Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (25 page)

“How many men in the Pankisi gorge that don’t belong there?” Rat asked.

“A growing number, probably over one thousand.”

“And you think some of them are from Sudan,” Rat said.

“Some people tell us things. Since Duar was captured, we have heard of new men from Sudan. That is why we asked for you.”

Rat sighed. “Colonel, you need to check all the other RTGs you can find. Right now. We need to know how big a problem we’re dealing with.”

“Of course.”

“We need to find the ones that have been taken already.” Rat looked around. “But how did they get here? There aren’t any tracks.”

One of the men who had arrived in the truck saw them looking. He knew what they were looking for. He pointed to an area inside the tree line. Rat frowned skeptically. No truck could get through those trees without leaving broken branches behind them and deep scars in the soft grass. There was none of that. The man continued to point.

Rat was puzzled by the man’s insistence. He didn’t see any vehicle tracks at all—then he saw a muddy section of ground torn up twenty feet from him. He and Groomer walked to it and kneeled down. “Take a look at this,” Rat said. “Animals. These guys were traveling on horses.” He stood up and yelled, “Banger!”

“Who’s he?” McSwain asked.

“One of my guys. Very talented. Kind of a loner. Grew up on a ranch in Texas. Maybe he can make some sense of this.”

Banger came running, glad to be able to contribute for the first time since they crossed into Georgian airspace. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“What do you make of this?” Rat asked.

Banger looked at the tracks, walked away from the mess beside them, and looked for outgoing marks in the mud. He found them quickly, walked another fifty yards following them, then stopped to examine them closely. He matched them in sets by weight, pattern, and number, and began nodding.

“What you got?” Rat asked.

“Six horses,” Banger said. “No doubt. And three donkeys.”

Rat was surprised. “Donkeys?”

“Yep. Probably to carry the load. But if they came from the Pankisi gorge area—that would be a long way from here.” He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “I don’t think they rode horses all the way here.”

“Not a chance,” Rat agreed. “Maybe they just had horses to get to this one because they didn’t have an all-wheel truck to get through this wet ground.”

“Want me to follow these tracks? See where they go?”

“Let’s get Beridze to do that. They’re not going to be at the end of that trail, I guarantee you. Too easy. We need to get to the Pankisi gorge and find them.”

“Then we’d better cowboy up,” Banger said enthusiastically.

McSwain had been watching Beridze. “We need to get going.”

“Horses,” Rat said, pointing. “Horses. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“So much for being high tech. Look, we got to go. We’re going to lose the sun.”

“Let’s go,” Rat said. They turned back to the helicopters. McSwain signaled to Beridze, who told the helicopters to get ready to go. The American and Georgian soldiers put out their cigarettes and hurried back into the helicopters as the pilots cranked the deafening jet engines.

McSwain yelled at Rat as they approached the helos, “Sure glad you’re here. This is going to be real interesting. Too bad the Green Berets couldn’t do it without you.”

“Hey,” Rat said. “Send me home.
Hurt
me.”

“Just in time for your trial?”

Rat’s look lost its humor as he recalled the coming trial. “Actually yeah. That’s exactly where I should be, getting ready to be crucified. Lots to prepare for.” He glanced at McSwain. “What have you heard?”

“Sounds like you rang some guy up in Sudan. They say you used a technique developed by the famous Green Berets in Vietnam. Of course the Green Berets would never hurt anyone, let alone
torture
anyone in the field. That would be wrong. So if asked I would have to deny any knowledge of any such technique.” McSwain stopped so they stayed far enough away from the helos to still converse in a loud voice. “Basically the word is that you’re somebody’s scapegoat for something that none of us can understand. Word is you’re about to get knifed in the back.”

That was exactly how Rat felt, and helpless to do much about it. “Trial’s supposed to start pretty soon. They’re actually going to put me on trial. ‘Course they offered to just let me go to jail for five years to avoid the trial. Believe that?”

“What if you’re not there?” McSwain asked, wondering how Rat could get out of this political trial.

