“Okay,” Stansell said, making a note to relay the information to both Mado and Cunningham that they would have to use GBU- 12s and needed a ground team to spot each DMPI, desired-mean-point of impact. “Start training with five-hundred pounders, I’ll take care of the rest.”
Two hours later Dewa came in from church, a black lace shawl around her shoulders. For a moment Stansell found himself staring at her, caught by her quiet beauty. She brought him out of it with: “Colonel Gregory has got his officers together in their trailer. I think he’s reading them the riot act about Saturday morning.”
“He wants to be a Patton,” Locke said.
“Yeah, he does,” Stansell said, picking up the phone. “Take a break, people.” He dialed the number and asked for Gregory to come see him. The group filed out as Gregory walked in.
“I think Ham Gregory is going to learn something about Colonel Stansell and what’s underneath that quiet exterior,” Dewa told Bryant as she closed the door behind her …
“Colonel Stansell,” Gregory began, “let me assure you what happened Saturday morning at the Red Stallion has been taken care of.”
“I hope so.” Stansell’s voice was cold. “It set our progress back. I had work for you Saturday morning.”
“Yes, about the airdrop without my approval and freezing Romeo Team—”
“Have you seen the cells they practiced on?”
“No, but that’s beside the point. You tell me that I’m the ground commander for this exercise and then bypass me on Saturday and order Trimler’s Romeo Team on an airdrop. The army doesn’t work that way.”
“Colonel, you weren’t here when I needed you.”
“It could have waited.”
“Colonel, you can’t be that fucking stupid.” Stansell’s voice was calm, almost friendly. He leaned forward. “We are running out of time on this. Think back, remember I told you the very first day that we might be tasked for the real thing?” Gregory nodded. “You should have keyed on that. Obviously I’ve got to get someone that understands the name of the game. I’ll ask General Leachmeyer to replace you—”
“Colonel, for God’s sake, that’ll be the end of me. Just for an exercise?”
“Still haven’t got the picture. This is not an exercise.”
“I didn’t understand that … I do now …”
Stansell sank back in his chair, satisfied that he had been right about him, and for the next few minutes he filled in Gregory on the entire situation.
“Colonel Stansell, I missed Vietnam and Grenada. This may be my only chance to lead men into combat. I can’t tell you how much I want that. Hell, I don’t give a damn about making full colonel and ending up assigned to the Pentagon. Okay, I’m not a brain and need things spelled out. But dammit I can fight and I can lead men. I want that chance, and I’ll do it your way.”
“You got it,” Stansell said.
“Would you mind coming with me?” Gregory stood up, waiting for Stansell. They walked together to the trailers, and it was a different man that called his officers together.
“Starting now,” he told them, “we start training for a mission that is going to be real rough. We’re dealing with a lot of unknowns now but, just but, we might get a Go order. If we do we will be ready. I hope you’re reading me on this because the mission objective is close-hold for security reasons. Romeo Team will train for storming the prison and lead the way in. Bravo Company, you’ll train for holding the airfield and road security. Then we cross train. Check out of the motel. We move to Texas Lake in two hours.”
Stansell walked back to building 201, satisfied he had made the right decision and realizing that he had made a mistake by not confiding in Gregory from day one. Locke was waiting for him. “Colonel, I’ve picked four F-15 drivers from Luke and four from Holloman for Task Force Alpha. You know one of ‘em — Snake Houserman. They’re all here for Red Flag and can move over to us. Looks real natural. We’ll be using their F-15s. Tomorrow I want to pick up the E model and my wizzo, Ambler Furry, from Luke. The F-111 crews are due in and we got two Libyan raiders.” The captain was obviously excited. “Oh,” Locke added, “we also got an AC-130 gunship coming in. With the radios its got on board we can use that puppy for a command-and-control platform. Colonel, this is coming together, I think we’re going to make it happen …”
CHAPTER 19
Jefferson recognized the footsteps before the guard came into his narrow view. The man’s routine never varied — come down the stairs early in the morning, always alone, enter the room, listen to be sure no one was moving around above him; set the bowl down and loosen the rope that held up Nesbit’s arms; lower his hands a fraction of an inch. The sergeant had his full weight on the floor, his wrists at least two inches lower. The guard would massage Nesbit’s legs and give him a drink, then spoon some of the watery slop into his mouth. When the guard was finished with Nesbit he would unlock the Box and help Jefferson out, supporting him until some circulation came back to his legs, helping him walk to the grimy toilet in the corner, then hand him the bowl and let him finish what he had not fed to Nesbit. Finally he would motion to the Box, and Jefferson understood that their benefactor had done all he could for them and would crawl back in.
This morning, though, the guard broke the routine, he drew a stool up beside Nesbit and motioned Jefferson to sit there while he ate. The guard walked over to the stairs and sat down.
“Colonel Leason says to start talking,” Jefferson said, barely audible. “Spill what you’ve got to but get off the goddamn ropes.” The sound of quick hard footsteps echoing on the stairs jerked the guard to his feet. Panic lit his eyes. Jefferson set the bowl down and scurried for the Box. The guard was right behind him, locking the door. Jefferson glued his eye to the peephole, taking in the scene.
Mokhtari was in the room. He walked over and examined Nesbit’s bonds, looked directly at Jefferson’s box. Could Mokhtari know he had been out of the Box? The guard was standing at attention looking straight ahead. Mokhtari walked over to him, drew out his pistol, jammed the muzzle into the guard’s mouth and pulled the trigger. The gunshot reverberated through the building. Mokhtari pointed the gun at the back of Nesbit’s head, changed his mind, swung and pumped four shots into Jefferson’s box.
Holstering his pistol, he walked over to the wall and grabbed the rope that lifted Nesbit’s arms. As he yanked on it Nesbit’s screams split the air. Mokhtari untied the rope and pulled, lifting Nesbit into the air. Every prisoner and guard in the building heard Nesbit’s cry, until he slipped into unconsciousness.
Silence was a punctuation mark before the echo of Mokhtari’s heels as he climbed the stairs.
Mary Hauser lay on the cold floor, an ear pressed to the crack under her cell door. Doc Landis had sent her a message that they would try talking under the door, and they had discovered that in the early morning hours, when the guard was asleep and snoring, they could whisper back and forth, their words scurrying over the hard cold floor seeming to carry strength.
Doc Landis was saying, “The guards have sodomized eight men in the cell block. It’s a sort of degradation, a way to destroy our will to resist. They increase their own feeling of impatience when they degrade us. And it’s torture, doubly effective when it’s part of a routine. Anticipation becomes a working fear, as you well know …”
” … Doc, were you one of the eight?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Talking helps me too.”