Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (35 page)

 
          
Tufayli
stepped close to the man at the head of the group of prisoners and said over
the roar of warning horns, shouting men, and helicopter rotors: “I see you are
being treated well, Colonel White.”

           
“Why, its Admiral Akbar Tufayli,”
Paul White said, his moisture- starved voice a hoarse croak. His face was still
caked with grease, oil, and salt from the hours he spent in the ocean trying to
escape after the
Valley Mistress
had
been sunk. “What’s that I smell, Admiral? Smells like a war going on ... ”

 
          
A
guard hit White in the solar plexus with a rifle butt; a few of the Marines
surrounding him tried to break free of their guards to defend White but, weak
with hunger and thirst, they were pulled back easily.

 
          
Just
then, a klaxon sounded throughout the ship, and again the ship’s defensive
systems opened fire, seemingly in all directions. This time, the weapons fire
lasted just a few short moments, then abruptly ended, though the klaxon was
still sounding. Several officers ran up to Tufayli and gave him several reports
and messages. “What was that, Admiral?” White said. “You’ve run out of SA-N-9
missiles? Is that possible? You must’ve shot down one, maybe two dozen
attackers to use up your long-range missiles like that.”

 
          
“You
shall join your spy ship at the bottom of the
Gulf
of
Oman
if you do not remain silent, Colonel
White,” Tufayli warned. “The interrogation staff at Chah Bahar will find your
knowledge of Farsi very interesting.”

 
          
“We
taking a trip somewhere, Admiral?” White asked. “Maybe that wasn’t war I
smelled a second ago ... maybe I smelled something else? Is it coming from
you?
What could it be, Admiral?”

 
          
In
response, Tufayli whipped off White’s hood and said, “I warned you to remain silent,
Colonel White. You must learn a harsh lesson.” Tufayli took a rifle from one of
his guards, pulled one of the Marine guards away from the group, lifted the
rifle to his head, and pulled the trigger. The Marine’s head burst apart like a
ripe melon.

 
          
Everyone
around them jumped at the rifle report; the sound of the headless corpse
hitting the steel non-slip deck seemed even louder. White’s eyes bulged in
horror, and he looked as if he were going to sink to the deck himself on wobbly
legs. “Any more deaths caused by attacks by your fellow American terrorists
will be on your head, Colonel White,” Tufayli said. “You and your men will
stand trial for all of this.”

 
          
“And
I’ll see you in hell for what you’ve just done,” White said weakly. “You
bastard!”

 
          
“Ah,
not as glib as you were just a moment ago, I see,” Tufayli said. “Good. This
will teach you to hold your tongue.” He raised his voice and said to all of
them, “The United States has declared war on the Islamic Republic of Iran, so
you are all prisoners of war. And since you are combatants not in uniform and
are presumed to be spies, you shall not enjoy the privileges of prisoners of
war as outlined in the Geneva Conventions. This means you are subject to a
military tribunal without recourse. The penalty for espionage in the Islamic
Republic is death by hanging. Of course, you may confess your crimes and admit
your real identities, in which case your sentence can be commuted to life in
prison—perhaps even a trade can be arranged for other prisoners.”

 
          
“Fuck
you, Akbar,” White said. “You’re the one who’s going to die, and I hope I’m the
one who does it.”

 
          
“Since
you men are obviously not willing to speak openly in front of your commander
here, we shall wait until we arrive in the military prison at my base at Chah
Bahar,” Tufayli went on, smiling as the hood was again placed over White’s
head. “The prisoner- exchange option and the chance to return to your homes is
of course not available to you if you are dead, so I encourage you to accept my
one and only offer. You will have a few moments to consider it, but when we
arrive at Chah Bahar, I will have your answer. Confess your guilt or die.”

 
          
MINA SULTAN NAVAL BASE, SHARJAH, UNITED
ARAB Emirates

THAT SAME TIME

 
          
“Officer
quarters” at Mina Sultan, the only military base in the emirate of Sharjah in
the United Arab Emirates, were simple one-window, one-room concrete block
buildings with flat metal roofs, purposely built with far less quality than
Arab buildings to avoid the appearance that the UAE was showing any preferences
toward non-Arabs in their country. Each building had its own coal-fired stove,
a Fiberglass combination sink and shower with an electric thirty-liter water
heater, a Porta-Potty bolted onto the back door opening, a bed, a desk with a single
overhead light and a phone connected only to the duty officer at the command
center, and a chest of drawers. Sometimes Briggs wished for one of the enlisted
and non-commissioned officers’ rooms, which were nice, modern, air-conditioned
dormitory- style brick buildings. Briggs unlocked the door, reminding himself
to start placing little telltales on the door to check when the damned flight
surgeon, Dr. Nick Sabin, went through his room, or maybe he’d just slap a hasp
and padlock on the door and . ..

 
          
Briggs
flipped on the light and, to his amazement, found none other than Nick Sabin
himself hog-tied on the bed, his ankles and wrists bound behind him, his mouth
bound with duct tape. He was still alive and unhurt, thank God, and madder than
hell.

 
          
The
big Colt
.45
pistol was out and in
Briggs’s hand in a flash, and he took immediate aim on the dark cloth in front
of the only other enclosure in the building, the Porta-Potty. Sabin was
flopping around on the bed muttering something, but Briggs had tuned him out.
He shut off the light, crouched behind the bed, and shouted, “Come out of there
now!”
in English and in the best
Arabic he could muster. “I said, come out!”

