They waited in silence until the lieutenant reported that the prisoners were ready. Assam stood. “I will soon learn what you have
not
been able to discover.” Assam marched down to the interrogation room. An aide jerked open the door. Assam stopped, puffed himself up, and strode in with eight of his men. The two American pilots were standing in the center of the room, their wrists handcuffed behind their backs. “Salute your superior officers!” Assam barked. Doug Holloway turned so Assam could see that his hands were manacled behind his back. Assam ignored him. “Well!” he demanded.
“I never salute without my hat on,” Holloway said.
Al Gimlas looked away, ashamed of what was coming next. But no Arab could let Holloway’s retort go unanswered. The sound of kicks and blows thudding into Holloway echoed around the room. When al Gimlas turned, the American pilot was lying on the floor, his face a mass of blood. One of Assam’s goons was holding the bloody baton he had smashed into Holloway’s face.
“Capt. al Gimlas has been too weak and soft with you!” Assam shouted. “Now you are dealing with real men. You will tell me what I want to know.”
Mark Terrant’s even voice answered. “It would help if you’d tell us exactly what you want.” Assam flicked a hand and the men went to work on Terrant. They drove him to the ground and continued to kick at him as he curled into a tight ball, trying to protect his head. Finally, two men pinned Terrant against the floor on his back while the goon stepped over him and used the baton like a golf club, swinging at Terrant’s face. Al Gimlas stared at Assam as blood splattered the far wall.
“You will answer,” Assam said.
Al Gimlas bent over Terrant and inspected the damage to his face. “He can’t. You’ve broken his jaw.”
“Jewish trash,” Assam muttered. “We know how to treat Jews. But I must return to Khartoum.” He issued orders to an aide. “Remain here and finish what I have begun. Do not return until you have drained these vermin dry.” He hurried out of the room, anxious to get airborne.
Al Gimlas waited until the sound of the departing Mercedes died away. “Return them to their cells,” he ordered. He picked up the phone and called for a doctor.
“General Assam would not approve,” Assam’s aide barked.
Al Gimlas stared at him. “General Assam is not here. You are.” The two men glared at each other and al Gimlas handed him the phone. “You call the doctor while I check on my men.” The threat was obvious. The aide knew of al Gimlas’s reputation and the loyalty he inspired among his soldiers. It was a reputation and loyalty he did not want to test. He ordered the doctor to report immediately to the cells.
11:20
A.M.
, Friday, May 14,
Hurlburt Field, Fla.
The captain waiting on the parking ramp heard the distinctive beat of the helicopter before he saw it. When the MH-53J Pave Low appeared over the trees, he instinctively graded the approach.
Not bad
, he decided. It had been a very long training mission and the pilots had to be tired. The big helicopter settled to earth like a giant insect and taxied in. The captain shook his head when the pilot paused in front of the old biplane parked on the ramp. The white-and-red Staggerwing Beech was an anachronism and totally out of place. Yet it glistened with tender loving care and was a far better machine than when it was first manufactured in 1943.
The dark gray-green MH-53 was a harsh contrast to the pretty four-passenger cabin biplane. The Pave Low was the largest and most powerful helicopter the Air Force owned and, without doubt, the ugliest. But underneath its ungainly exterior beat the heart of the most technologically advanced helicopter in the world.
The six blades of the Pave Low’s seventy-two-foot rotor spun down as the crew climbed off. The last man off was the aircraft commander, a skinny lieutenant colonel who stood barely five feet four inches tall. His freckles, red hair, and bright green eyes went with his name, S. (for Seamus) Gerald Gillespie. Nothing in the way he walked or spoke to the crew indicated that he was the best special operations helicopter pilot in the U.S. military and perhaps the world. He was also the commander of the Green Hornets, the 20th Special Operations Squadron.
“Another crisis, Lee?” Gillespie asked. He was tired from the long mission and needed a beer.
Capt. Lee Harold shrugged his shoulders. He was a solidly built, dark-haired, Air Force Academy graduate who matched the Pave Low. “Two high rollers flew in from D.C. Civilians.”
“Theirs?” Gillespie asked, pointing at the Staggerwing.
“Yeah. The C.O. of Delta Force came with them.”
“Must be important,” Gillespie grumbled. He was not happy for civilians meant CIA. Although the Staggerwing didn’t fit the image. “Let’s go talk to ’em.”
The colonel who commanded Delta Force made the introductions. The names Durant and Rios meant nothing to Gillespie and he shook their hands. “I assume you’re from Langley,” Gillespie said, meaning they were CIA. “What can we do for you?”
Durant caught the slight undertone in Gillespie’s voice and shook his head. “The CIA reports to me on this one.” Gillespie was impressed. Only the President could make that happen. “I’ve been asked to put together a special mission and need your help.” Durant told him.
Nothing in Gillespie’s face betrayed what he was thinking. “I’d hate to think you could do it without us,” he murmured.
