Each guard wore a Sam Brown belt festooned with an array of clips and holsters to hold flashlight, glove pouch, pepper spray, truncheon, and multiple key rings from which dangled keys of every shape and size. Nameplates and rank insignia were missing from their jumpsuits to hinder detainees from identifying individual guards.
The four men left the administration building and walked across a gravel yard toward the detention area’s main gate. The compound contained four large modular steel buildings, each with an adjacent exercise yard. The fence surrounding the compound was over twenty feet high, topped with razor wire, and swathed in green plastic netting to block prying eyes. Armed guards in watchtowers kept a constant vigil, aided by closed-circuit television cameras and floodlights spaced every few hundred feet. Steel cables hung like spider webs above the open areas to thwart helicopter-borne rescue attempts.
Pike, Zorn and the two guards approached the entrance of the nearest lockup, where a third guard escorted them into a windowless stairwell. From there they climbed up to a steel catwalk suspended above the cellblocks.
“Our entire facility was built during the first quarter of this year,” Pike remarked. “We used subcontractors who supply prefab buildings to state and local correctional systems. Corvus has a total capacity of eight hundred, though we aren’t full at the moment.”
Zorn nodded in acknowledgment while Pike went on.
“Nearly all our detainees are of the Islamic faith. We’re set up to fulfill all their reasonable religious requirements, having learned from Gitmo and the CIA’s black sites. A Quran in every cell, halal catering, calls to prayer five times a day, and common areas aligned toward Mecca. We also offer Islam-compliant toilet facilities and a well-stocked library, with materials in English, Arabic, French, Urdu and Pashto.”
Pike pointed to a vacant cell immediately below, whose door was propped open.
“Each cell has a single bed with fireproof mattress, a sink, toilet, polished stainless-steel mirror, and soundproofing to impede communication between cells. And all exterior walls are lined with wire mesh to block EMF signals. Of course, no one is allowed to bring in cell phones, but just in case one slips in, it won’t get a message out.”
“You mentioned that nearly all your detainees are Muslims,” Zorn pointed out. “Is it safe to say that most are radical Islamists with high Triage scores?”
“I can’t say for sure, because I don’t see those scores. But I assume so.”
“Do you know if any of your detainees are green card holders or U.S. citizens?”
Pike stopped in his tracks and his voice turned icy. He recognized the question as a curve ball. Because no matter how high a suspect’s Triage score might be, citizens and permanent residents weren’t supposed to be deported.
“Listen, I don’t control who’s sent here and DHS doesn’t send me their case files,” the base chief dodged, lowering his gaze. “So I have no idea about a detainee’s immigration status. When it’s time to ship them out, we send them wherever D.C. tells us to. Identities are coded, so for all I know, they could be going back to the mainland, or to another transit center, or overseas for repatriation.”
Zorn knew this for an evasion but held his tongue. The foursome continued to the end of the catwalk, descended the stairs at the other end of the cellblock and made for the next building. In addition to a cellblock, this one contained kitchens, a laundry plant, and a dispensary. After a quick walk-through, Pike led the way back to the outer gate, skirting the last remaining building.
“What about that one?” Zorn inquired.
“Oh, that’s a holding pen for incoming detainees and those being shipped out today.”
“May I take a peek?”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Pike answered, looking away. “The incoming detainees tend to be pretty unruly for a day or two. And those selected for transfer can get even worse. It’s for your own safety, you understand.”
“I’d really like to see. Could we take a look from the catwalk?”
Pike hesitated, but on seeing Zorn’s determined expression, gave way.
“All right. Let me check. I’ve never been in this unit before.”
The base chief pulled a facility map from a cargo pocket and unfolded it to show the guards. They stepped aside to confer and, two minutes later, Pike returned.
“Well, I don’t see much risk in it if we keep to the catwalk. But stay close by.”
