He nodded. “Agreed. We need a training site. Suggestions?” “It’s got to be desert and mountainous,” Bryant said. “Nellis is our best bet. Lots of training areas and activity to hide behind.” He stood up and walked to the U.S. map hanging on the wall. “Most of the area north of Las Vegas is deserted and we can avoid observation.” His eyes narrowed as he visualized the terrain. “And we can blend in with Red Flag.”
“Let’s make it happen then,” Mado said. “Relocate to Nellis as soon as you can. I’ll stay here and bring the C-130s and Delta Force on line. Also, we need a code name. Suggestions?”
“Task Force Alpha,” Stansell said.
“Good enough. Okay, get to work.”
As they filed out of the office, Mado gestured for Stansell to come back. “Please close the door,” he said when Bryant and Rahimi had left. “Colonel, I want an all-Air Force intelligence team on this one. No civilians.”
Meaning Dewa Rahimi, who looked good and talked smart. Stansell had already chosen up sides.
Mokhtari leaned back in his chair and watched the guards rip off the woman’s fatigues. For him it was merely part of the routine he would use to break the woman. He saw himself as a professional.
“You look ridiculous,” Mokhtari said in heavily accented, formal English. The woman was still standing at attention, wearing only her combat boots and the canvas bag over her head. He nodded at the guards, and one picked up a two-foot length of rubber hose while the other grabbed the top of the canvas bag. When Mokhtari nodded again, the coarse bag was yanked free.
The woman staggered, then came back to attention. Her eyes blinked against the harsh light, blue eyes turned crystal hard as she focused on the man sitting behind a desk in front of her.
“Don’t you salute superior officers?”
“I never salute without my hat on.”
A guard swung the rubber hose across her shoulder blades. She would have fallen to the floor except for the tug at her hair that pulled her upright.
Weakly, she raised her left hand in a salute. Mokhtari nodded again and the guard swung the hose, knocking her to the floor. “Salute correctly.”
Slowly she stood and saluted with her right hand. Mokhtari did not see the rigidly extended middle finger of her left hand against her left thigh.
“I am Colonel Vahid Mokhtari, the commandant of this prison. You are a prisoner under my command. You will conduct yourself accordingly.” It was a rehearsed speech given many times to the other Americans in the prison. “You will answer all questions I ask.”
“Mary Lynn Hauser, captain, United States Air Force, serial number five-five-two dash five—”
Mokhtari nodded and the guard swung the hose, not hard enough to knock her down.
“… Date of birth: twenty November, nineteen-sixty.”
“Do you really think you can stand on the formalities of the Geneva Convention, Miss Hauser?”
“Iran has signed the Geneva Convention and I’m a captain in the military. I assume I’m a POW and not a hostage.” She could hardly believe she was standing naked in front of three men and arguing, giving a speech …
“If your country is stupid enough to use women in its Air Force and put them in a war, then you must expect to be treated as any other prisoner when you are captured. We do not play children’s games, Captain Hauser. What were your duties as a radar controller and what type equipment did you use?”
“Mary Lynn Hauser, captain, United States …” She couldn’t believe the frontal, unsophisticated approach of this man.
Mokhtari nodded and the guard laid the rubber hose across her back, much harder than before. She staggered and grabbed at the edge of the desk.
“You’re terrorists—”
“Again.”
The guard swung the hose, knocking her to the floor.
“Again.”
She rolled over to take the blow on her back. The two guards pulled her to her feet. She tried to raise her right arm in a salute but the pain stopped her.
If Mokhtari had been left on his own he would have ordered the guards to drag her out and hang her from a hook in the basement ceiling with piano wire. He would have enjoyed watching her jerk and twitch as she strangled, wearing only boots and the canvas bag over her head. But his orders did not allow him that personal pleasure, and there was the matter of his past …
“Take her to a holding cell.”
One guard scooped up her clothes and the other jammed the canvas bag over her head before leading her into the hall toward the two cells in the administration building’s basement. Out of sight of Mokhtari, they treated her less harshly.
“This one has courage,” one of them said in Farsi.
“Don’t let Mokhtari hear you say that,” the other cautioned.
The cell door was open and they guided Mary Hauser to the narrow bunk and sat her down. The one carrying her clothes dropped them in her lap. “When the door opens be sure the bag is over your head,” he said in English. “The first rule for prisoners is silence.” They left, bolting the door behind them and turning out the light.
Mary Hauser lifted the bag off her head and threw it down. She moved her arms back and forth and reached over her shoulders, trying to massage her back. Well, she thought, at least I’m a better actor than I thought. She waited, hoping her eyes would adjust, but it was too dark to make out anything. Including the rat that scurried across her feet.
CHAPTER 7
The FBI agent shook his head and handed Byers’ written statement to the Air Force OSI agent. “He’s almost illiterate,” he said.
“We don’t hire ‘em for their literary ability,” the agent replied. “He’s the best crew chief in the Wing and tough as they come. I’ll get his story on tape and have a stenographer transcribe it.”
“Cussing and all, I suppose.”
“You should read his account of how he and his partner Sergeant Timothy Wehr escaped from Ras Assanya. A masterpiece, sort of. Top kicks take notes to improve their vocabulary.” The OSI agent shook his head, doubting if the FBI could appreciate the value of Staff Sergeant Raymond Alvin Byers. “I’ll call him in and try to get it down this morning. The Pentagon’s sending two officers out to interview him. Special project. They should be here this afternoon.”
Byers pulled at the necktie of his Class A uniform, trying to get comfortable. Frustrated with the poor-fitting uniform, he stood up and unbuttoned the coat and sat back down, not caring who saw him while he waited in the Office of Special Investigations. He jumped back to his feet when the two officers walked in.
“Sarge, how are you!” Thunder Bryant stuck out his big hand.
Byers wiped his hand on his uniform but for once it was clean. “Captain Bryant, the last time I saw you, you were taxiing my jet out of the bunker at Ras Assanya. It’s damn good to see you. What happened to 512? She was a good bird.” He glanced then at the man who had walked in behind Bryant, and recognized him. “Colonel Stansell. Well, I’ll be … look a hell of a lot better than last time.”
Bryant said, “Five-twelve is at March Air Force Base with the National Guard. They’re taking good care of her. How’s your partner, Wehr?”
“Ah, you know Timmy, always screwing off. He’s launching our bird today and if I don’t get out of this monkey suit and get back on the line he’ll screw it up for sure.”
“Let’s talk,” Stansell said. “We heard what happened to you the other night. You sure they were Arabs?”
“I’m sure.” Byers hunched forward and clasped his big hands between his knees. “Heard enough Aye-rab lingo at Ras Assanya. They was Aye-rabs.” He recounted what happened the night at the pizza tavern. “Once I got my Jeep Baby Doll hid down in a gully I doubled back onto the road. Got close enough to hear ‘em jabbering away and get their license number. They tried to follow Baby Doll and got stuck in the sand. Should’ve shot the fuckers.”