Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (4 page)

He was interrupted by the receiver in his ear. “
We’ve got what may be a well. Small building. Nobody in there
.”

Rat lowered his night-vision device and walked carefully through the room and into the darkness. Groomer was right behind him. “
Maybe he’s in the well itself. I’m on my way
.” He broke into a trot. “
Robby, you up
?”

“Robby.”

“Check in with the helos. Get an updated ETA.”

“Wilco.”

He found the small building. The others were watching for him outside, waiting for his instructions. He looked at Groomer.

Toad said, “Two flat doors on top folded closed. The well is probably underneath those doors.”

Rat walked directly inside the building. His men covered the entrance and all sides from the outside. Rat stooped down and studied the two doors over the well opening. They had handles. He was tempted to just grab one of the doors and fling it open. He said to Groomer, “Could be booby-trapped.”

“ETA five minutes,”
Robby transmitted.

“Roger,”
Rat replied. He glanced at his watch. Rat could hear himself breathing. “Give me some line, or wire. He stuck out his hand and felt nylon cord being placed in his open palm. He carefully wrapped the line around one of the handles that was attached to the door over the well and retreated back to the outside.

He handed the line to Groomer. “When I say, pull on this and get on the ground.”

Groomer took it and nodded.

Rat kneeled down next to Groomer with his submachine gun pointed at the well. He took a breath and nodded to Groomer.

Groomer gave a huge pull and lay flat on the ground. The door flapped opened immediately and slammed over. Suddenly, bullets rang out in the well house. At first, Rat couldn’t tell where they were coming from, then he realized the bullets were flying into the roof of the well house. They were coming from inside the well. Someone was definitely in the well, and he had been surprised.

“He’s got to be standing on something, or suspended by something,” Groomer said.

Rat crawled back into the well house on his belly as the bullets continued out of the well. He examined the top of the well from the side; a rope was tied to the hinge of the opposite door. He slid back outside as the harmless firing stopped.

Rat turned to Groomer. “He’s on a rope. How the hell do we get this guy out of there without killing him?”

Groomer nodded. “We need to get our rope underneath his—but he’ll see it.” He thought as he surveyed the room. “We need to distract him. I’ll pull open the other door. Give me one second. That’s all I need. Let me blacken this rope. When I’m ready, fire some bursts right over the mouth of the well. I’ll slip our rope under his. Then I’ll just pull his ass up out of there.”

“First I’ll drop something heavy into the well. He doesn’t know we want him alive. He’ll think it’s a grenade. He’ll try to look down before he looks up and tries to get out. That’s when I’ll fire. He’ll feel trapped.” Rat transmitted, “
Everybody away from the south side of the well house. I’ll be firing directly across the mouth of the well
.
Anybody see a rock, or piece of building anywhere? I need something that weighs a couple of pounds that will sound like a grenade hitting the water
.”

Robby answered. “
Drop a real grenade. Just don’t arm it
.”

“Good idea,”
Rat replied. He took one of the grenades out of the pocket of his vest. He nodded at Groomer.

Groomer tied the rope to the second handle, backed away slightly, and pulled the second door wide open. The firing started again, slamming harmlessly into the ceiling. Duar was in too far to aim with any angle out of the well.

Rat lay directly next to the opening. Groomer moved up with his now blackened rope and nodded at Rat. Rat tossed the grenade into the opening. He heard it click against the wall of the well, then clunk into something. He heard the man curse. He had hit him in the head with the grenade, which then tumbled past him into the water below with a loud splash. Rat started firing.

With amazing speed Groomer slid his hand underneath the rope down in the well. He pulled it around and walked back out of the well house. The line was perhaps twenty feet long. He held both ends. “You, and you,” he said, pointing to two team members, “give me a hand here. We’ve got to pull this asshole out of this well like he’s been shot out of a cannon. Heave on this line when I say.” He moved the rope over his shoulder and the other two got behind him and did likewise.

Rat moved into the well house and gave Groomer the sign.

“Go!” Groomer yelled as he started pulling with all his might. They ran away from the well house. The man in the well rapidly rose from his hidden position. Rat watched as his head and the barrel of an AK-47 reached the top of the opening. Rat moved in behind him.

