Gitmo getaway, p.6
Gitmo Getaway, page 6
Evers face almost glowed red. "You're not talking about those Seal prisoners! Admiral, they were convicted of murdering a number of Colombian soldiers. You can't just..."
"Convicted by whom, Mr. Evers?" Jacks' voice was icy, "There never was any hearing, no trial that I heard of. Do you know different?"
"Well, no, but the sentence still stands. The repercussions would be terrible if the Colombians got wind of what you're suggesting. Besides, we've been over that. We can't send in US military forces to cross a number of borders and invade sovereign territories, not without huge repercussions. It would be outrageous," the CIA man spluttered, "We made an agreement with the Colombians."
"To throw our men to the dogs."
"Not exactly," Evers responded lamely, "They did carry out due process."
"Due process? Without a trial?"
Wisely, Evers kept quiet.
"There's your offer, General," Jacks said, "A Special Forces unit ready to go. Provided we can agree the conditions under which they go in, of course."
Walker groaned.
Here we go.
"What do you want, Admiral?"
"The immediate release of my men from custody, and the dropping of all charges, for starters.
Walker couldn't help it. He smiled. "Go on."
"And their reinstatement to the Navy Seals. Also effective immediately."
Evers leaned forward. "General, you cannot do that. The Colombians will go ape!"
Walker nodded. "Thanks for telling me what I can and can't do, Mr. Evers." He turned back to Jacks. "If I agree, can your Seals pursue these terrorists, locate and kill them before they can carry out their intended attack?"
Jacks shook his head. "No, Sir. What I can offer is the best option you have, short of declaring all-out war on several nations. I take it we don't want another Vietnam."
Walker briefly closed his eyes. "We do not."
"Short of parking a Carrier Battle Group off the Cuban coastline, prior to an invasion, I'd say those four men are the best possible option of finding these men. They're the best I have, and I can tell you all my people are exceptional. If it can be done, they'll pull it off. But..." He held up a hand as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs went to interrupt, "There're no guarantees. It'll mean a lengthy manhunt, inside the territory of at least one hostile nation, and maybe more."
Evers was still trying to protest, but Walker nodded to a technician, who muted the sound from his screen. He looked at Jacks.
"Admiral, I sympathize with the predicament your men are in, but there's not a thing I can do to help them. Not personally. However, there is one man who can. The President of the United States, and he's authorized me to take any measures I suggest may be necessary to recapture the detainees. Here's what I'll recommend. Your men will be released from custody, and they'll be assigned to this operation. However, to satisfy the political niceties, they cannot be reinstated until the mission is ended."
"Reinstatement no matter which way it turns out," Jacks snapped.
"Agreed. Mr. Evers, do you understand what I'm saying? Nod your head if you do. There's a problem with your audio."
Evers nodded. Reluctantly.
He nodded to the technician. "You can turn his audio back on." He looked at Evers.
"I want you to make sure you find someone local to go with them, a Cuban national would be ideal, someone who knows the area well." He thought for a moment and smiled, "Mr Evers, I want you to go along. You can act as liaison."
His face showed shock. Walker looked at Jacks as he spoke again.
"There's just one problem, General."
"What kind of a problem, Drew?"
Jacks indicated it was between the two of them, and they pressed switches to exclude the others from the discussion.
"I asked what kind of a problem."
"The men, Bravo. You haven't asked them."
Walker's eyebrows raised in astonishment. "You mean they could refuse? And spend a lifetime in the stockade?"
Jacks smiled. "You don't understand, General. These men are unique. There's not a stockade in the world could hold them. They'd get out eventually, and they'd go to ground, just disappear. It's what we trained them to do, after all. But they're also patriots. They wouldn't have joined if they didn't hold their country dear. Let's hope they're not too pissed about the way their country has treated them. I guess we'll soon know."
Walker was thoughtful. "Talk to your men and get their reply. But I'm still not happy about this. I want you to hold fire while I talk it over with my people. I'd still need to get the Presidential go-ahead. The problem is I don't like the idea of a bunch of wanted men roaming around Cuba, creating havoc."
