It's gonna be real interesting to see how all that works out when we get back to Coronado, Guy thought. He settled down and turned his attention back to his Western.
.
STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN
BARRI PRISON
23 JULY 1000 HOURS
SERGEANT Arjumand Allawi sat in a chair outside the office door, working hard at trying to appear nonchalant. He was from an Army Reserve Military Police unit in Buffalo, New York, and had been in his present position as a guard at Barri Prison for nine months.
He had grown up bilingual, speaking both Arabic and English, acquiring fluency in both languages with the ease of all youngsters exposed to a multicultural environment. Both his parents were from Syria and were well established in the local Islamic community in Buffalo. The family had an ethnic grocery store that sold all sorts of canned and packaged foods from the Middle East. They even stocked soft drinks and fruit juice that most customers purchased for sentimental reasons rather than for any superiority over American products.
The door next to him opened, and Allawi turned to see Fred Leighton looking out at him. Allawi always thought there was something weird about the guy; he wore BDUs like everybody else, but he sported no unit or rank insignia on the uniform. Rumors abounded about who he might really be, the suppositions ranging from a CIA agent to an operative of the Saudi Arabian intelligence service. Those who heard him speak Arabic noted it was flawless, with an exotic sort of accent.
Leighton finally spoke after a moment of staring at Allawi. "Come in."
Allawi walked into the office, noting there was a desk in the center rear of the room, and a table and chairs off to the side. That was where he was directed with curt gestures. Leighton walked around and sat down. He didn't say anything for almost a full minute. Allawi was annoyed. "I'm not gonna stand here all fucking day, dude."
"You'll do what I tell you," Leighton said.
"You don't show any rank, pal," Allawi said. "So unless you produce a fucking ID card that shows you're an E-Six or above, I'm not taking any shit off you."
"Sit down."
Allawi obeyed, noting there was something about Leighton that was far, far out of the ordinary. "So what do you want?"
"You're a reservist from Buffalo, New York, right?"
"Right," Allawi said.
"And you attend Nijmi-min-Islam mosque in that city, do you not?"
"Well," Allawi said, "I've attended services there, but I'm really not religious. I went because my father insisted. You know how old folks can be about stuff like that. I haven't been inside the place in a couple of years."
"You were there about six times last year in the week of the second to the eighth of May," Leighton said.
Cold fear gripped Allawi like ice water thrown over him.
"And you've been present at the house of Askary Shareef on many occasions," Leighton stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "Why?"
"Well, y'know, I went there, y'know, with friends," Allawi said. "Some guys I knew were invited, and they asked me to come along. It was social. Just sitting around and talking."
"What were you talking about?"
"Hey, am I in some kind of trouble here?" Allawi said in nervous anger. "Just in case, I want a lawyer. Understand? I'm not going to sit here and go through a third degree."
"Yeah, you will."
The tone in Leighton's voice was one of finality, clout, and power. Here was a man who, for whatever reason or authority, could go far beyond the norm of legality and not have to worry about it.
"Let's just wait a minute," Allawi said. "This is getting too weird."
"You like to talk to the prisoners, don't you?" Leighton asked, ignoring his statement.
"Well, yeah, it's always in the line of duty," Allawi said. "Well, sometimes I do some chitchat, y'know. It's a normal thing." He cleared his throat and sat up straighter.
"I believe it's called communication."
"Who do you talk to after your chitchats with the prisoners?"
"I don't know what you mean," Allawi said.
"I'll be more explicit," Leighton said. "When you pick up information from the prisoners, who do you pass it on to?"
"I have no idea where this is leading."
"I'll be even more explicit," Leighton said. "Who did you tell about the two prisoners Hamza Qazi and Rahmat Nahayan and their buddy who was bitten by a cobra? I'm really interested in hearing about the guy who was snake-bit while he was an EPW. Now, who was it you passed that information on to? And why?"
"Look, whoever you are, I'm not putting up with this shit, understand?"
"Now let me explain something to you, Sergeant Allawi," Leighton said in a very calm tone of voice. "You can either be cooperative here or somewhere a lot worse. If you're not careful you're gonna end up so deep in the federal prison system they'll have to pump fresh air and sunshine in to you."
Allawi glared back defiantly.
CHAPTER 12
SEAL BASE CAMP
24 JULY 0615 HOURS
ALL hands, or as SCPO Buford Dawkins would have said, "every swinging dick" of Brannigan's Brigands was standing-to at their posts. Those who had been off-duty had been summoned from their billets by the noise of several helicopters on the Zaheya side of the valley. The disturbance brought the SEALs rushing to the MLR with weapons and bandoliers, expecting the worst-case scenario. The aircraft, out of sight behind the western mountain range, could be heard settling down on the LZ to the rear of the enemy's fortified area. The telltale remnants of dust clouds drifted into the SEALs' collective view on the southern portion of the OA.
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan dispatched the RTO, Frank Gomez, to make a transmission to the USS Combs for a quick surveillance flight over the area. Gomez returned a little less than a couple of minutes later with a scribbled message, and handed the note to the Skipper. He read the missive, wadded it up, and threw it over the parapet, to be buffeted by the wind along the mountainside.
Brannigan spoke into his LASH. "We're gonna stay on a hundred percent alert until further notice. SFOB isn't able to provide any aerial recon right now, since all available aircraft at Shelor Field are committed to other missions."
The Odd Couple occupied the OP just above headquarters, and they both peered over no-man's-land, carefully looking for some indication of activity. Dave Leibowitz shook his head. "I don't see anything unusual."
"Me neither," Mike Assad said. "Them guys are out of sight in their positions, and nobody's scurrying around. Everything seems laid back over there."
"That doesn't mean the shit isn't about to hit the fan," Leibowitz said.
They heard some scuffling below, and a few moments later the Skipper came through the hole, keeping low as he crawled over to join them. "We couldn't see anything from the MLR. Have you guys picked up on any activity?"
"Negative, sir," Assad replied. "There hasn't been a thing going on over there. As usual, we can't see any coming or going. But it's obvious some choppers have come in to visit the bad guys. I'd give my next payday to find out what's going on."
Brannigan had his own binoculars trained on the site. "Maybe it's just a supply delivery or something like that. But you never know." After a quarter hour of observation, he was ready to leave. "Keep your eyes peeled, guys. The whole detachment is going to be on watch for a while. When I decide we can stand down I'll send somebody up here to relieve you. It'll probably be Miskoski and Puglisi and their sniper rifles. Stay alert!"
"Aye, sir!"
Brannigan wiggled back through the hole and made his way down into the bunker.
MAJOR Arsalaan Sikes Pasha watched the fifty newcomers unass the pair of Iranian Army French-manufactured Aerospatiale helicopters. The newly arrived Arabs wore nondescript fatigue uniforms that had evidently been culled from supply quartermaster warehouses of at least a trio of nations. Now that they were on the ground, the group milled around in confusion amid a trio of large bundles they had brought with them. Then Sikes spotted a familiar figure emerging from the nearest aircraft, stepping gingerly to the ground. The Brit instantly recognized him as his former mentor in the Jihad Abadi.