Detained, p.1
Detained, page 1
OTHER BOOKS BY DON BROWN
THE PACIFIC RIM SERIES
Thunder in the Morning Calm
Fire of the Raging Dragon
Storming the Black Ice
THE NAVY JUSTICE SERIES
Treason
Hostage
Defiance
The Black Sea Affair
The Malacca Conspiracy
ZONDERVAN
Detained
Copyright © 2015 Don Brown
ePub Edition © March 2015: ISBN 978-0-310-33806-2
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brown, Don, 1960-
Detained : the Navy JAG / Don Brown.
pages ; cm. — (The Navy JAG series ; Book 1)
ISBN 978-0-310-33805-5 (softcover : acid-free paper) 1. False arrest—Fiction. 2. False imprisonment—Fiction. 3. Guantanamo Bay Detention Camp—Fiction. 4. Political fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.R6947D48 2015
813'.6—dc23
2014040330
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible and from The Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV™ Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters and places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.
15 16 17 18 19 20 / RRD / 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to:
Judith & Marvin Miranda of Prosper, Texas
&
Star & Peter Miranda of McKinney, Texas
My “Texas Family”
“There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”
Proverbs 18:24 (NKJV)
In Loving Memory:
First Lieutenant Darwin W. McCaffity, Unites States Army
February 3, 1928 – December 31, 2012
Who, after his service as a United States Army artillery officer, coached the Jamesville High School Red Devils, then became a Doctor of Dental Surgery, and then devoted his life to his family, to Barton College in Wilson, North Carolina, and to the Christian Church, Disciples of Christ.
&
Lieutenant Colonel Eual J. Landry, Jr., United States Air Force
October 7, 1932 – February 12, 1997
Who, after service as a jet pilot in the United States Air Force, flying numerous missions over Southeast Asia in time of war, returned to his native Louisiana and devoted his life to his family, to his church, and became a loyal servant of public education through his dedicated service as a member of the School Board of Saint Charles Parish.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
EL-MINA, LEBANON
CORNER OF AL ISTIKLAL AND MAR ELIAS
NORTH GOVERNORATE, TRIPOLI DISTRICT
15 MILES SOUTH OF THE SYRIAN BORDER
85 MILES NORTH OF BEIRUT
The cool gust was pleasant, heavy with the smell of salt water from the Mediterranean Sea. But when the wind subsided, it yielded to an angry sun that again beat down, relentless and unmitigated, ending the temporary relief from the scorching conditions. Thousands of men, women, and children were crammed tight like cattle, with sweat drenching their clothes, faces, and underarms.
A mishmash of El-Mina police officers and Lebanese soldiers pushed against the crowds, waving them off the streets.
The man and his son had jammed themselves in the sea of humanity, hoping for a fleeting glimpse of the ambassador.
They stood behind the portable waist-high aluminum fencing that stretched along each side of the boulevard. The fencing posed a theoretical yet ineffective barricade designed to deter the crowds from spilling into the thoroughfare as the motorcade approached.
Armed officers positioned themselves in groups of two, spacing themselves every hundred yards or so on each side of the boulevard. The authorities had their guns and the light aluminum fencing to restrain the crowds.
But the crowds possessed overwhelming numbers.
If the crowds mobbed the motorcade as it rolled by, the people outnumbered the bullets that could stop them.
The emotions of the crowd soared hotter than the scorching midday sun. Angry throngs had come to protest the American ambassador, to shake their fists and bathe his car in spit.
Those on the opposite side of the debate, though fewer in number, had come to show their appreciation.
From the swarming crowd, hatred boiled as if in a hot cauldron, spewing into the air:
Hatred for the ambassador.
Hatred for America.
Hatred for Israel.
Hatred for Assad of Syria.
Hatred for the Shiites.
Hatred for the Palestinians.
The ambassador had been warned to stay away. But stubbornly he had accepted the joint invitation from the president of the National Orthodox College and the bishop at Saint George’s. As if he had some point to prove.
Overhead, three pale-green military helicopters, like giant locusts buzzing in the light-blue sky, roared in a sonorous cacophony.
One helicopter flew circle patterns out over the Mediterranean about a hundred yards from the shoreline. A machine gun was pointed out from the cargo bay, keeping guard against any intruder who might approach from the sea.
Another helicopter hung over the T intersection of Al Istiklal Boulevard and Mar Elias, over the motorcade route beside the National Orthodox College.