"You already have that, General. The men who escaped from Gitmo."
"True, but I don't want to add to our problems. Talk to them, see what they say, and wait until I give you the order. Clear?"
Jacks smiled. "Clear, Sir."
Walker finished the call, and Admiral Jacks reconnected to Panama.
"Mr. Evers, you know what to do? The offer on the table is immediate release and reinstatement when the operation to recover these fugitives is complete."
"General Walker went for it?" Jacks was silent, and the CIA man rolled his eyes, "Don't they know it's a gamble? They're playing with fire, at least, in political terms."
"I think they know all that, Mr. Evers."
"Yeah, I guess so. I'll go and see them. See what they say."
"You do that, and report back to me when you're done. And only to me."
"Will do, Admiral."
* * *
"Fuck 'em."
Nolan smiled at Will's comment. They were sitting in an interrogation room inside Panama City Jail. Evers faced them across the table, except for Ryder who was standing at the window, looking out at the depressing view. It overlooked the exercise yard. Hundreds of prisoners were standing around, chatting, and arguing; a few played cards. Two men were slugging it out over some disagreement while the guards looked on, bored. The CIA man had laid it all out for them. The escaped detainees from Gitmo, the threat to US national security, and that they were expected to hunt down and stop the nine men currently on the run, presumably still somewhere inside Cuba. Stop them before they reached US soil and launched a devastating attack.
"I don't agree with any of this," Evers insisted, his tone pompous. Evidently, he misunderstood Will's meaning and assumed he meant the Colombians, "We had an agreement with the Colombian government. But it's an order from the President, so we have to go along with it."
"No, we don't," Nolan told him, "We appreciate the thought, Mr Evers. But we shouldn't have been thrown to the wolves in the first place. If we do go hunting for these characters, it'll be our choice."
"But you're serving Naval personnel," Evers said, bewildered, "It's an order from the President."
"No, you told us we were discharged. Effective immediately, that was what you said. We are no longer subject to service discipline."
The CIA man shook his head. "Don't you want to get out of Cárcel Modelo?"
He smiled. "Not particularly. Not until it suits us. The food's not too bad, although we could do with a bigger cell."
Evers wasn't sure if he was joking, but he pressed on. "It's a Presidential directive. We can't refuse."
"We?"
"Yes, we," he said, his expression miserable, "They want me to go along."
Ryder spoke for the first time, his voice almost a whisper. "Good."
They glared at each other for long moments, and finally, Nolan bowed to the inevitable. He looked at each of the men in turn, and they nodded.
"Okay, we'll do it. Get us out of here, and find a safe place for a briefing. What about our gear? Weapons, equipment, infil, exfil, you worked it all out?"
"Er, not all of it, no. But whatever gear you want, it'll be made available."
"Women?" Will grinned.
"There is a Cuban national we'll take with us, someone who knows the country well. They're involved with the drugs and people smuggling trade and so should be able to help us trace the route these people took. They'd have to have used smugglers. There's no other way"
"That could help," Nolan nodded, "We haven't done a great deal of business with Cuba," he grinned, "Not lately, anyway, not since the Bay of Pigs fiasco. What's the next move?"
"Bay of Pigs?" Evers asked, "What was that about?"
Will shook his head in disbelief. "You're shittin' us, right? You haven't heard of it?"
Evers looked puzzled. "No."
The big Seal PO1 sighed. "April 1961, a military invasion of Cuba by a CIA-backed group, Brigade 2506. It was the armed wing of the Democratic Revolutionary Front, and their plan was to toss out Fidel Castro's government. The communists, led by Castro himself, tore them apart in three days. Not one of CIA's big successes, not by a long way."
"Uh huh," the CIA man nodded, "It's not relevant. Besides, it was before my time."
Not relevant! Five decades of hostility between nations, and the world brought to the brink of thermonuclear war during the Cuban missile crisis. Jesus Christ, where did he go to school?
