. Have to keep my credibility.”
“Right.” Rat smiled. “Look, I’ve got to get a message off. I’ll catch up with you later. Let me know if he starts talking.”
* * *
The excitement aboard the Belleau Wood was nothing compared to the elation in Washington. Sarah St. James sat in the situation room of the White House looking smug as the Secretary of Defense, the Chief of Staff, the Director of the CIA, the Attorney General, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs took their seats.
President Kendrick was pleased. He took his seat at the head of the table and opened a manila file that had been placed in front of him. It contained photogr
aphs of the two terrorists who had been captured, as well as clips from the digital video Robby had taken of the raid. Kendrick was one who liked to see the final result in pictures, not read a cold report from some agency that tried to take the life out of what happened. He knew that they were involved in a deadly business, and he was willing to look that deadly business in the eye. He required the rest of the cabinet and his staff to be equally ready to deal with reality and not see the War on Terrorism as some sterile event fought by drones and satellites against faceless adversaries.
“Good morning, everyone,” President Kendrick said. “I have to say, kudos go out to both the Agency and the Department of Defense. This was an amazing coordinated operation that worked to perfection,” he said enthusiastically. He wondered how he could publicize it properly, to give his administration a much needed boost. “When I first heard of the plan to have Special Operations teams in the air over Sudan I have to say I was skeptical. Some of you were more enthusiastic about it than I was. But based on your advice, we authorized it, and it worked. So thanks to all of you and especially to the Agency and the Department of Defense.” President Kendrick looked around the room. “So now what do we do with them?”
Howard Stuntz, the pompous Secretary of Defense, spoke first. “Sir, I have to say that this operation was magnificent. It showed a tremendous coordination between the Air Force, the Agency, the Navy and Marine Corps team, and in fact shows we can—”
“What do we do with Duar?” Kendrick interrupted.
Stewart Woods, the Director of the CIA, spoke. His frown foreshadowed his concerns. “Part of the idea certainly was the chance to interrogate him. However, preliminary reports from the interrogators say they’re not getting much. He refuses even to acknowledge who he is. He claims to be someone else entirely, from Khartoum. We can’t really force him to talk. I’m not sure we’re going to get much from him.”
Kendrick was annoyed. “We go to all this trouble to capture him alive, and for what? So he can spit in our faces? We can’t get anything out of him? None of his plans, his support structure, his finances, nothing?”
Secret Justice Page 4