As soon as the terrorist’s head broke the surface he started shooting. Rat waited until the barrel of his weapon began to clear the well’s edge. Rat grabbed the barrel of the assault rifle. Duar tried to turn around, but had nothing to push off from. He was standing on a loop of rope that was unstable.

Rat pulled the rifle back hard, making sure it didn’t point at him. He struck the man’s wrist sharply, causing the man to cry out and release the rifle. Rat tossed it away and grabbed the man by the throat, pulling him backward out of the well.

The man was as big as Rat and struggled. Rat put him in a choke hold, cutting off his air. The man grabbed at Rat’s arm, but had no hope of breaking the grip.

Groomer felt the rope go slack and ran back into the well house. He took the man’s legs and forced him out of the well. As the man tried to kick him, Groomer reached up and punched him in the groin. Rat released his grip and the man moaned in pain.

Groomer grabbed his legs again and turned him over on the floor. He whipped plastic hand ties out of his pocket and bound the man’s hands together. He took out a flashlight and shone it in the man’s face. “It’s him. Sure as hell.” Groomer smiled.

Rat and Groomer stood up and jerked Duar to his feet. Rat could hear the approaching CH-53s. “Let’s get him out to the carrier.”

“Mr. President, we got Duar!” Sarah St. James, the National Security Adviser, announced with barely contained pleasure.

President Kendrick sat back in his chair in the oval office. He was surprised but very pleased. “Alive?” he asked.

“Alive. There was quite a fight; all the terrorists except Duar—and one of his men—were killed. Those two we got out alive. Unharmed.”

“Are they going out to the carrier?”

“Yes, sir. The
Belleau Wood
.”

“How many people know this?”

“I’m not sure. The message I saw was addressed to the usual people. I assume the people on the
Belleau Wood
know, or will know. Other than that—”

“We need to keep a lid on the fact that we got him. If the press hears about it, they’ll melt down.”

Sarah couldn’t imagine how they could keep this from the press for long. Duar was the most wanted terrorist in the world. Why wouldn’t the President want to broadcast that to everyone?

“Does Secretary Stuntz know?” the President asked.

“I suspect so, but I didn’t talk to him.”

“You just came straight here because you wanted to be the one to tell me about it,” he said, smiling.

“Probably true,” she admitted. “I was excited.”

“How did you hear about it?”

She said sheepishly, “Lieutenant Rathman.” She gave President Kendrick the best security advice she could give him. The standard government information and intelligence was helpful, but not enough as she saw it. She had carefully and quietly groomed people in several departments of the government who reported information she might find of interest directly to her by encrypted e-mail. She often knew about important things before the Director of the CIA learned of them. And in some cases, she was directly in touch with the operators themselves. The people who did things, like Rat, not the people who wrote reports. She had much more faith in people low on the chain of command. Those high up, especially those who were in Washington, were too often sycophants, telling her what she wanted to hear instead of what they really thought. When she was doing graduate work in international relations she had become fascinated with Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was the one she emulated in bypassing those with stars on their shoulders or ambition in their eyes.

“And how did your boy get this to you so fast?”

“He’s not.” She decided not to argue. “He has some new communication device. It’s the latest thing—a PDA with GPS, and he can hook up to the SIPRNET and send classified, encrypted e-mails. He has my e-mail address. Works anywhere in the world.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t send a courtesy copy to the Secretary of Defense, or the Director of Central Intelligence, his bosses.”

“I’ll bet he would if they asked. You know how it works, Mr. President. You even told me to keep you informed of things he sent me if they were particularly interesting.”

“Where was he when he sent you this e-mail?”

“On the helicopter flying from Sudan out to the carrier.”

“Amazing.” His thoughts went back to her response. “It’s funny, all I have to do is mention Secretary Stuntz and your face looks like you just drank vinegar.”

“Sorry.”

“Why do you dislike him so much?”

“It’s not that. It’s . . . nothing.”

Kendrick knew what was bothering her. “You think I promised you Defense, don’t you?”

