The Maverick Experiment (14 page)

Miller turned to look over the outside edge of the tower, hoping to locate Grimes, but the darkness and dust made it impossible to see. He feared the worst. He grabbed for his throat piece. “One, this is Three. Do you copy?”

Nothing. He stared at the building, which was in utter disrepair as he called again, “One, this is Three. Do you copy?”

The building was half destroyed, but Derek had lived through the blast. He grabbed his head and squinted, acknowledging the severe pain from the explosion.

The blast had thrown him clear across the hall, and he lay on a pile of rubble. He was covered in dirt and dust, which was now running down his face as damp snow flurries fell down upon him. The roof had collapsed above him and the men, and the remaining sections were not going to last long.

Dust filled the hall as he tried to see his teammates and respond to Miller. “Three, this is One. Go ahead.”

“You guys all right in there? What the fuck, man?”

“I don't know,” responded Derek. “I can't see shit.”

“I can't find Grimes!” screamed Miller.

Derek grimaced as he stood up. “Keep looking, but maintain overwatch. I'm gonna look for the guys.”

The blast had completely eliminated the front left side of the building. Its walls were crashed in, and the detainees in the first cell were undoubtedly dead. Derek wondered about those in cell number two, especially Habib Rahman, but he would focus on his teammates first.

“Randy!” he shouted. “Carson, where you guys at?” He heard a groan a few feet away and made his way over to where Carson was covered in dust and debris and was lying on the floor. “Carson you good, man?”

He reached for Carson's hand to pull him up.

“Holy fuck, dude. What was that?”

“Another truck, I think. I don't know, but we need to get the fuck out of here. We gotta go now. Help me find the others.”

Carson squinted to adjust to the dark hallway and scurried over to what had been the entrance for Habib's block. Inside, Shafi sat next to a severely rattled Habib Rahman with his gun trained on him. “Nice work, man. Hey, boss,” yelled Carson, “your boy has Habib. Target secured, what do you want to do with him?”

“Bring him. I've got Randy over here.”

Randy struggled to his feet but was OK other than minor injuries and some head trauma.

“Miller, we are moving. I need you to find Grimes and locate a vehicle for us. Something close and without a bomb in it.”

As the men began to move, the truck full of armed men rushed toward the entrance of the cell block. Their plan had not been perfect; it never was. The detonation had occurred too close to Habib's cell and could have easily killed their man. Fortunately, it hadn't. They had not, however, expected Americans to be inside with Rahman.

“Hey, boss, be advised you have company. A vehicle just arrived at your doorstep, and I count at least six tangos entering now.”

“Roger. OK, we have company. Shafi, take him to the back and secure him.” Derek pointed to the rear of the hallway out of the immediate line of fire as he and his men rushed into position. “You guys plant here and welcome them for me. I'm going down the back way.”

Derek jumped and slid down what had once been the second floor in the northwest corner of the building where the first cell was. The collapsed floor had created a slide of rubble, and he was able to get behind the armed men as they rushed in.

Three of the men peered through the dusty cell doors on the first floor as the others rushed upstairs only to be greeted by Carson and Randy. In a second or less, they lay lifeless on the prison floor.

“Three tangos down up here. What's your status, One?”

No answer.

Derek crept through the darkness, minus his night-vision goggles, which had been destroyed in the blast, as he approached the first of the search party on his floor.

The cell block smelled worse than ever. The musty smell that had once filled the air in a majority of the cell blocks had since intensified. It seemed the blast had somehow activated the smell and brought it, and the amount of dust, to a whole new level.

“What's your status, One?” repeated Randy.

Derek slung his weapon and thrust his knife through the back of the man's throat as he gently helped him to the floor.

The men, now worried that Derek was down or in trouble, hurried toward the steps and made their way downstairs. As they reached the bottom, they raised their rifes as a man crept through the dust in front of them and down the far right hallway. Before Carson could fire, Randy grabbed his arm. “That's Derek.”

The two fell in behind Derek as they heard the first of two bursts of silenced rounds rip through the dark cell corridor.

“Two, this is One. All tangos down.”

“Roger, we are right behind you. Nice work, man.”

“OK. Miller, how we doing on finding Grimes?”

A somber Miller responded, “Grimes is dead, sir. I think the blast threw him of the tower.”

Silence. The men stared at each other in confusion. They had known the mission would be the most difficult any of them had ever attempted, but with the single-minded conf-dence of men who had never been beaten, they had refused to believe that any of them would be killed.

A frustrated Derek placed his hands on his head. “Fuck! OK, we have to move. Carson, get Shafi and Rahman. Miller, we need a vehicle.”

“You have one in front of the building. The truck the men just drove up with.”

Thursday, January 28
Kabul, Afghanistan
CIA Station
2110 Hrs

Grant rushed into Bell's office out of breath. “Sir, Pol-e-Charkhi was just attacked. It was big.”

The chief set down his notes and stood in a hurry. “What's the status of the prisoners? How many escaped?”