The two guards led the way up another flight of stairs to the building’s upper level, overlooking a walled-in yard where a hundred detainees sat in neat columns on the sandy earth. They were spaced at arm’s length from one another, with the chain that was wrapped around each man’s waist clipped to a steel cable that ran up and down the column. While the detainees waited, a paramedic with a bullhorn announced that they were being sent to a place where they would need additional inoculation against mosquito-borne disease.
At the front of the yard Zorn noticed a folding table on which appeared to be medical supplies and syringes. Like Christians on Holy Communion Sunday, the detainees filed past the table to receive their injections and moved on, right hand planted on the shoulder of the man in front, to board a waiting bus. A few seemed unsteady on their feet as they mounted the steps, their faces like expressionless zombies. One of them bent double to vomit. Guards dragged him aside amid shouts and curses.
Not far away, Zorn heard a paramedic scold detainees who were slow to rise.
“Okay you slackers, get off your asses! And no stepping out of line. Anybody who makes trouble will leave feet first!”
Zorn turned to the base chief and pointed to the table with its bottles and syringes.
“Are those injections against Zika, by any chance?”
“So I hear.”
Zorn suspected Pike was making it up but said nothing. Then something caught his eye at the far end of the catwalk. In another walled-in courtyard, prisoners in distinctive black-and-orange striped jumpsuits were being led back and forth, shackled and blindfolded, along what looked like fenced-in dog runs.
“What’s that area, and who are the inmates in Halloween costumes?” Zorn asked.
“That’s the disciplinary wing. It’s where the worst troublemakers go. For them, it’s solitary confinement 23/7, no books or media except the Quran, and only half an hour of exercise a day spent in a wire dog run. They’re all on a fast track out of here, either to Guantanamo or repatriation. Just so long as we never see them again here.”
“And how can you be sure you won’t?”
“I can’t. All I can do is put them on a plane so they’re someone else’s problem.“
“Can I see their cellblock? Does it have a catwalk?”
“I assume it does. I’ll check with the guards.”
A few moments later, the two guards led Pike and Zorn through another security gate and onto another catwalk. But there wasn’t much to see. All prisoners except for those taking exercise were locked in their cells. The foursome moved on and passed yet another cellblock, where they observed prisoners dressed in baggy khaki shirts and trousers rather than the grotesque black-and-orange jumpsuits. Some had removed their shirts and wore dirty white tank tops underneath.
Most had long hair and, on closer inspection, appeared to be female. But none covered her hair with a hijab while many displayed tattoos and piercings, which are forbidden to Islamists. As the men approached, Zorn noticed five young women eating pizza at a picnic table in the corner. Their faces looked decidedly American. A moment later, Pike must also have spotted them, because he stopped in his tracks.
“We’ve made a mistake and need to go back,” the base chief declared abruptly.
But as he and Zorn turned to leave, one of the women raised her head and seemed to catch sight of the figures on the catwalk above. She had a petite figure, wide mouth, dark eyes and an olive complexion, and wore her mahogany hair pulled back into a ponytail. Even at a distance, Zorn sensed something familiar about the
young woman. He thought at once of the photo that Jack Nagy had given him of his daughter but it was tucked away in a concealment device at his Rosslyn hotel. Could this be Carol?
“Hey, mister, who are you?” she shouted out in a voice that cut through the echoing clang of boots on the steel catwalk. “Are you a reporter? Please, you’ve got to help us! We’re Americans and they’re holding us here illegally!”
Zorn stopped to take a closer look. She called out again.
“They’re withholding medical help and denying us our rights! Please, mister, you’ve got to let someone back home know we’re here!”
But before Zorn could respond, Pike and the two security escorts took him by the arms and walked him out of the building.
“That woman was no removable alien,” Zorn snapped once they were outside. “She’s American. Who the hell is she and why is she here?”
“The women you saw are being sent back to the mainland to stand trial,” Pike answered, his face an expressionless mask.
“Stand trial for what?”