Durant liked his answer. “We’re still in the planning phase, but once the mission is firmed up, we’re moving to Fort Irwin for training.” Fort Irwin was an army training center in the Mojave Desert in California.
“Going after those two pilots in the Sudan?”
“Very good,” Durant replied.
“It doesn’t take much in the way of brains to figure that out,” Gillespie said. “So will the bad guys. We know they watch us for movement.”
Durant leaned back in his chair and took stock of the man in front of him. Gillespie was living up to his advance billing. “The colonel here is the ground commander. I want you to be the air boss and coordinate all our airlift requirements. Also, we need to get an operative on-scene prior to the rescue. Preferably, someone you know and trust. Any recommendations?”
Gillespie couldn’t help himself. “Does it have to be a ‘he’?”
“Come on!” the colonel from Delta Force barked. Gillespie tried to look contrite. He had worked with the colonel before and was just softening him up. “Okay, who is it?” the colonel asked.
“Victor Kamigami,” Gillespie said in a low tone. The men had to strain to be sure they heard him right.
“No fuckin’ way!” the colonel yelped.
1:30
P.M.
, Saturday, May 15,
Reno, Nev.
The club was still closed when Andrea Hall parked her bright red Mustang convertible near the rear entrance. Toni looked across the street and saw Harry pull up as planned. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” Toni said. Andrea shook her head. She wanted to help them. Toni stifled her own second thoughts and got out. She took some comfort that Harry was there as a backup and if she didn’t come out in an hour, he would come in after her.
“Aren’t you worried your car will get ripped off back here?” Toni asked.
“The security guards will keep an eye on it,” Andrea answered. On cue, a big man wearing a tee-shirt announcing B
ARE
E
SSENCE—NOT YOUR BASIC STRIPPED DOWN MODELS
stepped around the corner. “Most trouble happens in the parking lot,” Andrea explained, “very seldom inside. Pat, he’s the manager, and the guards make sure we get in and out safely.”
The guard escorted them to the front door and grinned. “Can you believe they pay us for this?”
The door opened and another man let them in. “Who’s your friend?”
“Pat,” Andrea said, “this is Toni. She’s a friend of mine and is thinking about dancing.”
Pat grunted and followed them into the club. With all the lights on, it appeared much shabbier than in the darkened glow of business hours. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “We’re a friendly bunch here. We’re about ready to open.” He turned the lights down as two men entered.
“Pat,” Andrea said, “why don’t you explain how it works to Toni while I change.”
Pat smiled at Andrea and pointed to the back office. Toni followed him, glad that her nine-millimeter Sig Sauer was in the bottom of her bag. It was a small office with a big desk that was bare except for a telephone. Two decrepit chairs were set against the rear wall and a nice leather couch was placed against the side wall.
Is that a casting couch?
she wondered. Pat sat down on the couch and waived her to a chair. “Ever dance professionally?” Toni shook her head.
The door opened and a young girl entered wearing next to nothing. She leaned over Pat and brushed her lips against his cheek. Her tongue flicked his ear and she murmured a few words Toni couldn’t hear. “You look great, honey,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.” She rubbed her breasts against him and stood up, taking off her shoes. Her hips wiggled provocatively as she left. From the rear she looked naked.
How old is she?
Toni wondered.
“Dancing onstage is not the important thing here,” Pat said. “Taking bucks off the customers is. That’s why we got an ATM in the club.” He spent the next fifteen minutes explaining the business arrangements and how to work the customers. “Watch how Andrea does it. We’ve got over a hundred girls working here right now and she’s the best.” He leaned forward and fixed her with an intent look. “If we catch you hustlin’ in the club or the parking lot, we call the cops. We sell fantasy here, not the real thing. Got it?”
Toni smiled at him. Hustling was allowed if you didn’t get caught. But the actual financial transactions and the deed had to occur off premises. The door opened and the guard from the parking lot shoved his head in. “Mr. Ramar is here, boss. He’s talkin’ to some of the girls.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Pat replied, suddenly very nervous. “Show him in.” He jerked his chin at the door, dismissing Toni.
On the way out, she passed a lean, swarthy man wearing an open-neck white silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel. A heavy gold chain dangled from around his neck and was buried in the thick matt of his hairy chest.
A pimp if I ever saw one
, she thought, returning his stare.
August Ramar slammed the door when he stepped into Pat’s office. “What’s the cop doing here?” he demanded.
Pat hid his surprise and said nothing. No serious player in Reno ever questioned Ramar, not if he valued his life. The phone rang and Pat picked it up, glad for the distraction. “The call’s right on time,” he said.
