SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops VI - Guantanamo (4 page)

"Next stop Panama City," Brad shouted, "Boy, do I need a cold beer to wash out the taste of that prison. This is the life, free and easy. Hot damn, it feels good. I hear the surfing's pretty good in these parts. Maybe we could check it out."

Three hours later they were back in custody.

The waves were gentle as they rolled across the calm sea to break on the sand. The dark night was unlit by any stars as thick cloud rolled across the sky, announcing the rain and strong winds to come. The waves seemed to ripple and part a few meters off the beach, and then a hard object rose out of the water.

The mothership, a fishing boat lying three miles out, had towed the strange craft from Tortuguilla, a small harbor and fishing village further up the coast of Cuba. Two men outfitted in scuba gear pulled the vessel into the shallows and went ashore. Instead of the usual air bottles on their backs, they carried oxygen rebreathers, a rubber bag that processed the user's spent breath and stripped out the carbon dioxide. It was much lighter and smaller than conventional air bottles, and for clandestine operations had the additional benefit of not leaving a trail of air bubbles.

The disadvantage of the closed-circuit rebreather was that it could only be used close to the surface. For the crew of a semi-submersible, it was no problem. In addition, the lack of telltale air bubbles made detection by coastguards more difficult; a distinct advantage for those engaged in transporting illegal drugs to the shores of hostile nations.

They knelt on the sand, using night vision binoculars to survey the perimeter fence in front of them.

"I don't like it, José. It's too quiet." The man shook his head and handed the device to his companion. He nodded and spent a full minute inspecting the area of the fence ahead of them. Then he handed the binoculars back.

"We're clear, my friend. There's a storm coming in, so I expect they’re busy tying everything down. Calm down, Diego. We have to cut the hole in the fence, and if they're there, they'll be ready to come out. We load them on the submersible and head back out to sea. If they're not there, we abort. The Jefe was adamant; we're not to take any chances with the boat."

"Damn right. The fucking submersible is more valuable than we are," Diego muttered, "And worth more than a thousand of these camel jockeys."

The other man patted him on the shoulder. "You're absolutely correct, my friend. We can be replaced, and the Arabs are scum. But the submersibles are expensive, not so easy to replace."

"Still…"

"Shut up, Diego. Do the job and we can go home."

They crept up the beach. In less than a minute, they knelt next to the fence. It was made of steel mesh, topped with rolls of lethal razor wire. José took a wire cutter from his waterproof equipment pouch and started to cut through. Diego took a silenced pistol from his own pouch and watched fearfully for signs of a patrolling American guard. Everything was quiet. The time was 0230, and according to their intelligence, the guard force was unlikely to be alert at that time. Besides, the guards, motto 'Honor Bound to Defend Freedom', were looking inward; their mission was to prevent inmates trying to get out. Not people entering from outside.

"José," he hissed, "someone is coming. Over there, from behind that hut."

He peered through the gloom and could discern a helmeted figure walking toward them. He carried his rifle on his back, the barrel sticking up over his shoulder. It would take him a couple of seconds to level it ready to fire. José didn't plan to give him those seconds.

"Shoot him," he whispered, "but make sure of your aim. If you miss, it'll alert the camp. Be quick, before he sees the hole I've cut in the fence and sounds the alarm."

The other man nodded and lay prone on the ground. He aimed the silenced handgun in the direction of the guard and waited. The man came nearer. Surely, he must see the break in the fence, but he was humming a tune to himself, probably thinking about his home, his family, maybe his girlfriend. Anything but the grim realities of Guantanamo Bay. He was only feet away when suddenly he tensed. He looked in their direction, saw the break in the fence, and started to unsling his rifle.

Diego fired, fired again, and then again. The Beretta 92FS was fitted with a sound suppressor, a product of the Yankee Hill Machine Company. It was good workmanship; the reports were soft and partially hidden by the noise of the wind and waves. The soldier fell to the ground with a clatter as his M-16 fell out of his hand. José breathed a sigh of relief that it hadn't fired and woken up the camp.

"Hurry, get inside and hide the body. I'll give the signal. I pray to the Blessed Virgin those men are ready to come out. If the soldiers get wind of this, I doubt we'll even make it back out to sea."

The shooter clambered through the hole in the fence and began dragging the body behind a nearby sand dune. The other Colombian took a small flashlight from his pouch and pressed the button twice. Then he waited. Diego joined him, looking around nervously.

"I think we should go back. I heard something. It could be the Yankees."

"Give it a few seconds. It may be them."

He heard his friend muttering curses and complaining, but he ignored him. They saw the dark shadows moving silently toward them, a line of men crawling through the scrub and sand; men wearing distinctive orange prison uniforms. The first man reached them and smiled.

"Allah be praised, you have come. My name is Omar Nasriri, and these are my fellow fighters."

José shook the hand and nodded.

"Everything is ready, but be quick. We had to kill a guard, and when he fails to report in, they'll search the camp for him."

The man nodded. "Lead the way. You have the vessel?"

"We have everything. And you can thank Señor Montez. I suspect his bank balance is bigger than God's."

The Arab scowled at the comment but let it go. These men had come to free them, so he could give them some latitude. For now.

If the
blasphemy continues, I’ll kill them.

José led the way across the sand down to the shore. Diego was right behind him, and then the line of escapees stumbling across the sand. They stared at the semi-submersible lying in the shallows.

"You men have scuba equipment. How will we breathe underwater?"

"You won't be going underwater; we will travel only partially submerged. It will take us less than an hour to reach Tortuguilla. There are people waiting there to take you on the next stage of the journey, and a change of clothes." He grinned, "Those orange jumpsuits are something of a giveaway. Don't worry, it is all worked out. My boss has been careful to make sure the arrangements are foolproof."