“Well, at this point, we don't know, sir. We are getting limited reporting, but from what we can tell, at least two blocks were freed and one was hit.”

“What do you mean hit? VBIED?”

“It looks that way, sir.”

“How about Habib Rahman? Any word on him? Did he make it?”

“We don't know, sir. There is something interesting, though, that Afghan officials are reporting. However, let me tell you first that neither they nor we are sure of the validity of the claim.”

“Just fucking tell me, Grant.”

“Well, sir, the QRF that responded claims that as they repelled freed prisoners, they saw Americans in the compound fleeing the scene. Our guy who works at the Ministry of Justice is telling me, based on the report from the prison, the QRF was likely too far to really know what they saw. We do know they fired an RPG at the truck and missed.”

“Have you checked around? What Americans, or even Westerners, for that matter, would be at the prison?”

“My only thought is perhaps the Brits, sir. It was their compound that was primarily destroyed. The Drug and Poppy Cell Block, where Habib Rahman was being held. It appears, from the first dump of information, that perhaps the Taliban were trying to take out Habib instead of free him. Maybe so he wouldn't talk.”

“That doesn't make any sense. Why go through all that trouble to take him out? There are a million other ways they could have done that,” responded Bell. The chief now sat frustrated and perplexed. “So what are the specifics we have now?”

“Well, it appears that there were two vehicle-borne IEDs and some other unidentified explosions. There are mass casualties scattered around the facility, primarily at the entrance and the cell block, which they hit. Oh, and the commanding general was killed as well. Several bullet wounds to the chest as he sat in his vehicle.”

“Holy shit. Sounds like quite a fucking goat rope. OK, any claims?”

“Yes. The Taliban have already come out and claimed the attack a success. No mention of their boy, though.”

“Any chance the fleeing vehicle was theirs and they got Rahman?”

“Couldn't say, sir.”

“OK, well, we need to close this American thing out. I will get in touch with my contacts and assure them we had no operations in the area but will support however we can. As soon as you get more information on Rahman and his status, I need to know.”

“Sure thing. The Afghans are searching through the rubble now, sir. I'll keep you posted as I get updates.”

Thursday, January 28
Kabul, Afghanistan
Safe House
2217 Hrs

It was time to utilize the team's basement. Derek had specifically requested a compound that had one for an instance such as this.

The mission was to eliminate Habib, not grab him, but under the circumstances and given the large-scale attack the Talibs had planned that resulted in the death of one of his men, bringing Rahman home sounded better. Derek had decided to use Rahman to get the key information they would need to go after Malawi Rafiq, the culprit behind all this.

The team was still in disbelief over the death of Grimes but had no time to mourn. Rahman's information had an expiration date that was fast approaching.

Derek had Randy zip tie Rahman's hands and feet together and throw him into the makeshift basement interrogation room, a windowless, concrete space that was approximately six by six feet.

Derek knew and had used several interrogation techniques over the years. Though training in current times focused more on teaching students what they could not do versus what they could do, Derek had grown creative over the years.

The CIA had taken the brunt of the abuse from the press and the American public over harsh interrogations that had been conducted since the beginning of the War on Terror. Still, though they were unpopular, certain techniques worked, and while civilians might not understand the reasoning for them, Derek knew they sometimes needed to be done.

However, Derek wanted to try something new. Standard techniques were not going to work on Habib Rahman, anyway. Despite the media's apparent belief that being kind and patient with detainees would eventually lead to the required information, Derek knew otherwise. Bad guys these days had been trained in counter-interrogation techniques and knew that their information was useless after a short window of time. They knew that if they held out long enough, they had succeeded.

Derek examined his options. Waterboarding was certainly an option, and it had proven effective, but Derek decided to try something else first. A flash-bang would deafen and blind the subject, completely disorienting him for a short period. In
a room of this size, the effects would be horrid and not something Rahman could endure for long, if at all.

Derek pulled Shafi aside before they entered. “This is just like before, buddy. You mirror my emotions and say only what I say. No further explanations or extra questions. If he doesn't get it, he can tell me.”

Interrogations were an art, not a science, and working through a translator could be difficult. The interrogator had to develop a thoughtful plan and be able to adapt to the detainee's mood and willingness to talk over the course of the interrogation. Despite common belief, it was never a good course of action to go overboard with the screaming approach; it rarely led to anything of value. But in small doses, fear and sometimes pain were extremely effective. Derek knew that interrogations were a game, a deep, psychological game that only one side could win. Tonight, however, was different. This man was full of valuable intelligence that the team hoped was still relevant, and they wanted the information now. The approach had to be fast and furious if they were to get the information in time.

As Derek and Shafi entered the room, Habib stared intently at them.

“OK, Habib, I am going to be honest with you up front. This can go real smoothly, or we can make this far less comfortable for you. I will ask the questions, you respond, and everyone has a good night. OK?”

Habib didn't respond but instead gave Shafi a death stare. Most Talibs had just as deep a hatred for Afghans who worked with Americans as they did for America, if not more.