“I’m only out on bail. I promised to be there for the trial. If I don’t show, then I’ll be in real trouble.”

“You’ll beat it,” McSwain argued. “Truth will win out.”

Rat smiled ironically. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Andrea stared at the photographs of Duar. The close-up photographs of the ear lobes were horrifying, but nothing compared to the photographs of his testicles. She had certainly seen enough of them giving flight physicals to an almost exclusively male population for years and taking care of the all-male Blue Angels as their flight surgeon. But until she examined Duar after his return from Egypt she had never seen testicles that had been electrocuted; she had never seen a scrotum with holes in the skin due to arcing electricity between the skin and the testicle inside. It made her stomach turn.

Since she had seen Rat, since he had stormed out of her stateroom in frustration, she had felt bad. She hadn’t handled it well. She had been mad at herself, not the least because she didn’t want to lose him. He was the first man who intrigued her, who captured her imagination. He was smart yet physical. Not a bookworm, but not just some muscled creep. There was something mysterious, even dangerous, about him.

But now, after seeing the photographs, all she could think of was Rat being responsible. She had begun to wonder if she had been attracted to the part of him that might be a character defect. It scared her. She had no idea Rat had that much cruelty inside. Was it more cruel though than being willing to shoot somebody or kill someone with a knife?

She thought back to when she had met him when she was the Blue Angels’ flight surgeon. Rat had been hanging around with Ed Stovic, one of the new pilots in the Blues. She later learned that Rat was there to protect Stovic from an Algerian who was trying to kill him. Rat had told her what he was doing, and while they were in El Centro, California, the Blue Angels winter training base, he had asked her out. Their first date had been to a deserted hill in the desert where they had gone to shoot cans one night, an idea she had suggested half in jest. He had jumped at the chance, enthusiastic about a woman who wanted to shoot guns. She had gone and pretended to want to be there, at least for a time. Rat had pulled out the biggest gun she had ever seen, a .50 caliber Barrett sniper rifle. It looked like a ten-foot-long cannon. She had been horrified. He had been enthusiastic, then embarrassed. He realized he had miscalculated. She had learned something that was slightly unpleasant, or off-putting, about Rat, but had concluded it was part of his job, part of what he was expected to know how to do. Navy SEALs weren’t like intelligence officers who made their living behind computer screens and in briefing rooms. SEALs knew weapons and how to kill. She had ignored that as she got to know him better, probably because she never saw the details of his job.

But torture? Was that part of his job description too? Was that something all Special Forces members knew how to do? Was that one of their dirty little secrets? What kind of a man was it that could cause this kind of misery in another human being without being affected himself?

She put the pictures down and picked up Satterly’s report of Duar’s medical examination after his return from Egypt. A yellow sticky on the top of it said, “Read this. I want to make sure you agree. I want you to look at it
completely
objectively. Let me know if I’ve overstated anything.”

She read it carefully. Toward the end of the report he had strayed from a strictly medical report. He noted that the
cause
of the injury to Duar was torture at the hand of one Lieutenant Kent Rathman, a Special Forces operative who was currently on trial —or would be soon—for torturing another prisoner. She pressed her lips together and looked up. She dialed Satterly’s number from memory. He answered. “You’re really out to get him, aren’t you?” she said.

“Who?” he asked, feigning confusion.

“Lieutenant Rathman. I’m reading your report.”

“He’s dangerous. He is a maniac. He has no respect for human life.”

“How do you know he did this to Duar?”

“It’s his signature. Whenever he shows up with a prisoner, they get tortured.”

“The last guy told you it was him, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Mazmin. He told me all about it.”

“Well have you asked Duar who did this to him?”

Satterly nodded. “Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He sat there like a stone. He’s afraid to say anything, because if he tells, that person will come back and hurt him more. That’s what I think.”

“So he didn’t say?”

“Why would he be afraid? Who could get to him on this ship?
Think
about it. Not an Egyptian, if they actually took him anywhere. Only someone in the Navy or from the States could get to him here. He’s afraid of Rathman.”