“No, I understand.”

“You think I promised, and I’ve gone back on my word.”

“No, sir.”

“I didn’t promise. I said if the opportunity ever arose, would you be interested? Isn’t that what I asked you?”

“I don’t really remember, sir. But it doesn’t—”

He saw her disappointment. “Maybe it will happen one day. Don’t let your ambition run away with you.”

She nodded. She remembered his assurance as much more direct than he remembered. But he could do whatever he wanted. “Yes, sir,” she said finally. “I’m happy to work with you in whatever capacity—”

“Don’t patronize me,” he said, his face turning pink. “You may get your chance one day.” He pushed back his sandy hair, then started. He felt guilty for not asking the obvious question earlier. “Any American casualties?”

“One, sir. One man got shot in the face. Killed instantly. They got the Jordanian spy out unharmed too.”

“We need to decide what to do with this Duar. We need to know everything he knows, above everything else. I’d like to have some time with him before the whole world knows we have him and they start telling us what to do. We need to interrogate him. Too bad we can’t ‘encourage’ him to talk.”

“Oh, I think the people who do this have certain ways to make it happen.”

“Good. We need to get his entire operation and roll it up.”

The helicopter touched down on the USS
Belleau Wood
, LHA-3, a twenty-eight-year-old helicopter attack carrier full of Marines. Rat had stared at Duar and Mazmin for the entire flight. The terrorists had tried to look mean yet apathetic, as if their capture was a mere setback that would be set right soon. Mazmin had coughed uncontrollably throughout the flight. Rat had begun to wonder if he was contagious.

As the helicopter blades slowed, the top of the sun broke over the horizon, giving the sky a golden glow. Few on the ship knew who was in the helicopter. To the other sailors and Marines onboard this helicopter looked just like many others that flew off the
Belleau Wood
every day. They knew it wasn’t a Marine helicopter; the dark gray paint and extremely subtle, almost invisible, markings were different. But there wasn’t enough difference to make them particularly curious. Those who did know waited anxiously for the helicopter to unload—they had been awakened when the excitement spread of the dazzling success of the mission.

The jet engines continued to turn as the sailors on the flight deck ran to place chocks around its wheels to keep it from rolling on the moving deck.

Two members of Rat’s team grabbed Duar’s arms tightly and walked him down the ramp. His face expressed shock and dismay when he realized he was on an American warship at sea. His head spun, searching in vain for some sign of land. Several Masters at Arms—the ship’s police force—walked to the helicopter to escort Duar and Mazmin. Duar’s legs stiffened as he resisted and struggled. Two SAS members lifted him up so only his toes were in contact with the ship’s deck as they hustled him toward the island of the carrier.

Rat stepped off the ramp of the helicopter and watched Duar fight his way toward the island. As the second helicopter was settling onto the fantail at the other end of the
Belleau Wood
, Rat followed Duar.

Mazmin fought his escorts even more than Duar had. He tried to spit on Rat as he walked by. Rat told the MAAs to stop. They quickly looked at him and noticed the Sudanese Army uniform and hat. The chief petty officer in charge of the group wasn’t about to stop for some African major. He looked at the major again. He noticed Rat’s dark skin but thought it was probably from a tan. Rat didn’t have the look of an African, or Middle Easterner. And his bright blue eyes were a dead giveaway. He noticed Rat’s arms, the highly defined taut muscles that showed great strength without bulk, and the carriage of someone who knew how to handle himself. The chief was very confused. He started to push Mazmin on, but Rat said, “I’m Lieutenant Rathman. Navy SEAL.”

“Sorry, sir,” the chief said. “The uniform threw me.”

“Threw him too,” Rat said, smiling. The smile vanished as he looked into Mazmin’s hostile eyes. He spoke to Mazmin in Arabic. “I’m going to visit you tonight, asshole. You think almost drowning in the desert was bad? Tonight it’s the real thing. Swim call. I’m going to drag you out of the brig and throw you over the side when nobody’s looking. You’ll fall into the black ocean yelling for help and nobody will hear you.” Rat smiled at him and walked a good distance behind him to the island.