“It was definitely a laser flash. The gear got a pretty good read. But it wasn’t in that building Whiplash targeted,” Jennifer told them.
“Where was it?” asked General Elliott.
“According to the data, fifty miles inside of Iran.”
V
Allah’s Sword
High Top
30 May 1997
0154
DANNY FREAH PRIED HIMSELF OUT OF THE BRONCO’S
cockpit and walked to the back of the plane, where several Marines were already helping with the prisoner. The Iraqi had to be held upright; while he offered no resistance, the flight had turned his legs to jelly, and even with help he moved across the old asphalt like a toddler taking his first steps. The man kept looking to the sky, obviously unsure of where he was.
Then again, the same might be said of the Whiplash team, shuffling gear back and forth tipsily as they got out of the plane.
“You’re green, Powder,” Danny said.
“I ain’t never flying in an airplane ever again, Cap.
Never. No way. Not unless I’m pilot.”
“That’ll be the day,” said Nurse.
“Inventory and tag the gear; we’re routing it to the NSA,” said Danny, who’d already received the order to do so from Colonel Bastian. “Isolate the prisoner in an empty tent, then find out if the Marines have an Arab speaker. I’d like to see what the hell he does before we hand him over to CentCom.”
268
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“As soon as the place stops spinning, I’m on it,” said Powder.
High Top Base now looked like a small city, albeit one made almost entirely from tents. Whiplash’s two bulldozers, along with a small Marine vehicle, were working on the southern slope, grinding it down into a depot area to accommodate some of the supplies two C-130s had brought in for the Marines. Gators—revved-up golf carts with military insignia—charged to and fro with stacks of gear. Two platoons of Marines were extending the defensive perimeter along the road below; another company was erecting a temporary metal building twice the size of the Whiplash HQ trailer at the far end of the aircraft parking area to be used for maintenance work on the planes.
The runway would soon total three thousand feet; CentCom was hoping to use it as an emergency strip. In the meantime, air elements of the MEU(SOC)—six Harriers and six Cobra gunships—were due in late tomorrow or the next day to provide support for any Marine ground action in the Iraqi mountains to the south.
That might come soon. The rumble of artillery could be heard in the distance. The Iraqis were moving against their civilian population in the north. Unlike 1991, there had been no exodus of Kurds from the towns—an ominous sign.
Besides the Marines, a dozen technical people from Dreamland were due; they had been rerouted to Incirlik on the MC-17 to look after Quicksilver. As Danny understood it, the damage to the plane was much less than it might have been; the laser had managed to catch it with only a short burst, probably at the far edge of its range.
The experts believed this confirmed that it was using a barrage pattern to saturate an area based on minimal or primitive radar coverage. They also said it was possible that the laser had been thrown off by the partly stealthy RAZOR’S EDGE
269
profile of the big plane, or even the presence of the Flighthawks. In any event, Quicksilver would be back at High Top and available for action within a few hours.
Danny made his way to the medical tent, blinking at the bright lights inside. The EPW, or enemy prisoner of war, stood before the empty cot, eyes shifting nervously around. He either didn’t understand the corpsman’s gestures or declined to take off his clothes so he could be examined.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Danny told the prisoner.
The man gave no indication that he understood anything Danny was saying; it wasn’t entirely clear that he could even hear.
“Can you examine him like that?” Danny asked the corpsman.
“I guess. He doesn’t seem to be hurt.”
“Get him something to eat and drink. Try and be as friendly as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you guys have an Arab speaker?” Danny asked the corpsman.
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“All right. Go easy with him.” The man looked like he was in his late thirties or forties, but Danny suspected he was somewhat younger; he clearly didn’t eat well and probably didn’t have much opportunity to take care of himself. Danny had seen in Bosnia how war and malnu-trition aged people.
The man held up his shirt gingerly as the corpsman approached with his stethoscope. His ribs were exposed; he had several boils on his back.
“Take pictures,” Danny told the Marines. “I don’t want anybody accusing us of torture.”
“Yes, sir,” said the corporal in charge. “What do we call him?”
270
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Call him ‘sir.’ Be as nice to him as possible. Nicer.
Treat him like your brother.”
“I thought I was supposed to be nice.”
Danny left the tent, heading toward his headquarters to update CentCom and then Dreamland Command on their arrival back at the base. He had just checked on the arrangements for a Pave Low to evacuate the parts and prisoner when the lieutenant he was talking to was interrupted. Another officer came on the line, identifying himself as a Major Peelor, an aide to CinC CentCom.
“Are my people hearing this right?” said the major.
“You have an Iraqi?”
“That’s right,” said Danny. “We’re shipping him to Incirlik so you and the CIA can debrief him. It’s all been arranged through—”
“You went into Iraq and kidnapped an Iraqi citizen?”
“I captured a prisoner. We believed he was part of the laser operation. Our guys think his site may have been coordinating the radar operations, but it’s too soon to—”
“Did you clear this with the lawyers?”
“Lawyers?”
“Taking the citizen.”
“He’s a soldier.”
“Did you clear it with the lawyers?”
“Why the hell would I do that?” asked Danny. “What lawyers?”
“Who approved this mission?”
“Look, Major, you don’t have the clearance for this conversation.”
Danny punched out the connection.
RAZOR’S EDGE
271
Dreamland Command Center
29 May 1997
1622
“DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT,” DOG TOLD DANNY. “I’LL HANDLE
CentCom. The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing over there. Send the prisoner to Incirlik as we said.”
“But what’s this bullshit about lawyers?”
The colonel stared at Danny Freah’s face on the screen at the front of the situation room. It was a tired, drawn face, one barely capable of suppressing the anger he obviously felt. “I haven’t heard anything about lawyers,” Dog told him honestly.
“Major Heller or Peelor, or whatever his fucking name, is accusing me of kidnapping an Iraqi citizen. Are we fighting a war here or what? What is it with these guys?”
Dog reached down to the console for his coffee. The cold, bitter liquid did nothing to relieve his own fatigue, but the pause let him consider what to tell his captain.
The absurdity of modern warfare—you needed a legal brief before taking prisoners. And all sorts of sign-offs and findings and cover-my-ass BS.
“I don’t know what Peelor is talking about,” said Dog.
“You don’t have to worry about it. You work for me, not CentCom. You proceeded on my authority, and you followed a lawful order.”
It was the mildest response Dog could give him, but Freah still looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“The prisoner goes to Incirlik to be debriefed and processed,” said Dog. “Quicksilver has been patched up and should be en route shortly. We’re pulling together everything we have on the site you hit. We’re pretty sure it was networking the radars, but we won’t be positive until the NSA analyzes the gear you took. Whether it’s related to 272