"Whatever. Where do we go from here? You said everything will be made available, so where is it?"
"Uh, yeah. Here, in Panama City."
"Here?"
"Well, on the canal. We have a new Marine amphibious ship moving through the canal to take up station in the Atlantic. You'll go aboard under a Marine escort. Once on the ship, they'll release you and provide you with the weapons and equipment you need for this operation."
"Understood. Transport? How do we get there? To Cuba?"
"They'll tell you when you board the ship."
* * *
The USS Scott was tied up to the quay, waiting to enter the Miraflores Lock in Panama City. She was huge, a small aircraft carrier, built to Panamax specifications. She was the largest size ship capable of passing through the canal, with a beam of a hundred and six feet. The Scott was built to carry Marine Corps personnel and their aircraft and equipment to any theater of war in the world. They could see on the deck a range of rotary craft, including the familiar Black Hawks, and the newly arrived Boeing Ospreys. There were also a half dozen fixed wing aircraft, AV-8B jump jets with VTOL, vertical take off and landing capability.
The four men were still in manacles and sandwiched between a squad of marines. Evers led the way up the gangplank and took them down into the bowels of the ship, where the armorer removed the steel shackles on their wrists. In a last act of spite, the Panamanians clamped the iron on them before they allowed their release, then claimed to have lost the key.
Nolan flexed his arms; glad to be rid of the tight handcuffs. Evers waited by the door, as if not wanting to associate himself with the act of releasing the four desperadoes. He looked at his watch.
"Guys, we're to report to the communications room for a briefing, is this going to take much longer?"
"Why don't you put on a set of these manacles yourself?" Will grunted, "Try it first hand, then you'd know."
The spook grimaced and kept quiet. A few minutes later, they followed him through the ship to the operations room, the combat information center, and the heart of a fighting ship. A Naval officer was waiting to greet them. He stepped forward with his hand outstretched.
"I'm Ed Miller, Captain of the USS Scott. It's lucky you caught us. We're on our first voyage. This'll probably be the first and last time we navigate the canal."
He was tall, broad shouldered, square jawed, and he had mastered the art of standing as erect as a telegraph pole, while his expression was still relaxed but wary. He had deep lines, crow's feet, around his eyes. Not unusual for seafarers who spent much of their service lives looking out to sea for threats.
Nolan introduced them, and he regarded them quizzically.
"You're squids, or so they tell me."
"Kind of," he hedged, "Right now, our status is unclear."
He nodded. "Is that right? Sounds like some lace pants at the Pentagon has it in for you. Or is it to do with this operation?"
"Something like that."
"Right." He'd worked with Seals before and knew their MO, "There's a call waiting for you on the console over there," he pointed to where a petty officer was sitting behind a monitor, "When you're done, you can use our facilities to update yourselves on the local geography."
Nolan thanked him, and they walked over to the console. The marine punched buttons on the keyboard, and a face appeared on the screen. Rear Admiral Drew Jacks. All four men relaxed for the first time since the Panamanians had grabbed them.
Jacks grinned. "Good to see you're all still alive. You understand what this operation involves?"
"We're civilians," Nolan quipped, "You sure you got the right men?"
The grin faded a little. "Ouch. I guess you were thrown a raw deal, so you're entitled to feel that way. By the way, I've ironed out the worst of the legal and political problems."
He didn't tell them any more. It wasn't relevant to the operation. Besides, blackmailing the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs wasn't something you'd want spread around. Neither was it relevant to admit General Walker hadn't given the final go-ahead. Jacks was certain it would come. Had to come.
"That's good news, Admiral. Suppose you spell out the bad news."
He looked grim. "I guess you know the political realities of entering Cuba." Nolan nodded, "That's why the Pentagon decided to keep your status as civilians, just for the time being. You'll be going in on your own, with no overt assistance from the military."
Will was listening, and his expression changed to anger. "You're not serious? Admiral, you know we were screwed over that Colombian business, and now you're telling us we're going to fight as civilians! No back up? No reinstatement?"
