'Then you wouldn't mind telling me the nickname of the base where we launched from.'
Their conversation was on a secure satellite link, but Patrick was still pleased that the Megafortress crew thought of a code phrase to use that only a few folks would know; plus, by saying a nickname, if Patrick was under duress, he could make up any name without arousing suspicion. 'Hooterville,' Patrick replied, giving the nickname the B-52 crews once used for Blytheville Air Force Base in rural northeastern Arkansas.
'Good copy, Tin Man,' Tanaka replied. 'We'll see you shortly.'
Patrick turned to Muhammad as-Sanusi and extended a hand. 'You've got yourself a deal, Your Majesty,' he said. 'My first plane will be here in a few minutes.'
Sanusi issued orders in Arabic, and most of his men raced off in their vehicles. 'My men will have the runway, taxiways, and hangars cleared away for your aircraft immediately,' he said. He shook Patrick's armored hand. 'Welcome to Jaghbub, United Kingdom of Libya. Ahlan wa sahlan, es salaem alekum. You are most welcome.' He looked at Patrick's gloved hand, touching the strange BERP fabric and composite exoskeleton with wonder. 'I have got to get me a few of these!' he said with glee.
Shortly after the 1986 American air attacks, the late Libyan dictator Colonel Muammar Qadhafi built a complex called Ginayna-'the Garden'-under the streets of the town of Hun. Ginayna was actually an immense complex of underground tunnels, shelters, alternate command posts, and military storage facilities, extending out several dozen kilometers around the city. Despite its size, it was possible to reach any point of Ginayna from anywhere on foot within an hour. When fully staffed-as it was right nowGinayna housed over thirty thousand persons.
The complex-five stories underground, shielded by six layers of Kevlar and steel and with its own power generator and air scrubbers, was meant to protect Qadhafi and his personal protection forces in case of another massive attack. It was said that Ginayna was the Doomsday shelter-since a very large majority of the personnel staffing it were women, it was said that Qadhafi planned to repopulate Libya with the personnel housed within Ginayna.
Jadallah Zuwayy considered Ginayna his primary residence. It was craziness to live anywhere else. He was surrounded by plenty of security, they were safe from most all bombs and missiles-the complex was considered strong enough to withstand anything except a direct hit bj a nuclear weapon-and there were plenty of escape routes out 'of there. Sure, he lived like a rodent-but better to be a live rodent than a dead king.
Ginayna was broken into sections controlled by the various branches of the armed services, but Zuwayy stayed mostly in the section reserved as the operational headquarters of the Revolutionary Guard. This was Zuwayy's personal protection force; five thousand men and women, equipped with the best weapons and afforded the best training of all the Libyan armed forces. The main corps of the Revolutionary Guard was the Praetorian Guard, the unit charged with protection of Zuwayy himself, as opposed to all of the king's residences and offices.
It was the only unit in all of Libya that Zuwayy would trust with this particular group.
Thirteen men and one woman-that was all that was left of all the persons taken from the Mediterranean Sea during the air attacks on the ships suspected of staging the raid on the missile base at Samah. They were taken and separated from the others for one reason only: They looked, spoke, or behaved like Americans. And of the group, the most important and the most intriguing one was the woman.
She was hanging, naked, from manacles bolted to a concrete wall. Her strength had given out days ago-she was no longer able to support herself except for a few brief hours every day, so her wrists were blackened and the flesh had been scraped almost to the bone. Her hair was thin and falling out from dehydration; her ribs protruded so far that they appeared as if they would likely pop right through her skin.
Zuwayy thought she had been very pretty, once. Not anymore.
The lights were turned on as he stepped into the cell. The one lightbulb was like a red-hot poker to the woman's eyes, but she could not shield them. 'Any more information, Sergeant?' Zuwayy asked.
'No, Your Highness,' the jailer responded. 'Her response to all questions is 'Help me, please.' No names, no other information.'
Zuwayy examined her. The interrogators had tried every possible combination of physical torture, drugs, deprivation, and disorientation to try to break her. He was impressed. 'Very strong, very tough young woman,' he said. He was surprised when she opened her eyes and moved unsteadily to her feet. 'I see you are awake. How are you feeling today, miss?'
'Help me, please,' she muttered through swollen, cracked lips. 'Please, sir, help me.'
'I will be glad to help you,' Zuwayy said. 'All you have to do is tell me your name.'
'Help me. Please.'
'You don't need to resist,' Zuwayy said. 'Your comrades have told us everything about you. You were responsible for infiltrating and attacking a Libyan military base, then escaping via helicopter to your ship. We know everything. We know you are American commandos, on a secret mission to inspect and, if necessary, destroy our military weapons. You might as well talk. If you do, we will treat you like a combatant instead of a spy and afford you treatment under the Geneva Conventions. Do you know what that means?'
'Please, Your Highness… please, help me, I beg you… '
'I see you recognize who I am? Good! I can guarantee you much better treatment, everything to which a captured combatant is entitled-food, water, clothing, medical attention, and contact with the International Red Cross.'
'Please… help…'
'But under the Geneva Conventions, as you know, you must first tell me your name, rank, serial number, and date of birth,' Zuwayy went on. 'We'll start with your name. That is not a violation of your oath as an American soldier. It is not a national secret. You won't be disgraced or prosecuted by your government, I assure you. Most of your comrades have already told me this information, and that's why they are no longer in here with you-they are being fed, they have seen a doctor, and they have even filled out their Red Cross contact cards.'
'Please, Your Highness… please, help me? I beg you….'
This was getting nowhere, he thought-the same mindless imprinted resistance babble for days on end. 'Where is that band she was wearing?' Zuwayy asked.
The guard brought it to him. 'We have determined it is some kind of power source,' the guard said. 'We searched her body and found this.' He showed Zuwayy a device about the size of a tack. 'It is some kind of transceiver. We checked it; it is deactivated. It may have been some sort of locator, perhaps even a communications device.'
'Did the others have it?'
'No, Highness. She could be valuable….'
'Or she could be a real danger,' Zuwayy said. 'If she was missing, she'd be just another casualty-but here, she could destroy us if they found out she was alive.'
'Torture doesn't seem to be working, Highness,' the guard said. 'Maybe we should try nursing her back to health. We can always eliminate her later.'
'Perhaps…'
'Help me… please, Highness, help me… I beg you….'
Zuwayy reared back and slapped her across the face with the back of his left hand. There was no blood-her face, in fact most of her extremities, had long ago lost the ability to bleed. 'Stop begging to me, bitch! You disgust me, you weak sniveling American whore! What is your job onboard your ship-servicing the real warriors, the real soldiers? Are you the unit's traveling whore? Why are we even bothering with this one? We won't learn any information from prostitutes. Throw her disease-infected body into the trash with the other garbage.'
'Please… please, help me….'
'Your name, whore,' Zuwayy snarled. 'All I want is your name. First name, last name, it doesn't matter. Is keeping that useless bit of information from us worth risking your life? When was the last time you felt your fingers? When was the last time you had a drink of water? We will give you proper medical care and start treating you like a human being and an American soldier instead of a stupid American cocksucker if you will only tell us your name.'
No response. She looked as if she might pass out-she was beginning to slump against her chains again. 'One last time, bitch-your name. Right now.' Again, no response.
