They could speak in the passageway as they hurried farther into the vessel's interior. Brannigan, who was between the two, was not in a good mood about being pulled out of the SEAL base camp. He spoke angrily to Carey, to his front. "What the fuck's going on--sir?"
"You have an appointment with General Leroux," Carey answered over his shoulder.
"Who the hell is he?"
Berringer replied, "He's Army and the CG of the SFOB aboard the Combs. He's also a representative of the JCOS and has direct access to other command levels at the snap of one of his impatient fingers."
"Shit!" Brannigan blurted, thinking, What the fuck did I do now?
A marine stood at the entrance to Leroux's compartment and immediately opened the door as the three men walked up. Carey led the way in, where another door was opened for them by a Special Forces sergeant, who was obviously part of the SFOB staff. At that point Carey indicated that Brannigan was to step in first.
When he entered he found himself facing a grizzled U. S. Army brigadier general who had the look of someone who was more at home in the field than in an office aboard a naval destroyer. Leroux leaned back in his chair and returned Brannigan's salute. He didn't say anything for a few moments, then growled. "So you're Brannigan, are you?"
"Yes, sir."
"There's a chair in the corner," Leroux said. "Grab it and drag it over here, then plop your ass down on it." He waited until the order was obeyed. "Alright, Brannigan, what's this shit about you shooting a wounded EPW?"
Brannigan, now aware that both Carey and Berringer were standing behind him, took a deep breath. It was all coming home now. "It's true, sir."
"Well now, ain't that some shit," Leroux said. "One of them pansy journalists at a White House press conference brought up the situation and it went out on the eleven-o'clock news. Real nasty, Brannigan! So you just tell me what happened. And I don't want any bullshit."
"Aye, sir."
"Goddamn! I'm getting real tired of all this sailor shit and this fucking boat and everything else," Leroux spat. "With me it's 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir,' not this 'aye' and 'nay' or whatever else y'all use. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Brannigan said.
"Now, I know all about your Operation Battleline, so you can leave that out," Leroux said. "Tell me what happened at the ambush that led up to this wounded raghead getting killed."
"Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "We were back at the LZ waiting for the chopper to begin the exfiltration with the three EPWs we'd captured. One of them suddenly jumped up and made a run for it."
"Ha!" Leroux exclaimed. "So you shot him trying to escape, huh?"
"No, sir," Brannigan said. "He tried to get into a bunch of boulders when a cobra bit him."
"Jesus!" Leroux said with a laugh. "The son of a bitch was snake-bit?"
"Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "Two of my men had chased him up to the spot and saw that the poison was spreading fast. There was nothing any of us could do to save him. So one of my men shot him in the head to put him out of his misery."
"Was he following your orders when he killed the guy?"
"Negative, sir. I was still back with the main group, and he did it on his own," the SEAL explained. "The guy is one of my best men, but he's impetuous as hell."
"How did you handle the shooter?" Leroux asked.
"I gave him the choice of a court-martial or administrative punishment," Brannigan explained. "He chose Article Fifteen, so I put him on watch-and-watch with plenty of chores to tend to between his stints of duty."
"Okay, Brannigan," Leroux said. "We're going to have to do some fudging on this, understand? When the guy made his escape attempt, he was not wounded or injured at that time, right?"
"That's right, sir."
"Good," Leroux said. "The other two EPWs are confined at the Barri Prison in Bahrain. The source of the information might have come from one of them or maybe one of your guys. Have any of them been out of your OA since the incident?"
"No, sir."
Berringer, the intelligence officer, interjected, "I've spoken with the S-Two at Station Bravo, and we've come to the conclusion the leak came from inside the prison. We're prepared to start a probe."
"Do it!" Leroux said. He turned back to Brannigan. "Okay, here's how it's gonna be. The official report of the investigation--which we just had right here in this office, by the way--is that a healthy, uninjured EPW was shot while trying to escape. I want you to make sure all your men understand this. It's not an outright falsehood, but the truth of the matter is that the guy got killed during an escape attempt. Now, if somebody pops up and happens to ask if he was bitten by a snake, we'll have to handle that a different way. But that's not much of a possibility. Hell! It's not even a probability."
"Alright, sir. I understand."
Leroux's demeanor relaxed, and he actually smiled. "So how's everything going in Operation Battleline?"
"We're just sitting tight, sir," Brannigan said, "waiting for the worst-case scenario to unfold."
"Do you need anything?"
"No, sir. We're loaded for bear. This has been first-rate as far as supplies go."
Leroux stood up and offered his hand. "You've done a fine job out here, Lieutenant Brannigan. Well appreciated."
"I'll pass the word to my men."
"Now keep in mind what I've said about this dead EPW," the general reiterated. "I don't want to see any American serviceman getting into trouble over this incident. And, believe me, there are some real bastards back home who love it when they can stick it to one of our ladies or gentlemen."
"I understand, sir."
Another exchange of salutes and Brannigan left the general's presence.
CHAPTER 11
STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN
BARRI PRISON
20 JULY 0215 HOURS
FRED Leighton stood at his office window, looking down on the compound. Barri Prison had a stark, antiseptic appearance behind the razor wire and guard towers that rose off the desert floor. The white buildings with yellow trim were square, monotonous, and bland to the senses. But it wasn't designed to be an architectural masterpiece; this was a place of confinement for two-hundred-plus Arab prisoners swept up in various operations, not only throughout the Middle East but in other parts of the world as well. A few had been yanked off various airline flights after their names were discovered on lists of terrorist suspects; others had been policed up for some deadly mischief in Europe. Like those captured in places such as Afghanistan and Iraq, these were brought to this place of confinement at the far western end of Station Bravo. The facility, fast taking the place of Guantanamo Bay, was isolated from the rest of the garrison by continual motor patrols keeping a 24/7 surveillance on the immediate area.
This was Leighton's base of operations--not only because he was the area's principal CIA operative, but also because his fluency in Arabic put him on call for various interrogation tasks that popped up. His language skills gave him a psychological edge over the detainees during periods of intense questioning. Leighton had only the slightest trace of accent, and his complete knowledge of the Arabic tongue included not only the academic, technical, scientific, and military aspects, but also the latest slang and political rhetoric. As a boy growing up in several Middle East countries where his father worked as an oil field operations supervisor, Leighton spoke to every social class of Arab that existed, from intellectuals right down the social gamut to the rough-tough guys who did the muscle-work out on the derricks.
His phone rang, and he turned around to answer it. The few words spoken informed him that the prisoner he requested had been taken to interrogation and was waiting for him.
"Right," he responded, then hung up.
HAMZA Qazi was alone in the room, sitting at a table with an empty chair on the other side. He could tell this place was for informal or even friendly interrogations, in contrast to other areas where he had been taken. For the first few times when he faced questioning after he arrived at the prison, there was nothing in the stark chambers except for the inevitable bright light in the ceiling. At those times Hamza would be wearing clothing much too large for him. This put him at a serious psychological disadvantage, since he had to make an effort to keep his pants from falling down. Additionally, he was forced to stand and wait for hours until a visitor appeared. The man usually brought a chair with him, and the man made himself comfortable while conducting the interrogation. Then another man would appear--sometimes friendlier and sometimes much more hostile--and take over the procedure as Hamza's legs trembled with fatigue and he struggled with his baggy attire. Eventually this second interrogator's place would be taken by the first or perhaps a third in a rotation that seemed endless.