Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (18 page)

“Not really.”

“So what do you do when you’re a Marine after the next battle and a Japanese soldier is moaning on the next battlefield?”

St. James shook her head subtly. She didn’t want to answer.

“You
shoot
him, that’s what you do. We tried to give them quarter, and they wouldn’t take it. So you shoot them. That could be considered shooting a wounded soldier, or a POW, which is ‘illegal.’ Would you be okay with that?”

“What does that have to do with what you did?”

“I just want to see if there’s any ambiguity in your mind. Any room for discussion. Or if everything is crystal clear. Because I find when things are crystal clear, I’m usually dealing with someone who has never been in combat.”

“This is different. This man—”

“And when he knows the location of the most wanted terrorist in the world, you can’t ask him in a way that might make him un
comfortable
? Seriously? Is that what you want? I ask him, he flips me off, and I say oh, okay, you win, and we come home without Duar?
That’s
what you want?”

St. James had heard enough. “I have to go brief.”

“One other thing. Do you really think we’ll get anything out of Duar by interrogating him with no threat of harm behind it?”

“I would expect our interrogators to be very effective.”

“You expect wrong. We’re more hamstrung than a cop. We don’t have anything to give. What lesser sentence do we have to offer? Better conditions? More food? A call home? Money? New identity? We’re not dealing with the mafia here. These murderers spit in our faces. What do you have to offer Duar that will persuade him to talk?”

“We’ve had our best interrogators on it—”

“I was
there
. I saw him in action.”

“And?” she asked.

“He didn’t get anything, nor will he. You know what we did in Guantánamo?”

“Vaguely.”

“They called it stress and duress. They’d make them kneel for hours, or make them wear hoods, or spray-paint goggles and make them wear them.”

“We got some good information.”

He nodded. “Some. But you’ll never crack a really hard case like that. You know what they tell us?”

She stared at him.

“If you don’t violate someone’s human rights some of the time you probably aren’t doing your job. Believe that? Of course when you do, theoretically, they charge you like a criminal and claim they don’t know anything about it.”

“All we can do is try. I need to go.” She paused. “So how do we get anything out of him?”

“Render him.”

“What?”

“Send him to a friend. Like Egypt. They’re dying to interrogate him. He blew up our damned embassy in Cairo—a bunch of Egyptians were killed. They aren’t happy about that, and Sudan borders Egypt to the south. They’re scared to death he’s going to export his poison across the border more, and even hook up with the Islamic Jihad. We give him to them, and who knows, maybe they’ll have more luck.”

“They’ll torture him.”

Rat shook his head. “We make them promise not to. But Duar won’t know that. He’ll think they have a free hand and may sing just to avoid the unknown.”

St. James considered. “We couldn’t let them have a free hand.”

“If we give them limits, they’ll . . . probably go along.”

She didn’t like it.

“Don Jacobs is already trying to get authority to get Duar to Egypt. If you back it, it will happen.”

“I’ll think about it. I’m not very comfortable with it.”

Rat shook his head as she prepared to hurry to the brief.

She stopped. “What?”

“Why send me—send the team—into Sudan to capture him?”

“So we could learn about his plans, his network.”

“How? Exactly
how
did you plan to learn all that?”

“Interrogation.”

Rat fell silent, then changed the subject. “The Secretary of Defense isn’t my direct boss right now, but he can definitely ruin me. He got the DOJ to do the work for him, but you’re the only one I know who might be able to stop this.”

She walked by him and out the door.

He followed her into the hallway. “Couldn’t you talk to Stuntz? Or the Attorney General?”

She stopped. “I already have.”

Rat was caught off guard. “And nothing?”

“I can’t stop it. You’re on your own.”

“Right this way, ma’am,” the petty officer said to Andrea as he led her down the ladder toward her stateroom. She had just landed aboard the
Belleau Wood
on a CH-53 helicopter from Kenya. It had been a jarring flight, full of vibrations and misgivings. She looked forward to her new position, but the closer she got to the ship, the more she wondered whether she had made the right decision.

