Chapter 21
Flying back from Kandahar, Craig caught up on his much needed shut-eye with the help of four Ambien he palmed from one of the guys. Not so for El Sharrad. The guards were ordered to rotate four on, four off and each time he dozed they were to kick him wherever they chose. His only explicit instructions were: “Don’t let him sleep a wink, if he does, I’ll know and then I’ll be kicking your pitiful asses!”
As they approached Guantanamo Bay, he remembered the leeward airport was on the opposite side of the base, reached only by crossing a small river by ferry, so when you decided to leave this godforsaken desolate Navy Base, you could miss your flight in two ways. First, miss your flight because you’re an idiot. Second, miss the ferry, and then miss your flight, because you’re still an idiot.
After they landed, Craig had to include the ferry as a logistical factor as they moved El Sharrad to the infamous Gitmo Detention Center, located oddly enough, on the other side of the base golf course, if you could call it a golf course. He had played the eighteen-hole course at the invitation of a base Commander long ago, before they built the prison camp. He recalled that as he left the pro shop, after loading up with water bottles for their afternoon walk in the desert, they handed him a piece of Astroturf with some advice: “Sir, you use this when you tee off and, actually, whenever you plan on hitting the ball. It’s all dirt and rock out there.”
Yes, that’s right, Craig marveled, there is no grass here. One of the driest places in Cuba, Gitmo is essentially a desert. After the Bay of Pigs invasion, Castro tried to force the U.S. forces out of Gitmo by turning off the water. The U.S. responded by placing numerous ships with desalinization plants onboard, which processed and piped it to land until a plant on land was constructed for the same purpose. Thinking about the hot, rocky landscape, Craig thought, from one desert to another. What a terrific life I lead.
Gitmo’s security shut down the airfield one hour before Craig’s aircraft touched down, removing all non-essential personnel in preparation for the transfer of El Sharrad. Heavily-armed Marines lined either side of the C130’s rear access ramp, waiting for Craig and company on the tarmac. They loaded El Sharrad into the rear of the Humvee they had carried with them from Afghanistan and drove slowly down the aircraft’s ramp dropping into line with two tactical vehicles. They then all proceeded down to the ferry.
Twenty or more Marines were stationed on either side at each of the ferry landings, windward and leeward. Civilians were nowhere in sight, nor were any other cars or trucks, commercial or military. A U.S. Navy warship and a half dozen marine patrol boats kept post at the mouth of the waterway as it opened a short distance into the open ocean. Their final destination, barring any mishaps or interruptions, was Camp Echo. Formally, it acted as a disciplinary block for non-compliant prisoners, but it was forced to close many years ago when lawyers claimed that the cells were too small to be regarded as humane, that the toilets were inadequate, the lights were too bright, and the air in the cells to foul to breathe.
Craig knew they closed it, but on paper only. All resident detainees were moved out to “friendlier” accommodations. ACLU visitors were paraded through, and then it was reactivated but only for the toughest of customers. They abided by, but worked around, a court order to close it up. There were now no “permanent” prisoners at Camp Echo; only day visitors came and went, if they ever walked out again at all. It was a perfect place for Craig to spend some quality time with El Sharrad for a few days.
Before reaching Echo, they passed the golf course and from the side Craig saw a drive off the third tee and, when the ball landed, rocks and dirt flew up to mark the spot. Ridiculous, he thought.
To support the ongoing deception, Echo looked abandoned as it should and the vehicles pulled up near the back gate where wire stockade fences were left open with metal posts leaning against the small building. Anyone dropping in for a quick visit would conclude no one could be secured in such a broken down compound.
Craig wasn’t going to take any chances, none at all. El Sharrad still had the intel they desperately needed and without it, tens of thousands were targeted to die. He had to keep him alive and he had to get him to talk, whatever means it took, so before Craig would allow El Sharrad to be moved from their Humvee to inside the building, he surveyed the area to be sure there were no signs of life in the surrounding hills, no small boats near shore, and all weapons in the hands of the Marines were at the ready. Satisfied after a quick exchange over comms with Gitmo’s aerial surveillance team, Craig gave the order to remove him and bring him into the building.
They had been in an air-conditioned vehicle since they arrived, but when they cracked open the truck doors, the dry air around Camp Echo stunk of feces and other bodily fluids.
After passing through one open gate, they approached the main entrance and El Sharrad was just in front of Craig with shackles on his ankles connected by chain to identical restraints on his hands. One leather band was loose around his neck and this too attached down to his wrists behind him. Craig prepared himself for the hours or days of hell to come. Entering the only visible doorway, the first thing Craig noticed was the furniture was heavy, very heavy in fact, and purposely designed so any prisoner who did manage to get free would not be able and lift it to use it as a weapon by bringing it down onto the head of one of the guards or interrogators.
Fifteen yards down the first hallway, they reached another which would take them to the right and on to the interrogation cell. Most of the walls were lined with posters warning captives in Dari, Pashto and Arabic about disciplinary infractions but many had been taken down to be used in the other detention facilities on Camp Delta. Halfway to the cell opening, Craig noticed their mistake only a split second after El Sharrad. Sticking out from the wall, never removed along with the sign it once held, was a two- inch bolt, rusted and sharp, less than a few feet from where they were about to pass.
Craig’s mind worked quickly and he was astounded that a man who had been awake for almost forty hours could maintain the presence of mind to do what his prisoner was about to do.
When the terrorist came parallel to the bolt and before Craig could act, El Sharrad twisted his body sideways which threw the guards off balance, tilted his head up and lunged sideways driving the spike though his left temple on the side of his head. Craig jumped forward and pushed all the guards to the side, his blood-coated hand a split-second too late. Craig knew severe blows to the temple have a 40% or higher death rate and then realized for only the second time in his life, he had failed in his mission. El Sharrad was dead before he hit the ground.
Something was interfering with his karma, and it was really starting to piss him off.