Jacks sighed. "If it was up to me, you'd be back in the service in the blink of an eye. Preferably with promotions all round for what you went through. But it isn't up to me. The feeling is that if you go in as civilians, it'll allow our government to deny all knowledge of any incursion into Cuba, or any other foreign soil. The last thing we want to do is start a war."
"Admiral," Brad interjected, "the guys at Guantanamo who allowed those fanatics to escape started the war. What you want from us is to stop it."
He nodded. "You're right. I understand the Commandant, Shaftoe, will be facing an inquiry, probably a court-martial. But that doesn't change the situation. We have to bring those men back before they hit a major American target. And the only way to do that, at least until they cross over to US territory, is to send in a small team to hunt them down. Anything more, and the Cubans would spot them for sure."
"You realize if they catch us, they're liable to ship us back to Colombia?" Brad persisted, "Unless they shoot us first, as spies."
"Yeah, it's a risk. It's one you'll have to keep in mind."
"Thanks for nothing," Will muttered.
"I'm sorry, PO Bryce, but there's nothing I can do to change it."
Evers pushed to the front. "Admiral, maybe you should remind these men of what you've done for them. They were facing a long term of imprisonment in the military stockade."
Jacks smiled. "Mr. Evers, these men were doing their duty, and they were screwed by their own government. Keep it in mind while you accompany them on this operation. I suggest if you have anything to say, you think long and hard. The jungles of South America can be dangerous places, accidents happen. Men can disappear without trace."
"But…" The CIA man stopped as the impact of Jacks' words went home, "Right," he finished lamely.
Jacks nodded. The man had got the message. "Captain Miller will make sure you have everything you need. If you need to communicate, I'm afraid the best we can do is a civilian satphone. Anything else would be suspicious if they found it."
"What about infil and exfil?" Nolan asked.
"Yeah, we've worked out the best way to avoid Cuban radar is a HALO jump. The USS Scott carries Ospreys. You'll take off when the ship is outside the canal, and you'll jump fifteen klicks from the Cuban shore. You'll make landfall just outside Tortuguilla. That's where we know the detainees went ashore. CIA has arranged for you to meet a person who knows the island well and has contacts with the smugglers. The kind of people they'd had to have used to get away."
"They may have left the island already," Will pointed out.
"It's possible," Jacks agreed, "In which case, you follow them. Wherever they go. Men, you're the bloodhounds. Get on their scent, and follow it all the way until you locate them."
"And then?" It was Ryder who'd put the question.
"Use your discretion," he replied, "These men are intent on mounting an attack on the United States, an attack to put 9/11 in the shade, so we understand. They threaten our security, our women and children, the very fabric of our lives."
"That's not good enough," Ryder pushed, "You want us to kill them, just come out and say so."
Jacks was silent for a few moments. Then he inclined his head as he came to a decision.
"Kill them."
John-Wesley smiled. "Copy that."
* * *
They waited on the flight deck dressed in civilian clothes, jeans, colored shirts, and an assortment of jackets and high-laced jungle boots. The intention was for them to look like Cuban locals, at least from a distance. Nolan had glanced in a mirror and thought they looked like a bunch of desperados. If any cop saw them, he'd run them in on sight.
The Scott was off the Panamanian coast, rolling gently in a light swell. The crew of the Osprey was making final pre-flight checks before they boarded and took off. Their weapons were mainly Soviet era stuff, which Evers had mysteriously rounded up from a local CIA contact. The Cuban army used Soviet era equipment, and the island was flooded with it as a result.
Nolan and Bryce carried PM-63 RAK 9mm submachine guns; Polish made and popular with the Cuban militia. Brad and John-Wesley each had a Kalashnikov AKM, the updated version of the ubiquitous AK-47. They carried their ammunition in bandoliers looped over their shoulders, and each man had a Makarov 9mm in a canvas holster fastened to his belt. There was no way anyone could mistake them for anything other than what they were. Trouble.