Andrea hung up and closed her eyes.

The judge looked out of place sitting behind the large bench that was made for the eleven judges of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act Court even though he had had ten of the chairs removed. The large wooden bench behind which he sat was still so large that it dwarfed his presence and made the entire room feel out of balance. All those in the courtroom had entered through the metal cipher locked doors. Specially cleared U.S. marshals were posted at each entrance, in the well between the judge and the attorneys, and by the witness stand, even though there would be no witnesses at the hearing today.

Skyles was in his element. He had annoyed the U.S. Attorney enough to know that his tactics were working. He made it a point to go by Wolff’s office at least once a day with some request or other, most of which could be responded to easily with the production of one document, or agreeing to one date. He rarely called Wolff. He loved to stop by instead, to disrupt him in person, to force him to look into Skyles’s eyes and see his careless attitude and antigovernment mind-set. Yesterday he had stopped by to see Wolff just to tell him that he had been thinking about the hearing scheduled for the next week, and he had brought something Wolff would surely appreciate, a stipulation and order that granted Skyles’s motion to dismiss the charges against Rathman. He said Wolff wouldn’t want to embarrass himself by arguing against a motion that was so sure to be granted, so perhaps he would like to just stipulate to the judge entering the order. He had handed the document to him with a pen.

That had finally gotten to Wolff. He lost his cool and even called Skyles a “dick” —strong words from the icy Mr. Wolff.

As the judge sat and the clerk stood to call the calendar, Skyles waved at Wolff, who completely ignored him.

The clerk said, “Number one on calendar,
United States
vs.
Kent Rathman
. Please state your appearances.”

“John Wolff, Assistant United States Attorney, for the United States.”

“Thomas Skyles, for the wrongfully accused defendant, Kent Rathman.”

The judge removed his glasses and sighed heavily. He wasn’t about to allow little games to start in this case. “Please refrain from editorializing in minor things like stating your appearance Mr. Skyles. If you can’t control yourself, I’ll control you. Believe me.”

Skyles looked at the floor in mock humility. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I couldn’t resist. When justice is a mere memory and a hero is charged with an inappropriate crime—”

“We’re here to set the date for trial, Mr. Skyles. If you continue to take shots at the prosecution or me, or whoever you’re shooting at, I will hold you in contempt in a heartbeat. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I am sorry.”

“Your client has not waived his right to a speedy trial. We therefore must proceed with all due speed. Unless, of course, he is prepared to waive his right to a speedy trial now,” Judge Wiggins said.

“No, sir. He figures since the government doesn’t have a case now, why give them time to make one up?”

Wiggins almost came out of his chair. “If you think you’re going to win this little word game you’ve decided to start playing, you’re wrong.”

Skyles loved it. “Lieutenant Rathman is not prepared to waive his right to a speedy trial. Let’s get this trial under way.”

“Counsel?” the judge asked, looking at Wolff.

The Assistant U.S. Attorney shrugged. “I can’t force them to waive their rights, but we do have some witness issues. We’re trying to get people here from around the world, Your Honor. It isn’t easy—”

“That’s ridiculous—” Skyles interrupted.

“No commentary,” the judge declared.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, Your Honor. I just have a hard time listening to the government’s sanctimonious commentary about how difficult their case is, when every witness they’ve listed—with two exceptions—is employed by the government, and can be flown here at taxpayer cost on very little notice. It just doesn’t cause me to be real sympathetic. If they have proof problems, they should have figured that out before they issued the indictment.”

“In any case,” the judge went on, “Mr. Wolff, can you be ready next week?”

Wolff almost choked. Skyles saw it.

Wolff answered, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Skyles?”

“We’re ready now, Your Honor. I just need to get my client back to D.C., and we’ll be ready.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”

The judge looked insulted. “Where is he?”

Skyles hesitated, looked around the secure courtroom and saw there were no visitors, and said, “Georgia.”

The judge frowned. “That’s not that far. He should be able to be here by next week, don’t you think?”