She had left Washington angry. She had wanted Rat to know it too. His request had confirmed a deep suspicion she had had about him, that to him, his job was more important than almost anything else, like he had some special privileged position. The idea of him torturing a man to death had changed how she saw him. She selfishly prayed he would get off, but wasn’t sure that was the right result ethically. Maybe he deserved to be convicted. He sure hadn’t denied what had happened; he believed it was justified somehow because of who the man was. She couldn’t get herself to look at it that way. She had tried. She loved Rat and wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt in every way. She trusted him, but this had cast him in a new light. It was troubling.

Being on the
Belleau Wood
would be a good break for her. She would have time to think, and time to practice medicine as a professional. She’d have time to be herself and see how she really felt about Rat. Maybe it would change things. If that was the result, so be it.

“This is it, ma’am,” the petty officer said as he stopped in front of her stateroom door and ran the magnetic key through the reader. The idea of having her own private stateroom aboard a huge warship was exciting to her. She truly felt part of the Navy. It was one thing to wear the uniform, to live on Navy bases and work at Navy hospitals, even to be the flight surgeon for the Blue Angels as she had been before Bethesda, but going to sea on a warship was the real Navy.

She followed him into the room, impressed by its size. It was obviously a commander’s stateroom, probably reserved for the commanding officer of a helicopter squadron, a lieutenant colonel or a Navy commander. But since there were few other female officers with whom she could share, she had a room to herself.

The petty officer explained the calendar for laundry pickup, the phone number to the stateroom, and showed her how to fold down the bed and the desk. She fought back a smile as he closed the door behind him. Suddenly the door opened again and he stepped back through. “Sorry,” he said, knocking on the door even though he was already inside. “I forgot to tell you something. Dr. Satterly asked if he could meet you for dinner tonight. He said he would stop by your stateroom about 1730 and pick you up, show you where the wardroom was. Would that be okay?”

Andrea was surprised. “Is that customary?”

The petty officer avoided her gaze. “Not that I’ve heard, ma’am, but I wouldn’t really know.”

“Let me guess,” Andrea said. “He’s single.”

“I believe he was recently divorced,” the petty officer said, not quite grinning.

“And he’s willing to take a chance that I’m not ugly. Or fat.” She was very far from both.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am.”

“Which doctor is it you said?”

“The ship’s surgeon. Dr. Satterly.”

“Tell him I’ll be here at 1730.”

Andrea had saved organizing her fold-down desk as the last thing she would do to set herself up in her stateroom. She loved the room. It was austere, but it was so . . . nautical. She had been on Navy ships before, but only for a night or two, and never had her own stateroom assigned to her for the next several months, even years.

She heard a confident rap on her door and checked her watch. Exactly 1730. She had made a special effort not to look good. She wore no makeup and had done nothing in particular to her hair. She waited for a moment, stood, and opened the door.

“Dr. Ash?” the man said.

“Yes. I’m Andrea Ash. And you are?”

“Dr. Tim Satterly. The ship’s surgeon. Welcome aboard, and welcome to the
Belleau Wood
medical team. We are thrilled to have you.”

Andrea extended her hand. She was surprised by Satterly. She had intended to hate him the moment she met him. She had heard good things about him in the medical community, but Rat had made her think ill of him. He seemed truly happy to see her, and his smile looked genuine. He had an intensely curious way about him, as if he was always trying to learn. He wasn’t at all what she was expecting.

“Shall we go grab some dinner?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

Satterly stepped back and allowed her to exit her stateroom. She closed the door behind her and slid the magnetic key into the pocket of her khaki trousers. He walked down the passageway and spoke to her over his shoulder. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Your reputation precedes you.”

“What have you heard?”

“We don’t get too many Blue Angel flight surgeons out here. Weren’t you the first female Blue Angel flight surgeon?”

“Second.”

“That’s still pretty impressive.” He pointed to his left as they walked. “That’s my stateroom right there.”