Toni found a seat at a small table at the rear of the club and watched Andrea circulate among the early customers. She was wearing a backless sequined gown cut low in the front and split up the left side to her waist. Her high-heeled shoes made her even taller. She spoke to a man and he smiled back. She led him to the side wall and he sat on one of the benches. Andrea seemed to wiggle and the dress fell to the floor. She stepped out of her shoes and was totally naked as the music began. She made him sit on his hands as she straddled him face on. Her knees clamped the side of his thighs as she moved sensuously to the music. Toni studied her every movement and noticed that no other part of Andrea’s body ever touched him.
This is art?
she wondered.
The music lasted exactly four minutes and Andrea pulled away from her customer the moment it stopped. The man sighed heavily and handed her some folded money. Andrea stepped into her shoes and pulled her dress up. Her face was a frozen mask as she walked over to Toni and sat down. “That’s how it’s done.”
“How much money did he give you?” Toni asked.
Andrea showed her the two twenties the man had slipped her and leaned forward. “That man in the white shirt, he’s the guy I told you about. I don’t know his name and it’s not a question you can ask here.”
Toni nodded. “His name is Ramar,” she said. She had what she had come for. “I’m out’a here.”
One of the waitresses came up and told Toni that Pat wanted to see her in the office. Andrea gave Toni a worried look. “You better go. Just tell him you changed your mind. It happens all the time.” Toni nodded and clutched her bag as she walked back to the office. The feel of the 9mm Sig Sauer was reassuring, but she wished Harry was in the club. She glanced at her watch. He would be—in another thirty minutes.
“Close the door,” Pat said. He was sitting behind the big desk and Ramar was sprawled across the couch. “My friend,” Pat said, pointing at Ramar, “thinks you’re a cop.” Toni tried to look confused and shook her head. “Good,” Pat said. “Otherwise—” he didn’t finish the sentence.
“Otherwise,” Ramar said, “
your
friend is in deep shit.”
“Let’s see what you got,” Pat said.
“Sorry?” Toni stammered, stalling for time, trying to think.
“It’s audition time,” Ramar said. The threat was still there. The man was pure, cold violence.
“Take your clothes off,” Pat said. He leaned back in his chair.
“Without music?” Toni asked. It was all she could think of. Ramar stared at her, his eyes cold and threatening. She shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs, untying her shoes. Her mind raced.
How do I get out of this? Should I go for the gun?
“It’s no big deal,” Pat said. “Everyone does it. We just need to see if you have the wherewithal to work here.” That, and the heavy look from Ramar, decided the issue.
Barefoot, she stood up and moved slowly, working her tee-shirt slowly up over her bra.
Think!
she raged to herself. Then it came to her.
A naked woman is nothing to these toads
. She peeled the tee-shirt off and, leaving her bra on, leaned over the desk. She lowered her head and shook her hair free, letting it fall around her face. A memo pad beside the phone caught her attention and she read the scribbled message:
50M tires 64093
Toni had no illusions about her body and knew she was small-breasted. She shook her breasts in Pat’s face. “Nice, huh?”
Pat roared with laughter. “Those tits? Ya gotta be shittin’ me, lady.”
Toni pulled back and grabbed her tee-shirt in a huff. “I was talking about my hair.”
“How old are you?” Pat asked.
“Twenty-six,” she answered.
“That’s old for this business,” Pat said, “but it’s not too late. If you’re serious, get the tits pumped up and”—he stroked his own nose for emphasis—“get the beak fixed. Then we’ll talk.” Ramar only stared at her.
Toni nodded and beat a hasty retreat out of the office. The two men waited until the door was closed. “Do you still think she’s a cop?” Pat asked.
Ramar snorted. “Too fuckin’ dumb.”
The engine was running and the air conditioner on when Toni slipped into the passenger seat of Harry’s car. “How’d it go?” he asked.
“The guy’s name is Ramar,” Toni answered. “And I heard the phone ring when I walked out of the office.”
“We’ll check him out and follow up on the call,” Harry said.
Toni started to cry. “I blew it.” She quickly recounted what had happened in the office. “I was scared and didn’t know what to do.”
“Actually, it sounds like you did pretty good.” He fell silent, thinking. “It was my fault. I should have prepped you better before letting you go in. I’ll brief the boss.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Never try to hide anything in an investigation. It’ll come back and bite you every time.”
7:45
A.M.
, Monday, May 17,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Hank Sutherland was on his fourth cup of coffee and reading
Investigating Officer’s Report Of Charges Under Article 32, UCMJ
for the third time. He stood up to stretch and wished he had a window in his office. “What difference would it make?” he muttered to himself. Outside there was only a parking lot and eighty-degree heat and humidity. He sat back down to face the work on his desk.
The report in question served the function of a grand jury investigation and was conducted under Article 32 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, or UCMJ for short. Any officer deemed impartial could conduct the investigation, but usually it was done by a lawyer. Like everything else in the military, the investigation was reduced to a form. While the form itself was only two pages long, the number of pages used to expand the remarks section turned it into a lengthy document.