“Terrorism. Sedition. Murder. Weapons charges. You name it. The one who spoke to you isn’t a jihadi, but she’s no less a terrorist. She and her cellmates are professional anarchists who supplied a jihadi cell with bomb-making materials and weapons. People like them are invaluable to the jihad because they can go anywhere without attracting attention. One of the bombings they participated in killed over twenty people at a courthouse in Richmond.”
Richmond? Zorn remembered that one of the suspects mentioned in the television news was a young woman with no known criminal record.
“So why are they here and not in federal prison?” Zorn probed. “I thought transit bases were for only for aliens awaiting repatriation.”
“It’s not that simple, Mr. Zorn.”
“Then can you show me their case files so I can see for myself?
“We don’t keep case files here.” Pike replied with a blank face.
“Come on, you must have some means of distinguishing one detainee from another. Doesn’t each one have an ID number you can use to access their data?”
“We do, but the only people who can unmask the data sit in D.C.”
“Then how about their medical records? What if one of the women needed medical help? How would you know if she were diabetic or had a seizure disorder?”
“If she did, we would have been informed. Besides, I happen to know that particular woman is a notorious liar. If anything ails her, it’ll have to wait.”
Realizing he was getting nowhere, Zorn tried another tack.
“All right, then, tell me this: how many female detainees do you have here?”
“Only the ones you saw. Most of the women we get here are foreign Muslims, but all of those went out last Saturday for repatriation.”
Zorn didn’t believe a word of it but saw little point in pressing his point. In fact, he wouldn’t have made half the fuss had he not suspected the dark-haired young woman to be Nagy’s daughter. He followed Pike and the two guards back to the administration building and peeled off his jumpsuit in the base chief’s office. Now that Pike was back on home ground, he seemed more at ease and struck an amiable tone.
“Are you hungry after our walkabout? Can I buy you lunch at the mess hall?”
“Thanks, but I ate a big breakfast,” Zorn evaded. “And I’ll need some time to write up my notes before I head back to the airfield for my flight.”
“I understand,” Pike answered, his face showing relief at being rid of his visitor.
“One last thing, though. There was something in your presentation deck that I’d like to take another look at. Can you show me the sources and uses of funds statement again?”
Pike opened the four-drawer safe and withdrew a spiral-bound copy of the presentation deck that included an appendix with charts and tables. Zorn took the deck to the conference table, leafed through the appendix, jotted down a few notes on a pad, and raised his head.
“Table Eleven shows costs for incoming detainees and Table Twelve costs for outgoing detainees. Table Fifteen shows the number of detainees on hand and the costs of holding them.”
Zorn pointed to the spiral-bound deck.
“Your charts seem to indicate that Corvus Base is a highly cost-efficient operation,” he declared with a note of approval in his voice.
“Well, thank you,” Pike replied with a surprised look.
“And your low outbound flight costs are a marvel.”
“Thanks again. But why do you mention it?”
“Because the number of detainees held here seems surprisingly low when compared to the traffic in and out. Could that perhaps explain your low food and staffing costs?”
Zorn let the comment hang in the air. Pike cast a questioning look at him but said nothing, so Zorn went on.
“And to fly so many detainees from Corvus across the Atlantic at such low cost seems to defy the laws of physics. How on earth do you do it?”
All at once Pike looked as if he had bit into a lemon.
“I can’t really say. Maybe the financials don’t reflect the full cost.”
“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Zorn said, putting down the deck. “It seems far more likely that you’ve got fewer detainees coming in than your reporting shows. Which is odd, considering how a month ago or two ago the place was bursting at the seams. What do you suppose accounts for the sudden, shall we say, shrinkage?”
Zorn’s demeanor remained curious rather than accusatory, and at first Pike didn’t seem sure what to make of it. But Zorn’s final word must have struck a nerve, because suddenly Pike’s face turned crimson.
“Ahh, I’m not sure I know what you mean. Can you be more specific?”