 
          
“I
am right here, Leopard,” came a soft, silken voice. Briggs whirled. The dresser
had been pushed out several inches from the wall—dammit, he’d been so focused
on the john that he hadn’t noticed—and she had been hiding behind it. He saw
her hands were empty, saw.. . that it was Riza Behrouzi, the GCC commando! What
in hell was going on here?

 
          
“Get
out from behind there!” Briggs shouted. “Hands on your head! Flat on the
floor!” Behrouzi complied as he ordered. “If you move, I promise I’ll fucking
blow your head off! ” Briggs leapt over to the Porta-Potty, ripped off the dark
curtain, and aimed the pistol inside, even down inside the shithole—empty. He
checked under the bed, under the desk, all around the stove—nothing. He locked
the front door, checked that the plywood covering on the one window was
secured, holstered his .45, then searched her right down to the skin, as
roughly as he would search any other prisoner or suspect. He found no weapons.

 
          
“What
in hell are you doing here?” Briggs asked, remembering not to use either her
code name or her real name in Sabin’s presence. He turned the woman over—and
immediately his ears felt hot and his throat felt dry. God, she was so
beautiful. This was like a damned
dream!

           
“I came to see you,” Behrouzi
replied, as Briggs let her up. She shook her head at Dr. Sabin, still trussed
up on the bed. “I found this one rummaging through your room. I was going to
report him to the security police when you arrived.”

 
          
“Oh,
really!” Briggs couldn’t wait to hear Sabin’s explanation. He carefully peeled
away the duct tape around his mouth—good thing he kept his hair short.

 
          
“She
jumped
me!” Sabin shouted indignantly
the instant the tape was removed. “She nearly broke my neck! ”

 
          
“I
have a feeling she could have done that easily if she wanted, Doc,” Briggs said
with a wry smile. Sabin obviously didn’t see the humor in it, though. “Were you
in my room when she attacked you?”

 
          
Sabin
looked a bit embarrassed but nodded. “I came to check up on you,” he explained.
“I knew your team was going out on another mission, and I didn't find you at
the command center, and I'm not allowed in the ops hangar, so I thought I'd
check here ...”

           
“I don’t like anyone coming into my
room when I’m not here, Doc,” Briggs said, his voice not as stern or displeased
as he’d first meant it to be. Briggs just took his time undoing the tape binding
the doctor’s wrists and ankles as they spoke.

 
          
“Fine—then
I’ll confine you to the clinic,” Sabin said irritably. “I only let you out of
my immediate care because you were making life miserable for me and my staff,
but it was under the premise that I keep you under close observation. And since
you don’t think it’s necessary to send over stool or urine samples as I asked
you to do, yes, I search your laundry and your commode. Since this is how I’m
treated for trying to accommodate your wishes, I’ll be the asshole and confine
you to the clinic until I’m good and ready to release you. How’s
that
sound?”

 
          
Hal
started undoing the duct tape much quicker now—the flight doc was
really
pissed. In a moment Sabin was
untied and back on his feet. “Sorry, Doc,” he said. “I’m a little jumpy when
the team’s going out on a mission.”

 
          
Sabin
looked at his outfit and nodded in disgust. “You were trying to go out with
them, against my orders, weren’t you?” he observed. Briggs’s silence confirmed
his suspicions. “Not only will I put you back in the clinic, but I’ll put a
twenty-four-hour guard on you.” “That’s not necessary. I’m fine, really,”
Briggs said. “If I have any problems I’ll be sure and let you know. And you
obviously put a real big bug in the gunny’s ear, because he booted me off. But
you don’t need to confine me. I’ll do as you say.”

           
“Good. You’d better.” Sabin turned
to Behrouzi and asked Briggs, “Now, can you please explain who this is, and
what she’s doing here?
You
obviously
know who she is.”

 
          
Briggs
hesitated—he didn’t know how to address Riza in front of any outsider. But
Behrouzi extended her hand, gave Sabin a mindblowing smile that melted both
men’s hearts, then showed him an ID card. “I am Riza Behrouzi, assistant to the
deputy general, Directorate of Military Intelligence of the
United Arab Emirates
.” She handed her ID card over to the
doctor, who gave it a careful examination before handing it back. “I was
ordered to interview Major Briggs immediately, since he and his forces came
under attack by an unknown ZSU-23/4 system on Tumb as Sughrd on their last
mission.”

 
          
“Here?
Now? That seems a little strange.”

 
          
“Truthfully,
Doctor, the Directorate had heard that Major Briggs was dead,” Behrouzi said
with a half-amused, half-embarrassed expression. “Little of what the Americans
do here at Mina Sultan Naval Base is well known in the UAE. We are also looking
for Gunnery Sergeant Wohl, who apparently is also alive and well. Do you know
where I can find him? I need to interview him immediately.”

 
          
Sabin
looked at Behrouzi suspiciously, then at Briggs. After years of serving with
special operations forces, he knew that the less he said and the more
suspicious he was, the better. “You should be talking to the base commander or
the operations commander, Major Behrouzi,” the doctor said. “Tm not exactly
sure how you got on base without an escort, but Major Briggs seems to know you
and is willing to vouch for you. I can’t help you any further. Major Briggs,
are you well enough to escort Major Behrouzi to base headquarters, or should I
call security?”

 
          
“I’ll
handle it, Doc,” Briggs assured him. Sabin smiled and nodded—it was obvious
that Briggs not only had the situation under control, but was as anxious as a
love-struck teenager to be alone with this woman. The flight surgeon rubbed his
aching arms and wrists once more, received another mind-blowing smile from Riza
as an apology, then departed.

 
          
When
Sabin departed, Behrouzi turned to Briggs and began, “Leopard . . . Hal, I am
sorry I surprised you like this ...”