The third flew a few blocks inland, over Mar Elias, where the motorcade would pass on its way toward Saint George Cathedral, where the ambassador would meet with the Greek Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch and address the crowd.
Each of the helicopters had on its fuselage an inverted white triangle with a red border, like a yield sign. The image of a cedar tree—the symbol of Lebanon—graced the middle of the inverted triangle.
Five uniformed policemen quick-stepped along the side of the boulevard with bullhorns in hand, barking instructions to the crowd gathered on the edge of the campus of the National Orthodox College.
“Stand back! Stand back!” a policeman barked in French. “The ambassador’s limousine is approaching. Make no unusual gestures!”
A second police officer repeated the instructions in Arabic.
Along the street, the shouting grew louder, as if challenging the roar of the helicopters.
Hasan Makari put his arm around his son, Najib, and pulled him tight. The boy had complained that morning when Hasan had gotten him out of bed so early.
Today the boy’s youth would not allow him to understand. But one day Najib would remember that on a scorching-hot day in July, his father brought him to witness history.
“I’m hot, Papa,” the boy protested yet again.
Hasan bent down and spoke into the boy’s ear, his voice competing with the roar of the three helicopters. “The ambassador will be here soon. This will be spectacular.”
A moment later, sirens could be heard coming from the direction of Al Istiklal, the seaside boulevard that curved around the peninsula on which the city of El-Mina was located.
“The motorcade!” someone shouted.
Dozens of police motorcycles, their mufflers rumbling in a steady roar, rolled into view from around the bend on Al Istiklal.
Paired in twos, the white Harley-Davidson bikes sported twirling blue lights on elevated poles behind the seats. Mounted on the cycles were elite police officers of the Lebanese Internal Security Forces. The ISF officers sported helmets, black visor-shields over their eyes, spit-polished black boots, and sidearms, their grim faces with jaws of steel giving them an intimidatin g appearance.
As the motorcycle escort approached the T intersection where Mar Elias dead-ends at Al Istiklal, Najib put his hands over his ears.
“The ambassador!”
Fingers pointed away from the motorcycles on Mar Elias and down toward Al Istiklal.
A black limousine, a Cadillac with headlamps burning, came into view from around the bend in the road. The flags of the Republic of Lebanon and the United States of America flew on small poles over the left and right headlights. The limousine tailed close behind a police car, flanked by police motorcycles. Forming a human buffer between the limousine and the motorcycles were eight armed soldiers carrying assault rifles walking beside the limousine, four on each side.
Another police car followed behind the limousine. More police motorcycles followed the squad car.
Hasan bent down and spoke in Najib’s ear. “The ambassador is coming!”
“Where, Papa?”
“Over there. Keep watching.”
The limousine rolled into the T intersection, about to make its left turn onto Mar Elias.
The motorcade halted, with the limousine stopped in the left-turn lane.
Another cool gust from the sea brushed the crowd. The sight of the American flag fluttering in the wind incited the crowds on both sides of the parade route.
Jeering, cheering, clapping, and fist shaking greeted the black car, which was stalled right under the traffic light in the turn lane from Al Istiklal to Mar Elias, waiting for the motorcycles to move east down Mar Elias.
Hasan took Najib’s hand. “Come. Let us get closer.”
They pressed forward a couple of feet, squeezing through narrow gaps between the shoulders of the spectators, pushing up to the edge of the boulevard.
From here, Hasan had a clear view of the intersection to his right and of the boulevard in front of him. At the moment he reached the aluminum barricade, the ambassador’s car turned onto Mar Elias, only a few yards in front of Hasan and Najib.
As the car passed by, the chanting from the crowd intensified.
“Allahu Akbar!”
“Death to America!”
“Allahu Akbar!”
“God bless America!”
“Allahu Akbar!”
Hasan would keep his true feelings quiet. He could not join in with any chants, lest he be spotted and raise suspicions.
He wanted the boy to see this. Yet he also had to protect the boy.
The motorcade inched forward, having turned from the route that was parallel to the sea, and headed east, leaving the sea behind.
As the limousine rolled in front of Hasan’s position, he strained for a look into the back to see the passenger. But a motorcycle officer blocked his view. Then the motorcade stopped again.
From his position along the sidewalk, he now stood no more than ten feet from the ambassador! But still he could not see.
Craning his neck to the right, Hasan waited for the motorcycle officer to move forward.
A brief glimpse opened up, but a foot soldier blocked his view.
The processional started moving again, and the soldier stepped forward, giving Hasan a clear view.