“Let's start with a simple question. What is your name?”

Interrogators would often go through a series of questions that were common knowledge, doing so to gain control and gauge how the detainee responded to certain types of questions.

No response. Habib sat quietly and refused to answer.

“Shafi, step outside!” Derek yelled.

Derek stood and walked toward the door, grabbing something from his cargo pocket. He removed a flash-bang and pulled the pin as he tossed it into the small room just before closing the door.

A loud bang echoed through the basement.

Derek opened the door, and he and Shafi reentered the room. “I told you we can make this really easy or really difficult. It's your choice. I won't play nice until you do.”

Habib cowered in the corner of the room and struggled to see Derek and Shafi.

“What is your name?” asked Derek calmly.

Habib responded, “I am sorry, my friend, but I am not the man you think I am.”

“Really? How do you know who I think you are?” Derek said in a calm tone. Then, suddenly, he screamed, “Answer the fucking question!”

Rahman looked to the side and sighed. “I am Farid, son of Ghulam Ali.”

“OK. You sure?”

“Yes.”

Derek and Shafi again exited the room, leaving a flash-bang behind for their uncooperative guest. This time, a loud scream echoed from the room after the blast. The flash-bang would not only rattle Habib's insides but would severely damage both his hearing and vision if the bangs continued.

Derek needed to be careful not to blind the man because ideally he would later help them map-track or even show them the way to Malawi Rafiq himself. He waited several minutes this time to allow Habib to think before he entered the room. “Shafi, grab a fucking notepad and pen!” he yelled as he began to walk back into the room.

Habib was in bad condition this time. He had pushed himself into the corner and looked as though he were in some stage of shock. Blood ran from his ears; the blasts had ruptured his eardrums. He covered his eyes in fear of another blinding light.

“Write this down and shove it in front of his face: What is your name?”

Shafi quickly wrote the question in Dari and shoved it in Rahman's face.

“Habib Rahman!” yelled the battered man.

“Good. You are a smart man. OK, Shafi: Where is Malawi Rafiq?”

Shafi again wrote the question and flung it on Habib's lap.

Rahman pondered the question for a while and shrugged his shoulders. Derek instantly drew his Glock and fired a round into Rahman's right shoulder.

Rahman let out a blood curdling scream and rolled over.

Derek grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head, slamming it against the concrete wall. “Shove the note in his fucking face again!”

Rahman tried to muster up the strength to speak as he began to cry. Derek lodged his pistol against the other shoulder, indicating that he was taking too long.

“He is in Pakistan!” screamed Rahman, not able to control his volume.

Derek looked to Shafi. “No shit, he is in fucking Pakistan! Where?
Koja
? Write it!”

Shafi wrote another note and placed it in front of Rahman.

“He is in North Waziristan, Pakistan. He has several safe houses and moves around all the time. I have no way of knowing where he is,” said a now far more visibly panicked Rahman.

“Ask if he can hear me.”

Shafi leaned in and conveyed the question.

Rahman nodded yes.

“OK.”

Derek lowered his weapon. “Listen to me, Habib. How would you get in touch with Rafiq if you were free to go to Pakistan today?”

Shafi relayed the message. Habib didn't think long before he responded. “I would contact his driver, Ikram.”

“Ikram who?” asked Derek.

“Ikram Hussein,” replied Rahman.

Derek had heard of Ikram many times from sources over his years in the country. Ikram had been a loyal friend and servant to Rafiq for years, but the US intelligence community had failed to catch him, though trying on numerous occasions. “How would you contact him?”

“Probably in person, just at one of the houses or something.”

“OK, but you aren't going in person. So how else would you contact him?”

“He doesn't carry a phone, so it would have to be in person. There is no other way.”

Derek decided to take a different route and see who the facilitator in Kabul was, hoping that person might have been in contact with Rafiq. “Who orchestrated the attack on the prison today?”

“I have no idea.”

Derek slowly reached for his gun.

Habib shot upright and stared at Derek. “I honestly do not know. I know it had to be ordered from Pakistan, because that's how it works, but I don't know who in Kabul helped conduct the attack. I was in prison.”

“Wrong answer.” Derek slashed the barrel of his pistol across the bridge of Habib's nose, and more blood streamed down his face. “I am getting frustrated, Habib. You know as well as I do that being in that shit-hole prison doesn't keep you from talking to whomever you want, whenever you want. Who was the facilitator?”

“I don't know. But there is an event, a wedding, that I was to attend in Pakistan with some of the other leaders. I can't promise that Rafiq will be there, but he is supposed to be. Without knowing where I am, he might assume that I am telling you this and stay away.”

Derek turned and looked to Shafi as he paused to think for a minute. “When is the wedding?”

“In three days.”

“Where is it?”

“Miram Shah.”

Miram Shah was a hotbed for terrorists. Not only did Rafiq and his crew base themselves out there, but there was a strong foreign influence from Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Iran, and all the other home countries of major players in the game of
terrorism. To make things more difficult, Derek had never been there. Shafi, however, had.