She looked at the door as she passed by. There was a large bumper sticker at an angle across the middle of the door. She read it out loud. “
Médecins sans Frontières
?” she groped, not doing well with the French.

He stopped. “Yeah. Doctors Without Borders.”

“Of course, right.”

“You heard of them?”

“Sure. I get their literature all the time.”

“We try to get medical care to where it’s needed around the world regardless of poverty, politics, difficulty, or danger. Great group of people. Won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1999.”

“You work with them?”

“I spend three of my four weeks of leave each year with them doing surgeries in a tent somewhere or other. It’s really rewarding. I do more surgeries in three weeks there than in six months here.” He walked on.

“Anyone ever say anything to you about them? Criticize you about it?”

“No, why would they?” He frowned.

“I don’t know. They’re kind of liberal, aren’t they?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“They’re pretty critical of the United States sometimes.”

“Sometimes we deserve it.”

“You a member of any other organizations?”

He looked at her curiously. “What difference does it make?”

“Just wondered if anyone ever gave you any grief, that’s all. I mean you didn’t have to put a sticker on your door. You must be trying to make some kind of point.”

He shook his head. “Only statement I’m making is for human rights. Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, those sorts of things. I support what they’re doing. How can anybody be against human rights?”

“I know what you mean.”

“Here we are,” he said. He pushed open the door and stepped into the large, spacious wardroom. There were several officers sitting at the cloth-covered tables. “Over here. We tend to sit in the same place every time.” She stood near the table until it was clear where she was supposed to sit. She pulled the chair back and sat down.

Satterly introduced her to the other officers at the table. He watched their reactions when they realized that she had been permanently assigned to the
Belleau Wood
. They knew a female flight surgeon was coming, but were still surprised by her, especially because she wasn’t homely or cold.

She sat next to Lieutenant Murphy.

Satterly asked her, “What inspired you to come out to the
Belleau Wood
? Wanted to be where the action is?”

“Basically because the detailer said I should. He said it would be good for my career. But what action are you talking about?” Andrea asked, feigning ignorance.

Satterly lowered his voice. “They’ve been able to keep the lid on it so far, but I’m sure it’s going to blow up pretty soon. There’s a hell of a lot that has happened here, and a hell of a lot more that’s going to happen. Could be a very exciting place to be over the next thirty days.”

“What happened?” The mess specialists placed their food in front of them. Andrea picked up her silverware, looked at Satterly, and waited.

“Have you ever heard of Wahamed Duar?” His eyes lit up with excitement.

“Sure. The terrorist. The guy who was just captured.”

“He’s here.”

“Where?”

“On the ship.”

“How did he get here?”

“We captured him. We went into Sudan, busted up a meeting he was having, captured him, and brought him back to the ship for trial.”

Andrea couldn’t resist. “Were you with the Special Forces? Sort of like a medic?”

Satterly sat back a little bit, but rode it. “I wasn’t actually with the team that captured them, but I was here when they brought him in. I was one of the first to see him—I had to give him some minor medical attention. I was there when they started interviewing him, and was with him for several hours.”

“Who captured him?”

“A group of our Special Forces. I’m not actually sure who they were working for. Might have been the Navy, might be the CIA. They were wearing Sudanese uniforms—probably illegal under the rules of war, knowing them.”

“Pretty impressive work.”

Satterly’s face clouded and his smile vanished. “Except they
tortured
one of the terrorists to death.”

“Here?”

“In Sudan. Out in the field. I’m not really sure where. The guy died from it.”

“I thought you said you weren’t there,” Andrea said glancing at Murphy, who looked away.

“He died
here
. We tried to save him but couldn’t. I talked to him. He said the head guy had tortured him.”

“Was he bleeding? Broken fingers, bones?”

“No, no,” Satterly said. “He used water. Something I
now
know is called the water board. It’s not supposed to permanently damage anyone, but this guy threw up and aspirated the vomit. He died of pneumonia.”