The windows were tinted, but not so much that Hasan could not see inside.
The ambassador wore a dark-blue suit with a red tie. His thick white hair matched the shine of his teeth. He smiled, waving at the crowd, even at those shaking their fists and holding “Death to America” signs.
Hasan threw up his hand and gestured.
That seemed to catch the ambassador’s attention. For a split second, eye contact!
Through the tinted glass, the ambassador looked at Hasan, smiled broadly, and waved. Hasan would never forget this providential moment—a moment of eternal destiny!
In the rush of adrenaline, Hasan’s heart pounded like a jackhammer. “He sees us! He sees us!” Hasan said as the ambassador’s eyes darted elsewhere.
The limousine rolled on, picking up speed, then hitting its brakes again. The ambassador had passed. But Hasan stood still.
Watching.
Waiting.
About a hundred feet down the road, as the car passed, someone waved a solitary American flag. More screaming followed the sight of the flag.
The brake lights flashed on and off again.
A thunderous blast shook the earth.
The blinding explosion from the back of the limousine sent soldiers and bystanders diving to the street.
Screams.
Chaos.
Pandemonium.
Hasan shielded Najib from flying glass, but not before he himself had been struck on his cheek, just under his eye.
Sirens blared.
Crowds knocked down the flimsy barricades, pouring onto the boulevard, swarming the burning limousine.
“Allahu Akbar!”
“Allahu Akbar!”
From the angry fireball inside the car, orange flames danced above the roof. Thick black smoke engulfed the car.
Police rushed in to pull back the throngs as the helicopters converged in a triangle overhead. Medics ran through the chaos with empty stretchers.
Hasan took the boy’s hand, yanking him away from the carnage.
It was time to go.
CHAPTER 1
MEDIA CENTER
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
ATLANTIC OCEAN
45 MILES EAST OF HILTON HEAD, SOUTH CAROLINA
11 YEARS LATER
In a room about half the size of a tennis court, a dozen American sailors, most wearing standard-issue blue-gray camouflage Navy working uniforms, stood in line, waiting for a seat to open up at one of thirty computers lining the bulkheads.
“Now hear this. This is the executive officer. Set condition River City in five minutes. Repeat. Set condition River City in five minutes. This is the executive officer.”
The announcement did not sit well for the sailors in line. Some crossed their arms. Many cursed under their breath. Others cursed aloud. A few checked their watches. Others eyed clocks on the bulkhead.
The Navy used the term “River City” for a communications blackout regardless of reason. The XO’s announcement meant that a communications blackout with the outside world was about to take place. For those standing in line, hoping to drop a hello to a spouse or a child or a parent or a girlfriend, the dreaded fear was that the blackout would come before they could get to a terminal.
Although a powerful supercarrier like the USS Abraham Lincoln possessed tremendous broadband capabilities, most of its broadband remained devoted to the ship’s war-fighting capabilities.
“Come on, man!”
“Hurry up.”
“We got family too!”
Some of the more sanitary comments coming from several of the waiting grumblers were exhorting their shipmates to hurry along.
“Now hear this. This is the executive officer. Set condition River City in three minutes. Repeat. Set condition River City in three minutes. This is the executive officer.”
“I ain’t got time for this.” The chief petty officer, who was next in line, checked his watch and cursed. “Good luck, bud,” he grumbled at the aviation boatswain’s mate third class standing behind him.
Just then the Marine corporal sitting at the far right terminal stood, prompting the duty officer to ask, “All right, who’s next?”
“That would be me, sir!” The sailor next in line waved at the duty officer.
“Make it fast, Makari,” the duty officer said. “Lights out in less than three.”
“Yes, sir. Just need to check my e-mail, sir.” Najib Makari made a beeline for the vacant terminal at the end of the line.
He sat, tapped the Enter button on the right of the keyboard, then typed the URL for his e-mail.
Connecting . . .
Connecting . . .
“This is the executive officer. All hands prepare for communications blackout in sixty seconds.”
The inbox popped onto the screen.
Najib pressed the Control and P keys at the same time, sending the e-mail to the laser printer.
“This is the executive officer. Set condition River City in three . . . two . . . one . . . All hands to duty stations. Communications blackout is in effect.”
Thirty monitors in the media center went black, prompting a collective groan from those sailors still in the middle of their personal business.
Although his screen had blacked out, Najib’s printer kept printing. The message had reached the printer’s memory cache before the blackout.