Nasriri nodded. "That is good to know. You're not Muslims?"

"Fuck no! We're Catholics, not camel jockeys. This is Cuba, not Sandland."

"I understand."

I understand more than you know. When this part of the operation is complete, I will kill him for his blasphemy. Infidels like this one do not deserve to live.

"Omar! We have a problem."

He turned to look at Abu Bakr, his second-in-command. Abu had helped the men keep their faith strong during times when they'd wavered. Some had considered taking American offers of privileges in return for information; even the offer of an early release. Like Omar, Abu had a simple philosophy, strict adherence to Islamic principles, or death. During the past twelve months, they'd killed two traitors by means of faked suicides. The rest of the fighters had stayed loyal, though Omar wasn't sure if it was from faith or fear. Did it matter?

"Abu, what is it? We have to leave."

"Daoud Khan, he's missing."

"Shit! Have you searched for him?"

"Of course, but there's no sign of him."

"I don't like to leave him behind, but we don't have a choice. Do you think...?"

"No!" Bakr shook his head emphatically, "Daoud would never betray us. If he is missing, it is for a good reason. Maybe he lost his way and blundered into a guard, who knows? But his faith is strong. Perhaps it is the will of Allah he stays behind."

"Perhaps. Very well, we go without him. They'll punish him severely when they learn of our escape."

Bakr shrugged. "As long as he stays silent. And he will."

He nodded and looked at the two Colombians. "Señores, we are ready."

"About fucking time," Diego snarled, "Get into the water, and take hold of the grab rails on the submersible. Stay low in the water, and keep your heads down."

Omar heard him muttering, "Fucking no good camel jockeys, don't know their head from their ass."

Another man to kill.

* * *

Nolan reflected on the difference between Colombian jails and Panamanian jails, or the lack of a difference. It was a close call.

They’d relaxed after they crossed the border and drove straight to Panama City. Brad persuaded them to visit a bar to celebrate their new won freedom. They were sitting in the bar enjoying ice-cold beers, the glasses dripping with condensation in the heat. All conversation in the room ceased, and they became aware of a commotion outside. He went to take a look and came back.

"Do you guys believe in déjà vu?" They looked mystified, "It's happening again. We're surrounded by cops and paramilitaries. I'd guess about forty of them, a re-run of Colombia. They know we're here, no question."

"What the fuck…"

Before Will could finish the sentence, a loudhailer blared outside in the street.

"Americanos, you are surrounded. I have a warrant for your arrest and extradition to Colombia."

"Don't try anything stupid. I'll go talk to them," Nolan advised them, "We're outgunned. Ditch the weapons; we'll have to go along with this until our people can pull us out. We haven't broken any laws in Panama, so it shouldn't be a problem. Will, there's a phone on the bar. Before we go out there, use it to call Admiral Jacks. He'll get us out. Make it fast. I won't be able to delay them too long. Call me when you're done."

“Copy that.”

Admiral Jacks, based at Coronado Base, San Diego, California, was the commander of their branch of the Seals. When they entered Colombia, they had in their possession encrypted communications gear to contact their controller. Everything had been taken when they were captured, and they were forced to fall back on old-fashioned means; like the telephone on the bar.

He walked to the door and put his hands in the air.

"Don't shoot. I'm unarmed."

"Come out with your hands up!"

He stepped outside into the sunlight. Facing him was an officer standing in the rear of a Humvee, with a loudhailer in his hand. Next to him was a trooper who manned a machine gun. Unless he was mistaken, Nolan identified it as an American-made M-60. Belts of ammunition hung down from the breech, the shiny brass cartridge cases glinting in the sun.

American vehicle, American machine gun. Shit.

The M-60 was aimed directly at his guts, and he was careful to move very slowly.

"Lie down, flat on the ground," the officer, a captain, grated. His voice was harsh and tense. Nolan had little doubt he would give the order to shoot without a second thought. But it was too soon to capitulate, not until Will was done.

"What is this?" he shouted, "We haven't done anything wrong. We're American citizens. Is there some law against enjoying a cold beer?"

The officer stared at him for a moment. Despite the heat, he wore full uniform, complete with peaked cap, rows of medal ribbons, and mirrored shades to hide his eyes. He had a pistol in a button flap holster but clearly didn't feel the need to draw it.

Why should he? He’s backed up by forty men, and all heavily armed. And then there's the machine gun.

"I told you to lie down on the ground, American. Do we have to shoot you?"

Nolan lowered his arms very slowly and held them out wide, palms upward, the universal gesture that said, 'Look at me, I'm unarmed, and not a threat to you'.

"Yeah, I'll do that. But first, you gotta tell me what this is all about."

The Panamanian officer sighed. "We have a warrant from the Colombians."

"A warrant? What kind of a warrant?"

"An extradition warrant, I already told you."

"Let me see it?"

"See what?"

"The warrant. Surely I have a legal entitlement to view the warrant? How do I know it exists?"

The man sighed again. "Very well." He shouted across to a young trooper. "Corporal Morales, hand me the warrant."

The man looked puzzled. "Warrant? But Señor Capitano, it is in your desk at the barracks! You…"

"Enough! Bring it here. We'll wait. Rapido!"

The corporal ran to a military truck parked nearby, spoke to the driver, and then climbed aboard. The vehicle drove away in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes.

"This will take some time. I told you to lie flat on the ground."

Nolan looked at the captain. Even though the mirrored shades hid his eyes, it was obvious he was pissed. He'd made the officer look stupid in front of his men, and he'd want to recover a degree of his macho Latino pride. The other paramilitaries had caught his mood of anger and held their weapons in that alert posture that precedes the start of the shooting.

Touchy bunch of bastards. I need to be careful.