Zorn saw the beads of sweat on Pike’s forehead and felt sure the chief was lying.
“Certainly,” Zorn went on, fixing Pike firmly in his gaze. “I’ll give you an example. On the flight from Dover, the crew reported a fuel leak. To shed weight, the loadmaster and I dropped some three dozen detainees over the ocean from ten thousand feet. Except that the detainees were in body bags and the manifest listed them as corpses.”
“Well, we do receive detainee corpses from time to time for overseas burial. I’ll have the staff look into it.”
Pike was on the ropes, but Zorn didn’t want to leave Corvus without confirming whether the chief knew that the shrinkage was systemic and not some aberration.
“Come on, Jerry. You know all about shrinkage, don’t you?”
Pike pulled his desk chair out from under his desk, dropped into it, and leaned back all the way. When at last he spoke, it was with a tongue dipped in acid.
“Since you insist, Roger, let’s level with each other. What exactly did you expect to happen once a jihadi is rated Category One? Did you think we’d send the naughty boy off on an all-expense-paid trip to the Caliphate with a severe scolding? For Christ’s sake, man, it was you who pushed the red button on those thirty detainees! Don’t tell me that you and I aren’t playing for the same team.”
“And don’t you tell me that being duped into tipping body bags overboard in some trumped-up emergency is the same as intending to murder them. I was set up to do it. Besides, if those detainees committed crimes, why weren’t they given a trial?”
To Zorn’s surprise, the accusation didn’t faze Pike. Instead, the base chief pointed a puffy white finger at his visitor.
“Don’t be a fool, Roger! The courts are hopelessly clogged. If these monsters went to trial with full due-process guarantees, most of them would skate free. This is wartime; speed is essential. What’s needed is a quick-and-dirty sorting, which is exactly what your Triage system affords us. So, of course we make the Cat Ones disappear! How can you pretend not to know that? Your own aircrews have been pushing them overboard on flight after flight! Like it or not, you’re up to your ears in it!”
Zorn felt the sting of Pike’s rebuke. Perhaps he should have foreseen sooner how Triage scores might be misused. But when h
e bid on the DRA contract, he never imagined that Triage would become the sole determinant of whether a detainee lived or died, or that his aircrews would be used for secret executions without his knowledge.
“I’m no such thing,” he shot back, “It’s you who’s breaking the law. Summary executions can’t possibly be legal, even under the emergency laws.”
“Oh, really? Do you think we’re running some kind of rogue operation here? Some scheme to bilk the American taxpayer out of money for holding phantom detainees? But that’s absurd! Everything we do here is carried out under direct orders from DHS! And DHS gets its instructions from the National Security Council, with backup from the White House. How else do you suppose we’ve been able to keep all this a secret?”
Zorn released his grip on the desk and stood to leave. His head was spinning.
“Maybe that’s something Pat Craven intended to tell me when he sent me down here,” Zorn answered in a biting tone. “You can bet I’ll be taking it up with him when I get back. And about those women I saw in your disciplinary wing. You said they were headed to the States for trial. I’ll be checking on that, too. And if they aren’t in Justice Department custody within forty-eight hours, Craven will be hearing from the U.S. Attorney.”
Pike stepped aside for Zorn to pass, but the base chief wasn’t finished.
“Go ahead,” Pike dared. “Go talk to Pat. See how far it gets you. But I’d be very careful about taking this up with anyone but him. There’s good reason why this is a special access program. And God help anyone who’s stupid enough to talk out of school.”
“Threaten me all you like,” Zorn replied as he passed Pike on his way to the door. “But I’m giving you forty-eight hours to return those women.”
Once outside the base chief’s office, Zorn felt his hands tremble and his breathing quicken. He’d learned what he wanted from Pike, but at what cost? As for the women detainees, Zorn had a strong hunch that he’d get his way about their return. But the longer he thought about it, the more he feared that Pike might be right about most everything else.
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